With Spit and a Prayer

Many thanks to HalfBloodPhoenix, Angel Jade and Starflow for their kind reviews. It's a good thing you guys seem to like angst because... well, let's just say it's not getting any better...
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With Spit and a Prayer, Chapter 6

Something had to break soon, and Dean was afraid it was going to be him; and in the end, he was right – just not in the way he thought.

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Thirty-Two Days
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They had been on the move for five days when Dean finally decided to get off the road. He’d expected it to be Sam who would make the decision, who would ask to stop and be still for a while, but Sam hadn’t said much of anything since before they got going, and when he wasn’t sleeping he just sat in the passenger seat, bundled up in blankets, and stared out of the windshield like he wasn’t even there any more. He didn’t complain when Dean turned the music up loud, he didn’t complain about the greasy food they ate on the run, he answered Dean’s enquiries with monosyllables or not at all (not like he was ignoring Dean, just like he hadn’t even heard him), and Dean was beginning to feel like he was travelling with a dead man. Every night, he would check them into a motel and Sam would allow himself to be led into the room, where he would curl up on the bed and fall asleep. The only time he showed any interest in his surroundings at all was when Dean tried to lead him into a diner on the first day; the diner was almost empty, but Sam refused point-blank to go through the door. After that they ate at drive-thru.

After five days, then, Dean sat in a motel room somewhere in a north-eastern state (he didn’t know which one any more; all he knew was that the suffocating heat followed them wherever they went) and decided that enough was enough. Sam was sinking and Dean was drowning, and somebody needed to do something about it, and since Sam didn’t seem in a fit state to do anything about anything right now, it was up to Dean. He glanced back at the lumpy pile of blankets that was all the evidence that his brother still existed right now, and drew a deep breath; Dean had got them into this mess, and somehow, somehow he was going to get them out, no matter how much it terrified him to think what he might have to do to get them there.

In the morning. In the morning, he and Sam were going to talk. In the meantime, Dean needed to get out before he went insane.

He found a bar in a fairly quiet area near the motel, and after a couple of beers, he began to feel like maybe it wasn’t such an impossible task after all. They were screwed up, yes, but he could be there for Sam like always and they would survive, like always. There were people laughing out here, people having fun, peoplegoing about their lives; the world was still going on, and they could go on too.

Dean stayed in the bar for two hours, until he met a lovely young brunette by the name of Isabel. She was full of life and laughed all the time, and Dean talked more than he had for the past month, and when he looked into her smiling eyes they weren’t blank and they didn’t look away.

Later, at Isabel’s house, in Isabel’s bed, Dean thought maybe he might have turned a corner, maybe he might have found the way to free himself from the quicksand he’d been struggling in. That was, until he was thrusting inside her and he saw Sam’s face looking up at him, terrified, and heard his own voice echoing in his ears, saying Jesus, Sammy, you’re so good.

Dean started back even as he came, and he tumbled off the bed, wide-eyed. Isabel sat up and stared at him in surprise, and she must have been saying something because her mouth was moving, but Dean couldn’t hear anything past the rushing in his ears. He clambered to his feet and barely made it to the bathroom before he threw up, the beer that had gone down smooth and warm coming back up bitter and jagged. Isabel was still talking, but Dean wasn’t listening, didn’t care, and all the sparkling conversation in the world wasn’t worth this moment, because he hadn’t come for a month without forcing Sam’s name back from his lips, and what he thought was a road back to life had turned out to be a long walk off a short pier.

He didn’t stay, and she didn’t ask him to. She didn’t look so pretty now, her face pinched with hurt and anger; she didn’t look him in the eye any more, and Dean wondered if this was his fate now, to never have anyone look at him directly again. He was a pariah.

And he deserved it.

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The motel room was dark when he returned, and he didn’t switch on the light, not for fear of waking Sam (because nothing ever seemed to do that), but because he didn’t want to see this life, not right now. He headed straight for the shower, but tripped over something on the floor, and a feeling of foreboding hit him, prickling down his spine from the back of his neck, just before he reached down and touched warm flesh.

Jesus. Can’t be Sammy. Can’t be.

Dean stumbled back to the door and flipped the light switch and it was, it was Sam in a heap on the floor like all the bones had melted under his skin and oh God oh God what happened did it come back Dean fell to his knees and turned Sam over, not caring about touching him now, not caring because Jesus it came back and I wasn’t here what did it do what did it do?

But Sam didn’t look hurt, there was no blood, he was just pale and still and was he breathing? Was he? Dean leaned forward and put his face to Sam’s mouth, listening, desperate to feel the stirring of air against his face, but he couldn’t feel anything and he remembered that last time the demon had strangled Sam (Dean had strangled Sam) and oh Jesus he was just lying there and what was Dean going to do?

