ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2011-03-03 12:48 pm
ratherastory) wrote2011-03-03 12:48 pm
Entry tags:
Roses in December (13/14)
This is it, folks! The beginning of the end. There's one more chapter that I am working on right now, and might actually post later today if I can manage it. Otherwise, it will be posted tomorrow.
Whee!
Master Post
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
*
“Penny for your thoughts.”
Sam snaps out of his reverie to find Brady watching him intently. They're on the lawn on campus, where Brady has spread out a blanket and a pretty passable picnic. Sam is still sitting in his wheelchair, even the thought of trying to sit on the ground making his bones ache, but he figures it's the thought that counts, and the food is a nice touch. Brady's been bitching about it not being a real picnic without alcohol, but the words don't have much heat to them, and Sam figures it's mostly for show. For all that he has a reputation as a partier, Brady doesn't seem to be doing all that much of it lately. These outings into the 'real world' as Brady likes to put it have become a regular thing, every Wednesday and sometimes even more often, when Brady pops up out of the blue and wrests Sam out of Dean's slightly overprotective grasp. In spite of himself, Sam has to admit he enjoys the change of pace and scenery, and Dean's starting to look slightly less worn around the edges. Slightly.
“Would you buy it if I said I wasn't thinking of anything?”
Brady grins. “Nope. You've got what's pretty much a blank slate there, and I know you. You're too fond of thinking not to try to fill in all the gaps that you have. It'll go better if you ask questions instead of trying to make shit up.”
Sam huffs, but it's too close to the truth to simply dismiss. “I was trying to figure out if I could remember which buildings I had classes in. Even if I don't remember taking the classes, I thought that maybe I could tell which building was which, kind of like the way I remember the LSAT questions but don't remember writing my name on the exam booklet. Like, I don't know, retracing my steps to find my keys.”
Brady tilts his head. “Not a bad idea. Any luck?”
“Nope.”
“Worth a shot, I guess. You're putting a lot of pressure on yourself to remember things, though. You realize there isn't a cash prize at the end, right? And no one's going to punish you if you don't remember, either.”
Sam kicks a little with his heel against the footrest of his wheelchair, mostly out of frustration. “I know. It's just... I feel like everyone's waiting for me to have, like, this moment of epiphany where everything comes back in a big rush of memories or something.”
“And by everyone you mean Dean and Jess.”
He blushes. “Yeah, I suppose. And me too. I can't even watch those made-for-TV movies about people with amnesia anymore because they depress me.”
Brady hands him half a chicken sandwich. “Have something to eat. And seriously, how much television have you been watching?”
“Way too much,” Sam laughs. “Dean has a thing for 'Days of Our Lives,' and most of the time I can't concentrate on much apart from that. It's easier, anyway, and sometimes he falls asleep.”
That gets him a considering look. “And that's a good thing?”
Sam reluctantly takes a bite of his sandwich. He's not hungry, but it gives him a chance to try to think of a way out of the trap he just set for himself. “That's not what I meant.”
“I can't presume to know what you mean until you tell me. Come on, Winchester, level with me. What's eating at you?”
“I don't know. I'm going to come off sounding ungrateful.”
“Good thing that I'm pretty superficial and mostly don't care enough to go telling people every word you say to me. Besides, you'd be surprised at how cathartic talking can be, especially to someone who's not your shrink. Come on, spill.”
He sighs. “I don't know. It's just... he's exhausted, and so is Jess, and there's fuck all I can do about it, you know? I mean, it's great that you come and babysit once a week, but they're both pulling double shifts all the time. Jess has work and school, and Dean's working all night and trying to take care of me all day, and the only time they both get a break is when you come by. And it's not like they use their break to relax, or whatever, they just use it to catch up on whatever it is they're behind on because of me.”
“Uh-huh. So... basically it's all your fault.”
He makes a face. “I swear to God, if you make one crack about my getting emo...”
“You'll what?” Brady grins. “Hit me with your crutches? Bring it on, gimpy. It'll be good physical therapy, trying to catch me.”
“Fuck you.”
“For you, baby? Anytime.”
“Oh my God,” Sam drops his head into his hands. “Don't you take anything seriously?”
“Not really. I don't really have to tell you that you're taking on several extra helpings of guilt, right? You're a smart guy, you know all this already,” Brady starts packing stuff away, and to his surprise Sam notes that the sun is already starting to sink lower on the horizon. “So I'm not going to waste my breath. Although,” he looks up pointedly, “I would like to ask if it's only coincidental that you're getting all antsy about this —yet again— only two days before you go back under the knife.”
Sam twists his hands in his lap. “Um.”
“Yeah, I thought so. So what's got you nervous, exactly? The surgery? The anesthesia? What?”
“It's stupid.”
“Tell me anyway. Otherwise you'll have to tell Dean or Jess, and really, which is the lesser of those evils?”
“I'm beginning to wonder,” Sam says pointedly, then relents at another look from Brady. “Oh, fine. But it's stupid, I'm telling you.” He hesitates, takes a breath to steady himself. “I, uh... I'm scared that I'm going to wake up and it's all going to be gone again,” he blurts, then ducks his head, eyes squeezed shut as if that will prevent Brady from seeing just how badly he's blushing.
A hand curls around the back of his neck, heavy and reassuring. “Is that all?” his friend says softly. “Because, yeah, that's a totally stupid thing to worry about, since that's exactly what happened the last time you woke up after being unconscious. I'm sure no one at all would understand that.”
“Shut up,” Sam manages, but it comes out as more of a hiccup than anything else.
Brady keeps his hand where it is, rubs for a second behind Sam's ear with his thumb, and Sam finds himself relaxing with a small shudder. “I will in a second. But here's the thing: you're going to be fine. I promise, you are going to be absolutely, one hundred percent fine. Eventually you're going to look back on all of this, and it's all going to seem like a really faraway dream, like something that happened to someone else.”
Sam snorts, but Brady's thumb keeps rubbing in circles. His voice stays quiet, and it kind of feels like being enveloped in something nice and soft and comforting, like an old blanket. “I know what I'm talking about. Trust me on this when I promise you that everything's going to work out for you.”
