Are You There, Sam?
K Hanna Korossy

The first time he thought he woke up, it was to argue in the kitchen with Castiel. Sam slept through the exchange, which should have given Dean pause right there, although it was hard to believe his mind would dream up a conversation—not to mention an angel—on its own. Especially one about the apocalypse. So, the jury was still out on that one.

The second time he thought he woke, it was to Sam moving around the room, making coffee and getting dressed. They were still bedded down in the living room, which hadn't made sense the first time considering the room upstairs they always used was one of the few parts of the house not wrecked by a ghost the previous day. And Sam was moving with easy grace. Considering he'd been slammed against a porcelain sink, thrown against a windshield, and smashed between desk and wall, that should have set off warning bells in Dean right there, too.

The third time he thought he woke, they were in the car, the rumble of her soft against his bruised body. Sam was talking but it was faint and slurred, and Dean sought him out worriedly. Sammy was slipping away, though, and no matter how Dean reached, he couldn't make contact.

The fourth time he thought he woke, they were at the hospital, Sam laid out battered and sleeping on the bed. That made a little more sense, although it didn't exactly make Dean feel any better. Not when bleeding and unconscious and internal injuries were murmurs around him. Bobby sat in the corner looking as solemn as a death omen, keeping the vigil he hadn't been able to when Dean had been…gone. And Dean… Dean pulled up a chair, pressed Sam's hand tight, and started talking as if he'd never left.

The fifth time he thought he woke, the pressure of the hand was still there, and the smells and sounds of the hospital. But he was the one flat on his back, Sam's oddly pinched face hovering above him. Dean tried to open his mouth to ask what had happened, and the world slid away again.

He was pretty sure the sixth time was the real thing. None of the others had hurt like that before.

The hospital setting hadn't changed, and the pinches and pulls and uncomfortable pressure told him he'd been fixed up to stay a while. Every muscle ached, including some he was pretty sure he didn't have, and his head thumped like John Paul Jones's bass with every heartbeat. Even taking a deep breath sent a lance of ragged pain through his chest, and didn't that just suck.

But someone was still latched onto his hand, and when Dean turned his head in order to find Sam and demand an explanation, the sight of Bobby's worn face by the bed instead knocked him speechless. Sam had been there every time he'd woken…sorta…before.

He meant to say Bobby? It came out more like "Boffa," but Bobby sat up and smiled at him, shaving a couple of years off his face right there.

"Dean. Good to see you again, boy."

Speaking hadn't been such a great success, and besides, the vibration rattled his ribs like a really painful tuning fork, so Dean tried to look the next question: where's Sam?

Which, ironically, Sam would have understood right away. Bobby wasn't so fluent in unspoken-Dean. "Sam said Henriksen did some digging around inside you—must've messed something up. You were bleeding internally. Folded like a cheap suit after the spell was done. Don't mind saying you gave me and Sam a scare."

Huh. Dean blinked, narrowed his eyes. Seems he remembered he wasn't the only one touched by a ghost.

Bobby did get that one, mouth tugging up in what he would have denied was a fond smile. "I'm okay. Got checked out, too, but I guess Meg didn't have as much time or aimed wrong or something. I also didn't get beat up all to Hell beforehand."

Which, again, led to Sam. Dean tried to clear his throat, needing to know. "Sssa—" Well, close.

Bobby's eyes fell, never a good sign. "He's okay, Dean, I promise. He's just, uh, not here right now. Kinda…needed a break, you could say. But I'll let him know you're up and asking for him, all right?"

There was something more going on here, something he needed to understand, but somehow internal bleeding translated to really heavy eyes and his senses starting to blur. Bobby was going out of focus and the pain was diffusing through his body, and Dean only meant to shut his eyes to recoup his strength for another try, but ended up drifting off before he could pry them open again.

He knew what followed were dreams. Sam scared, Sam hurt, Sam yelling. It was fear manifest in his sleep and Dean knew that, but it didn't help the shivers that kept shaking him or the adrenaline-spiked thud of his heart. He wondered again if his fear for Sam had been a deciding factor in getting him out of the pit, if even God couldn't deny Dean Winchester's work wasn't done yet.

So he wasn't sure when he woke again—seventh time? Eighth?—if it was real or not. Might be just like his mind to conjure up the figure that sat by his bed, instead of a Sam he could check over and reassure himself he was okay.

Dean squinted, raising his heavy head to see better. "Ellen?"

It was that same wry smile he remembered. "Hey, Dean. Good to see you alive."

They hadn't really talked, none of them, about the ripple effects of his death, about who knew and who didn't. The way Ellen was looking at him, though, Dean gathered she'd heard. It shied his glance away. "Yeah. Thanks." At least he could talk again. And his insides didn't feel like they were sliding with every movement. That was always nice.

