With Spit and a Prayer

Many thanks to From Across the Pond, Starflow and AngelJade, as always, for their kind reviews. Hope you guys enjoy this one :D.

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With Spit and a Prayer, Chapter Fifteen

One Hundred and Thirty-Six Days

Dean’s head was pounding like a son of a bitch, his mouth felt like something had died in it, and his hands were shaking like he was eighty, but he wasn’t sure that last one had anything to do with how much he’d had to drink the night before. Stupid, fucking stupid. He’d gone out to make a buck, because he had enough for next week’s therapy but not enough for food, not for both him and Sam, and he’d ended up spending his stake on a bottle of Jack. A bottle of fucking Jack Daniels. Sam wasn’t even going to goddamn therapy and Dean spent his stake on a bottle of Jack.

And shit, he’d called Sam. He’d hoped it was just a drunken hallucination, but the number was there, recorded in his memory. He was pretty sure he’d only got the voicemail, had no idea what he’d said, Jesus, he had been so fucking wasted. And thinking about what he might have said was almost enough to have him sneaking into Sam’s motel room to erase the message, because Sam was so fucked up right now, Dean had known it, of course, had known for ages, but since he hadn’t been actually in there with Sam, breathing the same air and living on the coattails of Sam’s nightmare, it had become so much clearer, and it wouldn’t take much, Dean knew, Sam wasn’t going to therapy which meant he was teetering anyway, and it wouldn’t take more than a breath of wind, a wrong word from Dean, to push him over. And all Dean could do was clench his hands on the steering wheel to stop them from shaking and hope to God that all he’d done was hang up the phone.

God, he’d never thought it was a great plan. Leave Sam on his own, let him figure it out by himself, Jesus, it wasn’t like Sam did well on his own, just brooded further and further inside himself until somebody forced him out of it, but it had been the only plan he had, the only thing he could think of doing, and he’d thought it was working, he’d thought, and now, and now, Dean might have just fucked it all up, and he didn’t have a plan B, couldn’t think of a single other thing to do except--

Dean’s train of thought derailed suddenly (thank Christ) when the door of the motel room swung open and Sam walked out. Dean slouched in his seat immediately, head protesting the sudden movement, but he stayed high enough to watch through the windshield, high enough to see that Sam was heading for the business district, head down, moving slowly and hesitantly, but moving, Jesus Christ, alive and moving and Sam.

Dean waited until Sam had turned the corner, waited for a minute or two after that, as well, not sure he could trust himself to let go any more. Then he straightened in his seat, staring out through the windshield. Leaves skittered across the asphalt in front of the car, and the sky was a dull, featureless grey. Dean covered his face with his hands, his hands that wouldn’t stop shaking even now, and tried not to fall apart.

----

“Sam,” said Horst, “I’m delighted to see you back.”

Sam shifted from foot to foot, taking a deep breath before stepping through the office door. No going back now. Horst knew. Not everything, God, not everything, but he knew enough, and it was only Dean’s voice echoing in Sam’s mind (I need you to get better) that stopped him from turning and walking straight out of the building, going to find a place to hide where he could sleep forever and not have to answer any more questions, not have to talk to anyone again.

Sam stood unsurely in the middle of the office, staring at the couch. “I don’t,” he said, and chewed his lip. It seemed so stupid, so petty, but he thought that if he had to sit there, it would be like scraping the skin off his neck. “Can I...?”

“What is it you need, Sam?” asked Horst, and God, what did it matter what Sam needed? All Sam needed right now was to get better, because that was what Dean needed.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, moving to sit on the couch, but Horst, still standing, put a hand on his arm, and Sam froze, feeling the weight of that contact, the warmth of it, spreading nausea through his stomach.

“Sam,” said Horst, and Sam concentrated on the hand, just a hand, it’s OK, it’s OK. “You have to be honest with me, or you’ll never make any progress.”

Never make any progress. Never get better. Sam pulled his arm away from Horst’s touch. “I hate the fucking couch,” he said, surprised to even hear it, even more surprised to hear the vitriol in his voice, because he didn’t remember feeling that angry, not for a long time.

