With Spit and a Prayer

Many thanks to Starflow, sami and AngelJade for their kind words :D. I'm glad this feels real to you guys.
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With Spit and a Prayer, Chapter Twenty

One hundred and seventy-four days
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Dean had no idea what time it was. Scratch that, he had no idea what day it was. Everything seemed weird, sharp-angled and bright but somehow untouchable at the same time, like he was cut off from the world. He hadn’t slept for a while, he was sure of that, because his eyes burned like someone had been rubbing sand in them, and he was pretty sure he hadn’t eaten for a while either, but even the thought of food made the nausea that was constantly churning in his belly start to threaten. How could he eat, how could he even contemplate eating? Everything was wrong, everything was so fucked to hell, and he hadn’t even, he hadn’t even -- Jesus.

He jumped off the bed, suddenly needing to be moving, pacing. The room was too small, too goddamn small, but he couldn’t go outside, couldn’t trust himself, couldn’t trust anything. He reached the wall and put a hand on it, trying to connect, wanting to remember what plasterboard and cheap paint were like, but he could barely feel it under his fingers, and his stomach lurched again, bile choking in the back of his throat.

Your sexual relationship with your brother.

Dean froze, leaning heavily on the wall, and shook his head hard, willing the words to go away, but the little fuckers just stayed right there, echoing around his head, goddammit, and this was what always happened, had been happening ever since he got back from Horst’s and Jesus, he wished he’d never laid eyes on the bastard, he should just go back there and burn the place down, because here they came, the images that always followed the words, Sam’s face turned away, jaw tight, Sam’s eyes wide, pupils blown, rolling back in his head, Dean’s hands on Sam’s throat and fuck, fuck this, how was it, how was it even possible that this had happened?

Dean spun and rammed his fist against the wall, and plasterboard or not, it didn’t give. Pain burst across his hand, and he closed his eyes, leaning forward until his forehead touched the wall and then letting himself slide down. The carpet was rough and smelt of cigarette smoke, and Dean pressed his cheek against it and willed himself to disappear.

----

“So,” said Horst, “do you think you’ll be moving back in with Dean any time soon?”

Sam chewed on his lip and thought about the question carefully, just like he always did when Horst asked him something, because he wanted to be sure he wasn’t going to give the wrong answer and bring this all crashing down. Dean had seemed angry on the phone the last few times they’d spoken, and even before that their conversations weren’t exactly deep and meaningful; Sam found himself getting nervous every evening waiting for the call, and it had been ten days since Horst had said maybe Dean needed to talk, ten days since Sam had realised that the only solid thing in his world maybe wasn’t that solid after all, and Sam just didn’t know any more. He swallowed and rubbed his cheek as he realised that actually, he had no idea where he stood with Dean; even the thought made him feel like maybe he wasn’t doing as well as he’d hoped. The idea of moving back in together made his palms sweat, because he missed Dean, missed him every second, and sometimes he thought that he had no chance trying to do this whole thing alone, but he was pretty sure that Dean didn’t want him back, and maybe he never would. “I don’t... know,” he said, finally.

Horst nodded. “If you did move back in together, do you think you would continue your sexual relationship?”

Sam did his best not to flinch, but he was pretty sure Horst noticed anyway. When Sam thought about Dean, he thought about blasting music and the smell of gun oil and feeling safe; but sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep, he remembered the way Dean’s body felt on top of him, inside him, and it made him shake and retch; he still wasn’t as strong as he needed to be, but if Dean ever wanted him back, he swore to himself that he would be, that he would be strong for Dean. Now he took a deep breath, because he wasn’t going to let Horst make him feel ashamed of what his brother needed. “If Dean wanted it,” he said, and tried to force himself to meet Horst’s eyes, but he couldn’t quite do it.

“I see,” said Horst. “And what is it that makes you think that Dean wants it?”

Sam shook his head slowly. The question was... well, it didn’t make any sense, because Sam just knew. He couldn’t even really remember when he’d come by the knowledge that Dean felt that way about him, he just knew. When he thought about it, he thought probably he hadn’t always known, but that was about as far as he got. “I don’t,” he started, and rubbed his neck, trying to winch the information out of his stubborn brain. “Goddammit,” he muttered, because why couldn’t he just think?

“It’s all right,” Horst said. “Don’t force it. Start at the beginning, like we’ve talked about before.”

Sam nodded, closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Dean wants me. The thought made dread curl and writhe in his belly, and he zeroed in on it, trying to pin it down and trace it back, when, when had he found out about Dean? There was an impression in his mind, of rain beating against glass and the weight of blankets, and Dean calling his name, and then Sam remembered. “I heard him,” he blurted, trying to get the information out there before he lost it again. “He was dreaming... about me. He was...” He clenched his fists to stop his hands shaking, but he couldn’t say it, and how the hell was he going to be able to give Dean what he needed if he couldn’t even say it?