*
“No!”
The scream jolts Dean out of the light doze he's just managed to achieve and catapults him straight out of bed. He scrambles to disentangle himself from his blankets, winces and curses as he lands awkwardly on his bad ankle, and hobbles through the living room toward Sam and Jess' bedroom.
“No! Jess!”
The nightmares have become exponentially worse since Sam's last surgery. At first it was attributed to the mild post-operative infection he developed —nothing to worry, the doctors assured them. Plenty of patients developed infections, and Sam was responding well to the antibiotics. So well that the fever disappeared after less than two days, but not the nightmares. Those just got worse, and nobody could quite figure out why, and Sam could never quite remember just what it was that terrified him so badly when he was asleep.
Dean limps into the bedroom to find that Jess is already trying to snap Sam out of it, but he's half-awake and fighting to free himself from her grip. She's already got one hell of a bruise on one cheek from a few days ago when she wasn't able to dodge quickly enough, so Dean interposes himself, taking hold of Sam's arms and hauling him up to hold him against his chest. It's a lot easier to do now since Sam has taken to sleeping in the same bed as Jess, but it's still not exactly a cakewalk. He's still just as tall and almost as heavy as ever, and he fights like a cornered wildcat.
“Sammy, wake up! It's just a dream, you're safe. Everybody's safe, okay?”
It hasn't escaped Dean's notice that half the time Sam wakes up screaming his girlfriend's name. He may not know what the dreams are about specifically, but it's not a stretch to figure out that something bad is happening to Jess inside Sam's mind. It's worrisome, is what it is, although Dean can't figure out if he's worried for Sam or worried for Jess or worried for both of them. Jess is turning into a zombie from the strain of so many nights of interrupted sleep. Sam isn't much better, but at least he gets to nap during the day, when Jess has classes and her TA job and all the other tiny things involved in day-to-day living that Dean never even thought about before he met them. Granted, he tries to help out as best he can, but the fact remains that his job hours and the fact that he spends most of every day directly taking care of Sam means that the majority of the errands and stuff that has to get done during daylight hours falls to Jess, and it's beginning to take its toll on her.
Mercifully Sam stops screaming and fighting him, just goes lax in his arms, shaking, breathing in shallow pants. Dean strokes the back of his head. “There you go. That's it. You want your pain meds, Sammy?”
“N-no. Where's Jess?”
Jess leans over to rub circles on his back. “I'm right here, baby. You were just having a nightmare. Take a deep breath for me, okay? You're close to hyperventilating.”
Sam sucks in one shuddering breath, then another, and slowly pulls himself out of Dean's arms. He wipes his eyes roughly on the back of his wrist. “I'm okay. Sorry.”
“You don't need to apologize, Sammy.”
“Do you remember what it was about this time?” Jess' voice is gentle but insistent.
Although Dean would be happy just to have Sam push everything back down where it can't do any harm, the doctors have all agreed that if he can remember the dreams it will probably help. So he just bites his tongue, and lets Jess do her Dr. Phil thing. Sam just shakes his head, though, and Dean can see he's trying to keep his hands from shaking.
“I d-don't... I think there was a f-fire. I don't know. It keeps b-burning.” Sam scrubs at his eyes again, his breath hitching. “S-sorry.”
“Seriously, dude, quit apologizing.”
Sam shakes his head, won't meet his gaze, and after a moment Dean realizes that he's crying in earnest and trying to hide it. Jess sees it half a second before he does, and wraps her arms around him, kneeling on the bed. Sam lets out a choked sob against her shoulder.
“'m sorry.”
“I know you are,” she kisses him on the temple. “I know. It's okay.”
She looks over at Dean, and even in the semi-darkness of the room he can tell she's giving him one of those looks that means he should give them some space. He blows out a breath, nods, and slides off the bed, trying not to feel yet again like the damned third wheel in this place. It's not what Jess means, he knows that. It's just not the same, not like it was before. He's used to Sam only wanting him, only needing him when he's sick, and this —this is new. This Sam won't cry in front of him if he can help it, like it's something he's ashamed of, or something maybe too private for even Dean to see. Not for the first time even the thought of it makes something clench in Dean's chest.
It's not personal, he reminds himself. Sam doesn't remember all the nights spent in shitty motel rooms and shittier apartments. He doesn't remember hanging out with Dean on couches that were more spring than cushion, watching cartoons and drinking apple juice when he had a cold. He doesn't remember clinging to Dean through endless cases of flu, or of nights spent on the bathroom floor during bouts of gastroenteritis. This Sam is a blank slate: his life is barely five months old, even if he's physically the same age as that other, now entirely hypothetical Sam Winchester, who used to be able to tell Dean's mood even from the other room. This Sam doesn't remember any of it, and it's no one's fault. It's stupid to be angry at him, to be angry at Jess for taking Dean's place, because that's really not what it is, not at all. Except that it's Jess Sam is curled up with now, Jess with whom he shares a bed, Jess for whom he seems to reserve those rare smiles which light up his face. It's all fucking unfair, is what it is.
He should just go back to bed. He's barely had an hour's worth of sleep, and it's screwing with his mind. Dean scrubs a hand over his face, then makes his way into the kitchen, grabs the bottle of Jack's from the cupboard, and heads out into the back yard for a cigarette instead.
*
“I want to tell Jess the truth,” Sam says out of the blue one day.
He's followed Dean outside, carefully manoeuvring through the sliding glass doors with his crutches. It's weird, seeing Sam without his external fixator, but pretty cool, too. He's been outfitted with one of those removable casts now that the incisions from the surgery are starting to heal properly, but for the moment he's under strict orders not to put any weight at all on his leg. Dean definitely does not hover while Sam pulls up a chair and carefully lowers himself into it. Keeping a casual eye out does not constitute hovering, it just means he's being a good big brother and making sure Sam doesn't faceplant. Because he's been told by Sam's doctors —and Sam himself, a lot less politely— that Sam needs to start doing things without a safety net, to learn how to cope on his own. The more he does things for himself, the faster he'll get better. So he's resolutely not hovering.
