With Spit and a Prayer

Many thanks to AngelJade, Starflow and Mary for their kind reviews. Glad you guys are enjoying this still!

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With Spit and a Prayer, Chapter Twenty-One

One hundred and seventy-five days
----
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dean snarled, and resisted the urge to slam his fist against the wall only because his knuckles were already sore as fuck. “Stop fucking saying that.”

Horst didn’t bat an eyelid. “You want me to lie to you, Dean? Because I don’t think that’s going to help any of us.”

“It’s not, it’s not,” Dean ground his teeth, pacing away from the doc again because he couldn’t stand to look at his face. “It’s not lying. I don’t need you to hold my hand and tell me none of this was my fault, I know what happened, I’m not like Sam. My head’s straight as it’s ever gonna be, Doc. I just need you to make it so I can function.” So I can look after Sam without fucking him up any more.

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” Horst said. “Unfortunately for you, Dean, making it so you can function is going to require that you face a few basic facts.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Dean said, pacing faster. “Don’t start with this shit again, I mean it.”

“You were raped,” Horst said. “Both you and your brother, and unfortunately neither of you sought help immediately after the attack. Both of you have been traumatised, which is why you haven’t been able to help each other through it. Dean, pretending that your issues don’t exist, focussing entirely on Sam, is just going to result in the continued decline of your mental health. If nothing else, you should at least be aware that you won’t be able to take care of your brother if you carry on this way.”

“Goddammit,” said Dean, and this time he did punch the wall, split knuckles be damned, and fuck, it hurt like hell, but Dean was oddly satisfied to see the smear of dried blood he left on the cream paint. “I’m not pretending my issues don’t exist! I’m here, aren’t I?”

“But you don’t want to get over them,” Horst said. He hadn’t moved once during their whole conversation, just followed Dean with his eyes, the bastard.

“Why should I?” Dean asked, standing still now and looking Horst in the face, because he was a Winchester and he wasn’t going to let any goddamn preppy geek get the better of him. “You tell me that, huh? Don’t you get it, doc? I raped my brother. What, you think I should just get over that, move on? In what world is that OK?”

Horst did move now, planted his hand on his knees and leaned forward, not breaking Dean’s gaze. “I know you don’t want to think of yourself as a victim,” he said, “but you must understand, if you can’t accept that you were the raped, not the rapist, you will not make progress.”

“Oh, right, OK,” Dean said, starting to pace again. “So I should just forgive myself, right?”

“No,” Horst said, and Dean glanced at him in surprise, but his face gave nothing away. “There’s nothing to forgive, Dean. That’s what you need to realise.”

Dean laughed, short and sharp. “OK, Doc, how about the part where I carried on fucking my brother after I raped him, huh? When he was so fucked up he didn’t know up from down, and I fucked him. I strangled him once, too, he tell you that?” He stopped and stared challengingly at Horst, but the doc didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, and Dean was starting to think he wasn’t human.

“Who was it who initiated your later sexual encounters with Sam?” he asked, like he was talking about the goddamn weather, and Dean flexed his hands, not caring when the skin over his knuckles stretched and split. Initiated. Jesus Christ.

“What the hell?” he said. “I’m gonna use words of one syllable, OK? I. Fucked. Sam. He was the fuckee. Who the hell do you think initiated it?” And Christ, this was like the worst torture Dean could think of, to have to say this over and over, and he tried as hard as he could to separate the words from their meaning, but he couldn’t help remembering the rough blankets under his knees, the smell of sweat in the stifling air, God, he had done that to Sam, he had done it.

“I think it was Sam,” Horst said, and something turned over in Dean’s belly, and he lunged forward, turning himself aside at the last minute because for all he wanted to smash the doctor’s face in, Sam’s voice was still in his head, I can’t do this alone, and Dean had come here because there was nowhere else to go.

“Don’t you,” he said, hunching his shoulders and panting slightly. “Don’t you fucking say that, don’t you say that.”

