To Live on One's Own Terms
Summary: The curse is broken. And maybe Sam is too. (Sequel to For Your Own Good)
Chapter Two
It's late afternoon by the time Sam wakes up.
Dean is checking the warding on the windowsill – and scanning the parking lot for John's truck, just in case – when he hears a noise behind him. He turns and Sam is standing in the bedroom doorway.
He looks thin. Dean hadn't fully appreciated, until he'd found himself with an armful of unconscious little brother, just how much weight Sam has dropped. It must have happened gradually, making it harder to notice, but any trace of baby fat has been replaced with lean muscle. Sam is strong – Dean has the shiner to prove it – but he lacks bulk. He's all slender limbs, sharp angles. He looks small in his sleep-rumpled t-shirt and sweats.
"Sammy. Hey. You're awake," Dean states, stupidly. He tries to smile – that's comforting, right? And encouraging. Like 'hey, I'm happy to see you, out of bed and free of curses, isn't that great?' - but it feels stiff and unnatural.
"Uh, yeah." Sam's eyes flick nervously around the room, towards the second bedroom. He runs a self-conscious hand over his hair, a habit he picked up a couple of weeks ago, after he decided... after John decided to cut it short. "Um, is Dad here?"
Dean shakes his head. He drops his attempt at smiling. (He probably looked deranged anyway.) "No. Hell no. And he's not coming back here either. Bobby's making sure he leaves town."
Sam's shoulders drop at least a foot. He sags against the door frame, blowing out a rattled breath. "Okay. Good. That's – good. I think. I mean – I don't really..."
Sam can't seem to figure out what he wants to say. He trails off, biting his lip. He scratches uncomfortably at the back of his neck.
Dean gestures at the couch. "You wanna sit?"
Sam seems relieved by the suggestion. He moves immediately to the couch and perches on it, sitting straight-backed and rigid, like a well-trained dog. He looks up at Dean expectantly, like he's waiting to be told what to do next. It's... creepy.
"Unless you want to go back to bed?" Dean suggests quickly. "It's okay if you want to sleep some more. I can just, like, watch TV, or something. I don't mind. It's fine. It's up to you. You don't have to sit in here, if you don't want to."
Sam stares at him, his eyes wide with alarm. One of his hands grips the arm of the couch, tight enough that his knuckles are turning white.
"I... I don't- I can-" Uncertainly, Sam looks from Dean to the couch to the bedroom. "What do you want me to do?"
Dean is going to kill his father. "Anything you want, Sam."
"Oh," Sam says, as if he'd actually forgotten that this is an option. He bobs his head, a nervous nod. "Right. Okay."
Sam stays on the couch but he doesn't really relax. He curls himself up. Tucking his bare feet beneath himself, he wraps his arms around his stomach, sinking back into the couch. It's not as creepy as the straight-backed soldier posture but it's just as upsetting.
Dean had noticed it. After a while. After he had finally started looking. The way Sam finds a seat and hides himself in it, holding himself so still that he blends into the background, breathing slowly, becoming a part of the room.
He's trying to be invisible.
Sharp pain stings Dean's palms. His hands have curled into fists and his nails are biting his skin. Is this the only defence Sam had? Sitting motionless and silent and just praying that John wouldn't notice him and give him more insane orders?
Somehow, Dean doesn't slam his fist through the wall. Instead, he asks, "How are you feeling?" in what might even be considered a normal sounding voice.
Sam takes a moment to consider the question. "Okay, I guess," he says, not entirely convincingly. "Less sick. My head doesn't hurt so much anymore."
"You want some Tylenol?" Dean offers. "Or a drink? There's Gatorade in the fridge. You want me to get it?"
"Um... I guess?" Sam says it like a question, like he really doesn't know. Dean grabs the Tylenol and the Gatorade and brings them to Sam, pressing them into his brother's hands. Sam murmurs a thanks and swallows the pills with a sip of Gatorade.
Dean sits down on the other side of the couch, feeling awkward and uncertain. It's all wrong. He's used to pushing pills and fluids onto Sam when he's sick because Sam is historically useless when it comes to taking care of himself, but he's also used to Sam complaining about his 'mother henning' (while Dean shoots back that he is far too manly to do anything called 'mother henning' and what he's actually doing, Sam, is being sensible) and stubbornly insisting that he's 'just fine, Dean' while he does something stupid like ignore a brewing migraine or rising fever. This quiet acceptance is unsettling.
Sam fidgets with the plastic bottle, his thumb nail worrying at the label. He chews his lower lip, eyes down.
One of them is going to have to bring up the elephant in the room.
Dean takes a deep breath. "Do you..." He has to stop and clear his throat when it clogs with trepidation. "Do you wanna tell me about it?"
Sam's thumb stops moving. He might even stop breathing for a moment because he goes completely still. A statue curled up on the couch. Dean waits, giving him time to organise his thoughts.
"I keep thinking," Sam says finally, without looking up from the bottle. Slowly his thumb begins to move again, scratching gently at the label. "About what I said to you, before I left for the hunt that night."
Dean casts his mind back, trying to remember what they had talked about. He'd been annoyed, because his broken leg meant that he was being left behind, and worried, because Sam and John hadn't stopped fighting since the wood nymph disaster and the two of them going off hunting without him to mediate had seemed like an accident waiting to happen. He'd asked Sam to try not to piss John off, which in retrospect seems horrifically cruel, like he was blaming Sam for what was about to happen, and Sam had said... what?
"What did you say?" Dean asks.
Sam's lips twist into something that almost resembles a smile. "I said I'd be a good soldier and do everything Dad told me to." He makes a noise that might be a laugh. "That's kind of funny."