Dean lights a cigarette instead. “The truth about what?” he asks, trying to sound casual, and probably failing, guessing by the epic bitchface Sam has just pulled.
“Dean.”
He rolls his eyes, takes a drag off his cigarette and takes a moment to regret the fact that he's not going to be able to enjoy this really nice day anymore, because he's about to ruin Sam's mood —and his own as a consequence. “Okay, fine. And what are you going to tell her, exactly?”
“I don't know. I just don't want to lie to her anymore. It's not exactly the healthiest foundation for a relationship.”
“Except that she won't believe you.”
“Why wouldn't she?”
“Would you believe it if someone came and told you that ghosts and monsters were real?”
Sam shrugs. “I believed you, didn't I?”
It's hard to argue with that sort of logic. “Okay. Prove to me that I haven't lied to you. That I'm not completely crazy, suffering from some sort of psychotic break and that I'm convinced that all those things exist when they really don't.”
There's a pause. “Well, for one, you're not exhibiting any of the other signs of a psychotic break.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “And you're an expert on that, Sigmund?”
“Actually, Freud's theories pre-date—”
“Sam!”
Sam scowls at him. “You're not lying, and you're not suffering from a psychotic break. Why are you even saying those things? Or are you saying that you have been lying to me all this time, that all those things I know are true in my head aren't real, and that Dad's actually staying away because he really can't stand the sight of me?”
“Sammy, that's not...” Dean cringes in spite of himself. He's been trying not to think about their father, because he's sick of leaving messages that don't ever get answered. He's called every contact he has, and no one's heard a word, except for some second-and-third-hand rumours that John might be onto something big. “Look, I'm just saying... most civilians don't want the truth-is-out-there speech. They don't want to know about the things that go bump in the night, the monsters under the bed, the boogeymen in the closet. All that's going to accomplish is that Jess is going to think I'm filling your head with lies and whatever, and that's not exactly going to help, here.”
“Jess isn't most people,” Sam points out.
“I know you love her, but that doesn't mean she's going to accept this stuff at face value. I mean, you already knew this stuff when I told you —it's stuck in your subconscious or whatever, because you lived through it. I don't know, okay?” he stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray on the picnic table and lights another. “I'm just saying, you tell her, it could screw everything up.”
“Maybe you should have more faith in people.”
“That really never works out as well as you think it will, believe me.” Dean keeps his gaze fixed on the table as he taps the ash off the end of his cigarette. He looks up to see Sam giving him a considering look. “What? I got something on my face?”
“You told someone.”
“What?” He lets out a choked laugh, trying to brush it off, because it's damned unsettling to have Sam figure him out like that.
“You told someone, about what we do. About what you do. Was it a girl?” Sam lets out a triumphant bark of a laugh when he doesn't answer. “Oh my God, it was. What happened?”
He doesn't want to think about Cassie. “It's not important.”
Sam's face softens. “Did you love her?”
For a second it's like they're working a case again, and Sam's worming his way into the witness' good graces by being all sympathetic, except that Dean isn't a witness and he doesn't want to care and share, or whatever. “I said it's not important!” he snaps, and Sam recoils like Dean just punched him.
“Sorry. I didn't mean... sorry. I won't mention it again.”
Dean stubs out the rest of his cigarette. “It's just a sore point.”
“I gathered.”
He sighs. “It's not complicated. I thought... I thought I could trust her, because Dad and I had to leave for this other case, and I had this stupid idea that maybe she would, I don't know, wait for me. It was stupid. She yelled, told me I was crazy, and then she told me to lose her number.”
“I'm sorry.” The kicker is, he can tell Sam means it.
“Yeah, so am I.”
“Jess is different, though.” Sam is like a dog with a bone. “You know her as well as I do. Does she seem like the kind of person who'd freak out about this sort of thing?”
“Cassie didn't seem like it either. She's studying journalism. I figured that would make her more open-minded. I'm just saying, you're opening yourself up for a world of hurt, here.” Dean can feel his tone turn pleading, because even if Sam can't see it, he knows exactly what's going to happen.
Yet again, Sam seems to see right through him. “You think she's going to make you leave.”
“It's what I would do, if I thought it would keep you safe.”
“Dean.” Sam rolls his eyes. “You realize how stupid that sounds, right? Jess wouldn't throw you out just for something like that. At worst she'll think we're both nuts, and we'll have to explain it away to Dr. Blaize during some extra special family sessions or something. But I think you're wrong about her. I'm sorry your girlfriend was a bitch to you, but Jess isn't like that.”
Sam's jaw has that set to it that Dean has learned to recognize spells utter defeat for whoever is planning to stand in his way. So he shrugs, shakes his head once.
“Have it your way. It's your funeral.”
*
Jess has just about had her fill of cataclysmic life changes. Once in a lifetime is plenty, she thinks, watching her boyfriend as he sits on the sofa in their living room, not quite meeting her gaze. Sam looks like a puppy that thinks it's about to get kicked repeatedly, and she hates that she's the one who put that expression there —however undeservedly and indirectly. It means Sam trusts her, but only up to a point. They've been sleeping in the same bed, God, they've even made love a couple of times, slightly awkward as it was (and still good, even then), but he still doesn't trust her not to break his heart, and that really makes her actually want to kick him.
“Um, I'd feel better if you said something,” Sam says to his fingers.
“What do you want me to say?” She's scared, and it comes out sounding angry.
He flinches. “I don't know. Something. Anything. Tell me I'm crazy, or whatever. I don't know,” he repeats, a little helplessly.
“I need a cigarette.”
He looks up at that, and quirks a smile. “Can I come with you? Or is this a leave-me-the-hell-alone-Sam kind of cigarette?”
She gets up, and fishes her pack out of the pocket of her jacket before threading her arms through the sleeves. October was a chilly month, and November is proving no more warm, two days in. “That sort of cigarette doesn't exist. Sometimes there might be an I-need-five-minutes-to-myself cigarette, but never a leave-me-the-hell-alone-Sam cigarette. That's not my brand.”
