With Spit and a Prayer

OK, folks, this is the last chapter. Thanks to everyone who's stuck with me this far, and especially to kimmy, AngelJade, Starflow and From Across the Pond for their kind words about chapter twenty-three. I don't know if I will be writing any more adult-rated fics, and if I will archive them here if so, but all my fic can be found on my live journal, http://kroki-refur.livejournal.com

Thanks so much for all your support. Hope you enjoy the final chapter.


----
With Spit and a Prayer, Chapter Twenty-Four

Two hundred and twenty-eight days
----
“Fuck,” said Dean, as Sam hit the dirt for the thirteenth time that day.

Sam lay still for a moment, concentrating on letting the breath ease in and out of his lungs, not too fast, not too slow, just breathe, just breathe, then rubbed his hand over his face. “You’re telling me,” he muttered.

“Sam...” Dean said, and he had that look on his face, that it’s too soon, let’s stop for today, we’re not ready, you’re not ready look that he’d worn every day for the past four, every day since Sam had told him they needed to get back into training. Sam was sick of that look, sick of it (sick of not being ready, sick of being weak), and he wasn’t about to let Dean finish whatever it was he was going to say. He clambered to his feet.

“Again,” he said, ignoring the screaming of muscles that hadn’t been used this way for over six months.

Five minutes later, he hit the dirt again, and an image of Dean’s face wavered in his mind, grinning down at him. He stared back at it, raised a mental eyebrow, ignoring the way his heart rate sped up. You’re not beating me, you son of a bitch, he thought, and the face faded, never really made it through to reality.

Sam sat up, felt moisture on his chin; he’d bitten through his lip.

It seemed like a small price to pay.

----
Two hundred and thirty-two days
----

“How are the dreams?” asked Horst.

Dean shrugged. “Around,” he said. “The pills help some.”

“And how does that make you feel?” Horst asked, and Dean mouthed the question along with him, wondered when his life had become so goddamn predictable.

“Like a sick bastard,” said Dean, because really, what was the fucking point in pretending?

“You understand the dreams are just a physiological...” started Horst, and Dean rolled his eyes.

“Physiological reaction to a traumatic event, yeah, yeah, doc, I got it covered.” He resisted the urge to jump up and start pacing; it was stupid, because the whole point of this exercise was to get Horst to help him, to open up about his feelings or what the fuck ever, but he couldn’t help wanting to keep a lid on it as much as possible, to give Horst only the information he chose to give. And now the asshole was just sitting and waiting, and Dean knew he was expected to give up something else. “I know,” he said. “It’s just not that easy.”

Horst nodded. “It’ll take a little time,” he said. “Guilt is a powerful emotion. But I think that eventually, you’ll be able to convince yourself, Dean. You just have to make sure you keep reminding yourself that it isn’t your fault.”

“Whatever,” said Dean. He knew that, Jesus, of course he knew, they’d hardly talked about anything else for weeks, talked and talked about it until Dean felt like he couldn’t even stop, would sit tense in the evenings, knowing he was freaking Sam out but not able to do anything about it. He knew it wasn’t his fault, not all of it, anyway, not the part that had fucked him up so damn hard for all these months; it was just that he couldn’t feel it yet.

“How’s Sam?” Horst asked, changing tack, and sometimes Dean wondered if the guy was psychic (only then he probably wouldn’t spend so much time trying to get Dean to tell him how he was feeling).

“OK, I guess,” said Dean. “Better. Getting better, I think.”

Horst nodded. “He wants to leave,” he said.

Dean stiffened. “He tell you that?” You’re not supposed to tell me what he tells you, Jesus. Do you tell him what I tell you?

“He asked me to let you know,” Horst said, and damn, the guy was a freakin psychic after all. “We talked about... options.”

Dean frowned, shook his head. “Options?”

Horst folded his hands over his knee, looked like he was thinking about how to move forward. “I understand from Sam that before all this, the two of you led something of an itinerant existence,” he started, and Dean stared. Fuckers with their college education, why couldn’t they just say drifters and have done?

“Yeah,” he muttered.

“Odd though it may seem,” Horst said, “I think a return to that would help Sam, help both of you. Normally, I would advocate as little disturbance as possible to aid recovery, a settled existence and a routine; however, it seems to me that familiarity is more important, and if that’s the life the two of you are used to, then maybe that’s the best way for you to really get back on track.”

Dean shook his head slowly. “What about therapy?”

“Leaving town doesn’t mean stopping therapy, Dean,” Horst said. “You can call me when you need to, drop by whenever you’re in the neighbourhood. People can get dependent on therapy, and I’d rather that didn’t happen to the two of you.”