Horst was silent for a moment, and Sam didn’t look up, didn’t want to see the disappointment on his face. Then he chuckled, and Sam did look up, just for a second, and Horst smiled at him and said “Take my chair.”

Sam hesitated, but Horst was already sitting down on the couch, sinking back into it like it didn’t make his skin crawl just to touch it, and Sam couldn’t think of any response than to sit gingerly on the armchair, resisting the urge to pull his legs up in front of him.

Horst consulted his notes for a minute, then picked up his pen. “Sam,” he said, carefully, “I am right in thinking you were raped?”

Sam pushed back into the chair, giving up and drawing his knees up to his chest. He stared at the pattern of threads in his jeans until his eyes blurred and distracted him from the hot prickling on the back of his neck. “It wasn’t... It wasn’t like that,” he said.

“What was it like?” Horst asked, and Sam felt the urge to smash his head against something, pick up the letter opener from the desk and stab it into his hand, anything to not have to answer that question. I need you to get better.

“My b--” he stopped, fighting back bile. “My... my brother,” he said, and God, he felt exhausted all of a sudden, like just saying those two words had taken every scrap of energy he had.

Horst waited for a moment, then said, “Your brother raped you?”

Sam closed his eyes, feeling a tear spill down his cheek and hating himself for being so weak. “He didn’t want to,” he said, and was that true, was that even true?

“He didn’t want to have sex with you?” Horst’s voice was very careful now, very soothing, but Sam was barely aware of it at all.

“He... he wanted... he wanted to,” Sam said, and wondered how much longer this could go on before he just couldn’t take it any more (but Dean needs me to get better). “I think maybe... maybe he always has. But he didn’t – he wouldn’t take it. He never takes anything for himself.” (God, you feel so good. I’ve wanted this for so long.)

“But he did,” Horst said, and Sam shook his head, which made it ring and throb.

“No, no,” he said. “He didn’t want to. He was...” And there it was. Sam knew he was fucked up, knew that he didn’t understand things right any more, but he also knew that Horst was not going to believe him if he said his brother was possessed. “He was made to do it,” he said finally. “There was... this guy and,” shit shit shit he used to be so good at this. “He, uh. He. Had a gun.”

Horst waited again, but Sam had nothing else, couldn’t, couldn’t. “Your brother was forced to rape you,” he said finally, and Sam laid his head on his knees and felt the tears that wouldn’t fucking stop seep into the material of his jeans. Please stop asking questions. Please.

But there was no hope of that. “Have you talked to your brother about this?” Horst asked.

Sam clenched his jaw. “I haven’t seen him,” he said, and somehow he managed it, he spoke and it didn’t hurt, not as much, not like someone was ripping chunks out of his throat. “Not for a while.”

“And Dean?” Horst said. “Where does he fit in?”

Where does Dean fit in? Sam didn’t even know how to start answering a question like that. Dean fits in everywhere. Everywhere. “He looks after me,” he said. “He always has.”

“You’ve known him for a long time?”

“All my life.” Sam shifted his weight. His neck ached from the angle, but he couldn’t lift his head from his knees. There’s no Sam without Dean. Dean’s gone.

“But you only recently started having a sexual relationship with him.”

Sam didn’t even remember when he had started having a sexual relationship with Dean. It felt like forever ago, that first time after Biloxi, the feel of his brother’s body pressing down on his as burned on his memory as anything from his childhood, but he supposed that it was recently in relative terms. He moved his head, hoping that it would be interpreted as a nod.

“Sam,” Horst said, and there was that tone again, and Sam knew this question was going to hurt bad. “Do you want Dean to have sex with you?”


Sam’s head was buzzing, and he couldn’t get a grip on his thoughts, couldn’t stop them from skittering away before he could pin them down and examine them properly. Dean never asked for anything, never asked for anything, and Sam had always asked, never even thought not to, and sure, most of the time he didn’t get it, but he asked, and sometimes he just took what he wanted. What he wanted. And what he wanted right now was not to be a person who always got what they wanted.

He didn’t even realise he hadn’t answered the question until Horst said Sam? again. And even then, he couldn’t answer, because one answer would be a lie and the other would be a betrayal.