“Okay. Do you need five minutes?”
“Nope. I need a cigarette. And maybe some fresh air.”
“Won't be all that fresh if you're smoking.”
She thwaps his head lightly on her way to the back door. “Don't be a smartass. You're in the process of trying to make me believe in fairy tales, so you'd better be nicer to me than that.”
She slides the door open, slips out into the cool evening air, and fumbles with pack and lighter. A moment later Sam nudges the door farther open with his crutch and comes out to join her, leaning against the glass as it slides shut. Like this, it's easy to pretend that nothing has happened, that the last five months of their lives never existed. Apart from the crutches he looks the same as ever. Maybe a bit thinner, but in the dark like this she can't see the lines of pain and worry on his face, can't see the haunted, hungry look in his eyes whenever he thinks she isn't looking. In the dark, it's easier to pretend.
She blows out a cloud of smoke, watches as it billows and stretches into tendrils that disappear into the night. “So. Ghosts.”
He huffs a laugh. “I know.”
“And this is what you did before we met?” She's being sarcastic, but the situation warrants it. “Like, what, a hobby?”
“From what I gather, more like a driving obsession.”
“So why are you telling me now?”
“So you believe me?”
“No,” the end of her cigarette glows brightly in the dark. “I didn't say I believe you. I'm playing 'let's suppose' until I can make up my mind. We were going to get married, Sam, and you never told me any of this. So why tell me now?”
“Because I think lying to you before was a mistake.”
“What if you didn't tell me before because none of it's true? What if your brother is filling your head with lies?”
“Dean wouldn't do that.”
“How do you know?” She doesn't think it's true, but it would be a pretty simple explanation.
“Think about it,” Sam says patiently. “If Dean wanted to screw with me, there are so many better ways he could go about it. Besides, this is all stuff I already knew, before he told me. I knew about the ghosts and the salt and the Black Dogs and the skinwalkers, and I made him explain it. I knew about it the same way I know how to operate a toaster and the same way I know portions of the legal code by heart. Whatever it is, it's something that was real to me before all of this.”
She exhales in another cloud of smoke. “I don't know what I'm supposed to do with that. I kind of want to just believe that Dean's having some kind of prolonged psychotic episode.”
“It would be simpler,” Sam agrees, and she feels her world shift under her feet again, just a little to the left.
“Does Dean even know you decided to tell me all this? I mean, what am I supposed to say to him? I don't... what is it even going to change?” she asks a bit helplessly, because yesterday there was no such thing as monsters and now there is, and yet nothing in her life seems all that different. She's still going to get up in the morning, have breakfast, go to work, and worry about her boyfriend and try to figure out a way to pay all their bills, regardless of whether or not that guy in her class might be a werewolf.
“Uh, Dean sort of knows.”
“Sort of?”
Sam looks a bit sheepish. “I, uh, kind of didn't tell him that I asked Brady to drop me home early tonight, so I could talk to you.”
“Oh, God, please tell me you're not serious. He'll have a stroke when he finds out, I hope you realize.”
“I was hoping that the whole fait accompli thing would go a long way to avoiding cardio-vascular accidents.”
“You really thought that?”
“Okay, no, but I'm holding out hope,” Sam flashes her a tired smile, and she laughs and stubs out her cigarette.
“I'd kiss you, except you'd complain I taste like an ash tray.”
He rummages in his pocket, shuffling one crutch awkwardly to the side, and produces a pack of gum. “Dean swears on his life I was never a Boy Scout, but I think he might be trying to spare me the humiliation.”
He leans forward, the stick of gum held between thumb and forefinger, and her smile grows wider as he slides it between her lips, then takes her wrist and draws her closer, his thumb rubbing against her pulse point. She shivers a little and lets herself melt into his touch as their lips brush. He kisses the way she remembers from before, as though it's as much muscle memory as emotion, and she doesn't know whether the thought makes her happy or unutterably sad. After a moment he pulls away gently, leaving her breathless, looking at her as though he's trying to permanently etch her image into his mind.
“If you were trying to distract me into believing you, it might just have worked,” she jokes lamely, even while his hands are still doing something unbelievably distracting, his crutches forgotten, one on the ground, the other still propped against the wall.
“That wasn't really—”
“Sam.”
“Um. Yes?”
“Shut up and let's go inside, since we've still got a while to ourselves?”
He grins, wide and happy this time. “Yeah, okay.”
It's never quite as spontaneous as before, when he used to lift her bodily into his arms —in spite of her protests— and carry her kicking and protesting and laughing right into their bed, but it's almost as good. She lets him go first, pushes him backward onto the bed, crutches falling to the side with a clatter that they both ignore, and straddles his hips, nipping at his lower lip with her teeth and tugging on his t-shirt until he lifts his arms and lets her pull it over his head. She busies herself trailing kisses along his jaw and down his neck, enjoying the sound of his sharp intake of breath as she travels down his chest.
The doorbell rings.
“Fuck,” Sam murmurs, letting his head fall back against the headboard with a hollow thump.
“Or not, as the case might be,” Jess wrinkles her nose. “I could ignore it.”
“It'll drive us both nuts, and you know it. I'll just wait here while you hurry,” Sam gives her a rueful grin. “I promise not to keep going without you.”
She smacks him lightly on the stomach. “Better not. Stay put, I am going to go get rid of the person with spectacularly bad timing who is at our door, and I will be right back.”
With one last kiss she slides off the bed, rearranges her t-shirt where it got rucked up over her ribs, and fairly runs to the door when she hears the bell a second time. She pulls the door open, and blinks, a little nonplussed.
“Brady?”
He grins at her, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes, and a shiver runs up her spine for no reason she can determine. Unconsciously she takes a step backward, her hand going to her throat.
“Hiya, Jess. I'm here for Sam.”
*
Chapter 14
Whee!
Master Post
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
*
“Penny for your thoughts.”
