With Spit and a Prayer

Many thanks to Starflow, AngelJade and From Across the Pond for their kind reviews of chapter twenty-one. Still pushing on with this one!



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With Spit and a Prayer, Chapter Twenty-Two



One hundred and ninety-two days

----

“Hey,” said Dean, and Sam’s world slipped slightly, the haze he had been drifting in sharpening. “Do you think you can get up?”



Sam blinked. The room was dark, he was pretty... No, he was sure, it was dark, and Dean was there. He vaguely remembered Dean arriving, he thought so, anyway, but that was all, and he wondered how long he had been there.



“Dean?” he asked, and frowned at how weak his voice sounded. The last thing he wanted was Dean feeling forced to stay yet again.



“Yeah,” said Dean, and Sam shifted, opened his eyes wide, trying to work out where his brother was, but it was like his spatial awareness was shot or something, he just... couldn’t pinpoint the source of the voice. For a moment he thought maybe he was dreaming, then his stomach turned over when it occurred to him that he might be in the middle of a flashback. But no, no, he’d had a flashback, that was right, he’d had a fucking panic attack, but it was over now, he was safe, and he could tell the difference, he could tell that this was real.



“Sammy?” Dean said, and Sam realised he’d probably been waiting for an answer. “You think you can get on the bed?”



On the bed. Sam curled his fingers into loose fists, pressing the nails against the skin of his palms, but not breaking it, not yet. Dean wanted him on the bed, and Sam had to not panic, not jump to conclusions. He had to work out what that meant. Because Horst had said that maybe Sam was wrong about what Dean wanted, but Dean, Dean had dreamed about Sam, Dean had fucked Sam, more than once, and Sam didn’t know, he didn’t know if that was what Dean wanted (and what if it wasn’t, God, what if it wasn’t?). He closed his eyes and swallowed, trying to listen, to work out where Dean was, trying to think, but it was so fucking hard.



“Sammy?” said Dean again, and this time Sam listened, really listened, and Jesus, Dean’s voice sounded broken, harsh edges and fraying threads, barely holding together, and Sam thought Dean. Dean was stupid jokes and swagger and a hand at his back when he needed it. Dean wasn’t pain and violation and cold nausea in the pit of his stomach. Maybe Sam didn’t know all the things he needed to know, maybe he hadn’t got it all figured out yet, but he knew Dean.



“Yeah,” he whispered. “I can do that.”



----

One hundred and ninety-three days

----

“Can you tell me what happened?” Dean asked.



It was three in the morning, but Sam wasn’t asleep, hadn’t slept at all as far as Dean could see, though he hadn’t said anything either, just staring off into space. Dean had asked him a few times before, when he had first arrived, but Sam seemed to be in a daze, only occasionally snapping out of it enough to understand and answered. Now, though, he turned his head slightly towards Dean and sighed.



“Panic attack,” he whispered, and it was weird, he hadn’t spoken above a whisper since Dean had arrived, like he was afraid to speak too loud.



Dean shifted forward, leaned his elbows on his knees. This was Horst’s territory, Dean didn’t know what to do. “You have therapy tomorrow?”



Stupid question, because Dean knew Sam’s schedule better than he knew his own, but he needed something to say. Sam shook his head. “Day after,” he whispered.



“Maybe...” Dean chewed his lip. “Maybe you should go tomorrow, too. Maybe Horst can squeeze you in.”



Sam was quiet for a long time, and Dean thought maybe he’d slipped back into his weird zoned state. Then he said, “I thought... You know, I thought I was getting better. I.” He shifted, turned so his back was to Dean, his whispering muffled so Dean had to hold his breath to even hear it. “I went to the fucking store, you know that? On my own. I thought... And then all it was was a guy, just a goddamn guy, all he did was touch my arm...”



“Hey.” Dean moved to sit on the bed, and suddenly he wasn’t scared any more, this wasn’t therapy, this wasn’t Sam the psychiatric patient. This was Sam, his little brother who was hurting, and Dean could help, that was his job, it was what he did. “You are getting better, Sam,” he said, hand hovering over Sam’s shoulder (because we’re not ready for that, not for that). “You’re doing fantastic, you got me? Jesus, when I think what you were like before...”



Sam hunched into himself, and Dean ached to touch him, just to reassure himself that Sam was really still there, but he held back.



“Why does this all have to be so hard?” Sam asked. “Why can’t I just... why can’t I just get over it?”