Dean felt like everything was moving too fast. Sam wanted to leave, but they... God, he wasn’t ready, he didn’t even, “He doesn’t even like it.” Jesus, it hurt to say, he wanted it not to be true, but there it was, no point pretending, not when it might hurt Sam.

Horst watched him steadily. “Doesn’t like what?”

“Moving around,” said Dean. “Hasn’t since he was a kid. Always wanted to stay put.” Put down roots, have somebody other than me and Dad.

“What Sam wants right now – what you both want – is to be safe,” said Horst, not taking his eyes off Dean. “If he feels safest on the road with you, then that’s what I would advocate. As long as it’s a step you only take when both of you are ready.”

Dean thought about the little town, freezing cold and skittering leaves and the motel room walls closing in around him, sleeping in the car and losing Sam and feeling the ground shift under his feet, nothing solid any more, nothing safe. Jesus, nothing safe. He closed his eyes. Whenever you’re ready, Sam. God, whenever you’re ready.

----
Two hundred and forty days
----
Shit.

Sam stretched his aching arms above his head, rolled his shoulders and tried to brush his hair out of his face without transferring any of the grime from skin into his eyes. Damn, he’d forgotten just how much of a pain in the ass digging graves was. Why did he want to get back to this again?

“You OK, Sam? You need a break?”

Sam glanced up at the dim shape of his brother outlined against the sky, almost gave in, yeah, Dean, you can do it for me, but no, no. Dean had been doing everything for him, everything, it had been months. This didn’t involve dealing with people, Jesus, Sam could do this.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, knowing he sounded sullen, but he didn’t have the energy to try and put up a front right now.

“OK,” Dean said, shifting uneasily, and Sam knew he just wanted to order Sam out of the grave, grab the shovel and do it himself. Hell, it’d be faster – Dean might be a little out of condition, but he was still doing way better than Sam. Gritting his teeth, Sam grabbed the shovel and started going again. I can do this.

----

Dean scanned the area for any signs of paranormal activity and tried to ignore the twisting feeling in his stomach. Because it was weird, OK, he was glad, Jesus, he was so fucking glad to be on a job again, even one this simple, salt-and-burn just out of town with no sign of the fucking ghost at all, but at the same time it had been so long, and Sam was, Sam had been so fucked, and Dean just, he was just. Scared. Because yeah, OK, so both of them were doing better, a lot better, not that Dean admitted that to himself too often, because for all he didn’t believe in it, tempting fate was not something he messed around with, but yeah, they were, Dean was still dreaming but it was more like just an unpleasant fact of life, like Sammy’s nightmares, and Sam was going out more, managing to make it out of the room even when he didn’t have a specific reason sometimes even. They were doing better. And eventually they would have to get back to life, and Dean knew that, he knew all of it, but it didn’t stop his mouth from going dry every five minutes, didn’t stop his arms from twitching with the effort of not just grabbing up Sam and leaving.

There was a thunk of metal against wood, and Sam swayed and dropped to his knees.

Dean was in the grave in a moment, and Sam was panting, leaning over, the heels of his hands pressing into the thick dirt.

“Fine,” he muttered. “I’m... Dean, it’s OK, I just. Just tired.”

“Jesus,” Dean muttered, because he’d fucking known it, could see it in the way Sam had been holding himself, fuck. “Hey,” he said, reaching out to haul Sam up.

“Don’t.” Sam batted at his hand, lost his balance and listed sideways, landing on his side in the dirt, and Jesus, this was ridiculous, there was barely space for the two of them in this grave as it was, never mind with freakin acrobatics or whatever. Dean reached for Sam’s arm again, and Sam’s eyes widened. “D-” he said, and then Dean’s hand closed around his elbow and Sam screwed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw, and Dean knew he’d just fucked up bad.

“Sam,” he said, jerking his hand back shit shit shit let him just be tired let it just be

“Don’t,” whispered Sam. “Please, Dean, don’t.”

And Sam had just said the same thing to him, just a second before, but this was different, because then his tone had been stubborn and frustration and brother, and now it was hurt and desperate and fear.

“Shit,” said Dean, “shit, Sam, don’t do this, OK, man, snap out of it, God, Sam, don’t, don’t.” He could hear himself babbling, and he knew it wasn’t going to do any good, but he couldn’t help it, couldn’t watch this, not again, not again. He knew Sam had had a few flashbacks, didn’t know how many, but he’d only seen a couple, and he’d hoped (stupid fucking hope, but then hopes usually were) that maybe he could get by the rest of his life without seeing another.

