By: Karen B.
Summary: Fueled by my own tormented, obsession of wanting to know why Dean didn't stay in the panic room with Sam. Missing Scene 'When The Levee Breaks.' Time frame: Before Bobby and Dean had to tie Sam down.
Dean point of view.
Disclaim: Just me -- digging in banana crates again. Gotta love spiders. Don't own a thing. Thank you for your time and care!
The giant, overhead ceiling fan, swirled strange shadow patterens on the floor. The shapes were dizzying, blinding, making me more tired than I already was. Detox was only getting worse with time. Everyday was the same. Sam screaming. Sam begging. Sam confused, unaware, in pain. On and on and on -- the demon blood destroying us both.
Three days and Sam wasn't getting better, he was deteriorating further, right in front of me. His hallucinations were violently accelerating with each passing hour. Each, more vivid then the last. The side effects of kicking demon blood -- friggin' awful. Sam would strain and arch off the cot, screaming to some invisible enemy torturing him. Then he'd quiet down, mumble things. Things I mostly couldn't understand. Bugs on the walls, blood on the floors, my name -- that much I got. Most times, something or someone was just outright hurting him, and he'd act out whatever nightmare he was trapped inside. Kicking, swinging his arms around, or flat out trying to punch me. A few times he fell off the cot, and I struggled to get him back on. Sam fought like an ox, swore, spat and threw punches. He was actually pretty tough to beat even in his weakened state. I was kinda proud of that. Figured he'd earned himself a Purple Heart by the time I finally did get him settled back on the cot.
For the past two hours, though, Sam had just gone completely rigid, arms flung out, fists balled, legs slightly bent and twitching. It was as if he was tied down and couldn't move. He was running a fever and I was trying to get him to relax, talk to him, but he just kept yelling at someone I couldn't see. My brother was a mess. Dry lips, red eyes, open wide, dilated and staring upward.
"Uuhhh....no. No. Plea...please, no," he moaned quietly to that someone I couldn't see.
"Sam." I bent down close. "Sam!" I called loudly trying to snap him back to reality for the ten thousand and second time.
"Stay away,' he gasped. "Jus' g...g...gaaaaw. Jess, uhmm," Sam grunted. "Sh...she was on the ceiling. I didn't tell her. What? No. Of course not. I don't care. No, no, don't," he uttered a sharp cry, continuing with his imaginary conversation, his head rocking back and forth. "Leave him out of this. Please," he begged, turning his head to the right, tired eyes tracking the unseen. "I'm thirsty."
I couldn't help Sam with anything he was seeing, or hearing, except for the last two words he'd muttered. I reached for a cup of water I had sitting on the floor near the cot.
"Hey." I gripped his chin, turning him to me. "Sam," I said his name slow and clear, making sure he was looking at me. "Right here." Moving a hand behind his shoulders, I eased him half-way up. "Drink this."
Sam frantically grabbed for the cup, but missed. Before I could get the cup to his lips for him, Sam had a ghost cup between his fingers and to his mouth, swallowing, just as quickly spitting out whatever invisible liquid he thought he'd drank.
"Grrrhhhh!" He growled in pain, surprising me.
The hallucination was strong and whatever it was that Sam thought he drank sent his back arching up and away. Flaying hands and gnarled fingers knocked the real cup from my grasp, the plastic container flying across the panic room.
"Sam!" I gripped his floundering arms and held tight. "Sammy! It's not real, man!" I wanted to make it better for him, but how could I manage pain that wasn't real? I cringed, knowing it was real enough to my brother as he cried out again.
The fight or flight response is a natural reaction triggered by fear or pain. Under favorable conditions, that reaction can save your life. In this situation, either option only made things worse. It was obvious, this particular hallucination Sam was tied down, force fed something horrible. He fought hard against his bindings, to no avail.
"Gu-gu-gu-..guys! He gagged, biting hard on his lower lip, blood leaking out the side of his mouth. "Dean! Somebody, help!" He struggled weakly, and I could feel Sam's disorientation blowing through him like a steel rod in a hurricane as he fought me. "Where's my brother!" He reached with both hands grasping my jacket, eyes wide with panic. "Dean!"
"Here, right here, Sam," I choked out, trying to keep my voice pitched low and calm and doing a piss poor job at it. "Sammy!" I pleaded. "Stop. Stop it. Just stop it." I shook him hard. "I'm right here. Right here."
"Dean," Sam cried. "What about, dad? I told you, no. I told you we can't be that, not ever. How many times do I have to say it, kid?" Sam continued to toss about, having his conversation in his head. "Just help me. Trust me. Dean!" He looked at the ceiling, mouth gaping open in shock, and just screamed. "Nooooo!" I watched in horror as Sam's eyes rolled -- uncontrolled. "Hurts! D...don't. No!"