Dean feels sick. That's right. Sam had promised that he would be obedient and listen to John, right before...
"That's not funny at all, Sam."
Sam does a small one-shouldered shrug. "It's a little funny."
Dean shakes his head but he doesn't argue. It feels wrong to argue with Sam right now. "So... what happened?" he probes, as gently as he can. "After you left, what... I mean, there was no ghost, right? You didn't do a salt and burn."
Sam shakes his head. "No. That's just what Dad said." He slides his thumbnail under the edge of the label, beginning to peel it away from the bottle. "There might have been one, once. It seemed like a haunting when I was researching it. But there wasn't a ghost. There was just..." His voice trembles. "There was a circle. You know the one Bobby drew last night, with all the sigils? Like that. It was already on the floor when we got there. But it was dark and I didn't see it until I was standing in it and then Dad..."
Sam closes his eyes, swallowing hard.
Dean can imagine some of what happened next. Something similar to what he'd seen in the barn last night, when John reversed his spell. The glowing symbols, the chanting, the snake-like monster. But he can't imagine the horror of being blind-sided by it. He can't imagine how terrified Sam must have been, realizing what John was doing. How betrayed the kid must have felt. First by his father, for cursing him, and then by his brother, for not even noticing the difference.
"That must have been horrible."
Sam nods tightly. When he opens his eyes they're shiny and wet. "Was I really that bad?" he asks, anguish crumpling his face. "I know I wasn't a great hunter and I talked back sometimes but I didn't mean- I could've- I would've done better, if I'd known that Dad- that he-"
"Hey, hey, no, Sammy, no." Dean slides across the couch, closing the space between them. He slings an arm around Sam and pulls him into a sideways hug. "You weren't bad. This wasn't your fault. I don't know what the hell Dad was thinking."
Sam sniffs. He swipes his hand over his eyes, brushing away the tears that have broken free. "He said- he said that he did it to keep me safe. That it was for my own good. But I think he liked it. He liked making me do things I didn't want to do."
Dean doesn't know what to say. He wants to tell Sam that he must be mistaken, that John would never do anything deliberately to hurt him, but he's no longer sure that that's true. A few weeks ago, he would have sworn up and down that John would never put a curse on his brother. Now, anything seems possible.
Dean is still trying to put together a response when, somewhere outside, a car door slams and Sam flinches, his face flooding with panic. He fumbles the Gatorade bottle, almost dropping it. Dean jumps to his feet and rushes to the window, pulling the curtain aside to scan the parking lot.
There's no truck. No hulking figure striding towards their room. Just a small hatchback, parked outside the office. A woman is leaning into the backseat, retrieving a bag.
"It's nothing," Dean tells Sam, letting the curtain drop. "Just some lady checking in."
Sam nods jerkily but he doesn't relax. His hands grip the Gatorade bottle so tightly that the plastic crumples a little.
"He's not coming back here," Dean promises. "But we can leave, if you want. We don't have to stay here. There are plenty of other motels around. Is that- Do you wanna do that?"
"Oh." Sam looks startled, like he wasn't expecting to be asked for his opinion. "I don't know. What do you want to do?"
Dean shakes his head. "What do you want, Sammy? You can decide. Anything you want, we'll do it."
Sam looks alarmed, again, like when Dean asked whether he wanted to sit on the couch or go back to bed. His eyes dart back and forth, like he's searching for the right answer. Like this is a test that he might fail and he's petrified of what might happen if he does. The plastic bottle creaks in his hands.
Dean crosses the room and crouches down in front of his brother. "Sammy. Hey." Gently, he grasps Sam's wrist, rubbing his thumb over the knob of bone. "If you want to go back to sleep and not decide anything right now, that's fine, too. Or if you really want me to choose, I can do that. I just- I want you to do what you want. Anything you want. Just let me know."
Sam does that jerky little nod again, his head bobbling anxiously up and down. "I want- I think..." He takes a breath. "I want to leave. Can we leave? I don't care where we go, just, can we? Now?"
Dean is already back on his feet, grabbing up their belongings.
"You got it, kiddo."
XXX
Sam falls asleep in the passenger seat of the Impala.
Dean keeps the radio turned down low and drives somewhat aimlessly. Vaguely, they're headed towards Sioux Falls and Bobby's Salvage Yard but he isn't sure how Sam feels about actually going there and seeing as Dean is absolutely never going to make Sam do anything that he doesn't want to do ever again, and seeing as Sam isn't awake to ask for his opinion, Dean is left directionless, taking random turns, letting the Impala choose their path.
Being on the road is soothing, at least. Each passing mile is another mile between Sam and John and the growing distance is loosening something inside Dean's chest, allowing him to breathe again. He doesn't think that John will come after them but he can't be sure (he can't be sure of anything anymore) and it feels safer to be on the move.
Soon, he'll have to figure out what comes next. What exactly he's supposed to do with himself and the traumatized kid passed out at his side, coughing occasionally in his sleep. But for now he drives and doesn't think about anything because if he does he might just lose his mind.
Dean drives for hours, until sometime after midnight, when he has to concede that sleep is not something that he can avoid forever, or even for much longer. He checks them in to the first motel he sees. There's only one room left and it only has one bed but Dean is too tired care. He rouses Sam enough to steer him into the room and into bed – Sam mutters something that sounds unsettlingly like 'yes, sir' when Dean tells him he has to move – then scribbles some wards onto the windowsills and door frame, fighting against drooping eyelids.
Finally – finally – Dean crawls into bed beside his brother. Sam is still running hot, radiating warmth. He's all sweaty limbs, sprawled out and somehow taking up far more of the bed than seems possible. Dean squeezes in next to him and closes his eyes.
To Be Continued