She was moving, standing. He wanted to ask her where Sam was, except clearly Sam wasn't there and Bobby said he was okay, and that was enough of an answer. Ellen didn't offer one, either, just said, "You wanna get out of here?"

"Oh, yeah," Dean answered fervently, and reached for the blanket.

Turned out it wasn't as easy as that. He had some stitches in his side, tubes and needles that needed to come out, and an embarrassing weakness in his limbs. Ellen had to help him get dressed, and Dean wondered absently if that was why Bobby had made sure she was there this time. Dean loved the old guy, but there were some things that were a tiny bit less humiliating with Ellen's motherly touch. Of course, Sam was usually the one who…

Was there to begin with.

Dean swallowed and stared out the window as Ellen tucked a blanket around him in the wheelchair. "How long was I in?"

"Not bad, considering—almost four days."

He nodded, cleared his throat. "Sam, uh, back on Lilith's trail?"

She paused, looking at him, but he didn't meet her eyes. "Sam took off soon as the doctor said you were out of the woods. Haven't seen hide nor hair of the boy since."

Dean's heart sank to somewhere around the pit of his stomach, and he could feel every bruised rib and repaired blood vessel along the way. "Yeah, okay," he muttered.

Ellen's hand patted him on the shoulder. "He's scared, Dean, is all. He just got you back."

And then took off again. Great.

Dean didn't ask any more on the way back to Bobby's, tucked gently into the corner of Ellen's truck.

Grunts communicated all he needed once they reached the house. It made do for, no, he wasn't hungry, no, he didn't need any pills, yes, sleep sounded good. They got him upstairs to the room with two empty beds, settled into one, then left him in peace to sleep. But it took even his weary body a long time to settle.

The ninth time he woke up, he was alone. Dean rolled over—tenderly—and made himself go back to sleep.

The tenth, there were at least voices. Too low to distinguish, but some part of him flared with hope of Sam! Dean eased out of bed with all the grace of Bobby's grandfather, took care of urgent business in the bathroom, then headed downstairs in slow, dragging steps, one arm wrapped around his ribs.

But it was only Ellen and Bobby sitting around the kitchen table, drinking coffee and lighting up at the sight of him. In less than a minute, he was settled in the nearest chair, eggs and coffee in front of him and Ellen poised to cook him about ten other things on request. Dean waved her down with a fond, "I'm okay," feeling far unsteadier from the powerful moment of déjà vu to twenty-plus years before in a Kansas kitchen, than from his healing body.

"Good to see you up," Bobby said with a small smile. "'Course, it would be right after I finally put the library back together…"

Dean tried for casual, he really did, eyes on his eggs as he asked, "Sam didn't help?" He could feel the exchanged glances over his head, and cursed inside, mood turning bleak.

"Actually, sweetie, your brother's back, just, uh…" Ellen shook her head even as Dean's eyes shot up to her. "That car of yours has been hovering outside Bobby's front gates ever since you got home, but your mule-headed brother takes off whenever Bobby or I go out to call 'im in."

His fork clattered to the plate and Dean was already rising. "Sam's here?"

Bobby's hand was on his shoulder, Ellen's on his forearm. "He hasn't gone anywhere since yesterday morning—he ain't going anywhere now. Sit down and finish your food first."

Dean snorted. "Screw that—where—?"

"Dean." He rarely heard Bobby's voice sharp like that. "Sit down."

Numbly, he sat, or at least dropped. Didn't even feel the echo of jarred pain through his body.

Ellen took over. "Sam, he, uh… Well, he hasn't exactly been the same since you…"

"Died?" Dean supplied sardonically. As if he'd anywhere within screaming distance of functional when Sam had briefly been gone?
Ellen's face tightened, but the sympathy in her eyes was nearly more than he could deal with. "He almost attacked one of the orderlies at the hospital when he thought they were hurting you. Paced that waiting room like a wild animal when he and Bobby were waiting for news. He's…"

"Scared." Dean spoke quietly this time.

Bobby's mouth twisted. "Yeah, 'cept you Winchesters seem to have only one setting—angry. Boy looks as riled as a hornet's nest. Guess he's been out there trying to calm himself down."

The eggs had lost even their limited appeal. Dean drained the rest of the coffee, then slowly pushed himself up. "Thanks for the looking after, really. But I think Sam and I need to get back on the road." He faced the twin skeptic, worried looks with a false grin. "So, who wants to help me find my boots?"

It took longer than he would've liked, getting dressed and his duffel adjusted so he could bear the weight. He still felt like toppling in the breeze, but the Impala was just visible, a silhouette of black past the towers of junked cars, and he could make it if he kept his eyes on the prize. Dean gave Bobby an awkward pat on the shoulder, endured a hug from Ellen, and gave them both an honest thank you. Then he started walking.

