With Spit and a Prayer

Many thanks to AngelJade and Under The Willow for their kind reviews, and also thanks go out to Starflow for the review of Wild Men Who Caught and Sang the Sun. You guys are awesome :).

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With Spit and a Prayer, Chapter Seventeen

One hundred and fifty days
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Dean woke stretched out and wearing sleeping clothes, and for a moment he couldn’t remember why. He blinked up at the ceiling (ceiling) and thought this is wrong, because he was in a room, in a bed, and that meant, that meant...

Then he remembered, and closed his eyes again. It meant he wasn’t watching Sam any more. It meant Sam was a thousand miles away, and it might as well have been a million. It meant Dean was really alone, really alone for the first time ever, because even in the weeks between when Dad had disappeared and he had gone to fetch Sam from Stanford, he’d known that he could go, he could go and see Sam. And now, now.

Dean turned over onto his side and curled his body, ignoring the shoulders and neck that were still aching after so many weeks of sleeping wrong. Dean had seen a lot of terrifying things in his life; hell, most of his life had been all about terrifying things, the sort of things that would make most peoplelose their minds with fear. But Dean had only ever really been afraid of one thing, and here it was, his worst nightmare, the thing he’d fought all his life to avoid. And the worst, the worst thing was that he’d brought it on himself, and ruined Sam in the process.

Dean had spent his whole life thinking he was strong. People told him that, with words and without; Dad had relied on him, Sam had relied on him. He was strong, and he couldn’t afford to break. But now no-one was relying on him, and Dean was faced with the realisation that maybe he had never been strong in the first place, maybe all his strength had been borrowed, and now it had been returned with interest. He curled tighter in on himself and let everything go, because there was no reason not to any more.

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Sometime after midday, Dean’s phone rang. Thinking about it later, Dean wondered if that was the only thing that could have roused him from his stupor (because maybe it was Sam, it might be, it might be, Sam hadn’t called for days but maybe it was Sam), but whether it was or not, Dean found himself answering without even checking the caller ID.

“Dean Winchester?” a vaguely familiar male voice asked, and Dean felt disappointment wash down his spine and curdle in his stomach. Normally he would have been cautious, asked who the hell wanted to know, but he just didn’t care any more.

“Yeah,” he muttered, and wondered when his voice had started to sound so dull.

There was just the briefest pause, and then the voice said, “I apologise for this. I got your number from our phone records. This is Maxwell Horst, Sam’s doctor.”

Dean sat up sharply, fingers tightening on the phone. “Sam OK?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Horst said. “He hasn’t attended an appointment in four days.”

Dean waited, because that wasn’t right, that couldn’t be right. Four days. Sam hadn’t called him for four days. Because he was getting better, right? Right?

“Mr. Winchester?” Horst asked, and Dean felt the little that was left of his life come crashing down. Four days. No-one had seen or spoken to Sam in four days, and Dean knew better than most that it didn’t take four days for something bad, something terrible to happen to someone. “I...” he said, then, “Have you called him?”

“He’s not answering his phone,” Horst said, and his voice was calm, how could he be so fucking calm? “Have you spoken to him?”

Dean tried to answer, but his tongue felt thick, like it was too big for his mouth. You left him. You left him and you didn’t even check, you didn’t even check. “I. Listen, doc, I gotta go.”

He was dialling Sam’s number almost before the doctor’s voice was cut off mid-sentence, struggling out of bed and dressing as fast as he could. Four days. Sam was a thousand miles away, and it might as well have been a million.

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One hundred and fifty-one days.
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South Dakota hadn’t changed in the few days since Dean had left, but the emptiness that had pinned him down on the way out of town had been burned away by the urgency he felt now. He hadn’t stopped driving for more than a few minutes in fifteen hours, and it was after midnight now, and Sam, God, Sam hadn’t answered his phone, though Dean had called so often that he could almost still feel the imprint of the handset against his cheek. Something was wrong, really fucking wrong, and Dean felt like he was heading off a cliff, like he was going to break on the rocks, and there was no way of stopping it.

Jesus Christ, how much damage could someone do to themself in four days? (How much damage could someone do to themself in a hundred and fifty days?)

The motel was quiet, the windows curtained and dark, but Dean didn’t care about being quiet, didn’t care about not being seen as he skidded into the parking lot. He’d stayed away, God, it was maybe the hardest thing he’d ever done, but he’d stayed away, he’d left for Christ’s sake, and that hadn’t been right either, he’d thought it was working and he’d fucked up again.

It took Dean longer than it should have to pick the lock on Sam’s door, his fingers shaking so hard that he had to stop and just breathe for a second, even though it made his stomach swoop and plunge. Fuck, fuck, get a grip, Dean. And then. And then Sam had been on his own in there for four days, four fucking days, and Dean couldn’t even think any more as the tumblers in the lock finally turned over, and the door swung open and inside it was just. Dark.

