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Out Of the Night That Covers Me, Part 1
See Master Post for headers, disclaimers, etc.
There are good days, and there are bad days.
Some days, the rage inside him is overwhelming, white-hot and potent; a rush of energy he thinks could light up a not-so-small town somewhere. It burns in him; it burns him, making everything appear distorted, just a little off-kilter. He fights the restraints holding him down, even though he's often the one to ask for them, screaming until his throat is raw, shredded; shouting for someone, anyone, to come.
Those are the good days.
On the bad days, Sam couldn’t tell you which end is up. The rage builds to thermonuclear levels until it literally shorts his brain out and shuts him down. If he sees, it’s through a haze of red, blended with shadows. More often, he just lays there, silent and still, eyes open but unseeing.
Some days, when he's lucid and (reasonably) calm, Dean will come up to visit. Well, as far as Sam knows, Dean comes by pretty often, but Sam's not lucid and calm at the same time very often, and he refuses to see Dean when the rage has hold of him. They've said and done so many hurtful things to each other in the last couple of years; Sam doesn't want to compound that if he can avoid it.
Dean asks him what he thinks about, when he "checks out", and Sam doesn't know what to tell him. He can't put it into words because it seems so much larger than words can encompass.
He knows Dean would understand some of it – Dean was there, he was part of the whole thing. Michael wore him the same as Lucifer wore Sam. Dean probably had it worse, if Sam's being honest, because technically speaking, Michael!Dean had to kill Sam, in order to get Lucifer back into the cage. Sam wonders sometimes if Dean's levels of rage could match his – and he hopes they don't.
"What do you think about, when you're not here asking me?" Sam asks Dean one day. He's mostly calm, but he's been agitated off and on, so the orderlies strapped him down, at his request.
Dean shrugs, but his eyes hold shadows, secrets he won't share. Sam wonders if they'll ever be able to share all their secrets with each other – and then wonders if they even should.
~~~~~
The apocalypse is over, as far as Sam can tell. He hears the rumbles of the earth beneath him; watches the rain streaming against the windows, blasted there by gusts of wind that seem more tornado than not, but things seem to be settling back down, albeit slowly.
There's damage, of course. Cities and towns were blown off the map – literally, in some cases. People are gone; some physically, some mentally. Sam wants to believe Bobby survived, but he doesn't know for sure. He thinks Dean knows, but Dean won't talk about it – one more of those secrets – like he's maybe waiting to tell Sam when he thinks Sam can handle it better.
Castiel is gone. Sam remembers watching him die, the life pulled out of him bit-by-bit, tortured by Lucifer as punishment for standing with the hairless apes. It's one of the things that triggers the rages, remembering himself watching, locked inside his own head, his own body, while Lucifer wore him and rode him and used him to kill, and knowing Lucifer was doing it because Sam said yes.
It was part of the plan, his saying yes, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. If anything, it makes it hurt worse.
He welcomes the searing pain that comes then, body jerking in spasms as he pulls and pulls at the thick leather straps. He wears himself out straining, until his mind shuts down and he can rest awhile.
~~~~~
"I wish you'd let 'em unstrap you."
Sam blinks the sleep out of his eyes and looks in the direction of Dean's voice. The one chair in the room is against the wall, underneath a small, high window that blocks more light than it allows in. Dean looks as groggy as Sam feels right now.
"Morning to you, too," he says hoarsely, throat sore and mouth dry.
"It's nearly eleven--at night, Sam." Dean's knees pop when he stands up, and Sam winces at the sound. "They called me because you wouldn't—wouldn't stop. Screaming."
Sam stares blankly at Dean. "When?"
"All day? I don't know. I've been here a couple of hours; you stopped not long after I got here. Just went limp and quiet."
Sam coughs once, and turns his head to stare up at the ceiling before looking back at his brother. "Can I have some water?"
"You want me to untie you?"
"Only if the nurse brings me a sedative first." His arms ache, and his wrists, and his head is throbbing, and deep inside him is the blackest pit of all, waiting to swallow him up. "Water, Dean. Please?"