Horst shifted so he was facing Dean again, crossed one leg over the other. “I’m not blaming Sam, Dean. But I find it hard to believe that you would do what you claim you did.”

“I don’t fucking care whether you find it hard,” Dean said. “That’s what happened.” Acid in his throat and Sam rigid beneath him and no way of coming back from this, ever.

“All right,” Horst said. “Then tell me, Dean, why did you have sex with your brother? Are you sexually attracted to him?”

Dean snorted. “Wow, you catch on real quick, huh? Guess that must have come in handy in head-shrinking school.”

“Is that a yes?” Horst asked, and Dean remembered Sam kissing him and feeling nothing but an overwhelming sense of wrong. But he dreamed about it, God, and he’d fucking done it. It was wrong, sure, but Dean was wrong, too.

“What the hell do you think?” he said.

“I want to know what you think,” Horst persisted, and Jesus, Dean really was going to strangle him if he kept on like that, seriously, it was fucking annoying.

“Me? I think I’m a freak. A fucked-up freak who wants to fuck his brother. You gonna tell me I’m wrong? You need an actual demonstration?” Dean was in Horst’s face again, but as per goddamn usual Horst didn’t budge an inch, and Dean was beginning to think this guy would have made an awesome hunter.

“Why?” he asked. “Would you like to have sex with Sam again?”

“No!” Dean said, and pulled back, shoving hard against Horst’s shoulders. “Jesus Christ, what the hell’s wrong with you?”

Horst watched him for a moment, unblinking, then nodded. “Well, I think that wraps it up for today. You’ve made excellent progress.”

And really, Dean was beginning to think that maybe the shrink was the crazy one.

----

“How did it go?” Sam asked, and Dean sighed into the phone.

“Dude’s whacked out,” he said, stretching out on the bed. “Told me I had... post-something. Stupid long name.”

“Post-traumatic stress disorder,” Sam said. “I always knew you were unoriginal.”

Dean frowned. “What?”

“That’s what I’ve got, too,” Sam said, and Dean listened as hard as he could, because he thought he could hear a smile in Sam’s voice, and could he, could he?

“Huh,” he said, dismissively, trying to keep the tone light, trying to remember this, how it worked, teasing and talking and just being Sam’s brother. “No way, man, you must have copied from me. I know how you worship the ground I walk on and shit.”

“I was diagnosed with it first,” Sam said, sounding like he was trying for pissed off.

“Only because you were more of a whiny bitch about it than I was,” Dean said.

There was silence on the line, and Dean flexed his hand, feeling the pull and sting of the cuts. He still felt riled up after his talk with Horst, but talking to Sam was like freakin Valium or whatever. Speaking of which. “Hey,” he said, “the doc gave me some pills to take.”

There was a huff of breath on the line. “You. You going to take them?”

Dean rolled his head on his shoulders. He could do with a work out. Kind of wanted to punch the shit out of something. “Seriously, man. I’m not a nutcase, I don’t need crazy pills.”

A longer pause this time, and then Sam said “I take them,” and Dean felt like a total moron, which was fair enough, really.

“Yeah, well. That’s different,” he tried, because Sam was Sam, Sam was utterly fucked up and needed all the help he could get.

“It’s not different,” Sam said, sounding beaten-down now, all traces of the smile gone from his voice. “They help. You’ll take them.”

Dean swallowed, and he wanted to fight back, because hey, Sam was not exactly in a position to tell him how to not be crazy. Except maybe he was. “Fine, whatever,” he said, clearing his throat and feeling kind of like a scolded child, which made him uncomfortable for a couple of seconds until he realised that Sam hadn’t made him feel like that for months, and actually, it wasn’t so bad after all.

“So when’s your next appointment?” Sam asked.

“Couple of days,” Dean said, shrugging even though Sam couldn’t see him.

There was a pause, and then Sam’s voice came back, careful and tense. “You going to go?”

