With Spit and a Prayer

Many thanks, as always, are due to Starflow, AngelJade and From Across the Pond for their kind reviews :).

With Spit and a Prayer, Chapter Fourteen

One hundred and thirty-two days
----
“Did you speak to Dean?”

Sam sank back into the leather of the couch. He didn’t like it. It squeaked and rumbled when he moved, and it made him feel isolated, like it was a second skin that stopped him from being in contact with the air, that made it hard to breathe.

“Sam? Did you speak to Dean?”

Sam tapped his fingers nervously on the arm of the couch. “He didn’t answer the phone.”

Horst wrote something down. “How many times did you call?”

Sam looked out the window. It was raining. Winter was on its way. “Once.”

Horst nodded slowly. “Maybe you should try calling again. Leave a message if he doesn’t answer.”

Sam closed his eyes. The whole idea made him feel ill. The note said if you need me, and Sam didn’t need Dean, and if Dean wanted to talk to Sam he would have called back. To call him again would be... It would just make Dean think that Sam couldn’t handle life without him, and then Dean would be forced to come back again (and Sam wanted Dean to come back, he wanted it so much, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t).

“Sam,” Horst said, in that tone that always preceded the sort of question that made Sam want to dig himself into the couch and just stay there in the suffocating leather, “can you tell me what your relationship with Dean was like before he left?”

“He...” Sam thought about it. What was his relationship with Dean like? What had it ever been like? “He takes care of me,” he said, and it hurt when he realised he’d said it in the present tense.

“OK,” Horst said. “Does he love you?”

“I don’t...” Sam swallowed and felt the last of himself crumble into nothing and blow away like ash on the breeze. “I don’t know,” he whispered.

“But he takes care of you,” Horst said, and when Sam nodded carefully (so carefully, because he thought if he moved too fast his entire being might just fall apart), he continued, “Why do you think he would do that, if he didn’t love you?”

Sam shifted and the couch squeaked, and he dug his fingers into it, wishing for nails that could do some damage, could mark the leather in some way, could prove that he existed.

“Do you think he wants something from you in return?” Horst pressed, and Sam felt sickness spread through his stomach, tasted bile at the back of his throat. He tried to speak, but he couldn’t even make his mouth open, couldn’t make a single muscle in his body obey his commands.

“Are you... Were you lovers?” Horst asked.

Sam saw his fingers fluttering on the arm of the couch, and watched them, fascinated. They were trembling, twitching, but he couldn’t even feel it. “I tried,” he whispered. “I tried.”

He waited, waited and waited for Horst to realise, to realise just how much Sam had failed, but Horst didn’t seem to care, didn’t even seem to notice that Sam hadn’t been able to do the one thing that Dean had asked for him, or at least, hadn’t done it well enough for Dean to stay. Instead, he leaned forward, leaving his pen on the desk now, watching Sam intently.

“How long had you been lovers for when Dean left?” he asked.

Sam thought about it. He thought and thought, and he knew they had been in Biloxi in the summer, he remembered how hot it had been, how he had slept on top of the covers (oh, Jesus Christ, he had slept on top of the covers), but he couldn’t remember the month, all he could remember was--

--it’s OK, Sam, this is for your own good. Don’t worry, I won’t let anything bad happen to you.--

Sam felt himself fall back, and Dean was there, Dean’s face grinning down at him, all over again, and he’d hoped, Jesus, he’d hoped that letting Dean take what he wanted would stop this Dean coming back, but, but

--Jesus, Sammy, you’re so good. I’ve wanted this for so long--

“Please,” Sam whispered, and he could hear another voice, male and rumbling, but he couldn’t make out the words. “Please, don’t.” Except even as he said it, he knew it was wrong, that this was why, this was why Dean had left, because Sam said don’t, even when Sam tried so hard not to, even when he kept his mouth clamped tight shut so the words wouldn’t escape, Dean knew him too well, he could see the don’t in every line of Sam’s body. And Sam tried again, now, tried just to let it happen (God, Dean looked so happy), but he couldn’t stop the tears trickling down his cheeks, couldn’t stop himself from closing his eyes as Dean’s hands closed round his neck.

And then they were gone, just like that, and that had always been the way it happened before, too, but Sam was somehow surprised nonetheless. He opened his eyes carefully, and Horst was watching him, frowning hard, and Sam wondered if he’d seen Dean too, because he’d never really thought about it, had always been alone before when Dean came like that, and now he did think, it was weird, he was pretty sure it was weird, for Dean to come and go and never leave a trace.

“Sam,” said Horst carefully, “can you tell me what just happened to you?”