"Yeah, hang on." Dean fumbles with the pitcher and cup on the nightstand beside Sam's bed, then brings the cup up to his mouth, holding it steady while Sam drinks. The water is lukewarm and tastes stale, like it's been sitting there a while, but it feels so good going down he can't bring himself to care.
He drinks four cups before he feels sated, and Dean's looking at him with something like bemusement and concern. "What?"
Dean sighs and shakes his head. "I thought—the whole point of you coming here was so you could get better. Or whatever. But it seems like it's worse. That you're, that you can't control it anymore."
"I didn't have it controlled before, Dean." Sam breathes deeply through his nose, the sharp tang of chemicals in the air stinging and soothing all at once. "I had it locked down. That's not in control, that's in denial."
"So this is better? Screaming until your voice disappears, and pulling on your restraints until you hurt yourself?"
"Better that than hurting someone who has nothing to do with any of this. And it's not like you've never restrained me."
Dean draws in a sharp breath, and there's a part of Sam, however small, that's pleased he scored a hit, while the rest of him cringes back because he doesn't want to do that. Doesn't want to hurt Dean. "Only when you were out of your mind on demon blood," Dean says, voice calm, cool. Like Sam didn't just slide a verbal knife between his ribs.
"And that was to keep me from hurting myself, or others. Right? Well this is the same thing." Sam pulls gently on the leather straps, testing them. "When I think I don't need them anymore, that's when I won't need them anymore."
He wants to tell Dean that sometimes he still feels Lucifer inside him. How he feels the mental caresses, soft and sweet, good like nothing's ever been before. Until the soft and sweet turns to razors and barbs, biting, digging in, pulling that rage up through him until he's covered in it. Drowning in it.
Sam's pretty sure it's not Lucifer, not really. No more than it's Azazel's blood, or any other demon's blood. It's just him, and a lifetime of one thing after another building up, festering inside him.
The blood and his birthright and Lucifer? They were just the icing on the cake.
"I'm gonna head out," Dean says quietly, and Sam looks back at him. Sometimes, when the shadows hit just right, Dean looks like he's aged ten years in the last six months. Maybe he has. Maybe they both have. "I have to be up early, working overtime tomorrow."
Sam nods and wishes he could touch Dean again, even if it was just to touch his hand or pat his back. Words don't work for them anymore, but he can't remember the last time touches did, either. Before Dean went to Hell, probably. That's the last time he can remember touching Dean and having it really mean something.
"Sleep tight." His fingers curl inward a little, reflexive action where they want to reach out. Where he wants to reach out, grab fistfuls of Dean's shirts and just hold his brother close. Just hold him. Anything else would be awesome and wonderful, but just holding on to him would mean the world, too.
"I'll see you later, Sammy."
"Tomorrow?" He doesn't mean to ask that, but the word slips out anyway.
Dean stops in the doorway and glances back at him. "I'll try," he says softly.
It's all Sam can hope for. To hope for anything else is foolish. His damage might be more immediately obvious, but Dean's is just as bad. It's just hidden better.
The night-duty nurse comes in a little while later and shoots Sam full of something that makes him happy and relaxed, and he giggles his way through a bland meal of some kind of noodle casserole and green gelatin. Afterward he has a quick shower and uses the toilet, then he's bundled back into bed, arms and legs secured down and the thin sheet and blanket drawn up over him.
"Do the shadows ever talk to you?" He asks the nurse, eyes starting to droop as the happy wears off, leaving him to relax straight into sleep. "They talk to me sometimes. An' sometimes, they show me their teeth. I don't like the teeth."
"Sleep well, Mr. Winchester," the nurse says to him, ignoring his rambles about the shadows. They all do. The shadows probably told them to ignore him.
He sinks into sleep; into dreams about him, and Dean, and how they used to be, vague memories of comfort and happy blending with wishes to make a pretty, swirling landscape in his mind.
