And Arbitrary Blackness Gallops In

She is Officer Maria Middleton, and he follows her to a room that must be either some kind of small waiting room or a room that doctors take patients families to tell them that there's nothing more they can do. There are a couple of couches and a coffee table with a box of tissues in the centre, and yeah, none of that is very comforting but what can he do?

They go through the standard stuff for giving a statement, like his name (fake) and address (he gives Bobby's, uses the old story of a road trip) and then they get down to the hard stuff.

Officer Middleton is sympathetic but focused. She apologizes for making him re-live this so soon after the fact but assures him that the faster they get the details, the sooner they can catch the man who did this, which would be more comforting if he didn't already know that the man who did this is dead in a vacant house several blocks away. He makes a mental note to call Bobby, get him to burn the body 'cause there's no way he's going back there and the last thing they need is a pissed off ghost version of Gordon haunting them. He should have sorted this already but he guesses he hasn't been thinking too clearly lately.

“So, start at the beginning,” Officer Middleton says, pen poised over her note pad.

“I don't really think I can tell you much. I was drugged too.”

“Just tell me whatever you remember.”

It's not hard to be convincing. Even going through the cover story is horrendous because, of course, it ends the same as the real version of events.

He and Sam agreed to keep it simple, so Dean tells the officer that they went to McClarens, a pub they actually did stop in at briefly, and had a few drinks. They weren't planning to stay long and he doesn't remember talking to anyone or seeing anyone acting suspicious. He thought they'd been keeping a good eye on their drinks as they played a game of pool but everything blanks out after that so they must have been distracted.

Officer Middleton presses for more details but Dean doesn't give her any. He's not willing to accidentally incriminate anyone so he says he wasn't really paying attention when she asks about who else might have been at the pub.

“Okay, go on.”

This is the worst part, and it's not even anywhere as bad as what really happened. “So... next thing I know, I'm waking up in a motel room. You know that one on the outskirts of town?”

Officer Middleton nods, scribbling away. The motel he's talking about is so run-down and nasty-looking that even he and Sam decided to look for a different one. “What was the room number?”

“I didn't look. After I woke up and saw Sam... I just got us out of there.” Dean tries to look stricken, like he's upset that he's lost this valuable piece of information.

“That's okay, we'll figure it out. So go back to when you first woke up.”

Dean runs a hand over his face, blowing out a breath. “Okay, so I wake up and my wrist-” He lifts his bandaged arm, “-is tied to a bedpost-”

“Wait, can you describe the motel room for me?”

He gives her a quick description of a generic motel room and covers for any mistaken details by saying, “But we've stayed in a few motels since we started our road trip. I could be getting some details mixed up.” Perfect.

“All right. Go on.”

“So I get up to my knees and Sam's on the bed just fucking – oh, sorry – freaking covered in blood, still passed out, and I figure whoever took us is gonna come back so I go nuts trying to get my hand free. I watch horror movies, you know? I didn't want us to be there when the nut case came back... And that's about it really. I got untied and got us out of there. Came straight here.”

He's struggling to get the words out by the time he finishes with the statement, and he keeps getting flashes, fucking horrible flashes before his eyes of Sammy bent over that Desk, bloody and screaming and sobbing.

His nightmare that night is so vivid. Gordon, more snake-like than human, and his knife sliding through Sammy's clothes, teasing his inner thigh and throat, slicing through clumps of hair, and through it all Dean can't make a sound. It's as if his vocal chords have been severed. He's forced to watch, his own silence ringing in his ears, paralysed.

He can smell the basement, damp sour air, blood and sweat and sex. It's so wrong. He wants to be screaming, doing something to stop it, and he knows somewhere in his head that this is a dream but that's less important than what's going on right in fucking front of him.

He wakes before it goes any further, sheets damp and twisted tight around his limbs, shaking hopelessly.

He stumbles from bed and to the bathroom. He has to give himself a moment to breathe, leaning against the sink.

He splashes water on his face, getting his bandages damp. He's still tired but sleep isn't all that appealing right now. He avoids looking at himself in the mirror, thinking about Sam's comment about it being a bad idea. He doesn't want to know what he'd see in his face right now.