Sam looked down, swallowed. Had Horst seen Dean or not? Because if he hadn’t, maybe Sam could lie, and then Horst wouldn’t know, wouldn’t realise (yet) just what Sam was. But if he had...

“I...” Sam heard his voice crack, and his throat was so dry, trying to speak felt like rubbing sandpaper along it. He gestured, trying to swallow again, but it hurt, God, it hurt.

Horst got up, went to the desk, poured him a glass of water. He put it in Sam’s hand, and Sam tried to ignore the way the water splashed on the floor as the glass trembled violently.

“Was it Dean who raped you?” Horst asked, and Sam felt time stop. The sweat stopped trickling down his back, the clock stopped ticking in the corner, it even felt like the blood stopped flowing in his veins, and everything was silent, not echoing like in a room, but dead, like he was wrapped in velvet or underwater, suffocating either way. And words fell into the silence and didn’t bounce, just thudded like they were made of stone. Was it Dean who raped you? Was it? Was it?

Then there was a crash, and time started again, and Sam became aware that his feet were covered with water and shards of glass, but he didn’t know what to do about it. And Horst said don’t worry about it, Sam, just answer my question.

And Sam closed his eyes and tried again to stop the tears coming, tried so hard, but they came anyway. What he thought was I don’t know, God, I don’t even know.

But what he said was, “No, no. It wasn’t... Please. I can’t... I have to go.”

He headed blindly for the door, crushing the glass into the carpet as he did, and expecting Horst to try and stop him any minute, to grab him and force him to stay, and he wasn’t sure he would be able to cope with that, thought that maybe he would just fall apart right there.

But there were no hands on his arm, no voice calling after him, and for that, at least, Sam was grateful.

----
One hundred and thirty-five days
----
Dean was early, earlier than usual, but he hadn’t been able to sleep, had dreamt things he wasn’t going to think about, and the idea of trying for unconsciousness again after that had made him feel sick and filthy (and he wasn’t exactly clean, sleeping in a car and showering at the Y didn’t make for a pristine lifestyle, but he was trying), and so here he was standing outside the shrink’s office building waiting for the damn doors to open with a wad of cash thrust deep in his pocket and a headache growing at the back of his skull.

It was OK, though, he was pretty sure everything was going OK. He was keeping up on the payments, and making sure Sam wasn’t going to starve, and OK, he was still dreaming (still fucking dreaming), but that was just his life now, he figured, and it didn’t matter, as long as Sam was OK nothing else mattered.

The perky secretary appeared and unlocked the doors, smiling at Dean the way she always did, and he ignored her the way he always did, because he remembered the last time he had had sex, and he wasn’t sure he was ever going to do it again. “Come to pay Mr. Winchester’s bill?” she asked, and he nodded, handing the money over, crumpled and greasy and still smelling faintly of cigarette smoke. He watched as she counted it, made sure she marked it down on her computer, and was turning to go when a man’s voice said Dean?

He turned automatically (shit), and there was the shrink, looking at him expectantly (shitshitshit). He’d seen the guy from a distance when he’d come to check out the place, had chosen it because he thought this dewy-eyed professor-type with his glasses and his jacket with leather elbow-patches would get on with Sam like a house on fire, but now he was confronted with him he became aware that there was something determined in the guy’s face, something that didn’t bode well for Dean.

“Uh,” he said (yeah, great comeback, Dean), “who wants to know?”

The guy stuck his hand out. “Doctor Horst,” he said, “Sam’s therapist. We spoke on the phone?”

And yeah, shit, they had spoken on the phone, but Dean had said he was Sam, right? So how the fuck did the Horst guy know it was him? “I don’t think so,” he said, pointedly not taking the hand.

“Ah,” Horst said, withdrawing it, but not looking offended. “My mistake, I apologise. But you are Dean?”

Dean considered denying it, but Horst didn’t give him the chance to answer anyway. “I wonder if I might ask you a favour concerning Sam’s treatment?”

Dean chewed his lip. It had been over a month since Sam had started going to therapy, and Dean hadn’t spoken to him once in that time. He had no idea how it was going, no idea if Sam was getting any better or, God forbid, getting worse, and he wanted to know so badly it actually physically hurt, an ache low in his chest like his heart was drying up. On the other hand, he had no idea what Sam had said about him to the doc, and he knew that Sam could have said some things that could mean Dean ending up in jail, and, while he pretty much thought he probably deserved that, if he was gone then there would be no-one to look after Sam, and that was not an option.

“Like...what?” he said finally, hedging his bets (don’t admit it, don’t admit it).

