Fic: A Fact or a Weapon (Sam/Dean, NC-17) Part 4

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Back to Part 3

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“You okay, Dean?” Sam’s voice interrupts Dean’s internal panicking.

“I was…uh, I was really worried. You just had another spell or seizure or whatever we’re calling it,” Dean says.

“I remember, yeah, it was the same one as before, just a little longer this time. Our dog is really cute and even though we’ve had him a while we can’t agree on what to call him.”

“Our dog? Sam, we don’t have a dog,” Dean says, wanting to add on ‘or an anniversary or I love you’s or rings!’

Sam searches his face, looks momentarily worried and then sad. “What did I say?”

“It was a lot of mumbling,” Dean lies.

“I’m sorry if I said something weird. I don’t know what these are, if they’re dreams or visions or what. They just feel so weird, like all my senses are involved and it’s so vivid.”

“Just stop pushing me on the whole Wendy thing, and we’ll call it even,” Dean says.

Wendy is of course disappointed and a little confused at Dean’s abrupt change in behavior, but then she’s pretty used to patient’s families being all over the map emotionally. When Dean’s out getting an afternoon coffee from the hospital cafeteria, Wendy finally says something about it to Sam.

“Mr. Campbell, your husband sure is a shameless flirt and a half. How in the world do you put up with it?” Wendy asks.

“I’m sorry if he’s been bothering you, Dean’s always dancing on the edge of harassment, nothing I say can seem to stop him,” Sam says.

“Well, he seems to have toned it down after your last episode. Don’t worry about it, patient’s families always have a lot of emotions happening. Those of us on staff here just have to get used to handling it.”

“If he starts bothering you too much again, just kick him in the ankle. That’s what I usually do,” Sam says.

Dean notices that Sam hasn’t bothered to correct her about the husband thing, as he eavesdrops from the hallway.

Dean is so involved with getting Sam through his treatment in the Craig Hospital that he’s almost able to resist reading any of Sam’s journal writing. Until he isn’t. And then all hell breaks loose as far as his equilibrium is concerned and he keeps on reading.

He starts with the most recent volume Sam had been writing in, and reads all about Sam’s search for which city they should move to. He delights in reading all of Sam’s methodical, thoughtful research to narrow down the possibilities.

Out of all the properties they own through the series of cleverly set up trusts, (thank you again Charlie), there are three houses on Sam’s final list to choose from that are a single story, all the rest have at least one flight of stairs. One of them is in Florida, another in California, and both of those are no-go states without much discussion from either brother. Sam writes about how over all their years of hunting together, they just have silently agreed not to take cases in those places. They’ve never had a single conversation about it, and that’s okay by Sam.

Sam writes about how he’s never really been able to forget how messed-up he was after the whole Mystery Spot experience. And he’s never shared it with Dean, not about that long six months after Dean had been killed for real. Dying in his arms in that parking lot. Sam writes pages and pages about that in the current journal Dean is reading. He reads everything that Sam writes about that unknown to him experience, as Sam recalls the utter and complete despair he’d felt in that moment, how the loss was so breathtaking and total and how he’d lost himself. How he’d even gone as far as taking a chance on killing Bobby.

When Dean reads that part in Sam’s journals, he almost throws up, imagining Sam having to make that gamble. He had no idea what Sam had done to get Gabriel to bring him back, what he’d had to do to persuade the archangel to actually do it. Dean had honestly never thought much about it. Realizing that sets him back on his heels and he stops reading for the night.

The next night he reads about how Sam believes California to be Dean’s no-go place. Sam writes all about it, how he’d be more than happy to live there, it wouldn’t be a problem for him, even with the loss of Jess happening there. It’s a big state after all, but it’s what it represents for his brother that takes the place off the list of possible retirement places. Sam writes about how he knows that for Dean, California represents the biggest loss of his life. That it stands for the time when Sam left him, chose school over him. He knows that Dean’s never gotten over it, Sam’s very honest in writing about that, and how it has impacted their relationship going forward. Living there would be too much to even try to ask, so Sam takes the California bungalow off the list.