Dean closed his eyes, and God, he wanted it to be that simple for Sam so much, more than he wanted almost anything except for none of this to have happened in the first place. But it had happened, and Sam was fucked up, they were both fucked up, and if you had asked Dean a couple of months ago he would have said there was no way back. Now, though, it was just hard, and maybe it was the hardest thing either of them had ever tried to do, but it was just hard, not impossible.



“It’s OK, Sam,” he said. “It’s gonna be OK.”



Sam sighed. “How do you know?”



Dean pulled his shoulders back and pasted a grin onto his face, even though Sam’s back was to him and it was dark. “Because I’m older and smarter than you,” he said. “And also? Better-looking.”



It was dumb and childish, but Sam laughed, quiet maybe but definitely there, and Dean felt his fake smile turn real, felt a glow in his chest like he used to have when Sam was kid and used to laugh for minutes on end at Dean’s gags. And maybe it really was going to be OK.



----



“Why did you agree to have sex with your brother?” Horst asked. Dean was pretty sure he practiced that fucking neutral voice of his every morning and night. He wondered if he used it on his wife. Why did you decide to buy muesli instead of Cap’n Crunch? How do you feel about that decision?



“We’ve been through this,” Dean said. He’d had enough of this line of questioning. E-freakin-nough.



“We have,” Horst said. “When I asked you before, you said it was because forcing sex on Sam when it hurt him made you aroused.”



“Jesus,” said Dean, and had to lean on the back of the couch to stop from falling down.



“Now, I believe that you were aroused, Dean,” Horst said, staring intently at Dean, and Dean couldn’t look at him, couldn’t fucking look at him when he was using the word aroused about Dean fucking Sam. “And I’m also willing to believe that it was your brother’s submission that was the cause of your arousal. However, given the relationship you have with Sam, I find it hard to believe that you would act on that arousal of your own accord.”



“Will you just...” Dean thought maybe he was going to throw up. Submission. Christ. “God, doc, can you just stop? Just fucking stop.”



“I’m afraid I can’t stop until I’ve understood what happened,” Horst said, and he really sounded like he was sorry, the bastard. “So why don’t you tell me, Dean? Tell me exactly what happened. Don’t leave anything out.”



“Why don’t you just fucking listen?” Dean asked, and he was trying to find the anger, God, he’d had plenty of it the last time they’d had this discussion, but all he had this time was the churning in his belly that was threatening to rise up his throat any minute and fingers slippery with sweat where they pressed into the leather of the couch. “I told you. I told you what happened.”



“Sam asked you to have sex with him and you said yes?” Horst asked, and now Dean really couldn’t stand up any more, he stumbled backwards and hit the wall, fingers scrabbling for a hold, sliding downwards, and holy crap how was he letting this guy get the better of him like this, he needed to be more alert, on his guard, not fucking swooning around the place like a pussy, but he didn’t have it, he just didn’t have it any more, he felt totally used up. Horst stared at him where he sat on the floor, and Dean put his head in his hands, and for all that Sam was getting better and maybe everything was going to be OK, he couldn’t find anything inside him but despair.



“I didn’t... It wasn’t like that,” he said, and now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop. “I was just... I wanted to protect him.” God, but that sounded dumb. Dean had protected his brother by fucking him. Yeah, that was a bang-up job right there.



“How did you think having sex with Sam would protect him?” Horst asked, and Dean wished he would stop saying it like that, having sex, like it was just some clinical act in a biology textbook, like it wasn’t wrong.



“He was,” Dean swallowed and closed his eyes, seeing the image of Sam unconscious with a stranger on top of him. “He ran away. He was finding other people... strangers. To.”



“Finding strangers to have sex with him?” Horst asked, and that was it.



“No, Jesus, it wasn’t fucking sex, OK?” The mental image was still there, branded across the backs of Dean’s eyelids, and suddenly he found his anger again, enough and to spare. “It was rape. He went out and found strangers to rape him.” Dean laughed, and it hurt his throat. “So I figured, hey, better his brother than some weirdo, right? If Sam needs some guy to rape him, I’ll step up. I’m fucking noble like that. They should give me a prize.”



Horst didn’t say anything for a minute, but Dean didn’t look up, didn’t even open his eyes, even though that image of Sam was still there. He figured looking at it was the least he could do.