Dean took a hesitant step into the room. It smelled stale and grimy, but not, but not (not like something had died in there), and Dean stumbled forward, past the first bed (there were two beds, this was the room where), and the dim light filtering in from the streetlights through the open doorway slid over a huddle of blankets on the second (a body), and Dean stopped, he couldn’t bear it, this moment, this not knowing, but he couldn’t bear to break it, either, because then he would know, and what if, what if?

The huddle stirred, and Dean was suddenly aware that his fingers were numb. He swayed, his legs barely able to support him, and took a step backwards, falling onto the other bed. His entire body felt like it had been sucked dry, muscles loose and bile in his throat, and Sam, Sam. Sam was there.

The body (Sam) shifted again, and then suddenly went still in a way that even in his fucked-up state Dean knew meant fear, not sleep. He didn’t feel like he would ever be able to speak again, but the light was coming in from behind him and Sam didn’t know, couldn’t see. He closed his eyes, forced his throat muscles to work. “Sammy,” he said, and coughed, fighting down the nausea. “It’s me. It’s OK, it’s me.” And he wasn’t sure if those two statements followed from each other any more, but he was pretty much fresh out of things to say to his brother (who was alive, thank Christ, thank Christ).

Sam’s shadowy form went even stiller, if that was even possible, and Dean wondered if he’d just fucked up even more, coming here, coming in here, sitting on the bed where

“Dean,” said Sam. “Dean?”

Dean put his head in his hands, elbows on knees. “Yeah,” he whispered. “It’s me. It’s Dean.”

Sam was quiet for a long time, too long. Dean wondered if maybe he had gone back to sleep, thought about sneaking out again (but Sammy’s not better, he’s not getting better), but he couldn’t move, couldn’t even lift his head. And then Sam spoke again, and his voice sounded ruined (Sam’s ruined).

“You,” he said, and choked a little, struggled. “You left. Where did you go?”

Dean blinked, stared at his knees; in the dark they were just grey on grey, barely there. “It wasn’t. I couldn’t stay, Sam. I can’t stay. You need to get better.” I just make you worse.

Sam rolled so he was lying on his back, and Dean, lifting his head now, could see the faint light glinting off Sam’s eyes. “I can’t get better.”

Dean thought about Sam not getting better (never getting better), and no, that wasn’t right, that was the only thing that couldn’t happen. Dean had given up everything, he’d done it, OK, given up Sam, and that was OK, he could live with that, as long as Sam got better. He shook his head, digging his nails into his thighs. “Don’t give me that bullshit.”

Sam blinked; Dean saw it, the light from his eyes gone and back again. “What?”

“You, Sam, you gotta. You gotta get better, OK?”

Sam struggled into a sitting position at that, and Dean caught that musty smell again, stale sweat and too many days in bed, and wondered how long Sam had been lying there. “I’m,” Sam said, and looked down at his hands. “I think I’m made wrong,” he finished in a whisper, and God, no, Sam thought that, Sam thought it when it was Dean, it was Dean who had caused this, Dean who was broken inside. Dean was across the space between the beds in an instant, gripping Sam’s shoulders and staring into his eyes, and Sam shrank back, looked scared (scared, he’s scared of me), but Dean wasn’t letting him get away with this one.

“Listen to me,” he said, and it hurt to speak, but that didn’t matter, what mattered was that he didn’t fuck up, because he thought maybe this was the most important thing he would ever say. “Sam, it’s not your fault, OK? You didn’t do this. You’re still Sam, you’re still my little brother, and OK, your head’s a little messed up right now, but we can fix that, OK? We’ll fix it. But you gotta try, Sammy. I know it’s hard, Jesus, I know, but you gotta try for me, OK?”

Sam stared back at him like he’d just been talking in tongues, long enough that Dean got nervous (because he wasn’t just talking to Sam, he was touching him) and said “You got me, little brother?”

That was when Sam’s eyes darted away, across the room and down, the movements strange in the half-light. “I tried,” he whispered, and Christ Dean didn’t want to ever hear that tone in his brother’s voice again. “I don’t... I don’t think I can do it.”

“Hey,” Dean said, but Sam kept looking away (Sam’s always looking away), and Dean couldn’t let that happen, not now. He steeled himself, bit the inside of his lip and reached a hand up to Sam’s face, gently turning it to face him. “Please,” he said, and Sam’s eyes were wide. “Please.”

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When Sam woke up, the room was empty except for him, and he rolled over and was about to close his eyes again (because of course he’d just imagined that Dean was here, he’d imagined it often enough before) when they fell on a sheet of paper on the nightstand that hadn’t been there before. He blinked, stared at it for a while, wondering vaguely if it might disappear; but no, it was still there, white and torn (Dean, Dean). Eventually, he reached out a hand to take it.

Sam, the note said, and Sam remembered this, what notes meant, they meant Dean was gone. I can’t stay, I’m sorry, but I’m going to call OK? Every night. You make sure you answer the phone. And remember what we talked about. Dean. P.S. Take a shower.