He ambles out of the bathroom, turning on the TV and snatching up the remote. His bed's gross so he gets in the one that would be Sam's, if he was here, which is strangely comforting in a way he can't explain.

It's three in the morning and there's only infomercials playing but it doesn't really matter. He lies there and thinks about Sammy in the hospital.

After Officer Middleton finished with him, he made his way back to Sam's room with her. Sam was awake so it was his turn to give a statement.

“Can you... go get me a smoothie?” Sam had asked him, always without meeting his eyes. “One of those ones from that place when we first got into town. Do you remember?”

“Yeah.” Dean had remembered, though it felt like years ago. Dean had seen the sign for ice-cream and they'd been in the car for so long they were practically stuck to the seats. Ice-cream had sounded awesome, and it turned out the place did the sort of drink with berries and other assorted fruits that Sammy always raved about. They sat around and joked about stupid things and generally had a good time. Now Dean can't stop wondering if that was where Gordon first laid eyes on them, or if it went further back than that.

He could tell that Sam was telling him to fuck off in the nicest way possible but he also knew that Sam was still on liquid food and he'd tasted the hospital shakes and they taste like powder and water, so if Sam wanted a smoothie he was damn well going to get a smoothie.

Officer Middleton was gone by the time he returned, leaving Sam alone in a huddle on the bed that Dean thought probably shouldn't have been possible with his broken ribs, or at least must have been painful, but Sam didn't move when he walked in. Dean had to help him with each tiny sip of the smoothie, holding the cup, bringing the straw to his lips, pretending not to notice the stains of old tears on his brother's face.

Dean lies in Sammy's bed at the new hotel, that Sam hasn't even slept in and won't get a chance to, which makes the comforting feel of it even stranger but what the hell, he'll take what he can get, and thinks about tomorrow. It'll be the end of the hospital stay. He's already discussed it with Sam because surely their fake insurance won't hold out much longer and it's easier to ditch before the suspicion starts.

Sam had been keen to leave, aside from one quick regretful glance at the morphine pump he'd been installed with. They both knew that their pilfered supply of painkillers couldn't compare. It's going to be rough for a while.

He stares at the TV until infomercials turn into early morning cartoons, then drags himself out of bed. He showers off the rest of the nightmare, opting to take his bandages off this time, replacing them when he's done. He changes the sheets on his bed, bundling up the sodden ones and tossing them in the corner. He's not entirely sure why he bothers, seeing as they won't be coming back here. He figures the faster they get out of town the better, and they should do it while Sam's still loaded up on hospital grade painkillers.

There's only his duffel to pack and take out to the Impala, Sammy's bag's still nestled in the trunk, so he's still got an hour to wait before visiting time starts, and that's one thing he's not going to miss, having to wait until some stupid rules say he can see his brother.

He gets some takeaway coffee and a muffin that he doesn't feel like eating. He forces it down though, because he needs something other than coffee in his stomach, then he parks up in the hospital's parking lot, as close to the exit as possible, and reads through the pamphlets again.

Finally, his watch tells him that it's time to make a move. He grabs Sam's duffel and then hurries through the hospital corridors. He gets to Sam's room just as that nurse, Kelly, walks out.

“How is he?” Dean asks. “No... complications? Anything I should worry about?”

Kelly shakes her head. “No, his recovery is going well. It's really just the pain we have to manage now. And Doctor Williams is going to come down this afternoon. He's our resident psychiatrist.”

“Oh.” He doesn't quite know what to say about that. “Okay then.”

Dean walks into Sammy's room, relieved that all he'll have to deal with is pain management. No infections that require liberating antibiotics, and then, of course, he remembers that there's still stuff beyond the physical that he's going to have to somehow work through.

“Hey,” Sam says in greeting. Dean shuts the door behind him and closes the little shade over the window.

“Hey,” Dean returns, dumping Sam's duffel on the floor.. “You ready to ditch? Or do you wanna wait a few hours?”