Dean fumbled for a pulse and felt all the air go out of his lungs as he felt a thready beat against his fingers, but it was fast, too fast, and was that a symptom of strangulation or was it something else? Dean cast around for a clue, something, anything, and that was when he saw the pill bottle lying under the bed. He stared at it for a long moment no way no way no freakin way before his limbs caught up with his brain and he lunged forward, grabbing it and staring at the label.

“Jesus, Sam,” he whispered Jesus Sam JesusSamSamSamSammy, and in the next moment he was reaching for his cell phone.

----

“Mr. Mathison?”

Dean looked up, the noises of the hospital echoing around him like he was under water. A young woman was watching him with an expressionso serious it made hysterical laughter bubble up inside Dean. What the hell’re you looking like that for? It’s not like you even know him.

“I’m your brother’s doctor, my name is Doctor Kapoor,” she said. “I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“Is Sam OK?” Dean asked, even though they’d already told him that the worst was over.

She gave him a small smile and nodded. “Physically, he’s going to be fine,” she said. “I’m more worried about his mental health.”

Dean looked away. Mental health. That was what they said when they didn’t want to say crazy.

“Did your brother take sleeping pills regularly?” she asked, and Dean thought back over the last week, Sam always buried in the bed, hardly awake even when his eyes were open.

“I...guess,” he said. “I think so. Lately, anyway.”

“Lately?” she asked. “Do you know what happened to start him off?”

Dean closed his eyes. Do you know what happened? He heard Sam’s voice saying please, Dean, don’t, and felt bile rise in his throat for the second time that night. “He... he was raped,” he said, and the words tasted sour on his tongue, like he was betraying something, but Sam needed help, he needed it, and Dean was no longer convinced that he was up to the task.

“I see,” the doctor said, looking quickly down and writing something on her clipboard, and Dean fought the urge to yell no, you don’t see. How could you possibly see?

“Has he been exhibiting signs of depression?” she asked, she said exhibiting, just like that, like she was a textbook or something.

Dean snorted. “Does trying to off yourself count as a sign of depression?” The sentence fell like a lead weight between them, drawing all the air away from Dean. He hadn’t believed it, but he had just said it, he had said it.

The doctor shifted uncomfortably; she wasn’t a people person, Dean could see that, and if the blood pounding in his ears had been less loud he might have sympathised. “We don’t know for sure that’s what he did,” she said.

Oh, this was getting ridiculous. “So you’re telling me, what? That the pills fell into his mouth?”

“The pills your brother took are very easy to overdose on,” the doctor said, and she was definitely uncomfortable now, uncomfortable with Dean, but that was OK, because Dean hadn’t been comfortable with Dean for over a month and he figured other people had the right to feel the same way. “He may have just accidentally taken one too many. To be honest, I’m surprised he has them at all – we don’t prescribe them often any more.”

Dean bit his tongue. Their first-aid kit was mainly stocked with meds that Dad had learned about in field training back in the seventies; none of them had ever seen the need to mess with what worked. But that meant, then... That meant that it might have been an accident, this might all have been a horrible mistake.

“Mr. Mathison,” the doctor said, “has your brother been exhibiting any other signs of depression?”

And Dean dropped his head into his hands. He didn’t know what the signs of depression were, but he would hazard a guess that Sam had been exhibiting pretty much all of them.

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Thirty-Three Days
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Dean was waiting when Sam finally opened his eyes. He felt like he’d been waiting forever, and maybe he had, maybe really all he’d been doing since Biloxi was waiting for Sam to open his eyes, and fearing what he would do when he did. He wished he could look away, look away from the mess that had somehow happened, the mess that Dean had created, or at least not done enough to try and stop, but if he looked away he was afraid that when he looked back, Sam would be gone.

Sam’s eyelids fluttered, then cracked open. He stared at Dean blearily, and then his eyes drifted slowly around the room. “Where...?” he started, and his voice, God, his voice sounded hoarse and scratched like it had then, as if Dean didn’t have enough reminders of fucking Biloxi right now.

“Sam,” Dean leaned forward, and he wanted to reassure Sam (a little late for that), wanted to comfort him with meaningless platitudes, but instead he heard himself say you almost died.

Sam blinked slowly, not looking directly at Dean. “I don’t... understand,” he said, and Dean remembered stumbling in the dark, remembered hauling Sam’s head into his lap and scrabbling frantically for a pulse, remembered feeling like every single synapse he had was numb with mindless fear, and Sam didn’t understand.

Dean lunged forward and grabbed the front of Sam’s hospital gown, hauling on it until his brother’s face was right in front of his. “Jesus Christ, Sam,” he growled, “tell me you didn’t do it on purpose. Tell me you didn’t do it on fucking purpose.”

Sam looked up at him, and Dean was suddenly aware that he could see the whites of his brother’s eyes, and he let him go like he’d been burned. Sam slumped back into the bed, and was it Dean’s imagination or did he shrink back a little?

“I took pills,” Sam said, and he sounded disconnected, like he was trying to remember.