“I just...” he swallowed, and for a moment it felt like he was swallowing his tongue. “I just want him to be happy. To have something. Something.” He lifted his head, looking at Horst, and it hurt, it hurt to look at that sympathetic face, but he did it anyway, because he needed him to understand.

“You say Dean has always looked after you?” Horst said, and Sam nodded, slowly, thinking now he gets it, now he gets why it doesn’t matter what I want. Horst wrote something down and then said, “It sounds like he loves you very much. How do you think he would feel if he knew he was having sex with you when you didn’t want him to?”

Sam stared. He was vaguely aware that his mouth was opening and closing, but there was no sound, really there was nothing. He wanted to say he doesn’t have to know, I can pretend, it can be OK, but God, Sam had never been able to hide anything from Dean, never, Jesus. Jesus.

“I just want him to have something,” he said again, and Horst sighed.

“It isn’t going to help Dean to give him things he doesn’t want,” he said. “And it isn’t going to help you. Do you understand me, Sam?”

“I...” Sam looked down at his knees again. The denim was dark with moisture, two broad patches staining Sam’s clothes. “I don’t know how to help me.”

“I know you don’t right now,” Horst said. “But we’re going to figure it out together.”

Sam ran his hand over the soaking fabric of his jeans. I don’t believe you, he thought.

----
One Hundred and Thirty-Nine Days
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Dean didn’t answer the phone.

He was back on track. Sam had been to therapy twice now, and the second time Dean had even followed him at a distance to make sure that was where he was going, had phoned the shrink’s office afterwards to check he had been there. He had wanted to ask the receptionist how Sam was doing, wanted so badly, but he knew they wouldn’t tell him, that they couldn’t. It was doctor-patient privilege, and one part of Dean was relieved that Sam could have that security, that he could unburden himself without worrying about anyone finding out, but the other part – the much bigger part, if he was honest with himself – just desperately wanted to know. But he could push that part of himself down, he would, because he had almost fucked this up already and he wasn’t going to let that happen again.

And then the phone rang, and it was Sam.

Dean watched the phone ringing, vibrating on the seat beside him. A couple of times he reached for it, but then he stopped. Sam, it said, like it was mocking him. Sam.

It went to voicemail, and Dean closed his eyes and tried not to notice how sick he was with disappointment.

And then the damn thing beeped, and Dean picked it up to see that he had a voicemail (a voicemail from Sam). Shit. Maybe Sam was in trouble? Dean glanced over at the motel, but nothing was stirring, the sky was growing heavy with dusk and nothing was moving out there except the autumn leaves. He pressed a button and put the phone to his ear.

Uh... Sam’s voice was quiet and hesitant. Hi, Dean. It’s... it’s Sam. I. Um. Listen, that doctor you, uh, you wanted me to talk to? He said I should. Um. He said I should talk to you. So. I guess this is me, talking. I’m... I’m sorry to bother you. Sorry. Bye.

Dean jammed his head back against the seat and had to concentrate on not gripping the phone so hard that it broke. Jesus, Sam sounded so fucking lost. And then... He sounded like Sam. And Dean wondered, tried to remember exactly how Sam had sounded just before Dean had finally left, tried to remember anything from those nightmarish days other than how it felt to come inside his brother, how it felt to wrap his fingers round Sam’s throat and squeeze. How had Sam sounded then? Forceful, sometimes. Wheedling. Desperate. And lost, God, lost, and that, at least, hadn’t changed.

But Dean thought maybe, maybe, back then, Sam hadn’t sounded like Sam.

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One Hundred and Forty-Two Days
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“There’s a name for what you’re suffering from,” said Horst, and Sam stared, because it hadn’t really occurred to him that he was suffering from anything. When Sam didn’t answer, Horst continued. “It’s called Rape-Related Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “It’s quite a mouthful, I know. But the point is, Sam, this isn’t you. It’s not about you. It’s about what’s been done to you.”