Sam snaps out of his reverie to find Brady watching him intently. They're on the lawn on campus, where Brady has spread out a blanket and a pretty passable picnic. Sam is still sitting in his wheelchair, even the thought of trying to sit on the ground making his bones ache, but he figures it's the thought that counts, and the food is a nice touch. Brady's been bitching about it not being a real picnic without alcohol, but the words don't have much heat to them, and Sam figures it's mostly for show. For all that he has a reputation as a partier, Brady doesn't seem to be doing all that much of it lately. These outings into the 'real world' as Brady likes to put it have become a regular thing, every Wednesday and sometimes even more often, when Brady pops up out of the blue and wrests Sam out of Dean's slightly overprotective grasp. In spite of himself, Sam has to admit he enjoys the change of pace and scenery, and Dean's starting to look slightly less worn around the edges. Slightly.
“Would you buy it if I said I wasn't thinking of anything?”
Brady grins. “Nope. You've got what's pretty much a blank slate there, and I know you. You're too fond of thinking not to try to fill in all the gaps that you have. It'll go better if you ask questions instead of trying to make shit up.”
Sam huffs, but it's too close to the truth to simply dismiss. “I was trying to figure out if I could remember which buildings I had classes in. Even if I don't remember taking the classes, I thought that maybe I could tell which building was which, kind of like the way I remember the LSAT questions but don't remember writing my name on the exam booklet. Like, I don't know, retracing my steps to find my keys.”
Brady tilts his head. “Not a bad idea. Any luck?”
“Nope.”
“Worth a shot, I guess. You're putting a lot of pressure on yourself to remember things, though. You realize there isn't a cash prize at the end, right? And no one's going to punish you if you don't remember, either.”
Sam kicks a little with his heel against the footrest of his wheelchair, mostly out of frustration. “I know. It's just... I feel like everyone's waiting for me to have, like, this moment of epiphany where everything comes back in a big rush of memories or something.”
“And by everyone you mean Dean and Jess.”
He blushes. “Yeah, I suppose. And me too. I can't even watch those made-for-TV movies about people with amnesia anymore because they depress me.”
Brady hands him half a chicken sandwich. “Have something to eat. And seriously, how much television have you been watching?”
“Way too much,” Sam laughs. “Dean has a thing for 'Days of Our Lives,' and most of the time I can't concentrate on much apart from that. It's easier, anyway, and sometimes he falls asleep.”
That gets him a considering look. “And that's a good thing?”
Sam reluctantly takes a bite of his sandwich. He's not hungry, but it gives him a chance to try to think of a way out of the trap he just set for himself. “That's not what I meant.”
“I can't presume to know what you mean until you tell me. Come on, Winchester, level with me. What's eating at you?”
“I don't know. I'm going to come off sounding ungrateful.”
“Good thing that I'm pretty superficial and mostly don't care enough to go telling people every word you say to me. Besides, you'd be surprised at how cathartic talking can be, especially to someone who's not your shrink. Come on, spill.”
He sighs. “I don't know. It's just... he's exhausted, and so is Jess, and there's fuck all I can do about it, you know? I mean, it's great that you come and babysit once a week, but they're both pulling double shifts all the time. Jess has work and school, and Dean's working all night and trying to take care of me all day, and the only time they both get a break is when you come by. And it's not like they use their break to relax, or whatever, they just use it to catch up on whatever it is they're behind on because of me.”
“Uh-huh. So... basically it's all your fault.”
He makes a face. “I swear to God, if you make one crack about my getting emo...”
“You'll what?” Brady grins. “Hit me with your crutches? Bring it on, gimpy. It'll be good physical therapy, trying to catch me.”
“Fuck you.”
“For you, baby? Anytime.”
“Oh my God,” Sam drops his head into his hands. “Don't you take anything seriously?”
“Not really. I don't really have to tell you that you're taking on several extra helpings of guilt, right? You're a smart guy, you know all this already,” Brady starts packing stuff away, and to his surprise Sam notes that the sun is already starting to sink lower on the horizon. “So I'm not going to waste my breath. Although,” he looks up pointedly, “I would like to ask if it's only coincidental that you're getting all antsy about this —yet again— only two days before you go back under the knife.”
Sam twists his hands in his lap. “Um.”
“Yeah, I thought so. So what's got you nervous, exactly? The surgery? The anesthesia? What?”
“It's stupid.”
“Tell me anyway. Otherwise you'll have to tell Dean or Jess, and really, which is the lesser of those evils?”
“I'm beginning to wonder,” Sam says pointedly, then relents at another look from Brady. “Oh, fine. But it's stupid, I'm telling you.” He hesitates, takes a breath to steady himself. “I, uh... I'm scared that I'm going to wake up and it's all going to be gone again,” he blurts, then ducks his head, eyes squeezed shut as if that will prevent Brady from seeing just how badly he's blushing.
A hand curls around the back of his neck, heavy and reassuring. “Is that all?” his friend says softly. “Because, yeah, that's a totally stupid thing to worry about, since that's exactly what happened the last time you woke up after being unconscious. I'm sure no one at all would understand that.”
“Shut up,” Sam manages, but it comes out as more of a hiccup than anything else.
Brady keeps his hand where it is, rubs for a second behind Sam's ear with his thumb, and Sam finds himself relaxing with a small shudder. “I will in a second. But here's the thing: you're going to be fine. I promise, you are going to be absolutely, one hundred percent fine. Eventually you're going to look back on all of this, and it's all going to seem like a really faraway dream, like something that happened to someone else.”
Sam snorts, but Brady's thumb keeps rubbing in circles. His voice stays quiet, and it kind of feels like being enveloped in something nice and soft and comforting, like an old blanket. “I know what I'm talking about. Trust me on this when I promise you that everything's going to work out for you.”
*
“No!”
The scream jolts Dean out of the light doze he's just managed to achieve and catapults him straight out of bed. He scrambles to disentangle himself from his blankets, winces and curses as he lands awkwardly on his bad ankle, and hobbles through the living room toward Sam and Jess' bedroom.