That was what he preferred to call the unsteady limp, anyway.

The car came slowly into relief as he approached, and something correspondingly loosened in Dean. Her lines gleamed—friggin' iPod player or not, Sam had taken good care of her—and she beckoned to him like home.

She wasn't what he had his eyes on, though, not for long.

Sam sat so stiff in the front seat, his head almost brushed the ceiling of the car. His hands gripped the steering wheel rigidly, his eyes fixed on some point on the horizon with such focus, Dean glanced over to see what he was looking at. But the picture was in Sam's head alone, because there was nothing there but empty Dakota landscape.

Then Sam must've noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye, because his head snapped around to stare at Dean, eyes wide under mussed hair.

They stared at each other even as Dean shuffled through the junkyard gate.

Sam tightened even more, and for a brief moment, Dean was half-afraid his brother would start the car and drive off. He was pretty sure Sam wanted to, fingers flexing on the steering wheel, expression almost trapped. But the moment passed, and Dean reached the car with relief, hand caressing her roof a moment before he gratefully opened the door and collapsed inside.

Having reached his goal, his energy bottomed out. Dean's head fell against the seat, eyes closed, just trying to catch his breath past wrenched ribs and traumatized muscle. He twitched a little when Sam's door suddenly swung open, but he traced his brother's movements by sound: around the front of the car, pausing on Dean's side. Then gently swinging his legs in, dropping his duffel in the back and closing the door after him. Dean immediately settled against it, the sun-warmed glass soothing against his clammy cheek.

Without a word, Sam got in, started the car, and headed for the highway.

The next time Dean woke—he'd lost count at that point—he wasn't in the car anymore. In fact, the lurid green and pink-patterned wallpaper made him wonder if this was yet another pain-induced nightmare world, or possibly even a better-decorated corner of Hell. But the bed he was tucked into smelled faintly of bleach and lemons, the blankets were comfortably warm and worn, and the mattress gave just enough under his back. And there were the soft sounds of a shared room that he'd known by heart most of his life and that drew an involuntary smile with the comfort of home.

He listened for a moment to the sharp, rhythmic breaths, and his smile grew. Push-ups. "Still doing fifty every morning?" he rasped.

There was a pause, all sound stopping. Dean immediately missed it. "Hundred," Sam answered, low and guarded.

"Huh," Dean grunted, impressed. No wonder Sam was bulkier than Dean remembered. He sighed, turning his head toward his brother's voice, eyes still closed. "Tell me you didn't carry me into the room."

A little amusement seeped into Sam's voice this time. "I didn't carry you into the room," he parroted obediently.

Dean had a feeling that would be the only thing Sam would do obediently. He groaned, reaching down to untangle the blankets from his legs. "Terrific. First Ellen has to help me get my clothes on—I mean, she's not bad looking and all but she's Dad's age—then I get—" He almost yelped as he finally opened his eyes to find Sam hovering not a foot away. Dean hadn't heard even a whisper of movement that time. He clasped a hand to his chest and dropped back to the pillow. "Dude, wear a bell or something."

"Sorry," Sam said, sounding not so much…for this, anyway. A moment later, there was a tentative touch of Dean's elbow. "Can you sit up? You should eat something."

It took effort not to flinch away. Something about being touched in the darkness gave him a nasty flashback to…something he couldn't remember but that felt bad. Dean opened his eyes instead, giving Sam an attempt at a cocky grin. "You gonna pick me up again if I don't?"

Something odd flitted across Sam's face a moment. Then he was forcing a smile, rubbing a hand down the leg of his jeans as he reached for something on the nightstand. "I know it's not your usual morning caffeine fix, but the doctor said you need to keep hydrated." He held out a water bottle.

Up on his elbows, Dean took the bottle with a hard look. "When d'you talk to my doctor?"

Sam's smile slipped and he looked away. "I checked in with the hospital, a lot. Just 'cause I wasn't there…" He stood up suddenly, turning away. "You want some food? I bought some frozen lasagna and Hamburger Helper, or I can get some burgers if you want."

What he wanted was for Sam to sit down and talk to him. But Dean was pretty used to not getting what he wanted. He set the half-empty bottle aside and pushed himself up gingerly, ignoring the way Sam's head canted to the side to listen to him as he did, making sure he was okay.

Bobby had been right about Sam being scared, no question. And Dean knew what it was like for fear to come out all mixed up as anger; heck, he'd practically invented the trick. But Sam wasn't mad. He hadn't hung around outside Bobby's gate to cool down, wasn't avoiding looking at Dean now out of annoyance. He was just lost, a kid brother who'd had to become an only child for months and didn't know where his place was anymore. Terrified of either option.

Didn't mean this distance between them didn't sting, though, or that Dean didn't mind waking up in the hospital without his remaining family in sight. He couldn't quite keep the edge out of his response.