Dean nods in agreement as he reads all this, Sam really does know him inside and out.

All those months in the bunker before they’d moved, when Sam had seemed borderline obsessed with writing, always writing, in those damn journals of his. And there they all were now, all lined up on a shelf in Sam’s much too tidy and empty room. And there was Dean, alone in their house, while Sam was stuck in the hospital. Getting his grapefruit fixed, that’s how they’d always talked about it, probably picked it up from Bobby all those phrases for head injuries. But Sam had accumulated one too many (probably more like fifty too many) to be able to skate by with cute phrases. That gave Dean too much time alone. He could only sit in the hospital at Sam’s bedside for so many hours a day. His knees couldn’t take the sitting. They were better off propped up and he didn’t want to do that in the hospital. It would make Sam worry and get in the way of the nurses and so on. So he spent as much time with Sam, just hours hanging out, being there in the silence with him until his knees squawked at him too loudly to ignore. Then he’d grab his cane, kiss Sam on the forehead if he was asleep, or squeeze his hand if he was awake. He’d leave the room with the same phrase every single evening,

“I’ll be back,” Dean would say, in his very best Arnold Schwarzenegger voice.

Depending on how out of it Sam was, he’d get at least an eye roll, sometimes an audible scoff. But on the best days, he’d get a quiet, “Thanks, Dean, I’m really glad you were here with me today. See you tomorrow.”

The thing was, Dean could tell, his brother really truly meant every single one of those words when he was able to say them. He was thankful, and grateful all of that. And he somehow knew that saying ‘see you tomorrow’ mean the world to Dean. That phrase told Dean that Sam was promising to make it through another night alone, when Dean wouldn’t be there. It never got easier for Dean walking out of those hospital doors in the evening, This yawning pit in his stomach of worry and dread always there, the only thing that helped was replaying Sam’s quiet, ‘see you tomorrow.’

He’d slowly make his way down the sidewalk, all the busy rush hour traffic on the four-lane road next to him as he carefully caned his way back home. The door unlocked and then locked behind him. A simple meal that didn’t require a lot of preparation or cleanup was made. He’d usually eat it in front of the tv, watch the last part of the local news broadcast and then Jeopardy when it came on at 7pm. He’d try to remember some of the questions and quiz Sam the next day. Sometimes, Sam would have watched the show also, it depended on how he was doing and what stage of treatment and recovery he was in.

After Jeopardy ended, that was when things got weird for Dean. Usually, if it was the two of them, they’d have a negotiation about what to watch next. And Dean missed that, desperately. Because if it was left up to him, he’d just watch whatever action or horror movie was on at eight. He wouldn’t bother researching good new shows to try out on Netflix, or made for Amazon Prime movies like Sam would. His horizons were slowly shrinking without Sam there to challenge him.

Some nights he’d give up early on the movie that was playing on tv, especially if it was one of those new-fangled torture porn ones like Saw. He’d been there done that quite enough in person, he didn’t see much point in watching it as part of a time-wasting movie. That would put him to wandering the hallways and rooms of their small house. It seemed so big and empty without Sam in it. A lot of times he’d end up in Sam’s room, sitting in his comfy chair with the footstool that was just the right height. And he’d sit there and read through one of Sam’s journals. He knew they weren’t meant for him, that it wasn’t right. He was a snoop by nature, and he missed him, really really missed him.

Sam was going to be okay, eventually, but in the meantime, the journals represented Sam at his very best. Getting the chance to read his brother’s words, as he went through the details of his life and his thoughts about everything he’d experienced was a gift. All the things Dean had always wondered but never had the guts to ask him about were covered in those books. He learned so much about Sam that he started to look at him differently when he’d go into the hospital the next day. Luckily, Sam was too out of it to even notice. He wouldn’t have wanted to have that fight in the hospital. It wouldn’t have been fair to Sam.