Sam looks fragile and no where near ready to leave the hospital. Dean thinks that the swelling might have gone down a little overnight, Sam can almost open his eye, but the bruises are dark as ever.

“Lets just go,” Sam says. “One of the nurses just checked on me so we should be clear for a while.”

Fine with Dean. He whips out a change of clothes from Sam's bag, soft sweatpants, boxers, socks and a t-shirt. “Okay, where do you wanna start? Top or bottom?”

Because they've done this too many times before, sometimes with the rolls reversed, and he doesn't question the fact that Sam's going to need help, but Sam hesitates, pushing himself into a more upright position.

“Um, actually... can you wait outside? I can do it myself, at least the pants. I might need help with the t-shirt.”

Dean blinks, taken aback by this change of routine, and then he looks closer, sees the way Sammy's hiding behind his hair, the heat in his bruised cheeks. The kid's embarrassed.

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Dean stumbles over his words, trying to downplay this turn of events but failing miserably. “Whatever you want, kiddo.”

He puts the clothes down on the bed. “I'll just... wait outside. Just... call me when you need me.”

He doesn't know if he should touch but he needs to give Sammy something, so he grabs his hand in a quick squeeze and leaves before he can see the kid's reaction.

He waits, leaning his back against the door, for about ten minutes before he hears Sam call him, then he's back in a flash, ready to help.

But the sight of Sam's bare chest stops him in his tracks. The kids sitting on the side of the bed, feet on the floor. He's removed the hospital gown and managed to get the sweats on but he's breathing hard like it took all his energy (it probably did) and his chest...

Dean hasn't seen it since before the basement, and he knew it was bad, like everything else, but seeing the thick boot-shaped bruises over Sammy's ribs takes his freaking breath away. Shit but Sammy's been beat to hell.

(How are they ever going to get passed this?)

“Dean?” Sam says, and he realises that he's been staring for far too long and Sam looks far too uncomfortable under his gaze.

“Yeah, shit, sorry.” He steps forward and takes the t-shirt from Sam.

“'s okay,” Sam mutters, and Dean bites his lip to stop the sudden sob that wells up in his throat.

He pulls the t-shirt over Sam's head, careful not to let it catch on the stitches or staples, and, as gently as he can, guides Sam's arms through the sleeves. It's still horrible though and when he's finished Sam sags against him, forehead pressed to his chest, and Dean wants to hug him, so badly wants to just fucking hug him, but he's scared that he's going to hurt him so he rests one hand lightly on the top of Sam's head and the other on Sam's back, so fucking gentle that he's not sure if Sam can even feel it.

After a minute he takes his hand from Sam's back and uses it to push the button that releases the morphine. They agreed to wait until the very end to use it, so Sammy gets as much pain relief after they leave as possible. When Sam goes limp as it hits his bloodstream, Dean gently slips the needle from the back of his hand and untangles it from Sam's t-shirt. Sam must have removed all the other things he was hooked up to while Dean was out of the room.

“Okay, there we go, it's okay.” Regretfully, he pushes Sam back upright and, as an afterthought, rummages around Sam's duffel until he finds a pair of socks. He slips them over Sam's bare feet.

“You gonna be okay for a minute?” he asks and Sam nods so he takes off and grabs the first wheelchair he sees, hurrying back to Sam's room.

Sam's got his head down, like he can't find the energy to hold it up, looking closer to unconscious than anything but he helps hold his own weight as Dean shifts him to the wheelchair, so that's something.

One final check to make sure the coast is clear, and then he's wheeling Sam into the hallway and is in the elevator before anyone shows up to wonder what they're doing.

On the ground floor it's easy to push Sam out the front doors. No one so much as bats an eyelash at them, which is probably because Sam still has his head down. Dean's sure Sammy's battered face would draw some attention from curious onlookers. But they make it to the Impala, no problem.

“Front seat or back?” Dean asks. The back would probably be more comfortable for a long drive but whatever Sammy wants.

“Front. I don't wanna... have to lie down and then get up again... my ribs...”