~~~~~
"So how're you doing today, Sam?" Dr. Daniels asks, and it's all Sam can do not to laugh. He spent most of the last three days strapped down, screaming until his throat was raw. How do you qualify something like that? Still, Daniels seems to listen to him, more than just an I'm-humoring-you thing, and Sam's grateful for that. He allows himself a small smile.
"I'm—I feel like I'm burning up from the inside out."
"Angry?"
Sam wants to shake his head because that? Is just too innocuous a word. He nods, though, because it'll have to do. "All the time. Hell, I'm angry sitting here, talking to you."
"Because you're talking to me?" Daniels makes a note on his pad, and looks back up.
"No."
"Then why?"
Why, indeed? Sam huffs out a breath, frustrated with his inability to put what he's feeling into words. "It's—everything. Stuff that happened when I was a kid, and then later, and arguments with Dean, and all the stuff with the—with—"
"The apocalypse." Daniels makes another note, and gives Sam a faint smile. "Even if I wasn't raised in a fairly religious household, the stuff that's been on the news for the past six months or so? That was enough to make me believe something was going on."
"It's hard to talk about," Sam says, thinking that's the understatement of the century. "It's hard to believe you believe me. Most people wouldn't."
Dr. Daniels shrugs. "Sometimes believing is just a matter of faith, and not necessarily the faith-in-God type. Just faith in a fellow human being."
"I used to have that. Faith," Sam adds at the open question on Daniels' face. "I don't know, anymore. I've lost a lot of my faith in pretty much everything."
"What about your brother? Have you lost faith in him?"
Sam thinks about Dean refusing to kill him, even when pushed and goaded toward it. About Dean selling his soul to bring Sam back. Dean coming to find him at Stanford. Dean holding him through nightmares and visions, bringing him chicken soup when he was sick. Patching him up, arguing with him, pranking him, teaching him to drive. Kissing him. Yielding his body to Sam.
Dean holding Sam's body after Lucifer was driven out of it, blood on both their hands, tears on Dean's cheeks while Sam's soul hovered just above them.
Dean walking away from him afterward, after his body and soul were rejoined.
"Sam?"
"I don't know," he says finally. "But I'm pretty sure he's lost faith in me."
"Does that make you angry?"
"I don't know," Sam says, the words sizzling in his mouth. "I've been so angry at everything for so long, I don't know how to separate stuff out."
"Alright." Daniels leans back in his chair. "Then tell me something you know for sure makes you angry."
Sam thinks for a minute, then sighs. "I wasn't raised religious—I don't think my Dad would've been into all that even if Mom hadn't died. But I always, I dunno, believed. That there was God, and angels watching over things, and I prayed. Maybe not as faithfully as I could've, but I prayed. Especially after stuff started with my, with the visions and the demon. I wanted to believe there was someone, a higher power, helping. Guiding." He bites his lip, chewing at the ridge of dry, chapped skin there. "Even after Dean went to Hell, and the angels came, and all the stuff that happened—then we're told that none of this was an accident. That it was set up to happen like this, that Dean and I, we were born to be the ones who started it and ended it. And I just, it makes me furious to think about that, like, why bother? Why start the human race, and nurture it and watch it tear itself apart if you're just going to end it – or pit brothers against each other, again?
"I didn't used to believe in destiny, and even after I found out about the demon blood and learned about everything, it's still hard to wrap my head around the idea, because what's the fucking point in anything, if the endgame is the same?"
Sam stops to take a couple slow, deep breaths, because just thinking about this makes his blood feel hotter inside his veins, and he's not strapped down to anything right now. Just sitting here in a chair, free to do anything the impulses urge him to do.
"Seriously, if it was all going to play out like it did regardless, why couldn't we at least have had good stuff happen – or not had the bad stuff."
Daniels frowns at his notepad. "Such as?"
"Like mom dying. Dad being alive, but absent. Jess dying. Me dying. Dean dying. A whole lifetime of running, hiding, staying in the shadows same as the monsters we hunted. I mean, if it was our destiny to start the fucking apocalypse, why not at least let us have good memories before it? Why screw with us, and break us down, too?"