Sam shifted in the armchair, went to pull his legs up in front of him, then stopped. “I’m not... sure if I’m. If I’m.” He didn’t even know how to say what he wanted to say. That he couldn’t be suffering from something normal rape victims (normal rape victims) got, because he wasn’t normal, because he’d never been normal, because he’d been raped by his possessed brother. That he didn’t feel like he had a syndrome. That he just felt like he was made wrong.

“I’m not trying to categorise you,” Horst said. “Everybody’s different. But the flashbacks you’re experiencing, I know they’re terrifying, I know they feel real, but they’re just a symptom.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut. A symptom. Dean came back to him, always Dean, smiling like they were just playing, like he was having an awesome time. I’ve wanted this for so long.

“It doesn’t have to be this way, Sam,” Horst said, but Sam didn’t open his eyes, didn’t even ask what other way is there? because he was afraid of the answer. “You don’t just have to let this happen to you. I think you need to take some control of your life.

Control. Sam tried to remember if he’d ever had control of his life, and he couldn’t come up with a time, not a single time, not since Stanford (which felt like another life), and even then, it had just been an illusion. And now... Everything was different now.

“I found you a job,” Horst said, and Sam opened his eyes then, stared, because he couldn’t have heard right, couldn’t have. But Horst was smiling encouragingly. “It’s just a couple of hours a day. The shipping company down the hall needs someone to reorganise their filing system. I told them I have just the man.”

Sam could feel that he was gaping, but wasn’t sure what to do about it. “I... I can’t...” he said, and Horst nodded.

“Just try, Sam,” he said. “If it doesn’t work out, there’s no hard feelings. Give it a week, see how you go.”

Sam wanted to say no, wanted to so badly. The thought of going down the hall, of talking to strangers, made him feel like there was something crawling up his spine. But he was trying, he had to try, because Dean needed him to try, and so he ducked his head, forced back the tears, and said “OK. OK, I’ll try.”

----

Dean almost didn’t answer the phone again, but he’d been thinking about it for three days, three days, and he hadn’t had much else to think about except how to stop himself from sleeping for too long and how to get money without getting beat up or arrested. And Sam had said the doctor wanted them to talk, and OK, Dean didn’t trust the doctor, didn’t trust any doctors, certainly didn’t think the doctor’s plan was any better than Dean’s, but in the end, Deanhad trusted the doctor, had entrusted him with the most important job there was because there was no-one else who could help Dean do it.

And so Dean answered the phone, and for a moment there was just silence on the line, both of them too surprised to say anything. Then Sam cleared his throat, and said Hi, it’s Sam, and before Dean could stop himself he said, “I know who it is, genius.”

There was an intake of breath, and Dean chewed on his lip so hard it started to bleed. Fuck. “Sam, look. Listen.”

“No, it’s OK. I’m... I guess I just...” Sam trailed off and Dean felt like he couldn’t breathe. It was Sam. It was Sam. He missed his brother suddenly, not the dull ache he’d had for months, but a sharp pang, like a stitch in his side. It made his eyes water, and all he wanted to do was stay on the phone forever so he could hear Sam breathing, so he could know he was OK.

“Dean?” Sam asked, sounding far away, much further than the few hundred yards of concrete parking lot that separated them. “Are you OK?”

Dean fought back a bark of laughter. God, dumb question. “Yeah, I’m fine, Sammy. How about you? That doctor treating you good?”

“He’s...” Sam stopped, and Dean heard a couple of hitching breaths. “We, uh. It’s OK.”

“That’s good. That’s real good, Sammy,” Dean said, trying to sound reassuring. “You doing what he tells you?”

“I. Listen, Dean, I. I’ve got to go, OK? I need to... I’ve got to go.”

Dean felt loss settle on his chest like a crushing weight. “Yeah, OK. OK. But. Will you call me again?”

There was a silence that went on for too long, and Dean thought God, stupid, shouldn’t have said that, stupid, stupid. And then Sam said, “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll call. I want... I’ll call.”

There was a soft click, and Dean dropped the phone in his lap and stared at it for a few moments. Outside, the glow of the streetlights made the world look sickly and pale. Dean leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling of the car, and tried to swallow down the burning sensation in his throat.