"You're here with me, Sam!" I tired to break through to him. "No one is hurting you. Sam! Sam, listen to me. You're safe."
My brother wouldn't or couldn't listen, couldn't stop screaming. The pain he thought he was feeling, all to consuming and all too real. His body was violently tense as he screamed for Jess, Mom, Dad, me. He even cried out for Bobby and Pastor Jim a few times. Agitated and squirming around, Sam looked at me, called my name again, and again, but he didn't see me. All I could do was keep breathing and hold on to him.
The constant pleas coming from my scared, trapped inside himself, baby brother were not only unsettling -- they were killing me. I couldn't do this. Watch him suffer. His brain firing off like some freak lightning storm.
"I can't do this. Please, Sam, you have to stop." I jerked him harder, a bit crazed. "I said, stop!"
Then, as if Sam's phantom tormenter had heard my request, Sam's head snapped to the side. Like someone had dealt a hard blow to his jaw. Without a word or even a gasp of pain, Sam stopped and dropped, sinking deeply into the cot -- out cold.
It scared the crap out of me seeing him go from struggling so hard to deathly still. I felt for a pulse -- fast but strong. Pulling him to me, I held Sam close. He was floppy, his long, damp hair plastered over his eyes. One of two things were going to happen from this point on. Sam would live or Sam would die. Either way…I wasn't sure where that left me. All I knew was, I couldn't watch anymore. I was a coward. I was letting Sam down, and that thought made me sick. The pain Sam was going through was agonizing for him, and unbearable for me. I eased Sam back to the cot. Soothing the hair out of his eyes with quiet whispers, like I used to when he was a baby. He opened his eyes, staring again -- into someplace unknown.
"You promised me," Sam barely could whisper. "Dean."
"What?" I frowned, dipping my head trying to catch Sam's eye. "What did I…" Suddenly, Sam's words hit, like Déjà Vu. "Sam, you're not there yet. You can fight this. You're still, Sam…still my brother."
"You promised." Sam's eyes shut.
I couldn't take it any longer. Standing on shaky legs, I slowly crossed the room, picking up the cup and setting the plastic container back near the water pitcher. I turned to stare at Sam. He lay still, trapped in a dark dimension. The demon blood was an overpowering inhibitor. I couldn't reach him. I'd tried for days. Denying myself sleep or food. Sam was locked in his head and I had no key, no battering ram big enough, or strong enough to break him out.
We both were trapped.
Me ,outside, trying to get in.
Him, inside, trying to get out. Awake, but asleep. Safe, but in pain.
The evil inside Sam was tearing him apart and I couldn't stop it, couldn't protect him. For me…there was nothing worse -- not even rotting in hell.
I stood watching Sam a moment. Remembering how I used to watch him sleeping in his crib as a baby. Like an angel. Peaceful. Happy. Perfectly calm. Looking at my baby brother now -- he was so wrecked. He wasn't Sam, he was a monster. I shuddered at the thought that somehow seeped into my brain. My knees dipped, the word clinging to my mind like black mold clings to wet walls, repeating over and over in my head.
Maybe I was the monster, but what choices did I have? I had no choices. I had to do this to my brother. For my brother. Had to force him to go cold turkey. One by one, I'd watched my family die. Sam would be the last. I had to try something.
I felt disgusted deep inside -- for what I was putting him through. It didn't take long for the tears to start rolling. I freaked, out-loud. Crying for Sam. For what we had together then, and what we had lost now. Sam had been put into my hands long ago, and now I had to let him go. Even if it killed me, killed him -- and it would.
Took a while, but when I finally pulled myself together, I walked out the panic room. Locked the door, and trudged dejectedly up the steps -- in surrender.
Part of me wanted to run back to the room. Gather Sam back in my arms, feed him the demon blood he so desperately and obviously needed. The other part of me wouldn't do that even at gunpoint. Giving him what he craved would be useless. Either way we were screwed. Without the blood -- it appeared he would die. With the blood -- he would turn into something that wasn't Sam. We were so friggin' damned. Someone was squeezing my balls and I couldn't or wouldn't stop them. What was wrong with me? Maybe Sam was right -- I didn't have the strength. I was just plain weak and scared.
Keeping my eyes forward, I took the last few steps to the living room. Gripping the edge of doorframe, I struggled to calm my racing heart. I shuddered, staring at the floor. Sam had started his terrified screaming again. I wanted to scream, too.
"Here. You could use this." I raised my eyes. "We both could," Bobby said, pouring two shot glasses of whiskey.
I didn't know what the right thing to do was. I was loosing, Sam. And he had lost me to his hallucinations. There was no greater torment for either of us.
I swallowed my nausea, staggered over to Bobby's desk, took the glass, and choked the whiskey down.
"Pour me another," I said.