"So you don't have any good memories before things got bad?" Daniels tips his head slightly to the side. "Because most people have a mix of good and bad memories, Sam. That's how life works."
"No, I know." Sam runs his hands through his hair. "And I have good memories. Just, it feels like everything's tainted by the bad. No matter how good something was, there was something else equally awful to fuck it up."
He's starting to get agitated, and knows Dr. Daniels can sense it. See it.
"It's okay to get angry in here, Sam. Nothing's going to happen."
The bark of laughter that flies out of his mouth seems to take them both by surprise. "No offense, Doc, but there's a psychiatrist and an orderly in Oklahoma who would disagree. I nearly beat 'em both to death."
"But you didn't."
"Not for lack of trying. Well, the doctor, we thought he was—never mind. We thought he was our monster. But the orderly…" Sam shakes his head. "That was just me, caught up in it, giving in to it."
Dr. Daniels sighs and puts his notebook and clipboard down on the desk behind him, then looks straight at Sam. "Sam, not once since you've been here have you been violent toward any of the staff, or any of the other residents. You've been violent, sure. It's clear you're dealing with a lot of deep-seated rage that's built up over time. But that violence hasn't been aimed toward anyone, except yourself. We've restrained you at your insistence, but I'm not sure that's helping. In fact, I wonder if it's not making things worse."
Sam feels his eyebrows go up in astonishment. "What're you saying?"
"I think you're relying too much on the restraints, when what we need to be doing is working on getting you so you can manage the anger when it comes over you, not just let it engulf you until you ride it out. You're going to be dealing with this for a long time, Sam. Even if I only believed a fraction of what you've shared with me – " He holds a hand up to forestall the comment Sam's ready to make, " – I believe what you've told me, Sam. I'm just saying even if I only believed a fraction of it, it's nothing you're going to just get over. Anger management is a long-haul thing. Medication, therapy, getting back into life."
"I don't—" Sam swallows. "I'm scared. That I'll hurt someone."
"Someone, like a stranger? Anyone who happens to get in your way? Or one person in particular?"
Sam nods. "Both, but yeah. Dean. We've hurt each other so much in the last few years, and I'm not sure how many more hits either of us can take."
Daniels' voice is gentle, cutting through Sam's anxiety. "Sometimes you have to take the chance. You might surprise yourself."
~~~~~
Dean's surprise at seeing Sam out of the restraints is an obvious, palpable thing. He stops just inside the door to Sam's room and looks around, like he's searching for hidden cameras and someone to jump out yelling, "psych!".
"Apparently," Sam begins, answering the unspoken but clear question, "my doctor agrees with you. He told me, basically, that I'm a chickenshit, hiding out here."
"He used those words?" A small smile plays at the corners of Dean's mouth, and Sam wonders what he would do if Sam kissed him there. It'd been so long, one of many things that fell by the wayside while they grappled with death and Hell, and demons and angels, and the apocalypse and their destinies.
"Well, he didn't actually call me a chickenshit. But it was definitely implied."
Dean nods. "So when're you getting out?"
"Couple of days, a week at most. He's changing some of my meds. Upping the dosage on my anti-depressants, and adding some other stuff to help me kind of stay balanced—"
"So they make miracle drugs now?"
"Bite me," Sam says automatically, and grins when Dean gives him an honest-to-goodness actual smile. "Anyway, like I was saying before someone interrupted me, he wants to make sure I tolerate the meds okay, and then I'm free. Still gotta come back for counseling and stuff, but I'm supposed to, and I quote, find a place, get a job, start living."
"I got the place covered." Dean settles himself in the chair and tips it back against the wall, rocking back on two of the four legs.
This is the part Sam's been dreading, because he wants to assume, wants to believe, that Dean wants him – but he can't do either. He has to ask. Has to clarify. "Are you sure? That you—want me, y'know. Living with you?"
Dean snorts, but Sam sees the surprise on his face. "You're kidding me, right?"