Dean looked up at the ceiling and thought how having a conversation, an actual conversation with Sam was like slipping back into an old pair of boots, remembered how this morning he’d woken up with his brother’s skin under his fingernails and how quickly things could change. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll go.”

----
One hundred and seventy-eight days
----

“How’s--” Sam stopped and checked Horst’s expression, suddenly nervous (it wasn’t supposed to be him who asked the questions), but Horst looked calm and expectant, so he drew in his breath and tried again. “How’s Dean doing?”

Horst smiled. “I can’t discuss my sessions with Dean, I’m afraid,” he said.

Sam looked down again quickly. Stupid, stupid. Of course Horst couldn’t talk about Dean, Sam knew that, he should have known it.

“How does he seem to you? You’ve been speaking to him, yes?” Horst asked.

Sam thought for a moment, then felt something fall into place in his brain. He tried out a smile of his own, and it felt weird on his face, like his skin was being stretched wrong, but he kept it in place, determined. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss my phone calls with Dean,” he said, and raised his head, catching Horst’s eye.

Horst looked surprised for a moment, then broke into a wide grin that made Sam duck his head and flush, because Horst was smiling at something he said. “I see,” Horst said, leaning forward on the couch. “Well, I wouldn’t want to put you in a position of professional misconduct...”

Sam snorted, and it seemed so natural that it almost freaked him out. He leaned back in the chair, resisting the urge to pull his knees up against his chest. “I don’t know,” he said. “He seems kind of pissed. I don’t think he likes you.”

Horst nodded slowly. “I got that impression, too. It’s a good sign.”

“Really?” Sam chewed on the inside of his lip, remembering the tension in Dean’s voice, humming even over the phone.

Horst watched him for a moment, but Sam was used to that; Horst was always watching, and although sometimes it still made Sam’s chest tighten, he could ride through that now, tell himself that it would be OK. “Before Biloxi, was Dean a calm person?”

Sam stared. Before Biloxi. Before Biloxi was like a wash in his mind, like someone had left the memories out in the rain until all the colours blurred together; all the same, Dean was clear enough. “You’re... you’re kidding, right?”

Horst’s mouth turned up at the corners. “Then it’s a good sign,” he said, and Sam didn’t understand, not really, but he didn’t need to, because Horst always seemed to know, and that was good enough for Sam.

----
One hundred and ninety-two days
----

“Do you want to have sex with Sam?” asked Horst again, and Dean had had just about all he could take of that.

“Fuck you,” he said, aware he sounded like a whiny bitch, but God, he was too damn tired to care. He sank further down into the couch cushions and wished it was still two days ago, because OK, therapy was pretty much fucked any way you looked at it, and if Dean never had to talk about how he felt about something again it would be too soon, but at least back then Horst had been asking about other shit, whether he was afraid or had panic attacks or what-the-fuck ever, and not this. Dean had hoped that this was done as a topic of conversation, but apparently he’d underestimated just how goddamn interested Horst was in his sex life.

“Was it you who suggested that you and Sam have sex?” Horst asked, and Dean gritted his teeth.

“I said fuck you, and by the way, if you try and put this on Sam you’ll fucking regret it, OK?”

Horst nodded. “Then it was Sam who made the suggestion.”

“What is it with you?” Dean asked, feeling rage rise up his throat again, and yeah, he was tired, so fucking tired, but not so much he was going to let the damn shrink talk about his brother like that. “He trusts you, you know? He thinks you’re looking out for him. Why are you so... God.” He jumped to his feet, flexing his hands even thought the cuts were healed now and the damn things didn’t hurt any more.

“Do you think lying about what happened will help Sam?” Horst asked, sounding like he was genuinely curious, and Dean made a strangled noise that might have embarrassed him in another circumstance.