Sam ran his fingers over the words a few times; they made sense. They were words from Dean, and they didn’t try to crawl off the page, they stayed there, stark and blunt in Dean’s stubby capitals. Take a shower. Sam wasn’t sure he could do what Dean needed him to do, but that, at least, he could manage.

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“Oh, hey, thought we’d lost ya,” said Benny, and Sam shifted uncomfortably. “Was gonna call the agency today, get someone else, all them files ain’t gonna organise themselves, ya know.” Sam tried to think of some suitably contrite thing to say, but Benny suddenly grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “Course, then we’d be forking over to Uncle Sam, so, ya know, welcome back.”

And it was that easy, four days that Sam could barely remember, hazy, shadowy oblivion, and then back here in the sharp light, in the tiny room stacked with papers and boxes, just like he’d left it. For a moment, after Benny left, he pressed himself against the door, feeling the tightness in his chest increasing with every breath, until he thought he was going to pass out, the shiny white stacks of files blurring, the light bouncing off them and straight into his brain like knives. He closed his eyes, trying to breathe slow can’t do this can’t do this and then please. Sam screwed his eyes tight and pushed aside the litany, concentrating instead on the second voice, falling through his mind without an echo, still and quiet but so much more important. You gotta get better. Please.

Drawing a deep breath, Sam opened his eyes and moved forward, slowly, feeling like he was underwater, kneeling on the floor in the patch of space he had vacated days before. The file in front of him glared up, too bright, dark letters tangled and strange, and Sam leaned over, letting his shadow fall on the paper, and thought A. The first letter is A.

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One hundred and fifty-five days
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There was something Sam wasn’t getting.

He clutched the envelope of bills in his pocket and hunched his shoulders against the freezing wind, trudging across the asphalt (one thousand five hundred and eighty two steps home). There was something he wasn’t getting, because Dean had been there, in the motel room, Sam knew that, he had the note and Dean’s phone calls to prove it. But Dean had left, he had left weeks ago. So how had he been there? How had he known to come and find Sam?

Sam felt the crinkle of paper under his fingers (“Here ya go,” Benny grinned, thrusting the envelope into his hand, “you been doing a good job, kid. See ya next week.”) and tried to concentrate. It was there, he knew, the connection was there, and once he would have worked it out straight away. He was slower, now, his mind didn’t work the way it used to, but he had figured out the fucking filing system and he was going to figure this out too (so much more important).

Turning the corner, he took in the familiar scene, the motel and the street, and something clicked, somewhere there was a spark. Sam wasn’t there yet, but he was going to figure it out.

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One hundred and fifty-seven days
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It was broad daylight when Dean woke up, and he groaned, easing the kink in his spine and trying to rub the sandy feeling out of his eyes. The dreams were more vivid again now, now that he was talking to Sam every night (kind of talking, anyway), and sometimes the look in Sam’s eyes just before they rolled up in his head was different, was like the one he’d had a week ago in the motel room when Dean had grabbed his shoulders (because Sam was scared of Dean, with good reason). Dean sat up, trying to still the shaking in his hands, thought about going to the Y to try and wash the dream out of his brain (not that that ever worked), and then, fuck, a slip of paper tucked under the windshield wiper. A ticket? No way, Dean had been parked here pretty much continuously for weeks, and he’d never got a ticket. Then what?

Fighting down a feeling of foreboding, Dean glanced towards Sam’s room to make sure he wasn’t going to blow his cover (curtains closed, as always) and got out of the car on the far side, staying low and snagging the paper. It was an envelope, he saw, with his name on the front, and that was freakin weird, who the hell knew who he was? He tore it open impatiently. Inside was a key that he recognised as belonging to the motel, and a scrap of paper. The paper read Car doesn’t suit you.

Dean stared at the note (Sam’s handwriting, how is that even possible) and the key for so long that his entire body began to itch with the inactivity. Then he looked up at Sam’s room again, but there were no answers there, the curtains still firmly shut, no sign that anyone lived there at all. The key was for the room furthest away from Sam’s. But Dean couldn’t, he couldn’t. He had to stay away from Sam, to protect him, he’d told him he couldn’t stay.

The door of Sam’s room swung open, and shit, Dean had forgotten to check the time to see when Sam would be coming out, and now he was standing there on the motel forecourt staring straight at Dean, and all of Dean’s carefully laid plans had crumbled to dust, and this was not good, so not good.

Then Sam very deliberately turned his head away and started towards town, not looking back. Dean stared at his retreating body, and tried to understand. Sam wanted him to stay, and Sam knew that he was watching; but Sam hadn’t asked him to come back to his room, and Sam hadn’t come over to the car to speak to him.

An agreement, then. Maybe that could work.

Dean looked down at the note again. Car doesn’t suit you. His hands were still shaking, but he huffed a laugh, climbed out and started towards the motel.

No, Sammy. It really doesn’t.