Horst’s expression didn’t change, and Sam looked away, because in the end, he wasn’t as strong as he needed to be. “Sam,” said Horst, but Sam didn’t look back.

There was a moment of silence, and then Sam heard Horst shift on the couch. “Sam, in Biloxi, do you think your brother wanted to rape you?”

God, that question again, and Sam remembered the first time Horst had asked it and how fucked-up the whole thing had been, how he hadn’t known, not for sure. And now – now he knew, and maybe he still wasn’t strong enough to be the person Dean needed him to be, but he knew the answer now and that meant he was getting stronger, he was going to beat this thing. “No,” he said. “Dean wouldn’t.” Even if that was what got him off, Dean wouldn’t do it, Sam knew.

“And when you have flashbacks to the rape, do you think it would be obvious to an outside observer that you knew that Dean was acting against his will?”

Sam did look at Horst now, because he was having trouble following the conversation; it wasn’t the first time that had happened, though, and Sam had come to the point where he just tried to answer all questions as fully and honestly as he could, because that seemed to work out best in the long run. “Uh,” he started, and had to pause to think again. He thought about the flashbacks sideways, skirting the idea of them without actually dealing with the content; it was just another thing he’d learned, and he was beginning to feel like he was learning more in this office than he ever had in college. “I... I guess not?” he said, because it was hard to tell without really thinking about them, and he’d never seen them from the outside so how could he know?

“So if Dean saw you have a flashback, he might come to the conclusion that you thought he did it on purpose?”

“I...” Sam felt sweat break out all over his body. Dean hadn’t... he hadn’t, right, he didn’t think that, didn’t think that Sam thought that? And then he looked at Horst, and Horst was watching him, waiting, expectant, and Sam tried to figure out what he was waiting for, and Horst said what is it that makes you think Dean wants you? again, and then Sam felt the room spin around him because suddenly, suddenly there was the possibility that he’d been wrong all this time, and that – that was not something he knew what to do with.

----

Dean woke up with the feel of Sam’s skin sliding under his hands still painfully clear in his mind, and the room around him was blurred, like someone had fucked with reality, and the floor was pressing his hard-on painfully into his belly. This was it, there wasn’t any more, Dean didn’t have anything else to give; he couldn’t, he just. He was.

He struggled to his feet and made it to the bathroom before throwing up, and when he was done, he jerked off, rough enough to hurt but hell, it wasn’t like he wanted to enjoy this crap, and hey, he was the guy who got hard thinking about raping his brother, right? He was the guy who’d broken the only good thing in his life and was standing here getting off on it, so it wasn’t like he wasn’t justified in thinking maybe it ought to hurt.

When he came, Horst’s voice echoed in his ears. Your sexual relationship with your brother. Did you hurt Sam of your own free will? He leaned over the vanity, thinking he was going to puke again, but nothing came up, and then he was punching the mirror, slamming his fists against it until it broke, the shards scattering across the bathroom floor and Dean had bare feet but he didn’t fucking care, he couldn’t even see the fucking things, just hear them crunch as he walked over them., and good, fucking great.

The chair was next to go, and it was more resilient than he expected, but after smashing it against the floor a few times it splintered, and Dean hurled it against the bathroom door. It bounced off, leaving only chipped paint, and that was no good, so Dean hurled himself next, clawing at the fucking door, kicking it with his bare toes, and noticing how stark the smears of blood looked against the white paint until his vision got so blurred that he couldn’t even see it any more.

Everything went kind of hazy, then, but Dean was pretty sure the door was still there so he went right on punching and kicking, and at some point it got really hard to breathe, but that was OK, it didn’t really matter anyway, breathing or not breathing, it was all the same to Dean, and maybe he was having trouble standing up but it wasn’t like he had anywhere good to go anyway.

Then there was someone saying something behind him, but he couldn’t hear it through the buzizng in his ears, couldn’t make out the words, just the rumbling of a voice, and someone grabbed his shoulder and he thought he heard them say your sexual relationship with your brother, and he shoved out, hard, still couldn’t see a fucking thing but his hands met some resistance and then the someone was grabbing him round the ribcage and Dean fought, kicking and scratching, until finally everything just disappeared, which was really all he’d wanted in the first place.

----
One hundred and seventy-two days
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When Dean woke up, it was semi-dark and his head was throbbing like a bitch. He spent a moment thinking maybe he’d got wasted the night before, and then he rolled over and Sam was sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching him, and actually, it wasn’t just Dean’s head that hurt like a bitch, it was his hands and feet and actually his knees too for some reason, and fuck, he had lost it, he had lost it and Sam was here, which meant...