The morphine's making Sammy drowsy. Drugged up Sam usually rambles and Dean kind of sometimes loves seeing Sam on pain medication. Not because the kid's hurt – hell no – but because Sammy tends to be fucking adorable when he's drugged, sloppy, sappy conversations that are half complete nonsense and a tendency to be clingy that makes Dean feel totally un-manly things about how does he love this kid so damn much, why is Sammy so totally awesome, the little bitch.

Also, there's often a lot of stuff to tease Sam about in his out-of-it ramblings.

He can't take any enjoyment out of this though, and the thought of making fun of Sammy about anything he says during this drug trip, or even any time in the future, is repulsive. Sam's not clingy and adorable and talkative. Sam's holding his arms around himself like even the morphine can't help what hurts inside him, he's a fucking mess of bruises and stitches and chunks of missing hair and even if Sammy wanted to talk, Dean wouldn't know what to say. What the fuck is he supposed to say about this?

So Dean doesn't say anything and he helps Sammy into the passenger seat but, despite his attempt to move him as smoothly and gently as possible, the kid ends up needing to sit sideways with his feet on the concrete, bent over with his elbows on his knees and his hands clenched in his remaining hair, trying not to throw up.

“Sorry,” he moans quietly.

“It's okay, just breathe.” Dean's crouched down in front of him, directly in the splatter zone but he really does not give a shit. He's kind of worried about hospital staff coming looking for them but what can he do? “It'll be better in a minute.”

Sam shakes his head miserably. “No, been feeling sick since I got dressed... might throw up in your car...”

Dean rubs Sam's arm. “I honestly do not give a crap if you throw up in my car right now.”

Sam does throw up in his car, just as they're pulling into a motel parking lot too, and if Sam had done this a week ago Dean would have been freaking out and saying, 'Jesus, Sam, you couldn't have held it for two freaking minutes...!' but now he just rests his hand briefly on the back of Sam's neck after he's stopped the Impala. Sam's got his head in his arms, leaning forward on the dash.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“It's fine, don't worry about it,” Dean soothes. He knows that Baby's worried about Sam too. She won't hold a grudge about the vomit, and he's too busy being grateful that the pamphlets were wrong about Sam not wanting to be touched to care about it. He'd be lost without these little physical gestures of support, more lost than he already is.

He gives Sam a minute to compose himself. ”Okay, I'm gonna go get us a room. Will you be all right for a minute?”

“Yeah.”

Dean jogs to the front office, after locking Baby's doors, just in case someone thinks Sammy's an easy target while he's gone. They've only been driving for a couple of hours, so they're not as far away as Dean wanted to get them but Sam needs a bed now and it's far enough, so Dean slaps down a credit card and pays for a week because he doubts Sam's going to be up to leaving before then. He jogs back to the car to find Sam in the same position he left him in.

“Number seven,” he says, just so he can say something normal, and moves the Impala so it's parked right outside the door.

“You ready to move? You can lie down as soon as we get inside. It's not far.”

Sam looks up at the door, the look on his face showing that their definitions of 'far' differ at this moment, but he nods, because it's not like they're going to stay in the car all day.

So Dean crosses to the passenger side and opens Sam's door. Sam turns himself so he's got his legs out of the car without help but that's where his strength ends. Dean gets him up and wraps an arm around his back, lifting Sam's arm over his shoulder and locking his knees, thinking to himself that he should have kept the damn wheelchair.

He tries to get them to the room smoothly, without jostling broken ribs but it's really impossible to do anything without hurting Sam so he gives up on smooth and just gets them there as fast as possible.

“There, all done, it's okay now, no more walking,” he rambles assurances as he guides Sam down so he can sleep, because Sam's gone a ghastly shade of pale and he can't do anything to help but talk. “You can sleep now, it's okay.”

“Don' wanna sleep,” Sam murmurs but his eyes are slipping closed.

Dean goes and shuts the curtains but it doesn't do much to dim the lighting. They're too thin and it's barely noon out there. The sun's bright and the sky is cloudless.