Dean wishes he could bring up some of the issues Sam’s writing raised for him. Just the thought of actually talking about a lot of this sensitive stuff practically gives him hives. What is that reaction even about? Dean really wonders about himself sometimes. He rereads the first volume, the one that Sam had started back in the bunker. The one that had caused all the trouble to begin with. In it, Sam wrote about how this intensive writing was work he was intentionally doing to try to help himself as he couldn’t go see a therapist. Sam wrote about the ideas of self-worth, and self-evaluation, how they could help you change how you felt about yourself. It seemed pretty silly and woo-woo at first, but having read all the volumes now, Dean can see how far Sam has come in self-understanding after having all these written conversations with himself.

Dean decides to try it out himself. Heck, it will make for something new for Sam to read when he is the one in the hospital with his second knee surgery, right? Maybe Dean could even be brave enough to point his own journals out to Sam when he finally came back home from the hospital. Assuming he fills more than one of course. Dean finds a blank journal on Sam’s shelf, one of the very same brand all the others have been. He cracks it open and starts writing every night after he’s given up on the tv. He writes, right there in Sam’s room, comfortable in Sam’s chair. He writes until his hand cramps up and then he finally goes to bed in his own room. Having the company of his own thoughts is a good thing, he’s still deep in them as he falls asleep, letting his subconscious chew on the rest, hopefully that will help give him some insights the next day.

He buys five new blank journals at the university bookstore on his way over to the hospital the next day. Dean gives one to Sam along with a pen that has a coonskin cap on the top. It has something to do with the University of Denver mascot and being a pioneer. Sam doesn’t question it, just keeps rubbing his thumb over the soft felt and touching the journal’s textured cover.

“Thought you might want to try and write something. You know…if you’re feeling up to it,” Dean says.

“You went and bought this for me? At the university bookstore?” Sam asks, eyes going to the U of D logo on the plastic bag the other four blank journals were resting in near Dean’s cane.

“Yeah, they had the same kind that you’re always writing in, so I wanted to get one like the kind you’re used to using,” Dean says.

“It’s…I wish I could—thanks, Dean,” Sam says, eyes filling up with tears.

Dean can’t stop himself, he swipes carefully under Sam’s eyes, catching his tears up with his thumbs, wiping them on the bedsheet. “Hey, you’re welcome. Don’t worry, you’ll be able to fill it up soon with all your hospital tales of survival,” Dean says.

Sam looks at him then, more like looks into him, and Dean feels like he wants to put his usual shields up, but he resists and lets Sam see. Sam’s eyes continue to be watery, maybe it's the meds, or being tired of being stuck in the hospital.

“You doing okay, Sammy?” Dean asks.

Sam’s eyes seem to refocus on the here and now, zeroing in on Dean’s eyes. “I’m struggling, it’s hard to—stay here,” Sam says.

“Where would you go?” Dean asks, confused about what Sam is saying.

“No, not leave physically, more like the be-here-now kind of staying, you know, being present, in the now. My brain’s feeling even more unhooked from time than it did before—I think,” Sam says.

“You think?” Dean asks.

“It’s hard to know, or remember which came first. Was I like this before I came here?”

“Sometimes, yeah, you’d get a little squirrelly about stuff like that, usually after getting hurt,” Dean says.

“My eggs might have gotten scrambled one too many times, huh?” Sam asks.

“That’s why you’re even in here, dude. Dr. Birney sounded pretty hopeful last time I talked to him,” Dean says.

“I just don’t know if what’s wrong with me is something regular medicine can fix,” Sam says. “I’ve been thinking about it lying here, a lot of the damage has got to be from the angels, demons and other monsters that have been in my head. And it’s not like anyone has studied how to fix that kind of thing.”

“This has been going on for a long time, I think you’re mostly got it handled,” Dean says.

“That’s not true and you know it,” Sam says. “It’s why you were so hot to get me in here, you could see how hard it was going to be to try and take care of me when I went downhill even more.”

“Hold on, hold on. I was not hot to get you in here, I just wanted you to be well. So you can go out and have a decent life, you know?”

“But not a life where you’re stuck with me being a drooling idiot in the corner, got it,” Sam says with a sneer.