“No! Jess!”
The nightmares have become exponentially worse since Sam's last surgery. At first it was attributed to the mild post-operative infection he developed —nothing to worry, the doctors assured them. Plenty of patients developed infections, and Sam was responding well to the antibiotics. So well that the fever disappeared after less than two days, but not the nightmares. Those just got worse, and nobody could quite figure out why, and Sam could never quite remember just what it was that terrified him so badly when he was asleep.
Dean limps into the bedroom to find that Jess is already trying to snap Sam out of it, but he's half-awake and fighting to free himself from her grip. She's already got one hell of a bruise on one cheek from a few days ago when she wasn't able to dodge quickly enough, so Dean interposes himself, taking hold of Sam's arms and hauling him up to hold him against his chest. It's a lot easier to do now since Sam has taken to sleeping in the same bed as Jess, but it's still not exactly a cakewalk. He's still just as tall and almost as heavy as ever, and he fights like a cornered wildcat.
“Sammy, wake up! It's just a dream, you're safe. Everybody's safe, okay?”
It hasn't escaped Dean's notice that half the time Sam wakes up screaming his girlfriend's name. He may not know what the dreams are about specifically, but it's not a stretch to figure out that something bad is happening to Jess inside Sam's mind. It's worrisome, is what it is, although Dean can't figure out if he's worried for Sam or worried for Jess or worried for both of them. Jess is turning into a zombie from the strain of so many nights of interrupted sleep. Sam isn't much better, but at least he gets to nap during the day, when Jess has classes and her TA job and all the other tiny things involved in day-to-day living that Dean never even thought about before he met them. Granted, he tries to help out as best he can, but the fact remains that his job hours and the fact that he spends most of every day directly taking care of Sam means that the majority of the errands and stuff that has to get done during daylight hours falls to Jess, and it's beginning to take its toll on her.
Mercifully Sam stops screaming and fighting him, just goes lax in his arms, shaking, breathing in shallow pants. Dean strokes the back of his head. “There you go. That's it. You want your pain meds, Sammy?”
“N-no. Where's Jess?”
Jess leans over to rub circles on his back. “I'm right here, baby. You were just having a nightmare. Take a deep breath for me, okay? You're close to hyperventilating.”
Sam sucks in one shuddering breath, then another, and slowly pulls himself out of Dean's arms. He wipes his eyes roughly on the back of his wrist. “I'm okay. Sorry.”
“You don't need to apologize, Sammy.”
“Do you remember what it was about this time?” Jess' voice is gentle but insistent.
Although Dean would be happy just to have Sam push everything back down where it can't do any harm, the doctors have all agreed that if he can remember the dreams it will probably help. So he just bites his tongue, and lets Jess do her Dr. Phil thing. Sam just shakes his head, though, and Dean can see he's trying to keep his hands from shaking.
“I d-don't... I think there was a f-fire. I don't know. It keeps b-burning.” Sam scrubs at his eyes again, his breath hitching. “S-sorry.”
“Seriously, dude, quit apologizing.”
Sam shakes his head, won't meet his gaze, and after a moment Dean realizes that he's crying in earnest and trying to hide it. Jess sees it half a second before he does, and wraps her arms around him, kneeling on the bed. Sam lets out a choked sob against her shoulder.
“'m sorry.”
“I know you are,” she kisses him on the temple. “I know. It's okay.”
She looks over at Dean, and even in the semi-darkness of the room he can tell she's giving him one of those looks that means he should give them some space. He blows out a breath, nods, and slides off the bed, trying not to feel yet again like the damned third wheel in this place. It's not what Jess means, he knows that. It's just not the same, not like it was before. He's used to Sam only wanting him, only needing him when he's sick, and this —this is new. This Sam won't cry in front of him if he can help it, like it's something he's ashamed of, or something maybe too private for even Dean to see. Not for the first time even the thought of it makes something clench in Dean's chest.
It's not personal, he reminds himself. Sam doesn't remember all the nights spent in shitty motel rooms and shittier apartments. He doesn't remember hanging out with Dean on couches that were more spring than cushion, watching cartoons and drinking apple juice when he had a cold. He doesn't remember clinging to Dean through endless cases of flu, or of nights spent on the bathroom floor during bouts of gastroenteritis. This Sam is a blank slate: his life is barely five months old, even if he's physically the same age as that other, now entirely hypothetical Sam Winchester, who used to be able to tell Dean's mood even from the other room. This Sam doesn't remember any of it, and it's no one's fault. It's stupid to be angry at him, to be angry at Jess for taking Dean's place, because that's really not what it is, not at all. Except that it's Jess Sam is curled up with now, Jess with whom he shares a bed, Jess for whom he seems to reserve those rare smiles which light up his face. It's all fucking unfair, is what it is.
He should just go back to bed. He's barely had an hour's worth of sleep, and it's screwing with his mind. Dean scrubs a hand over his face, then makes his way into the kitchen, grabs the bottle of Jack's from the cupboard, and heads out into the back yard for a cigarette instead.
*
“I want to tell Jess the truth,” Sam says out of the blue one day.
He's followed Dean outside, carefully manoeuvring through the sliding glass doors with his crutches. It's weird, seeing Sam without his external fixator, but pretty cool, too. He's been outfitted with one of those removable casts now that the incisions from the surgery are starting to heal properly, but for the moment he's under strict orders not to put any weight at all on his leg. Dean definitely does not hover while Sam pulls up a chair and carefully lowers himself into it. Keeping a casual eye out does not constitute hovering, it just means he's being a good big brother and making sure Sam doesn't faceplant. Because he's been told by Sam's doctors —and Sam himself, a lot less politely— that Sam needs to start doing things without a safety net, to learn how to cope on his own. The more he does things for himself, the faster he'll get better. So he's resolutely not hovering.
Dean lights a cigarette instead. “The truth about what?” he asks, trying to sound casual, and probably failing, guessing by the epic bitchface Sam has just pulled.
“Dean.”
