Supernatural One Shots

And the Wall Came Tumblin' Down

"So?" Dean asks.

"So what?" Bobby asks.

"Before you bail again, – 'Girl, Interrupted' over there. Any thoughts?"

"Looks to me like he's doing better," Bobby states.

"Better?" Dean almost shouts. "What do you mean, better? You just saw him!"

"Saw him check out. Once. That's progress."

• • •

*three weeks earlier*

Sam woke up screaming.

Dean jolted awake from where he was sleeping on the couch. He grabbed his crutches as quickly as he could and went down the hall.

Dean knew this was going to happen. Well, he didn't. He was afraid nothing was going to happen. That Sam would stay asleep. Dean could picture him, pale and withering away until his body just gave up. There was also the other side, where Sam did wake up. Dean thought about that a lot too. He thought about him waking up gorked. That, one day, he would walk in and Sam would still be laying on the bed, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling but looking past it at nothing. There were times when Dean hoped that he would wake up with nothing wrong. Like that time in Garfield when he got knocked in the head and got amnesia, and then got hit again and got his memories back. Something like that. And then there was this. Sam screaming. Seeing Lucifer and hellfire. Imaginary knives cutting him until there was nothing left. Not being able to see Dean, or worse, seeing him but thinking he's not real, a hallucination. Sam fighting him, pushing him away.

When Dean made it to the room, he flipped on the light. Sam was in bed, thrashing, obviously in the throes of a horrific nightmare. "Sam," Dean yelled. He walked toward the bed, dropping the crutches. He put one hand on the bed to brace himself. With the other, he reached out and shook Sam's shoulder. "Sam. Sammy! Wake up." Dean looked and saw blood on Sam's hands, dripping. It was from the cut he sewed up, the one made by glass at the place where Cas became God. The one Sam had pressed him thumb into, made bleed, to keep his hallucination at bay. His hands were balled into fists; his nails must have torn the sutures. Dean shook his brother's shoulder again, hard and continued shouting his name.

Eventually Sam's screams became words. "Stop, please!" he sobbed. "It hurts! Stop!" He was actually crying then, tears leaking out of closed eyelids. Dean stood there helplessly. He shook Sam's shoulder, called his name. Nothing. He didn't have the heart to slap him to try to wake him up. He was already in pain, and, added the logical part of his brain, if pain was going to wake him up, the cut on his palm already would have.

After what felt like hours, Dean finally gave up. He backed up until he hit the wall, and slid down it. He stretched his legs out in front of him. At first, he watched Sam, numbly. His screams filled the room. Finally, Dean stared down at his hands, not being able to watch the suffering of his brother anymore. The least he could do, he decided, was stay with him. It was the only thing he could do.

Sam's voice started to grow hoarse after awhile. At some point, he stopped screaming and his body went still, and Dean thought it was over. He managed to get standing and hopped over to the bed. But there was Sam, his eyes were rimmed red from crying and his lips moving. In quick succession, he said, "Stop stop stop please stop stop don't it hurts please stop stop stop don't please please please..." and on and on it went. Dean felt tears leak out of his own eyes as he backed up and sat on the floor again.

To the sound of Sam's whispered pleas, Dean fell asleep. The rising sun woke him. As he opened his eyes, he realized he couldn't hear Sam anymore.

Dean got up, wincing at the crick in his neck and how his back popped. "Sam?" he ventured. He stood up and looked down at the bed. And there it was. One of the things he thought might happen but hoped wouldn't. Sam was staring at the ceiling, eyes blank. He was no longer crying or thrashing or screaming. His lips moved, and Dean could hear him whispering. It was quieter than before, but the same words.