Sam made a strangled noise and turned his head to the side. Dean had dropped the flashlight when he’d jumped into the grave, and now the beam pointed at an angle across Sam’s cheek, the streaks of dirt on his face twisting and contorting. Dean realised he’d backed up, was pressed right up against the edge of the grave pit, as far away from Sam as he could get (which wasn’t very goddamn far, fucking graves). He was still talking, he realised, pleading with Sam, and he tried to stop himself, but it was more than he could manage, watching, Jesus, watching this again and know he knew what Sam was seeing, Sam freakin told him for Christ’s sake, and God, stop, please God just stop.

And then Sam blinked and gasped, tears leaving trails in the dirt on his face in the washed-out beam of the flashlight, and he flailed an arm out, like he was trying to touch something, but there was nothing but dirt, thick and heavy with death, and for all the grave was too small, too fucking small, Sam’s arm fell short of Dean.

Sam gulped a few more breaths, then closed his eyes. “Shit,” he whispered, sounding like his throat was full of glass.

Dean sagged against the wall of earth, running his hand through his hair. He tried to speak, but he felt like he’d swallowed a handful of dust. Sam lay still for a few more moments, and Dean just stared, not even willing himself to do anything, not even at that point yet.

Eventually, Sam struggled into a sitting position. He was breathing heavily, shaking a little. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

And that was all it took, in the end, because Sam was fucked, Sam was fucked for ever and when that, when that happened he saw Dean hurting him because Dean had, Dean had fucking hurt him, and now Sam was sorry?

Dean shot to his feet, scrambled out of the grave, and walked off, not too far (don’t leave Sam don’t leave Sam) but far enough, had to get away, had to get away. Behind him, he heard the sounds of Sam pulling himself out, and it was all he could do not to go and help, except that how could he help Sam when he couldn’t even touch him.

He could hear Sam’s teeth chattering behind him. “We’ve,” Sam said, and God, he sounded so, so. “Dean, we’ve, we still haven’t. The, the ghost.”

“I’ll do it,” said Dean, and turned, not looking at Sam, skirting as far around him as he could. He grabbed the shovel, jumped back down into the grave. He didn’t hear Sam leave, but when he looked back up, he was gone.

----

Dean woke feeling like he was being strangled (feeling like he was strangling), and Sam was already sitting on the edge of the bed, like he’d been waiting, like he’d been watching Dean sleep.

“Shit,” muttered Dean. It wasn’t the first time he’d had the dream with Sam awake, of course not, but with everything that had happened earlier, and Sam wasn’t even groggy, Sam was looking like he’d never sleep again.

“Tell me,” said Sam.

Dean sat up, bunching the sheets to hide his groin. “What?” he still felt half-lost, the dream clinging to him, sticky and unpleasant.

“Tell me wh-, tell me what it’s like for you,” Sam said.

Dean blinked. Jesus Christ. “What? Sam, I can’t-”

“I told you,” said Sam, and even though it was dark, Dean felt like he couldn’t escape from Sam’s eyes, glinting orange in the glow from outside.

Dean swallowed once, twice, drew in a breath. “I’ll just...” he said. “Sam, I just, I need to shower.” I can’t tell you this, I can’t.

Sam shook his head, the orange glints swaying back and forth until Dean felt like he was being hypnotised. “Please,” he whispered.

Dean didn’t even know what he was doing, he didn’t even know, and it was like Horst, like the way he always had to talk even though he never wanted to, never wanted to, Jesus. “I...” he started, then clenched his fists in the sheet, because if Sam needed to know, then Sam would know, and maybe he would hate Dean afterwards (maybe Dean deserved to be hated), but if that was the price for what Sam needed, then Dean would pay. He cleared his throat. “They’re about you,” he said. “The dreams are about you.”

He spoke into the darkness, and Sam listened.

----

Dean felt like he had been talking for hours, though it couldn’t have been longer than forty-five minutes. The same thing, over and over, the story twisting round on itself, in and down, until it was nothing but Dean whispering it’s not me, God, I don’t want to hurt you over and over, and it wasn’t until Sam stood up that the flow of words dried to a trickle and finally to silence.

“I’ve,” Sam said, and Dean could see him shaking even in the dark, wondered if Sam had stopped shaking since the grave (since Biloxi). “Dean, I’ve got to, I can’t. Dean.”

“Sam,” Dean said, but Sam was already at the door, and Dean stumbled to his feet, gotta stop Sam, can’t let him go out there alone, but Jesus, what could he do, he couldn’t touch Sam, couldn’t persuade him, and he’d been waiting, anyway, waiting for this, maybe his whole life.