Sam shakes his head, and pushes his hair back when it flops down over his eyes. "No. I mean, I want—that. It's gonna be weird enough staying put for a while. But I just. I've been in here a while. I didn't know if you'd, y'know. Want your space. Or whatever."
Dean's quiet for a while, staring steadily at Sam until he wants to squirm just to relieve some of the tension growing. "It's always amazed me," Dean begins, voice pitched low, almost gentle, "how someone as smart as you are can be such an idiot about some things."
"I—what?" Whatever Sam was expecting, it wasn't that. He frowns.
"Sam. Sammy. I've never not wanted you around. Even when we—when we took a break, I didn't want that. Thought it was necessary, but didn't want it. So yeah. Got a little place not far from here; been squatting, but I don't think the owners are coming back."
Hope is bubbling through Sam, warm and comforting, and he smiles. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Little cabin-type thing. Pretty sweet, actually. Everything works, it's got two bedrooms, and there's a garage with a decent tool bench."
Two bedrooms. Some of the hope subsides, though Sam tells himself he was a fool for ever hoping for that again. He nods. "Sounds good."
"Better than a lot of folks got it right now."
Sam sighs. "How bad is it, out there? I don't—I mean, I remember some stuff. I know stuff is gone. Places, towns, all that. But is it…bad? Like, end of the world bad?" How much of it is directly because of me, of Lucifer? He wants to ask that, but even if he could come up with the courage, he's pretty sure Dean won't answer.
Dean shrugs. "Bad in some areas, not so bad in others. Worst damage was highly populated areas – big cities. Lot of New York's gone, and the state of California's a whole lot narrower than it used to be."
"Stanford?"
Dean won't meet his eyes, and his voice has gone quiet again. Careful. "Gone."
For some reason, that hurts more than Sam would've thought. He severed his ties with California years ago, but so much of what made him happiest was there at Stanford, and it's painful to think of it being gone.
"What else?" He asks finally, when the silence stretches out awkwardly. Dean drops the chair down onto all four legs and sighs.
"Well it's not complete anarchy out there, if that's what you're asking. There's shit that's messed up – obviously, if cities are gone. There's roads destroyed, utilities down or damaged, and cell reception sucks – but the world's still standing. People are still living their lives, rebuilding, going about their business."
He wants to ask Dean about Bobby; feels the question pushing its way out, and turns away, knowing he's not ready to hear, even if Dean's ready to answer.
"I can get you a job on my work crew," Dean says after a moment. "If you wanna do construction. Might be good, get you outside, outta your head for a while."
Sam turns back around. "You don't think you'll get tired of seeing me all day?"
Dean gives him a half-smile. "As opposed to all the other days we spent twenty-four-seven together?"
"Well—"
"Sammy. Seriously. I'm not sure where you got the idea I don't want you around—"
"There's around, and then there's working and living together. I didn't think, I don't know, I just." Sam gives up when Dean's smile flashes wide and white, if brief. "Fine, I'll shut up now."
"Thank you. So, was that a yes on the job?"
"Yeah, I guess? It's something to start with, anyway."
"Attaboy." Dean slaps his hands on his thighs, then pushes to his feet. "I got someplace I gotta be in half an hour. You have my cell number; when you're ready to get sprung from here, call me. You'll probably have to leave a message because like I said, reception isn't for shit anymore, and I don't get a lot of the calls."
"It'll be a few days, but yeah. I'll give you a call." Sam wonders where Dean has to be and feels something inside him twist with jealousy and uncertainty. Probably a girl somewhere, and he really needs to get over this, because Dean isn't his, hasn't been his in a long time. He's damn lucky they're both still alive and kicking to be brothers, much less anything else.
~~~~~
It turns out to be ten days before Dr. Daniels releases Sam.
He has some really odd reactions to the first medication change, and an actual allergic reaction to the second one, hives and shortness of breath, all of it.
In the midst of dealing with the hives that break out fucking everywhere, Sam also has a complete rage-induced meltdown triggered by too little sleep, and a fellow patient mouthing off about how the whole world has gone to shit and maybe it should've just ended, and too bad it didn't.