Dean squinted in the half-light, but he couldn’t be sure, right, it could just be a shadow, except then Sam moved his head and Christ, there was no mistaking the bruises across his cheekbone and the scratches on his neck and chest, and Dean didn’t even have to ask because he knew who had done that to his brother, he knew.

He scrambled backwards off the bed, the blankets tangling round his legs and tripping him so he landed on his ass, and Sam was on his feet now but Dean struggled back and away.

“God, Sam, please,” he said. “Jesus, I. God, please, just leave.”

Sam stopped moving forward and stood perfectly still, and the light from the window caught the angry red at the side of his neck. “Dean,” he said.

“No,” Dean said, turning his head away (fuck fuck fuck you hurt Sam, you hurt him), “I can’t, I need you to go, I need. Please.”

“No,” said Sam, and Dean sucked in a breath, didn’t look, because maybe if he didn’t look then Sam would never have been here in the first place. “Dean, I need you to listen to me,” Sam continued, and Dean wrapped his arms around his chest and stumbled to his feet, and his shirt was ripped, spattered with blood, and he didn’t even know if it was his blood or Sam’s.

“Hey,” Sam said, not coming any closer but not moving away, either. “Can you listen?”

Dean pressed his back into the wall and willed his legs to keep holding him up. “Yeah,” he muttered, and his throat hurt too, Christ, was there any part of his body that wasn’t fucked up?

“You...” Sam said, and now he seemed like he’d lost the thread of what he was going to say, or the strength to say it. He shifted his weight, and Dean kept his eyes determinedly away, didn’t want to see Sam, didn’t want Sam to see him. “I want to help you,” said Sam, and Dean snorted, couldn’t help himself, because why the hell did Sam, Sam who Dean had just kicked the shit out of (again) want to help him? Forgiveness only went so far, and Dean had crossed that line a long time ago.

“I want to,” Sam said, “but I can’t.” And there it was, Dean was almost relieved to hear it.

“It’s OK,” he said. “I get it.”

“No, Dean, you don’t get it,” Sam said, taking a step forward, and Dean was surprised by the vehmence, tried to back off but he was already up against the wall. “You have no idea how much I want to be the one that helps you, but I can barely keep my own shit together, God.” Sam stopped and ran his hands through his hair, and Dean was watching him now, because he hadn’t really seen his brother in so long, for all that he watched him every day, and he couldn’t look away. “I can’t,” Sam said, and pulled his shoulders down, hunching. “I can’t be that person for you, Dean, I’m sorry, God, I’m so sorry.”

Dean wanted to say it was OK, because it was, Jesus, it wasn’t like Sam was somehow letting him down; Dean was pretty sure he was beyond help anyway, and Sam was working so hard, Sam needed to concentrate on Sam. But before he could form the words, Sam was talking again, rushed, like if he didn’t get it out quick enough he would lose the ability.

“I don’t care if you talk to Horst or someone else,” he said, head down, looking anywhere but at Dean. “Just. Just, you need someone, Dean. You can’t go on like this. I can’t go on like this.”

Sam turned, and Dean saw that there were scratches on the back of his neck, too, and that the collar of his shirt was torn. He felt sick, but he was pretty sure he had nothing left to give.

Sam reached the doorway, and then stopped. “I can’t do this without you,” he said without turning, so quiet Dean wasn’t even sure he hadn’t imagined it. Then the door opened and closed, and Sam was gone.

----

Dean’s room was a mess; Dean was a mess. His knuckles were split and bleeding, and the soles of his feet were cut up but good, although there was hardly any glass in them (Sam must have taken it out). He felt like a gigantic bruise, and he didn’t give a shit, because he had hurt Sam again, and how was he supposed to deal with that, how was he supposed to just sit there with his brother fifty yards away and just hope it wouldn’t happen again?

He had to leave. There was no other option, and he should have just done it before, should have stayed gone the last time. Except the last time, Sam had spent four days locked alone in his room, and God alone knew what might have happened to him if Dean hadn’t come back. And that was the fucking thing, because Sam left to his own devices would get hurt, but Dean was hurting Sam, and he didn’t even know how to reconcile the two in his mind, didn’t know how the fuck to solve this gigantic screw-up.

So there was leaving, and Dean couldn’t do that. Then there was staying, and Dean couldn’t do that either. He’d gone crazy, he’d smashed up his room, and he the worst of it was, he knew the crazy was just waiting under the surface for another chance, and who knew what would happen next time. And the only way to fix it, the only way that he could see to help Sam, was to get the crazy out.

Putting his boots on hurt like fuck, but Dean didn’t give a shit. He didn’t give a shit about anything except that this had to stop. And when he got there, the receptionist said something about waiting and having an appointment, but Dean didn’t stop to listen to it, was pushing through the door before she’d even finished her sentence.

Horst looked up, surprised. “Dean,” he said. “We don’t have an appointment.”

Dean closed the door behind him and took a deep breath. “We need to talk,” he said.