Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ A Sea of Waking Dreams ❯ New Habits ( Chapter 1 )

Chapter 1

 

“Total's fifteen thirty-seven.”

 

Dean grunted and dug out his wallet. He paid the goofy-looking kid, took the box, and closed the door without a word.

 

“That was rude,” Sam observed from where he lay on the bed, one arm draped over his stomach, the other splinted and lying at his side. Words that should've sounded accusing or scolding instead fell like stones, a flat monotone that was becoming all too familiar.

 

Dean grimaced inside and fought to keep his voice light. “Yeah, whatever. Come get some pizza, Sammy.”

 

At the last word, Sam's eyes shone, suspiciously damp-looking—that was becoming familiar, too. He sat up slowly, as if testing the waters, and then swung his legs over the side of the bed and pushed himself to his feet. He swayed, and automatically Dean went to brace him. Sam let him do it without complaint—just another new thing to get used to.

 

Finally, though, Sam was settled at their tiny table, eating pizza that Dean had ordered covered in fruit-and-vegetable toppings, content to eat things he hated if it meant Sam building up his health again. Sam also had a salad, although Dean had to point it out and tell him to eat it before he actually picked up the fork.

 

Once Sam was at last situated and looked as if he would keep eating without having to be told when to take a bite and when to drink some water, Dean got his own pizza and walked over to sit down on the bed, watching Sam's back and thinking.

 

It had been a couple of days since Sam returned to him—both mentally and physically as opposed to just the latter—but this was the first time he'd actually eaten a decent meal. Sam had spent most of yesterday sleeping, and all day today Dean had been trying to de-clingify him long enough to get them both decently showered, shaved, and clothed. It had taken most of the day, but finally they were both clean and freshly clothed and looked much less like refugees from a recently-bombed third-world country and Dean, for one, felt a lot better. He was pretty sure Sam did, too.

 

Physically, at least.

 

Dean had seen it coming, so it wasn't exactly a surprise when Sam twisted around in his chair and looked to make sure big brother was still behind him. Dean gave him a reassuring smile, and Sam quirked his lips in return and said, “You were being really quiet.”

 

“Sorry, Sammy, I forgot,” Dean said truthfully. And he really had forgotten to make the small, random noises for Sam to pick up when they weren't directly facing each other—the ones that had become habit in the last couple of days.

 

“Don't worry. You were just really quiet.”

 

Sam went back to eating then, and Dean went back to thinking.

 

The fact was, he wasn't really sure how to proceed from here. Inside the four walls of this motel room, it was different. It was close, confined, safe—a place where Sam could always narrow down the places to find him, and vice versa. But he had no idea how either of them would deal with the real world, with other people, with jobs.

 

Dean didn't even know how to begin preparing them for that.

 

Sam shifted a little in his seat then, and Dean deliberately shuffled the sheets a little to calm him. He considered telling Sam to just move his chair, but—well, how would the kid ever become independent again without taking the little steps like eating on his own?

 

And that was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? Getting Sam back to being able to go out on his own, to deal with everyday things, to be okay without his eyes clapped on his brother twenty-four-seven.

 

The problem was, Dean wasn't sure how to make that happen, except that he should probably start by making Sam talk.

 

Which, by the way, was another problem. Usually, Sam wouldn't shut up. He could go on about his feelings `til Gabriel blew his horn—when it suited him. But Dean had learned after Jess's death that the things that really hurt him—the very things he needed to share most—Sam kept close to his chest.

 

And it looked like he'd added another checkmark—or three—to that category.

 

But this wasn't something they could ignore. Dean had gone—well, kind of gone—to hell, and Sam had gone insane. Had spent three days in the psych ward at the hospital. Had broken out of that same ward with actual violence against other human beings. Had killed other human beings.

 

It was almost impossible to comprehend, much less talk about, but it also couldn't be ignored.

 

He just…wished he could figure out where to start.

 

XXX

 

That night, Sam had another nightmare.

 

That wasn't exactly anything new, of course. Sam had been dealing with recurring nightmares since he was a kid, and they'd only gotten worse since Jessica died. Dean was way too used to being yanked from sleep by Sam's hoarse yells as he thrashed his way through whatever battles he fought in his dreams.

 

Thing was, Sam didn't wake up screaming these days. He didn't shout in his sleep at all. No, it was much worse now.

 

Because now, Sam cried. Actual, full-on floods of tears, accompanied by small whimpers and intelligible murmurs. And Dean could never bring him out of it—he had no choice but to wait until the kid jerked himself free of the tangle before he could do something.