“Yeah,” said Dean. “Yeah, Sam, you took pills.”

Sam closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Dean. I must have taken too many. I’ve been kind of out of it.”

Dean let himself fall back into the awkard plastic chair, and scrubbed his hand over the lower half of his face. Thank fucking God. (What if he’s lying?) “Jesus,” he said. “Jesus.”

The silence in the room was different from motel silence, filled with clicking heels and the low hum of conversation instead of passing cars and TVs on too loud. Dean listened until he could feel himself falling, and then he knew it was time.

“Sam,” he said, “this has got to stop.”

Sam looked down at his hands, knotted in the sheet so tightly that his fingers were turning white, and didn’t say anything.

“I’m serious,” Dean said, and he pulled his chair forward. “Look at me.”

For a long moment, he thought that Sam was going to pretend he hadn’t heard, but then he finally looked up and met Dean’s eyes, and what was that that Dean saw reflected in his face? Well, there wasn’t time to worry about that now: he had Sam’s attention, and he had to take his chance.

“We can’t go on like this. No, Sam, look at me.” He reached out, hesitating infinitessimally, then touched Sam’s chin, just enough to move his head round to face Dean again, no more, no more. “I want... to help you, but I don’t know how.”

Sam shifted uneasily, and Dean let go of his chin, but Sam didn’t look away, though he looked like he wanted to. “Then what?”

Dean chewed the inside of his lip. “I don’t know. But we’ve got to stop just... We’ve got to stop this. You get me?”

Sam did drop his eyes now, but Dean didn’t reach out to him again. “I know,” he muttered. “I just don’t know how.”

“We’ll figure it out, little brother,” Dean said. “We’ll figure out a way.”

The room was silent again, but the quiet hospital noises seemed somehow less oppressive, and after a while Dean reached out a hand and rested it on Sam’s arm.

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Thirty-Six Days
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It was raining. Pouring, actually, and Sam had no idea how Dean could sleep through the noise of it battering against the windows of their motel room. He pulled the blankets up closer around him, staring at the watery glow that represented the lights of passing cars, reflected and refracted through the curtains of rain, and wondered if this was what it would be like existing underwater. Everything always seemed that way at the moment, anyway, like he was seeing it through a distorting veil that separated him from the outside world, confusing and disorienting him.

We’ll figure it out, little brother.

He knew that Dean had meant what he said, but so far figuring it out seemed to consist of Dean locking the first-aid kit in the trunk of the car and Sam left lying awake again, night after night. It was better, that was true, Dean didn’t seem too afraid (or too sickened) to touch him any more (or maybe he was just swallowing it down so he didn’t have to deal with Sam doing something stupid again), but it wasn’t enough. It didn’t stop him from feeling like he wasn’t really there any more, like he was slipping away and soon there would be nothing of him left (and maybe that would be a relief, maybe, maybe).

Sam sighed and turned onto his other side (he didn’t like to lie on his back any more), drawing his knees up towards his chest. Sometimes, he was such a whiny bitch. Yeah, so something pretty bad had happened, but they’d survived, there was no lasting damage, so why couldn’t he just move on? Why did everything always have to affect him more than it did Dean? God, even the questions he was asking himself sounded like whining in his head.

He was about to give up on sleeping altogether and get out of bed when he heard his brother groan. Sam froze, his body tensing almost to the point of pain, then forced himself to relax. He’s just dreaming, idiot. He started to struggle out of the pile of blankets to go and wake Dean from the nightmare, when Dean groaned again and Sam paused. Oh. It was that kind of dream. He felt his cheeks flush and he burrowed back into his bed and tried hard not to listen.

Except it was pretty hard when Dean grunted and said Sammy, and Sam heard that as clear as day, rainstorm or no rainstorm. He felt like icy water was trickling over his entire body, leaving trails that were alternately burning and freezing, and he held his breath as Dean jolted awake, muttering something, and practically flung himself out of bed and across to the bathroom.

Sam heard the sound of the shower starting up, and felt like his tongue was too big for his mouth, like it was blocking his throat until he couldn’t breathe. He pulled the blankets over his head and stared into the suffocating darkness, trying to make sense of what he had just heard.

Jesus, Sammy, you’re so good. I’ve wanted this for so long.

Demons lie. That’s what they do, it’s how they get to you, they always know exactly which buttons to push, how to tear you down. Sam felt blood trickle down his chin, and he hadn’t even realised he’d been biting his lip. Demons lie.

The shower shut off, and there was only silence (demons lie) and the battering rain. It was thirty-six days since Biloxi and (demons lie, demons lie demons lie) Sam could feel his world crumbling around him again.

Dean came back into the room, oh God (but sometimes) Sam could hear him breathing and it made his own breath stop in his throat again (sometimes they) until coloured spots started to dance in front of his eyes. Demons lie. But sometimes.

Sometimes they tell the truth.