“Would you have sex with Sam again if he asked you?” Horst asked, and Dean didn’t even need to think about it.



“No,” he said, “no way.” Maybe he would tie Sam up to stop him hurting himself, or just shoot every son of a bitch that dared come near him, but he would never do that to Sam again.



“You’re sure?” Horst asked, and this time Dean did look up, because he was a lot of things, a lot of things, but he wasn’t that, not again, not ever again.



“Yeah,” he said. “I’m sure.”



----



Sam swallowed and knocked at the door. It was weird – it wasn’t like he hadn’t been here a thousand times before, but he felt nervous, his stomach twisting like it was the first time (only not, because the first time he hadn’t been nervous, he’d been terrified). Lately, it had been so easy – walk in, answer the questions, and OK, sometimes it hurt, but he’d just learned to switch off, just do it, and he always came out feeling better, stronger, like he could do this.



Now, though, as he walked into the familiar room, he felt ashamed.



“Sam.” Horst smiled and stood up, and Sam looked away. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”



Sam shifted from foot to foot, then sighed and sat in the armchair. He didn’t want to – he just wanted to leave – but he figured if he was going to do this, he should do it right. “I, uh.” He swallowed, kept his eyes on the ground because he didn’t want to see the look of disappointment on Horst’s face. “Yesterday I... I had a panic attack.” Failure welled up in his throat, acidic and bitter.



“I see.” Horst didn’t sound disappointed, but Sam knew he must be. “This is the first one for quite some time, isn’t it?”



“I... yeah.” Sam closed his eyes a moment.



“And how does that make you feel?” Horst asked.



“Like...” Sam clenched his jaw and forced himself to focus, to work out how he was feeling. It was harder than it had been for a while. “I don’t know. I thought I was getting better.”



“Sam,” Horst said, and he sounded so sympathetic, God, Sam just wanted to look at him, but he couldn’t, didn’t dare. “I’m afraid that you may well never get over the flashbacks completely.”



“What?” Sam did look up then, feeling panic thread its way through his veins, because he was supposed to get better, he had to get better, Christ, it was the only thing he was supposed to do.



“Did you read the literature I gave you?” Horst asked, and Sam looked away again. He’d been so... He barely even remembered getting the leaflets, let alone what he’d done with them. “You should read them, Sam,” Horst said, and there was no accusation in his tone. “It will help you if you understand more about your condition.”



“I’m never... I’m never going to stop having them?” Sam asked, and Dean’s voice echoed in his mind, I need you to get better.



“You may not,” Horst said. “But you can learn to avoid them where possible and to deal with them where not.”



“It’s...” Sam closed his eyes again, remembering the way Dean’s body pressed his down. He didn’t want to see that again, didn’t want to feel it. “I don’t... I don’t know if I can do this any more. I don’t think I can do it.”



“Perhaps you don’t,” Horst said, “but I know you can. You can and you will, Sam. One step at a time.”



Sam pressed his fingers into his thighs, not to hurt, just to feel the pressure, feel something real. “I’ll try,” he muttered.



“I know you will,” Horst said. “Now. Tell me how the flashback happened.”



----



It had been forty-five minutes, and Sam was hoarse with talking, ready to go home, when Horst suddenly said, “Why did you want Dean to have sex with you, Sam?”



Sam started, swallowed. They’d been talking about Dean moving back in with Sam, and Horst had seemed to think that was a good idea, and now this. Sam didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to think about what would happen if Dean wanted to start again, or if Dean had ever wanted it in the first place. That part of his brain was dark with confusion, and he hated it, more and more as he began to be able to make sense of his life again, disorder that spilled over into everything if he let it.



“I... what?” he said, even though he’d heard the question perfectly clearly. Horst just looked at him, and Sam took a deep breath. Answer the question. He always answered the question.



“I thought... that was what he wanted.” Was it? Was it?



“Do you think that it’s appropriate for people to enter into sexual relationships merely to please others?” Horst asked.



“Uh.” Sam pushed back into the chair, pulling his legs up in front of him, and so what if he hadn’t done that for weeks, it was just gesture, there was nothing in it. “No, I... I don’t. I don’t know?”



“Let me put it this way,” Horst said, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “If you were attracted to Dean, and he wasn’t attracted to you, would you think he should have sex with you anyway?”



“No,” Sam said, and then frowned. “But it’s not like that. That’s Dean. It’s different.”



“How is it different?” Horst asked.