He rolls his eyes, takes a drag off his cigarette and takes a moment to regret the fact that he's not going to be able to enjoy this really nice day anymore, because he's about to ruin Sam's mood —and his own as a consequence. “Okay, fine. And what are you going to tell her, exactly?”
“I don't know. I just don't want to lie to her anymore. It's not exactly the healthiest foundation for a relationship.”
“Except that she won't believe you.”
“Why wouldn't she?”
“Would you believe it if someone came and told you that ghosts and monsters were real?”
Sam shrugs. “I believed you, didn't I?”
It's hard to argue with that sort of logic. “Okay. Prove to me that I haven't lied to you. That I'm not completely crazy, suffering from some sort of psychotic break and that I'm convinced that all those things exist when they really don't.”
There's a pause. “Well, for one, you're not exhibiting any of the other signs of a psychotic break.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “And you're an expert on that, Sigmund?”
“Actually, Freud's theories pre-date—”
“Sam!”
Sam scowls at him. “You're not lying, and you're not suffering from a psychotic break. Why are you even saying those things? Or are you saying that you have been lying to me all this time, that all those things I know are true in my head aren't real, and that Dad's actually staying away because he really can't stand the sight of me?”
“Sammy, that's not...” Dean cringes in spite of himself. He's been trying not to think about their father, because he's sick of leaving messages that don't ever get answered. He's called every contact he has, and no one's heard a word, except for some second-and-third-hand rumours that John might be onto something big. “Look, I'm just saying... most civilians don't want the truth-is-out-there speech. They don't want to know about the things that go bump in the night, the monsters under the bed, the boogeymen in the closet. All that's going to accomplish is that Jess is going to think I'm filling your head with lies and whatever, and that's not exactly going to help, here.”
“Jess isn't most people,” Sam points out.
“I know you love her, but that doesn't mean she's going to accept this stuff at face value. I mean, you already knew this stuff when I told you —it's stuck in your subconscious or whatever, because you lived through it. I don't know, okay?” he stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray on the picnic table and lights another. “I'm just saying, you tell her, it could screw everything up.”
“Maybe you should have more faith in people.”
“That really never works out as well as you think it will, believe me.” Dean keeps his gaze fixed on the table as he taps the ash off the end of his cigarette. He looks up to see Sam giving him a considering look. “What? I got something on my face?”
“You told someone.”
“What?” He lets out a choked laugh, trying to brush it off, because it's damned unsettling to have Sam figure him out like that.
“You told someone, about what we do. About what you do. Was it a girl?” Sam lets out a triumphant bark of a laugh when he doesn't answer. “Oh my God, it was. What happened?”
He doesn't want to think about Cassie. “It's not important.”
Sam's face softens. “Did you love her?”
For a second it's like they're working a case again, and Sam's worming his way into the witness' good graces by being all sympathetic, except that Dean isn't a witness and he doesn't want to care and share, or whatever. “I said it's not important!” he snaps, and Sam recoils like Dean just punched him.
“Sorry. I didn't mean... sorry. I won't mention it again.”
Dean stubs out the rest of his cigarette. “It's just a sore point.”
“I gathered.”
He sighs. “It's not complicated. I thought... I thought I could trust her, because Dad and I had to leave for this other case, and I had this stupid idea that maybe she would, I don't know, wait for me. It was stupid. She yelled, told me I was crazy, and then she told me to lose her number.”
“I'm sorry.” The kicker is, he can tell Sam means it.
“Yeah, so am I.”
“Jess is different, though.” Sam is like a dog with a bone. “You know her as well as I do. Does she seem like the kind of person who'd freak out about this sort of thing?”
“Cassie didn't seem like it either. She's studying journalism. I figured that would make her more open-minded. I'm just saying, you're opening yourself up for a world of hurt, here.” Dean can feel his tone turn pleading, because even if Sam can't see it, he knows exactly what's going to happen.
Yet again, Sam seems to see right through him. “You think she's going to make you leave.”
“It's what I would do, if I thought it would keep you safe.”
“Dean.” Sam rolls his eyes. “You realize how stupid that sounds, right? Jess wouldn't throw you out just for something like that. At worst she'll think we're both nuts, and we'll have to explain it away to Dr. Blaize during some extra special family sessions or something. But I think you're wrong about her. I'm sorry your girlfriend was a bitch to you, but Jess isn't like that.”
Sam's jaw has that set to it that Dean has learned to recognize spells utter defeat for whoever is planning to stand in his way. So he shrugs, shakes his head once.
“Have it your way. It's your funeral.”
*
Jess has just about had her fill of cataclysmic life changes. Once in a lifetime is plenty, she thinks, watching her boyfriend as he sits on the sofa in their living room, not quite meeting her gaze. Sam looks like a puppy that thinks it's about to get kicked repeatedly, and she hates that she's the one who put that expression there —however undeservedly and indirectly. It means Sam trusts her, but only up to a point. They've been sleeping in the same bed, God, they've even made love a couple of times, slightly awkward as it was (and still good, even then), but he still doesn't trust her not to break his heart, and that really makes her actually want to kick him.
“Um, I'd feel better if you said something,” Sam says to his fingers.
“What do you want me to say?” She's scared, and it comes out sounding angry.
He flinches. “I don't know. Something. Anything. Tell me I'm crazy, or whatever. I don't know,” he repeats, a little helplessly.
“I need a cigarette.”
He looks up at that, and quirks a smile. “Can I come with you? Or is this a leave-me-the-hell-alone-Sam kind of cigarette?”
She gets up, and fishes her pack out of the pocket of her jacket before threading her arms through the sleeves. October was a chilly month, and November is proving no more warm, two days in. “That sort of cigarette doesn't exist. Sometimes there might be an I-need-five-minutes-to-myself cigarette, but never a leave-me-the-hell-alone-Sam cigarette. That's not my brand.”
“Okay. Do you need five minutes?”
“Nope. I need a cigarette. And maybe some fresh air.”
“Won't be all that fresh if you're smoking.”