It's as if it were mocking them. The only thing missing is some freaking birds chirping or it would be the perfect day, except that Sammy's crashed out in that bed over there and now that Dean has him back he just doesn't know what he's going to do with him. He remembers feeling like this after Jess died and Sam didn't go back to Stanford. Sam has always been his world, okay, and when Sammy hurts everything fucking stops and he knows Sammy so freaking well, how can he not know what to do with him?

For now, he puts the TV on mute and sits down on his bed, the one closest to the door. Anything that wants to get at Sammy now is going to have to go through him first.


It's barely an hour later that Sam stirs. At first Dean thinks he's waking up but the faint move of his head turns into thrashing and by the time Dean has bounded over, the kid's screaming.

“Sam!” Dean grabs his shoulders and gives him a shake, just a small one, and Sam's eyes fly open, his arms raise up and shove at Dean. Dean grabs his wrists awkwardly, straining his own stitches, and holds them firmly so the kid can't hurt himself.

“Whoa, it's me, just me, we're at the motel, it's over, just you and me here.”

Sam blinks a few times and his ragged breathing turns to sobs.

“Aw, hey, it's okay.” Dean wants to haul him up into a hug but it'll hurt him, so he puts his hands lightly over the sides of Sam's face, feeling stitches rough against his palms, and thumbs the tears away. “Just a nightmare, Sammy, that's all.”

Sam nods, a little too desperately, like he knows but it doesn't make any difference, still shuddering. “M' ribs,” he chokes out.

“You need something?” Dean's already getting up, heading for the first aid kit he retrieved from the car, along with their duffel bags, while Sam was still sleeping.

“Yeah. God, yeah.”

“Coming right up.” He shakes two of the strongest painkillers they have into his hand and hurries to fill a glass with water. He leaves them on the night-stand while he helps Sam into a sitting position, propping the pillows up behind him.

“Okay, here.” Sam's hands are shaking too much to hold the glass so Dean does it for him.

Sam sags on the bed when they're done, eyes closed. Dean sets the glass back on the night-stand and rubs his knuckles lightly over Sam's arm.

“Guess that's why you didn't want to sleep, huh.”

Sam huffs out a small mirthless laugh. “Nurse at the hospital told me I kept the whole ward awake last night.”

“Yeah, well, I haven't been sleeping too well either.”

And that's about all there is to say about that.

Slowly, Sam relaxes as the medication sinks in. It's not enough to take all the pain away but it can take the edge off at least.

“You feel like eating anything?” Dean ventures.

“Nah.” Sam turns his head to look at the bathroom door. “Needa take a leak.”

“Oh.” Dean follows his gaze. “Um, you need help?”

“Just getting there,” Sam says quickly, and Dean doesn't miss the way he ducks his head as if embarrassed, the renewed tension in his body. This use to be so easy, them helping each other out, and they've done it so many times that there's no need for embarrassment, but it's different now, apparently.

“All right then.”

It's another slow shuffle to the bathroom. Dean lets go only when they're right in front of the toilet.

“I'll just wait outside the door, okay?”

“Yeah.”

So Dean waits, the door slightly ajar, really hoping that Sam doesn't collapse mid-piss, until he hears the toilet flush.

He waits a few seconds, then pushes the door open, to see that Sam's got both hands on the sink, leaning heavily on the porcelain as he regards his face in the small square mirror. Dean watches Sam's eyes trace the paths of stitches.

“Wow,” Sam says finally, shock and horror at war in his voice. “I guess you were right about not looking in the mirror.”

Technically it was Sam who surmised that he shouldn't look in a mirror. He was right about it too.

Sam reaches up a hand to run his fingers through a short clump of hair, sucking in a breath.

“It'll grow back,” Dean offers, suddenly wishing that he could smash this mirror and somehow erase the part where Sam had looked in it. “Your hairs always grown ridiculously fast, right? And the stitches will come out in a couple of weeks...”

Sam swallow, closing his eyes.

“Lets get you back to bed, yeah?” Because they can't stand in this bathroom all day, Sam's legs are going to give out sooner rather than later and he really, really wants to get the kid away from the freaking mirror.

“Yeah.”

Dean does most of the work this time and when he sits him down on the bed Sam curls up on his side and lies there, wide awake, and runs a finger softly over the stitches in his cheek, the gash Dean thinks is going to scar.