The door closed, and it got light. Dean knew that those things didn’t happen all at once, but later he never remembered what the hours had been like between the two events, a blankness in his head and a feeling of rushing air in his stomach, like he was going to hit the ground any minute now. Dean had been a passenger in his own life for eight months, and now he’d been kicked out of the freakin car all together.

And then Sam came back. There was no fanfare, no emotional reunion, no falling to their knees and sobbing; the door opened, and Sam came through it, dark circles under his eyes, and sat down on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and there it was again, and Dean couldn’t even, couldn’t even work out what the hell was going on, but Sam was back, he was back, and there was no sorry for that.

“No,” he started, then cleared his throat, would have been embarrassed at the way his voice cracked if he hadn’t been completely out of it. “No apologies, remember?”

Sam shook his head. “OK,” he said. “OK.”

Dean didn’t know what Sam was agreeing to, but for now, it was enough.

----

When Dean woke again, there was something weird about the room, but he didn’t really care what it was, because Sam was there, and that was all that mattered.

“Hey,” said Sam, sitting on the other bed. “You OK?”

Dean sat up, rubbed his fingers against his throat. It felt sore, and his eyes were swollen, like he’d been crying (maybe he had). “Peachy,” he said.

Sam reached out and patted him on the arm, and Dean froze, pulled back. “Don’t, I don’t want to,” he said, but Sam was shaking his head.

“It’s OK,” he said, voice soothing like it was Dean that needed calming down. “It’s OK to touch me. Just not.” he gestured towards his elbow and Dean stared. Sam shrugged. “Not there,” he said. “OK?”

“OK,” Dean said (but how could he touch Sam, how could he). “I’m sorry.”

Sam was already getting up, and Dean realised it was late, time for Sam to go to his therapy session. He paused though, looking back at Dean. “No apologies,” he said. “Goes both ways.”

It was only after Sam left that Dean realised what was different about the room was that light was flooding in through the open curtains.

----
Two hundred and forty-nine days
----
“OK,” said Sam, “OK.”

Dean nodded. “’sright. I knew you’d come round to my way of thinking eventually.”

Frowning, Sam shook his head slightly, then looked round at Dean like the effort cost him. The cold fluorescents made the sweat on his face shimmer. “Uh,” he said. “What?”

Dean gritted his teeth, forced a smile. Fuck, this was hard, hard for Sam, hard for Dean to have to watch Sam, but he wasn’t going to give in. Everything in him was screaming get him out of here, Jesus, Jesus, look at him, but Dean knew, he knew that wasn’t what Sam needed (what either of them needed), so he kept his lips stretched wide, hoping the smile didn’t look too much like a rictus, and held up the package of pop tarts. “Breakfast of champions.”

Sam blinked, squeezed his eyes shut for a second then opened them again. “You’re not. Fuck. Dean, you gotta eat, eat proper food, you can’t. Keep going on sugar for, forever.”

Dean went through the motions, let his grin widen, pretended Sam wasn’t breathing like he’d just run ten miles. “Sure I can,” he said, leaning back against the shelf of breakfast cereals. God, why didn’t I just come by myself? Except Sam had asked, no, Sam had demanded to come, and Dean would keep doing everything for Sam forever if he could, but that wasn’t what was best for Sam (and Jesus, when had he started sounding like Horst?)

Sam’s face tightened into a scowl. “No,” he said, grabbing the box out of Dean’s hand and putting it back on the shelf, “you can’t. Here.” He thrust a package of Lucky Charms into the basket. “Much better.”

Dean looked down at the box, and then back at Sam. “You just want the toy.”

For a moment, Sam just carried right on scowling, and Dean wondered if he’d made some kind of mistake, if Sam didn’t even know what he was doing, if this was all worse than he’d even thought. Then, Sam’s face split into a smile. “You caught me,” he said.

Dean couldn’t help but smile back, and this time, it felt genuine.

----
Two hundred and fifty-four days
----
When it came, Dean wasn’t ready. Sam was on the ground before he’d even registered, which was wrong and freakish because he was always aware of Sam, always, and shit, what the hell had triggered it this time, Sam hadn’t even been doing anything, just sitting there watching early morning cartoons, and then bam, shit shit shit. Except when he got to Sam, Sam wasn’t whispering for Dean to stop or choking or any of the things Dean associated with flashbacks; Sam was staring at nothing, his eyes tracking something invisible across the room, and it had been so long, there had been so much other screwed-up shit to worry about, that Dean didn’t even remember for a moment what that meant.