“Look, doc, I didn’t have to do it, OK? It’s not like he held me down or anything.” Dean laughed, and wow, he kind of sounded like a crazy person, and everything was so fucked up, he couldn’t even think straight, like every time he tried to make his thoughts go from A to B, they got distracted and wound up at fucking Q or whatever, and Dean had fucked Sam, Sam had said he wanted it but Dean knew he hadn’t, Dean had fucked up completely and utterly and he had been turned on, his body had been turned on, which meant that something in him must have liked it, and if Dean could have cut that part out of himself he would have, but it was him, it was him, and if Horst wanted to know just how much of a bastard Dean was, well, that was fine, Dean could totally tell him. “In fact, it was pretty much the opposite. Because you know, that’s the only time I got hard. You want to know if I want to fuck Sam? Only when he’s helpless and doesn’t want it, only when it fucking hurts him. So what does that make me, huh? Does that make me a victim?” He stopped, breathing hard, right in front of Horst’s chair, and let the bastard tell him it wasn’t his fault now, Jesus Christ.

“Dean...” started Horst, and suddenly Dean couldn’t stand it any more, couldn’t bear it.

“Whatever,” he said, and made for the door, and he didn’t breathe again until he was outside.

----
Sam took a deep breath and stepped in through the sliding doors. The air in the grocery store smelt cool and sterile, though it was a lot warmer than outside, and there was a low-grade buzz underlying everything, not to mention the piped music and the people (there were people). Sam swallowed, stepping forward and letting the doors close behind him (but they would open again if he needed them too, they would). He half-wished he’d just told Dean he’d run out of food, but he scrubbed that thought from his mind as soon as it entered, because he was going to get better, and better didn’t mean skulking in a motel room being waited on hand and foot, better meant this, meant being able to walk through a fucking store without panicking.

There was a woman blocking the aisle with her shopping cart, and Sam stood and shifted from foot to foot, wondering what to do. He ought to just get past her, maybe ask her politely to get out of the way, or, or Dean would just push past and say something about idiots who didn’t know how to shop. He turned the options over in his mind, and both of them made his stomach hurt with nerves. Finally, he gave up and turned back, walking the long way round the shelves to come at the aisle from the other side, and when he got there the woman was gone. He laughed at himself a little for being such an idiot, but disappointment curled in his gut, and he closed his eyes and thought of Horst telling him that he didn’t have to do everything at once, one step at a time, and OK, OK, he could do that, he was here and that was a step.

The girl at the checkout barely even glanced in Sam’s direction, and Sam was grateful, pathetically so, trying to ignore the fact that he was breathing too hard and sweat was breaking out along his spine and hairline. He paid with cash that had been in his wallet for months (hell, he’d only found the wallet the previous day) and got the hell out, and the freezing air burned his nostrils and felt like the best thing ever, and he had done it, and Jeez, it hadn’t even been that dramatic.

Sam grinned to himself, cradling his victory to his chest. He wondered if he should tell Dean, but it sounded so pathetic. Hey, I managed to buy bread and milk all by myself. And Dean would probably ask him if he wanted a medal or something, but actually, Sam kind of did. Maybe he would tell Dean. Maybe he would just enjoy the whole thing by himself.

A car door opened suddenly in front of Sam, and he swerved to avoid it, slipping on a patch of ice and going sprawling, his back smacking painfull into the concrete. A guy was out of the car in seconds, leaning over Sam, apologising, and Sam watched the hand reach for his elbow and knew what was going to happen a second before it did, closed his eyes and willed it away, not now, please God, not fucking now.

Jesus Sam, you’re so good.

Sam swallowed, kept his eyes closed and tried to remember, it’s not real, it’s not fucking real, but his chest was getting tighter and Dean’s weight was pressing down on him and he knew if he opened his eyes he would see that smile. Someone was talking near him, pulling on his arm, but he couldn’t move, Dean had him pinned and Sam braced himself, felt Dean entering his body and it hurt just like the first time. I’m never going to escape, he thought, and Dean said I’ve wanted this for so long, and then Dean’s hands were pressing down on his throat and Sam just let himself go, because anything was better than this.