 

Of course, there was precious little he could do even then. Sam would roll over in the bed (Dean would really have to see about getting them moved to a king room if they were gonna keep ending up in the same one like this) and bury his face in Dean's shoulder. Dean could only hold him while he shook and sobbed, could only bury his fingers in Sam's hair and feel furious with himself and the world for letting his happen.

 

And then Sam would finally spend all his tears and fall back asleep before Dean could figure out what to say to him.

 

But tonight was going to be different. Dean had vowed to make it different earlier, when he'd been watching Sam eat and wondering if they were going to be able to get past this one. So tonight, Dean stayed awake long after Sam had fallen asleep, waiting for the nightmare to hit and then, when it did, for Sam to fight his way through it.

 

After a few endless minutes of tossing and turning, wincing when he landed on his bad arm, muttering and frowning—after a few minutes of all that, Sam's eyes snapped open and, as expected, he rolled over until his face was hidden in Dean's shoulder. Dean slid an arm around him and tightened it, easily suppressing the usual flicker of embarrassment, and waited.

 

He'd done this a few times now—they happened multiple times a night—so he was able to sense the moments between when Sam's tears slowed and when he drifted off again, and seize his chance.

 

“So what'd you dream about?”

Sam stiffened, obvious not having expected him to break pattern and speak, and din't answer.

 

“Sam?”

 

Sam just buried his face deeper and stayed silent. Dean sighed.

 

“C'mon. Don't do that. Sammy…”

 

It was a low blow and he knew it. Since he'd come back Sam had taken to reacting to his nickname almost with awe, and Dean knew it would probably break down every wall he had. But Dean refused to feel bad about it—he was doing what needed to be done, that was all.

 

Sure enough, Sam looked up at the name, his eyes still wet and his face damp. He answered almost instantly. “I don't want to tell you.”

 

Dean flinched, feeling a little hurt even though he knew it was stupid. Sam hadn't been trying to hurt him—it'd probably kill him if he found out he had. That was just what he did now. He said exactly what was on his mind, without sugarcoating it the way almost everyone naturally did. It was as if that part of his mind had been stripped away, leaving only frank honestly.

 

Dean hoped he'd break that habit eventually. It was damn unsettling.

 

“Why not, Sam?”

“Because it'll make you feel bad. I don't want you to feel bad.”

 

“I won't feel bad.”

 

The barest, quietest hint of a chuckle escaped Sam at that, and Dean allowed himself a moment to revel in the tiny sound. “Yes, you will. You always feel bad about stuff I do. Even when it's my fault.”

 

Oddly, that made more sense than anything else Sam had said so far. “Sammy, were you dreaming about when I was gone?”

 

He skirted any mention of where he'd been, and didn't let the word “kill” cross his lips. Best to burn one bridge before moving on to another.

 

“Yeah,” Sam answered. “There was a lot of fire. And I knew a lot of people were there, but I was somewhere else and I couldn't see them. And you weren't there. So I was alone.” He paused and looked up. “See? I told you you'd feel bad.”

 

Well, as usual, Sam had been right. But seriously, if all this wasn't at least partly Dean's fault, well, then whose fault was it?

 

“Not yours,” Sam said, and only then did Dean realize he'd unintentionally asked the question aloud. “You didn't want to leave.”

 

Well, yeah, that much was definitely true. Sam would've fought tooth and nail and several other body parts if he'd been given any sort of chance at all.

 

But that didn't mean he blamed himself any less.

 

“So did you dream about anything else?” he asked, steering his thoughts back toward Sam again.

 

Only silence greeted him, and when he looked back down he found Sam asleep.

 

XXX

 

“I'm sorry, Mr. Warner, but I'm afraid I can't help you.”

 

Michael Warner gritted his teeth and slammed the phone down, furious. He couldn't believe the damn doctor wouldn't help him out. All he wanted was the name of the bastard who'd killed Becky—he had every right to that information. So far, the cops had exactly nil, and even if they had…

 

Michael shook his head, his fingers now brushing over the phone lightly as he thought.

 

He was willing to admit that the doctor refusing to help him was a bit of a setback. He'd been the mostly likely person to give him the information.

 

But such a minor thing was no reason to give up. If Dr. Thornton wouldn't help him, he'd just have to find someone who would.

 

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Author's Note: I know it's short, but I'm hoping Sammy convinced you to enjoy it anyway.

 

So! Review, please!