“I... I owe him,” Sam said, and Christ, it was true, he owed Dean everything and he would never be able to do enough to pay him back.



“I see,” Horst said. “And did Dean agree to have sex with you as soon as you suggested it?”



Sam pulled his knees tighter into his chest and closed his eyes. That time was like a haze in his mind, and the more the colours in his life got cleaner and brighter, the more the ones in his memory faded into obscurity. He was happy to leave them there, but Horst asked, and so he had to answer. “No,” he said, trying to remember the order of events, the way it had happened. There had been yelling, and threatening, and then. “I left,” he said, because he knew that’s what Horst was going to ask next, and it was easier just to get it out there. “I left, and then when Dean found me, he said yes.”



“Why did he say yes?” Horst asked, and Sam had known that one was coming, too, but he didn’t want, Christ, he didn’t want to answer it, didn’t want to remember.



“I... He wanted to stop me from... From sleeping with other guys.” Except Sam knew that wasn’t really the truth, not the whole truth. God, the way he said it made it sound like Dean was jealous, and there was so much more to it.



“Are you gay, Sam?” Horst asked, and Sam found himself surprised, on the back foot again, not that that was so unusual, but it didn’t help for all that he was used to it.



“No, I... I don’t. No. I don’t think so.”



“Then why were you having sex with men?”



Sam didn’t open his eyes; he didn’t need to to know that Horst was watching him, because Horst was always watching, never let go, never let him get away with lying, and he could say to make Dean jealous, because that was plausible, right? But Horst would know because he always did, and it would just drag this conversation out even longer, and Sam didn’t want it, didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to drag that part of his life into the light and have Horst prod around in it, because he wasn’t that person any more (and he was afraid that if he looked at it too hard it might swallow him back up again). “I wanted...” And when he’d slept with Dean, he’d wanted to make Dean happy, he’d wanted Dean to be happy. Except Dean hadn’t been happy, no matter how hard Sam had tried, and Sam knew there was more to it than that, knew that it hadn’t just been for Dean, that he hadn’t ever been the selfless little brother he’d wanted to be, the person Dean deserved. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and tried, pushed with everything he had to remember why, what it had all been about, what it was all still about, and there was something, there was a thought there, maybe he could catch it, maybe he could say it.



“I wanted to hurt,” he said finally, and saying it, it was suddenly clear, everything, those days that he barely remembered, the nights with Dean pressed against him and close to tears, it all crashed over him until he could barely hear Horst’s voice any more, so lost in a maelstrom of understanding. He’d wanted to hurt. He’d wanted someone to hurt him. (Maybe he still did.)



When he came back to himself, Horst was silent. Sam opened his eyes and stared. He couldn’t help it; everything seemed so new and confusing and somehow both more and less fucked-up than it had before. There was fear and shame and guilt, and somewhere beneath it all a feeling like a burden had been lifted.



“Sam,” said Horst, “what you’re feeling is not wrong or unusual. Feelings of low self-worth are common in rape victims. But you’re making excellent progress, and I think it’s very important that you’ve recognised the root of your problem here today.”



Sam raised his hand to his mouth, chewed on his fingernails. “But I...” he swallowed, his throat dry and raw, like he’d been screaming, though he didn’t remember doing so. He wanted to say something else, but he didn’t know what.



Horst smiled at him. “The main thing you have to remember now,” he said, “is that none of this is your fault.”



Sam blinked and looked away. None of this is your fault. Dean had written that, once, and Sam hadn’t believed it, not really. He didn’t think he believed it now, either.



----



When Sam got back to the room, Dean was gone. It was three in the afternoon, and presumably Dean had things to do, although Sam couldn’t really think of any, didn’t know what Dean did all day beside going to therapy. Probably he slept. At any rate, he wasn’t there, and Sam was OK with that, he could wait. He had some thinking to do, anyway.



He’d heard Dean dream, once. And Dean had been hard when he’d fought with Sam, definitely. But then Dean had never, Dean had never been happy with them having sex, and at the time Sam hadn’t seen it, had really thought that if he could just mask his own unhappiness, then Dean would be OK with it, would be able to just take what he wanted and enjoy it. Sam had hoped for that, and God help him, it hadn’t just been because he wanted Dean to be happy. But now, now he looked back, and Christ, he had basically blackmailed Dean into fucking him, and whether Dean wanted it or not, that wasn’t the way it should have been. Dean must have known Sam didn’t really want it, and Sam had... Sam had been about as far from making Dean happy as it was possible to be.