She thwaps his head lightly on her way to the back door. “Don't be a smartass. You're in the process of trying to make me believe in fairy tales, so you'd better be nicer to me than that.”
She slides the door open, slips out into the cool evening air, and fumbles with pack and lighter. A moment later Sam nudges the door farther open with his crutch and comes out to join her, leaning against the glass as it slides shut. Like this, it's easy to pretend that nothing has happened, that the last five months of their lives never existed. Apart from the crutches he looks the same as ever. Maybe a bit thinner, but in the dark like this she can't see the lines of pain and worry on his face, can't see the haunted, hungry look in his eyes whenever he thinks she isn't looking. In the dark, it's easier to pretend.
She blows out a cloud of smoke, watches as it billows and stretches into tendrils that disappear into the night. “So. Ghosts.”
He huffs a laugh. “I know.”
“And this is what you did before we met?” She's being sarcastic, but the situation warrants it. “Like, what, a hobby?”
“From what I gather, more like a driving obsession.”
“So why are you telling me now?”
“So you believe me?”
“No,” the end of her cigarette glows brightly in the dark. “I didn't say I believe you. I'm playing 'let's suppose' until I can make up my mind. We were going to get married, Sam, and you never told me any of this. So why tell me now?”
“Because I think lying to you before was a mistake.”
“What if you didn't tell me before because none of it's true? What if your brother is filling your head with lies?”
“Dean wouldn't do that.”
“How do you know?” She doesn't think it's true, but it would be a pretty simple explanation.
“Think about it,” Sam says patiently. “If Dean wanted to screw with me, there are so many better ways he could go about it. Besides, this is all stuff I already knew, before he told me. I knew about the ghosts and the salt and the Black Dogs and the skinwalkers, and I made him explain it. I knew about it the same way I know how to operate a toaster and the same way I know portions of the legal code by heart. Whatever it is, it's something that was real to me before all of this.”
She exhales in another cloud of smoke. “I don't know what I'm supposed to do with that. I kind of want to just believe that Dean's having some kind of prolonged psychotic episode.”
“It would be simpler,” Sam agrees, and she feels her world shift under her feet again, just a little to the left.
“Does Dean even know you decided to tell me all this? I mean, what am I supposed to say to him? I don't... what is it even going to change?” she asks a bit helplessly, because yesterday there was no such thing as monsters and now there is, and yet nothing in her life seems all that different. She's still going to get up in the morning, have breakfast, go to work, and worry about her boyfriend and try to figure out a way to pay all their bills, regardless of whether or not that guy in her class might be a werewolf.
“Uh, Dean sort of knows.”
“Sort of?”
Sam looks a bit sheepish. “I, uh, kind of didn't tell him that I asked Brady to drop me home early tonight, so I could talk to you.”
“Oh, God, please tell me you're not serious. He'll have a stroke when he finds out, I hope you realize.”
“I was hoping that the whole fait accompli thing would go a long way to avoiding cardio-vascular accidents.”
“You really thought that?”
“Okay, no, but I'm holding out hope,” Sam flashes her a tired smile, and she laughs and stubs out her cigarette.
“I'd kiss you, except you'd complain I taste like an ash tray.”
He rummages in his pocket, shuffling one crutch awkwardly to the side, and produces a pack of gum. “Dean swears on his life I was never a Boy Scout, but I think he might be trying to spare me the humiliation.”
He leans forward, the stick of gum held between thumb and forefinger, and her smile grows wider as he slides it between her lips, then takes her wrist and draws her closer, his thumb rubbing against her pulse point. She shivers a little and lets herself melt into his touch as their lips brush. He kisses the way she remembers from before, as though it's as much muscle memory as emotion, and she doesn't know whether the thought makes her happy or unutterably sad. After a moment he pulls away gently, leaving her breathless, looking at her as though he's trying to permanently etch her image into his mind.
“If you were trying to distract me into believing you, it might just have worked,” she jokes lamely, even while his hands are still doing something unbelievably distracting, his crutches forgotten, one on the ground, the other still propped against the wall.
“That wasn't really—”
“Sam.”
“Um. Yes?”
“Shut up and let's go inside, since we've still got a while to ourselves?”
He grins, wide and happy this time. “Yeah, okay.”
It's never quite as spontaneous as before, when he used to lift her bodily into his arms —in spite of her protests— and carry her kicking and protesting and laughing right into their bed, but it's almost as good. She lets him go first, pushes him backward onto the bed, crutches falling to the side with a clatter that they both ignore, and straddles his hips, nipping at his lower lip with her teeth and tugging on his t-shirt until he lifts his arms and lets her pull it over his head. She busies herself trailing kisses along his jaw and down his neck, enjoying the sound of his sharp intake of breath as she travels down his chest.
The doorbell rings.
“Fuck,” Sam murmurs, letting his head fall back against the headboard with a hollow thump.
“Or not, as the case might be,” Jess wrinkles her nose. “I could ignore it.”
“It'll drive us both nuts, and you know it. I'll just wait here while you hurry,” Sam gives her a rueful grin. “I promise not to keep going without you.”
She smacks him lightly on the stomach. “Better not. Stay put, I am going to go get rid of the person with spectacularly bad timing who is at our door, and I will be right back.”
With one last kiss she slides off the bed, rearranges her t-shirt where it got rucked up over her ribs, and fairly runs to the door when she hears the bell a second time. She pulls the door open, and blinks, a little nonplussed.
“Brady?”
He grins at her, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes, and a shiver runs up her spine for no reason she can determine. Unconsciously she takes a step backward, her hand going to her throat.
“Hiya, Jess. I'm here for Sam.”
*
Chapter 14
no subject
I like how Jess reacts to Sam's news. I noticed that she didn't exactly say she believed him, but she DID let him know that she wasn't going to kick him out either. It was a very complicated reaction, and I'm glad you did it that way.
no subject
As for Jess' reaction, well, I tried to nuance it. Sam is clearly not delusional, and neither is Dean. The fact that they both believe this so firmly is a good argument in their favour, but it's just so damned improbable, you know? So I can't blame her for being skeptical...