"I'm fine."

Sam twisted back, and suddenly there was a look of such raw need on his face, Dean's anger instantly died. "Yeah?"

Dean slowly nodded. "Yeah, Sammy. I'm good."

Sam swallowed and nodded, then the broad shoulders firmed again. He headed for the kitchenette, apparently determined to make something anyway.

"How 'bout you?" Dean called after him. "Bobby said you dented another windshield."

Sam shook his head, bangs swinging in his eyes. His right eye had blackened from residual trauma, but it hid nothing from Dean's gaze. His little brother's face looked older, more lined, more tired. And his eyes held secrets Dean had never seen before. "Just some bruises. Won't be taking off my shirt in mixed company for a while, but…"

"Well, thank God for that," Dean muttered dryly. He gathered the blankets around him, contemplating the distance to the bathroom. "Always did have a hard head."

Sam snorted in agreement. There was the slam of an oven door, then he reappeared, brushing his hands against his shirt. His gaze bounced around almost as much as when Dean had first found him in Pontiac. "I, uh, looked up Meg's family."

Dean stiffened, attention fully back on Sam even as his stitches pulled and he pressed a hand against his side. "Yeah?" he said cautiously.

Sam shook his head. "She has a sister, Anna, but she's not dead. Turned into some kind of victims' advocate after what happened to Meg, actually."

Dean found himself breathing a little easier. "Huh. A ghost that lied. Who would've thought."

Sam rubbed the back of his neck. "Guess they figured we wouldn't be alive long enough to check their stories. Bobby did say they came back to screw with us."

"Before ripping out our lungs," Dean added offhandedly, regretting it when he saw Sam flinch. "Yeah, I kinda thought Ron was a little harsh, too," he added quickly. And he wouldn't be telling Sam what Victor's ghost had said, but Dean hoped to God that had also been a lie.

Sam nodded, shifting his weight.

Dean looked at him again, taking in the wrinkled clothing, the uncombed hair, the tired circles under bruised eyes. Sam might not have been there in body in the hospital with him, but he'd suffered with Dean nonetheless. For the last four months, actually. And he'd been there Dean when he needed it, took care of him and made sure he was okay, then went off and freaked out in private. Dean couldn't find any blame in himself for that. It was a pretty little brother thing to do, in fact.

His mouth curled, and he eased himself back against the headboard. The bathroom could wait until Sam didn't look like he was ready to take Dean's every flinch personally.

"Hey, there is something I would like."

Sam's eyes tracked to his, a small spark of…something in them. "I'm not getting you beer."

Dean made a face.

"Or porn."

"Got some in…" At Sam's look, he shook his head. "Never mind. But what I was gonna say, Kreskin, is that I could really go for nachos."

Sam blinked. "Nachos."

Dean crossed his arms, shrugging lightly. Yup, still hurt. "Been craving 'em ever since I got back."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Seriously. You come back from the dead, and all you want are nachos?"

Not all he wanted, not by a long shot, but Dean let it pass. He raised a finger. "With the works, dude—cheese, beef, sour cream, those little hot peppers…"

Sam was shaking his head, but he was already reaching for his jacket. "Yeah, okay, whatever. I think we passed a Tex-Mex place on the way into town." He fixed his coat collar, then paused, uncertain. "You gonna be all right while I'm gone?"

There was so very much in that one little question. And so much Dean could have said, but he just gave Sam a wide, uncomplicated grin. "Hey, what's the worst trouble I can get into in twenty minutes?"

Sam's mouth actually gaped for a moment, then he started ticking off on his fingers. "The first time you tried to make a milkshake. That time you tried to groom the neighbors' dog for money. Cheryl Schuman. Tasering the rawhead. The crossroad demon. You want me to keep going?"

Dean gave him an aggrieved look. "Shut up and get me some nachos, bitch."

Sam rolled his eyes—again—and headed for the door. "Stay in bed until I get back," he called over his shoulder.

"Just make sure you get back," Dean mumbled…a little too loudly.

Sam froze, hand on the door knob. Shoulders bent under weight Dean couldn't even imagine. "Dean…"

"Sam, it's fine, I get it," he said softly to his brother's back. And he did, more than he wanted to. The first time Sam had gotten hurt after being dead, Dean had gone a little crazy, too. "We're good."

"Not yet," Sam whispered.

"Then we'll get there," Dean said firmly. He still had to tell Sam about the angelic visit he was pretty sure hadn't been just a dream, and he had a strong feeling Sam had some secrets of his own. But first things first. "I promise."

There was a pause, then Sam nodded. Without a look back, he headed out the door.

It wasn't until Dean woke finally to the biggest platter of loaded nachos he'd ever seen, and his brother's hesitant but honest smile, that Dean knew Sam still had some faith left in him.

And that was worth coming back to.

The End