“I don’t know where this is all coming from, but that’s not how I’m picturing this going. You are doing so much better, maybe it doesn’t seem like it, but I can see the difference every single day. You’re more—present or whatever you want to call it. Sometimes it’s almost too much, like a few minutes ago when you were looking at me,” Dean says.

“Pretty fucking scary huh? Maybe I’m a monster again, maybe I always was,” Sam says, slurring and falling asleep instantly, or maybe even passing out.

“You’re not a monster, and even if you were, you’d be my monster,” Dean says, smoothing Sam’s hair back from his forehead. He looks down at Sam’s face, gone slack with the absence of the animation from just a moment before. Sam’s doctor had warned him about mood swings, and that had been a doozy. Maybe Sam knew what he was talking about though. Maybe it wasn’t a result of the treatment, but something inside Sam, something that had always been there.

Dean pulls out one of the blank journals and starts writing down his thoughts and worries. Everything about Sam’s treatment so far is put down in detail, all the conversations with Dr. Birney and the various nurses. They’ve all told him that Sam’s prognosis is great, that he’s doing better. Sam might be at one of those frustrating plateaus they both were warned about. He just wants his brother to be okay, to be himself and to have a good life in retirement.

He tries to picture it, what Sam would count as a good life now, because he knows it’s changed from back when his little brother would pine for every little town they’d pass through. From what he’s read in Sam’s journals, it seems like he just wants to be peaceful, and safe. Not to have to fight anymore. Dean’s already discovered for himself that he’s not going to miss the fighting all that much now that he’s gotten this extended break from it.

He can already see that the fighting they’re going to be doing will be more of an internal thing, between their old habits and patterns and what they want now. Dean writes it down, what he really wants, his fingers retrace the words, his mouth moves as he silently reads them, almost like a prayer. A big part of Dean hopes Sam does read what he’s written down at some point. “I want us to be safe, and healthy and together, for as long as possible.” That doesn’t seem too complicated does it? Or too much to ask.

“What’re you doing?” Sam asks, head titled in question. The light from the window catches his eyes so that they sparkle gold and green.

He’s breathtaking, Dean literally struggles to breathe and not share that observation out loud. Of course, Dean knows this, he’s lived with Sam almost his whole life, his brother is the most beautiful person that he’s ever seen. It’s just a fact, one that Dean’s gotten used to trying to shove down and ignore.

“You okay?” Sam asks, hiding a smile like he knows.

“This writing thing is hard,” Dean says, offering an explanation to change the subject.

“You’re writing now?” Sam asks.

“Yeah, seemed like a good way to pass the time when you’re taking naps on me all the time,” Dean says with a small grin so Sam will know he’s teasing.

Sam rolls his eyes and grips the top of the novelty pen again, his other hand gripping the journal Dean had given him. “You filled one of these up already, didn’t you? You got the one I had left off my bookshelf.”

Dean can feel his eyes bug out in surprise, how can he have known? “Yeah, I did, that’s why I got you a replacement.” Dean points at the journal under Sam’s hand.

Sam opens the journal and stops searching Dean’s face for even more clues that he apparently no longer really needs. Dean is just glad Sam hasn’t said anything about him reading Sam’s journals without permission—yet. Sam presses down on the coonskin cap on the top of his pen until it clicks into place and starts writing.

Dean watches him for a while, soaking in this view of his brother, doing something so normal, even though he’s in a hospital bed. A few weeks ago, it hadn’t seemed possible. His own eyes suddenly are gone watery. Sam’s finger gentles the tears away and Sam smiles at him like he knows, because of course he does.

That night, when he’s home and sitting in Sam’s room, writing again, Dean remembers the whole thing right before they left the bunker. He gets that first volume down off the shelf and re-reads that part. He copies down the Margaret Atwood poem that had started the whole thing and writes about what he thinks about the whole thing now.

“A truth should exist,

it should not be used

like this. If I love you

is that a fact or a weapon?”

― Margaret Atwood”

A fact or a weapon, a fact or a weapon he writes the phrase out several times on his journal page. Then he writes the word: BOTH and calls it a night. The other three of the new and empty volumes are carefully placed on Sam’s shelf, waiting for him to come home and write in them. Dean’s dreams are filled with chasing after Sam through a misty forest with hanging tree moss that is as wet as spaghetti slapping him in the face. He keeps calling Sam’s name, but his brother never answers, never even turns around.