“You shouldn't touch it. It might get infected,” Dean points out.

Sam ignores him, eyes focussed somewhere else.

Okay, then. Dean turns to go do... something, something other than staring at his bashed up little brother, but Sam's voice stops him.

“I don't really remember... the beginning, when I was in the chair... I only remember the end of it.”

Dean doesn't want to turn around. He doesn't want to have this conversation. He can already feel the remnants of his helplessness churning in his stomach.

“You were pretty out of it,” he forces out, because it's Sammy. He turns because tough shit if he doesn't want to, and sits down on the side of Sam's bed, staring at the floor.

“I don't...” Sam makes a noise that might be a sob. “This is really fucked up.”

Dean nods, feels a burning start behind his eyes, something building up in his chest that makes it hard to breathe. “I know, this is, is just...” Whatever it was welling up in his chest bursts and he can't stop the words from tumbling out. “Fuck, Sammy, I can't believe he did that to you. I'm so so sorry, Sammy, I tried to get free but I couldn't slip those fucking cuffs and I couldn't do anything. I thought he was going to fucking kill you, Sammy, and I watched him fucking hurt you like that and I couldn't stop him. I should've known he was out of prison, should've watched your back, but I fucked up. I fucked up and look where we are now.”

He wants to jump up and punch the wall, wants to throw things and smash things and yell and scream but he can't find the energy so he just sits there on the edge of Sam's bed and drops his face into his hands and uses the bandage around his wrist to soak up his tears.

“Dean...” Sam says softly, after a long pause. Dean feels the kid's fingers latch on to his shirt sleeve but he can't bring himself to look up. “Dean, it's not your fault. We had no idea...”

“I should have known, should've had some idea.”

Sam's fingers suddenly clench down, pinching his skin. Startled, Dean looks at his brother..

“You don't get to do this,” Sam hisses, eyes dark and desperate, “You don't get to play 'what if' and 'should have' because I don't get to, because there's no fucking point. This happened.”

Sam's voice wavers and he takes a gulp of air. “This happened and you can't change it by feeling guilty, so don't. I need you now.”

Dean stares at him, stunned. He feels a tear slide down his face. How can he not feel guilty after what happened to Sam, after he watched it happen and did nothing?

“What do you need me to do?” he asks finally, voice cracking, because he doesn't know. He doesn't know what to do or say or how to help or how they're ever going to get over this.

“Just stay with me,” Sam says, as if he's pleading. “Don't stay in that basement. I don't want us to stay in the basement. We're out and we're alive and I need you to convince me that we can deal with everything else, okay? I can't do this without you.”

Dean untangles Sam's fingers from his sleeve and grasps the kid's hand between his own, the closest he can get to a hug until Sam's ribs heal, and squeezes like he can somehow transfer all the fucking love and admiration and amazement he feels for this kid into Sammy's skin. How can Sammy be so strong after all this? To be honest, Dean kind of expected Sam to be a sobbing mess huddled in a corner, but this kid here, ordering Dean to get his head out of his ass, this is 100 percent his little brother, and Dean realises that he's always known exactly what to do and say to this kid.

“You're not doing this without me,” he promises. The most important promise he's ever made, maybe. “I'm right fucking here and I'm not going anywhere. We're gonna get through this.”

Sam takes a few shaky breaths, visibly calming. “You're not just saying that 'cause I want you to, right?” he asks. “Do you really think so?”

He looks up at Dean and Dean gets this flash, of Sam before all this happened, superimposed over the stitched and bruised version, and he realises that he's been looking at this whole thing wrong. Those pamphlets don't know shit about Sammy because he's not a fucking victim. He's a survivor. He always has been.

And for all that Dean's been tearing himself up and freaking himself out over this, the answer is surprisingly simple.

“Of course I think so. You and me, kid, we're fucking superheroes.”

Sam huffs a watery laugh. “If that means you're Batman, who does it make me?”

Dean leans over and brushes Sam's damp fringe off of his forehead. “Just this once, Sammy, you can be Batman.”