It takes three orderlies to pull Sam off the other guy – cowering and gibbering in fear, hands and arms curled up over his head to try and stop the blows – and then Sam spends the night strapped down physically and mentally, shot full of so many drugs he doesn't care what happens around him.
When he opens his eyes to the early morning light, feeling lucid and calm again, finally, Dean is asleep beside him, arms resting on the mattress, his head pillowed on his arms. For the first time in longer than Sam can recall, Dean looks peaceful, looks almost young again, all the stress and tension melted away.
The straps Sam went to sleep with are undone, leaving his arms free and loose beneath the sheet and blanket covering him, and Sam wonders if Dean did that – and when. He wiggles one arm out slowly until he can touch Dean, just a gentle touch to his head, fingers slipping through longer-than-usual hair. It's soft, almost silky, and Sam closes his eyes and lets the sensation just wash through him and over him.
He's almost asleep again, fingers rubbing lightly, slowly, when Dean shivers. His voice is sleep-rough, dark and gravelly, and Sam feels it like a bolt of lightning through him. "Dude. Are you petting me?"
Sam freezes, then coughs and slowly withdraws his hand. "Maybe?"
"Huh." Dean gives him a sleepy smile, then sits up and stretches, arms high up over his head, shirt riding up to show a slice of belly. He yawns and holds the stretch, then relaxes back against the chair. "So, what happened yesterday? I showed up last night expecting you'd be telling me we could head home today, and they tell me you flipped out completely and had to be sedated and restrained."
"Not really sure," Sam says, frowning as he pushes himself to sit up. He scratches at a patch of blisters on his arm, but they don't itch as badly as they did. "I just—I don't know. One of the guys in the common room was talking about stuff, how it seemed like the world was ending and everything was so bad and maybe it should've ended, and I just kind of lost it. I don't remember much beyond hearing him say that, and waking up just now. Just, I was completely gone."
"Gone."
"Yeah." Sam looks over Dean's head at the morning sun, blood-red spreading across the horizon. "I don't know if I can—"
"Yes, you can." Dean scowls. "So you lost it. Big deal. It's gonna be okay, Sam."
"If I do it again? If it's you I'm whaling on?"
Dean snorts. "I'll hit back."
"Would you really?"
"Jesus Christ, Sam." Dean's early morning calm is dissolving, a tic appearing where he's clenching his jaw. "You'll have drugs, you'll have hard labor, you'll have me, okay? I'm not gonna let you hurt anyone else, and I can take whatever you dish out."
"Fine." Sam crosses his arms over his chest. He knows he's pretty much sulking, but he's afraid Dean's not taking him seriously.
"Fine." Dean stares at Sam, and Sam stares back, and it's totally a stalemate that would've gone on for who knows how long, except for the door opening and Dr. Daniels coming in.
"Morning, Sam—oh, hello, Dean. You're back awfully early, aren't you?"
"More like still here." Dean scoots the chair back out of the way, then stretches again. "I should go—gotta get ready for work."
"Do you have a minute or two? I was going to talk to Sam about his release." Dean looks like he'd like to be anywhere else right now, but he nods, and Dr. Daniels smiles. "Super. Sam, I think we're going to let you out of here tomorrow. I want to keep you today to make sure you're not going to have any problems adjusting to the new meds, and to make sure there aren't any side effects like the hives."
"Are you going to keep him strapped down?" Dean's staring at a spot somewhere over Sam's head, not quite looking at either him or Dr. Daniels.
"No. He doesn't need it. We only strapped him down last night to give the sedatives a chance to kick in."
"He was still strapped down when I got here," Dean says, and Daniels frowns.
"He was? What time did you get here?"
Dean shrugs. "I don't know. He was sound asleep, though. Didn't so much as twitch when I called his name. I waited for the nurse or orderly to come in and undo 'em, and then undid them myself. Ankle straps are still on," he adds, looking toward Sam. "You should probably undo them before you try to get out of bed."
That Dean is telling him that means he's still pissed, because Sam knows ordinarily Dean doesn't miss a chance to do something – or allow Sam to do something – he can laugh at Sam for.