When he gets to the hospital the next morning, the strange dream makes a little more sense. Sam had an episode last night and they’d given him some heavy drugs to sedate him. It’s hard to see the ties on Sam’s wrists and ankles, but he reads the notes the nurses left in Sam’s chart and doesn’t blame them one bit. His brother is a lot to handle physically, and everyone’s much safer this way, but Sam is sure as hell not going to like it when he wakes up.

“You gotta wake up, Sam. They said the stuff should have worn off by now,” Dean says, squeezing Sam’s forearm. His skin is so soft there, so warm too, he tickles the inside of Sam’s elbow which usually works.

There’s no answer, no response. Fine, time for the big guns.

“Last night I was writing, about that whole poem thing in the bunker right before we moved. And I decided the answer is both,” Dean says.

“Both, huh? Yeah, that’s what I thought too when I read that, seemed like us, that’s why I wrote it down,” Sam says, his eyes still closed but his eyelashes are beginning to flutter.

“So, you really back with me now, or what?” Dean asks, rubbing at Sam’s shoulder and down to his bicep. He’s still so damn strong.

Sam opens one eye and peeks over at Dean’s hand like he wasn’t sure who was touching him. He yanks at the wrist restraints and then tries to kick his feet. “I can’t be tied down like this, I can’t,” Sam says with a note of panic in his voice.

Dean presses the call button for the nurse and puts his hand back on Sam’s arm, squeezing gently to get Sam’s full attention. “They said you had an episode last night, and they had to give you heavy sedation. The nurse’s notes said it was a struggle for a while, they were just keeping you safe, dude.”

The morning nurse comes bustling in before Sam can protest again. “Back with us, Mr. Campbell, well done. Let me check a couple things and we’ll get you untied, huh?” Betty bustles around, takes Sam’s temperature, blood pressure, pulse ox and eye dilation. The velcro is unzipped and the restraints put in one of the drawers, just in case they’ll be needed again.

“I’ve got a call into Dr. Birney, he wanted to know when you came out of it. He’ll be in pretty soon to talk to you about last night.”

“Breakfast?” Sam asks.

“I’ll get you one sent up toot sweet,” Betty says with a smile.

Dean mouths ‘toot sweet’ to Sam as she leaves, they both shake their heads and grin.

Sam’s massaging his wrists where the skin got roughed up by the restraints. “Guess I gave them hell last night if they tied me down.”

“Guess so, but they knew what to do. They took care of you just like they’re supposed to. Let’s just wait to see what Dr. Birney says, huh?”

Sam turns his head and upper body to stare out the window. “Looks pretty grey out there today, was it cold on your walk over?”

Dean takes advantage of Sam being turned away to run his eyes up and down Sam’s body, especially the twisting curve of his waist that’s visible where his hospital johnny separates in the back. God, his back is so gorgeous the way it has all that power and muscle. He forgets to answer the small talk question.

“You ogling my back, dude?” Sam asks.

“The weather was pretty nice, I mean it’s early summer, but it’s changeable,” Dean says, “that’s why I brought a jacket.”

“Of course, so prepared. How’s my Apache Plume doing?”

“It’s almost done with the white flowers, the seed head things or whatever the heck they’re called are kinda pretty,” Dean says.

“Can you take a picture of it for me? I was looking forward to seeing how it changed,” Sam says.

“Yeah, I’ll take one tomorrow on my way over. The rest of the garden is doing pretty well, I’m glad you got the automatic sprinklers set up since I’m spending so much time here,” Dean says.

“You don’t have to, you know. I mean, I’m glad you’re here with me so much, but if it’d be better for your knees or the garden or whatever, take a few days off. I’ll manage,” Sam says.

“No, fuck my knees and the garden, I need to be here with you,” Dean says.

“Like you said, ‘both,' right?” Sam asks with a small smile.

Dean smiles back at him and laughs at being caught out.

****

To Part 5