Horst looked pleased. “We had what I think was something of a breakthrough a few days ago, and since then Sam has been missing his appointments,” he said. “I’ve called him, but he doesn’t answer. I was wondering if you’ve spoken to him at all?”

Dean stared. Sam had been missing his appointments? What the hell? But Dean had been watching, he’d been watching Sam the whole time, right? So how...

And then Dean thought back and realised he had no idea what day it was. He didn’t sleep at night any more, but just whenever he fell asleep in the front seat of the car, whether it was at three in the morning after a long night hustling or mid-afternoon when his eyelids wouldn’t stay open any more. He never tried to go to sleep, but sometimes he just couldn’t avoid it, and if he woke up for any reason he always tried to stay awake. Time had just blended into an endless jumble of watching the motel and playing poker and pool, driving and aching shoulders and gritty eyes and limbs that felt too heavy to move. And of course, of course he had no idea whether he’d seen Sam leave the motel room in the last three days; he’d been watching, but he’d forgotten what he was watching for.

“Dean?” asked Horst, and Dean didn’t even bother to deny it, to think of another name. Failure sat in his stomach like a lead weight. This was all he’d had to do, save Sam, there was nothing else for him any more, and he hadn’t even done that right. He shook his head at Horst, backing away.

“Sorry, doc, I gotta go,” he choked out, and bolted.

Outside he sat in the car for five minutes with his head resting against the steering wheel before he could even turn the key. How could he have been so careless? He’d thought he was on the home straight, thought he’d done what needed to be done for Sam and now he could just sit back and let the doc do all the work. Jesus Christ, Sam, he thought, what the hell happened in there? Why did you stop going?

His phone dug into his thigh, and he pulled it out, staring at it (another new message from Bobby). He could call Sam. He should call Sam. And then...

And then what? Beg for forgiveness? Ask to be let back in? Dean closed his eyes and remembered the way Sam’s face looked unconscious, bruises round his neck, pale like he was dead, and he knew he could never do that. It was too late.

----
One hundred and thirty-six days
----
If Sam hadn’t been asleep when the phone rang, he wouldn’t have answered it. Horst had called five times over the last three days, and Sam had ignored the phone, staring at the flaking paint under the window, feeling the weight of the blankets on him, crushing him, keeping him safe. But last night he had thought about calling Dean again, thought about it for an hour, staring at the phone in his hand, imagining what he might say to him (what could I say to him?), and had drifted off like that, phone still clutched tightly, so that when it rang, vibrating urgently against his fingers, he pressed send automatically, and then stared at the little illuminated square in the darkness, not sure what he had done.

There was silence for a moment, then a tinny voice said Sam? Sam?, and Sam thought that probably Horst wouldn’t be calling in the middle of the night, and put the phone to his ear.

“Sam?” said the voice again, and it was Dean, Jesus, it was Dean, and Sam felt words pressing against his chest, so many words they almost choked him, but he couldn’t find a way to let them out, and so he just made a kind of grunting noise.

“God, thank God,” Dean said, and he sounded weird, hoarse and slurring, like he was drunk, like he’d been screaming or crying. “God, Sam, I... Jesus, I just... I need you to get better. I need... Sam, are you there?”

Sam swallowed twice and managed to make his tongue work. “Yeah,” he croaked, trying to understand what was going on.

“Sammy...” Dean’s voice cut off briefly, muffled like he’d put his hand over the receiver, and then it came back. “I’m so... Look, I know it’s hard, God, I know, I know, Sam, I know, but please... Please, you’ve got to get better, I don’t know if I can do this any more...”

Dean's words were less and less coherent, and Sam frowned, trying to follow the thread, trying to work out exactly what it was Dean wanted him to do.

“Dean,” he said, but Dean cut him off.

“Shit, Sam, God, shit, I shouldn’t have called. Look I... Fuck, just don’t...”

And then the call cut off, and Sam kept the phone pressed to his ear for ten minutes, listening to the drone of the dial tone, until his ear started to get sore.

He was still lying in the same position three hours later, when pale light started to filter through the curtains. He was vaguely aware that he stank; he hadn’t showered since he came back from Horst’s last, had hardly moved since then at all.

Was it Dean who raped you?

I need you to get better.

Around eight, he listened to his messages. Horst’s voice was calm and soothing, the same way it always was. Sam, I know it’s difficult, but what you’re feeling is not unusual. I can help you. Please come and see me.

He scrolled to his received calls list and stared at Dean’s name, right there in black letters. Dean had been there. Dean had spoken to him. Dean needed something from him.

At nine, Sam got out of bed and showered. When he was dressed again, he took a deep breath and walked out the door, gripping the phone in his hand like it was some kind of talisman.