Then Sam jerked and grabbed Dean’s sleeve, and it all came flooding back.

“Christ,” said Dean, and he was gripping Sam by the shoulders, touching him, but he couldn’t not, how could he not touch Sam now? “Christ, Sammy, you OK?”

Sam raised a hand and pressed the heel into his temple. “Indiana,” he said. “It’s, I don’t know, the, there’s a woman, she’s, uh.”

“Sam, hey.” Dean shook him slightly, ducked his head so he could see Sam’s face. “What the fuck, dude. We’re not going after one of your visions now.”

Sam looked up then, frowned. “We-- what? Dean, we have to.”

“No,” Dean shook his head, “we don’t.”

Sam chewed his lip for a moment, looked like he was going to look away, then met Dean’s eyes again. “I want to,” he said.

“Too bad, Bruce Lee,” Dean said. “We’re not going.” He stood up, hauling Sam to his feet, and it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to be holding Sam right then, like somehow some barrier between them had broken and Dean didn’t even now how he had gone this long without contact. He made to push Sam down on the bed, but Sam squeezed his arm.

“No,” he said. “I mean I want to. I want to go, Dean. Please, can we just. Can we just go?”

Dean was about to argue, but the set of Sam’s jaw stopped him in his tracks. “Wait, you mean you wanna make tracks? Like, seriously, leave?”

Sam raised his chin. “If you’re ready.”

Dean let his hands fall to his sides and wondered. Was he ready? Was Sam ready? Was this staying in this fucking hole-in-the-wall town doing them more harm than good? There was only one way to find out, but thinking about it made Dean’s stomach lurch, because it was a risk, a serious one, eight months and more of the worst time of Dean’s life and they’d come so far, Dean didn’t know if he dared risk that, even if it meant that they got this far and no further.

“Dean,” said Sam. “Please. If it doesn’t work out, we can always, we can always come back.”

“We’re not better,” said Dean.

“No,” said Sam. “But we’re getting there.”

Dean cast a glance around the motel room, God, he didn’t even know how long they’d lived there now, flashbacks and panic attacks and suicide attempts and blood on the walls that no-one could see but them. Suddenly he felt like if he was there one minute longer he was going to throw up.

“Get your stuff,” he said.

----

“There’s one more thing I gotta do,” said Dean as Sam slid into the passenger seat of the Impala. “Give me a minute, OK?”

Bobby picked up after the fourth ring. “Yeah?”

“Hi, Bobby,” said Dean, feeling sweat break out on the back of his neck. “It’s Dean. Listen, I just wanted – I’m sorry I never called, OK? Things – got a little weird back there for a while.”

There was silence, and Dean wondered if maybe Bobby had put down the phone in disgust. Then he heard the sound of a throat being cleared, and Bobby’s voice was back, maybe gruffer than usual, but still Bobby.

“You boys holding together OK?” he asked.

Dean glanced over to where Sam sat in the Impala, head bowed, but not like he was brooding, just like he was thinking. You holding together? And yeah, yeah they were; maybe it was with spit and a prayer, but they were holding together. “We’re OK,” he said. “We’re doing OK.”

“Jesus, Dean,” said Bobby. “Don’t you ever do that to me again. Where the hell did you two go? It’s like you just dropped off the map.”

“Uh, actually,” said Dean, “we’re about twenty miles down the road from you. Have been since the whole thing with the demon.”

He heard Bobby suck in a breath, but he had other shit he needed to talk about, so he hurried on. “Listen, Bobby, I know you’re kinda pissed at me right now, but there’s this job in Indiana and I think we could really use your help.”

Whatever it was Bobby had been going to say, he left it unsaid. “You know you boys can count on me,” he said.

And yeah, Dean did.

----

Sam was fiddling with the zipper of his jacket when Dean got into the car. He didn’t ask who Dean had called, and Dean thought that probably he would have, nine months ago, before Biloxi, before all this. He chewed his lip for a moment (what if it’s too soon, what if I’m fucking up again), considered calling the whole thing off.

“Dean?” said Sam. “You OK?”

Dean contemplated for a moment; Sam hadn’t asked about the phone call, but Sam was still Sam; they weren’t better, but they were getting there. “I’m good,” he said. “You ready to go?”

Sam shrugged himself a little deeper into his jacket, then faced front. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s go.”

The engine rumbled into life, and Dean gave it just another moment, just to be sure; but Sam had his eyes fixed straight ahead, and he wasn’t backing down, they weren’t backing down.

“Damn straight,” muttered Dean to himself, and pulled out onto the road.