He came to to find a circle of faces hovering above him, so tall, feet in snow-covered boots by his head and the air cold, he remembered reading somewhere that early Germanic conceptions of Hell were of a cold place and this was it, he was suddenly sure, he had finally made it.

“Easy, buddy,” said a voice by his ear. “I’ve called an ambulance.”

And suddenly Sam was on his feet, backing away, running away. There were voices calling after him, but he thought they wouldn’t follow, shit, he hoped they wouldn’t follow, because he couldn’t have that, couldn’t have people following him, and shit, shit, it was so hard to breathe, it was like there was something wrapped around his chest (his throat), so that by the time he reached the motel he was barely moving any more, stumbling forward only because there were people behind him (they’re not really there, there’s no-one following you) and it was so cold, so cold.

He could hardly get his fingers to work the key, and he thought for a moment that they would catch up, they would find him here pressed against the door, so close to safety, so fucking close, and he would be done. And then the door opened and he fell inside, had just enough left in him to close it, but no more, no more. He curled up on his side on the floor and dug his fingers into his temples until it hurt. No more. No more.

----

Dean was livid, actually fucking red-faced with rage, but he wasn’t about to smash up the motel room again, because hey, there wasn’t too much left to smash after last time, and man, he really needed to hustle up enough cash to fix this crap before the owner came in and saw what he’d done. The shards from the mirror were still in the trash can, and Dean thought about just shoving his hand in there and seeing if he couldn’t get somenew cuts to replace his old ones, but he didn’t, he didn’t. He wanted to smash Horst’s face in, and he didn’t do that either. OK, so Horst was a dick, a fucking bastard, but Dean had agreed with Sam, he’d said he’d see this through and he’d known it was going to be tough (fucking understatement), but, but. Horst was helping Sam. And Dean was here, he was angry, sure, but he hadn’t done anything stupid and maybe, maybe Horst was helping Dean, too.

Dean sat on the bed and let his hands droop between his knees, forced himself to breathe normally. Being pissed actually felt pretty good, but he needed to calm down, because he was due to call Sam in a few minutes, and for all their conversations were easier now, the last thing he wanted to do was yell at him. A few deep breaths should do it, and Dean let his mind skirt away from his session with Horst (victim). He could deal with that later. Right now he had other shit to do.

The phone rang and rang, though, and Sam never picked up, and the little anger left in Dean’s system started to shift into fear when he called a third time and got no answer. That was enough, more than enough to have him out of his room and across the forecourt, trying Sam’s door and he didn’t even have to pick the lock, the door just swung open part way, hitting an obstacle lying on the floor. Dean skirted round it, and even though it was dark inside, he knew what the obstacle was, had known it even before he stepped inside, dread welling up and he’d been waiting for this moment for so long now that it felt like some kind of nightmarish homecoming.

But Sam’s pulse was beating, and Dean, crouched by his brother’s side with no idea how he’d got there, felt his knees give in relief, so that he fell forward and Sam shifted, was awake, breathing raggedly and reaching out, curling his fingers round Dean’s sleeve.

“Dean,” he whispered. “God, Dean, don’t. Please.”

Dean tried to pull back (please, Dean, don’t), but Sam’s grip tightened. “Don’t leave,” he said. “Don’t leave me, Dean.”

Dean let himself drop, sitting on the floor next to Sam’s prone form, and he had no idea what had happened, but this wasn’t how it was meant to be. “Sam,” he said. “I can’t stay. You know I can’t.”

Sam shifted, curling further in on himself and dragging Dean’s arm with him. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know why. I need you to stay.”

And Dean knew why, he knew why, but Sam’s long fingers were wrapped around his wrist now and he could feel the desperation like it was his own (maybe it was). Sam needed him, and maybe, this once, he could give Sam what he needed.

“OK,” he whispered. “OK, Sammy. I’ll stay.”