Jesus. Sam sat down on the bed and ground the tips of his fingers into his temples. It was still so hard to think, even though every day it felt like he got another piece of the puzzle, and he’d fucked up so bad, he’d fucked everything up. Dean had left him, and maybe it wasn’t because Sam wasn’t good enough, but because Sam was actively fucking him over. And Dean had said none of this is your fault, God, Sam still had the note, still took it out and read it sometimes, but how could he think that, how could he, when Sam...



Chewing his lip, Sam curled up on his side and closed his eyes, trying to force back tears. He could feel his mind drifting, could feel it heading for that haze of easy confusion that he’d spent so long in back when Dean had first left, warm and safe like a blanket. He bit down hard on his lower lip, bringing everything back into sharp focus again. He wasn’t going there. Maybe he’d fucked up, maybe this was all his fault, but it was up to him to fix it now, and he wasn’t just going to give up, not now, not ever. Dean needed him to get better, and that was what he was going to do. No easy answers, not this time.



Tasting blood in his mouth, he clambered to his feet and started looking for the leaflets Horst had given him.



----



At six o’clock, Sam’s phone rang, and he already knew, he’d worked it out when he’d found that none of Dean’s stuff was in the room, bitter disappointment slicing through his guts, but he couldn’t help saying it anyway.



“Where are you?”



Dean sounded surprised. “In my room. Why?”



Sam rubbed a hand over his face, because of course, Dean had only been there the night before because of Sam’s panic attack, he should have realised, but he felt the loss anyway, the last bit of hope draining away.



“Sam?” asked Dean, and Sam cleared his throat, tried to sound normal.



“So I went to see Horst today,” he said, because say something, anything, don’t worry him, he doesn’t need to be any more worried about you.



Too late, of course, always too late to stop Dean worrying. “Sam, you OK? Did something happen?”



Goddamn. It was just like then all over again, Sam trying, always trying to make it easier for Dean and managing to fail spectacularly every time, only ever managing to make it worse. “I just... I thought. It doesn’t matter, OK?” Sam heard Dean draw his breath in, and knew that if this conversation went on any longer, he was really going to blow it. “Look, Dean, I gotta go, OK?” he said, not even bothering to make up an excuse, because what excuse could he possibly have. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”



After he hung up, Sam sat staring into space for a while. He would make it up to Dean, he would. Everything would go at Dean’s pace from now on, and if Dean never wanted to move back in with Sam, well, Sam would just live with that. Dean had given Sam everything, and Sam was damn well going to give something back, and this time, this time, he wasn’t going to fuck it up.



The knock at the door startled Sam out of his reverie and made his palms start to sweat. The clerk hadn’t been round for weeks, Dean leaving food on his doorstep now, and Sam really didn’t want to talk to anyone, didn’t want to deal with anyone right now. And then, and then he needed to get better, and if he couldn’t even answer his own door... He contemplated just pretending he wasn’t in, but the knock came again, louder, and Sam pushed up off the bed, feeling sweat break out all down his spine and over his scalp.



But it was Dean in the doorway, and Sam was caught between crying in relief and cursing himself, because he obviously had worried Dean, worried him enough that he’d come all the way over here with... with a duffle bag. Sam stared.



“I didn’t...” Dean shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t realise that was what you wanted, is all.”



Sam took a deep breath, because he wanted, God, he wanted so much, but he couldn’t let this be about him, not this time. “Is it... what you want?” he asked.



Dean shifted again, then looked right at Sam. “If you’re ready. If we’re ready.”



Sam leaned back against the doorframe. “Look, Dean, about... I’m so sorry, man, I’m so sorry for everything.” It was lame, so freakin lame, but he didn’t know how, didn’t know how to apologise for what he’d done.



Dean raised a hand. “No sorries. I don’t care what you think you did, we’re not doing that this time, you got me? What’s done is done. Now tell me to stay or tell me to go, but do it quick cos I’m freezing my ass off out here.”



Sam didn’t want a free pass, he wanted to make it better, make it up to Dean. But it was enough, this was enough for now, and he pulled back into the room and put the light on.



“Come in, then, if you’re coming,” he said.



Dean pushed past him and dumped his bag on the bed nearest the door, and Sam turned around and shut out the winter night.