"I'll have to look into that," Dr. Daniels says, frowning. "But no, Sam's not going to be restrained, unless something should happen again. But I think it was probably more an exception than the rule, and he's fine. How're you feeling, Sam?"
"Okay, I guess," Sam says slowly, watching Dean. He blinks when Dean refuses to look at him, and looks up at Daniels. "Not sure I should be going home—" He cuts off when Dean sighs and fidgets. "Um. What time, tomorrow?"
"Dean, are you going to be able to pick Sam up?"
"Yeah. Just tell me when I need to be here; I'll clear it with the foreman today."
Daniels looks at Sam. "How about afternoon? That way you can still be here for group."
"That's fine. Dean?"
"I get off at four anyway; I can be here a few minutes after that." He looks at Daniels, then finally at Sam. "I have a—thing, tomorrow. About seven. But that's time to get you home and settled, right?"
A thing? Like the thing he had last week, and the week before that? Again Sam wonders if it's a girl; though if Dean's dating someone, wouldn't it be more often than once a week? He realizes Dean and Daniels are both looking at him and nods. "Yeah, um. That's fine. I'll be ready."
As ready as he's likely to be, heading back out into the world.
"Great!" Dean says, with what is so obviously fake enthusiasm. "I'll see you then, Sam." He pats Sam's leg, calling attention to the ankle restraints Sam hadn't really noticed before, along with the sudden itching, hives under the straps undoubtedly irritated by the leather, and sweat.
"See you then," Sam echoes, his chest painfully tight. Daniels keeps talking after Dean leaves, but Sam doesn't hear a word of it. He's too caught up in anxiety and fear to let anything else in.
On to Part Two
There are good days, and there are bad days.
Some days, the rage inside him is overwhelming, white-hot and potent; a rush of energy he thinks could light up a not-so-small town somewhere. It burns in him; it burns him, making everything appear distorted, just a little off-kilter. He fights the restraints holding him down, even though he's often the one to ask for them, screaming until his throat is raw, shredded; shouting for someone, anyone, to come.
Those are the good days.
On the bad days, Sam couldn’t tell you which end is up. The rage builds to thermonuclear levels until it literally shorts his brain out and shuts him down. If he sees, it’s through a haze of red, blended with shadows. More often, he just lays there, silent and still, eyes open but unseeing.
Some days, when he's lucid and (reasonably) calm, Dean will come up to visit. Well, as far as Sam knows, Dean comes by pretty often, but Sam's not lucid and calm at the same time very often, and he refuses to see Dean when the rage has hold of him. They've said and done so many hurtful things to each other in the last couple of years; Sam doesn't want to compound that if he can avoid it.
Dean asks him what he thinks about, when he "checks out", and Sam doesn't know what to tell him. He can't put it into words because it seems so much larger than words can encompass.
He knows Dean would understand some of it – Dean was there, he was part of the whole thing. Michael wore him the same as Lucifer wore Sam. Dean probably had it worse, if Sam's being honest, because technically speaking, Michael!Dean had to kill Sam, in order to get Lucifer back into the cage. Sam wonders sometimes if Dean's levels of rage could match his – and he hopes they don't.
"What do you think about, when you're not here asking me?" Sam asks Dean one day. He's mostly calm, but he's been agitated off and on, so the orderlies strapped him down, at his request.
Dean shrugs, but his eyes hold shadows, secrets he won't share. Sam wonders if they'll ever be able to share all their secrets with each other – and then wonders if they even should.
The apocalypse is over, as far as Sam can tell. He hears the rumbles of the earth beneath him; watches the rain streaming against the windows, blasted there by gusts of wind that seem more tornado than not, but things seem to be settling back down, albeit slowly.
There's damage, of course. Cities and towns were blown off the map – literally, in some cases. People are gone; some physically, some mentally. Sam wants to believe Bobby survived, but he doesn't know for sure. He thinks Dean knows, but Dean won't talk about it – one more of those secrets – like he's maybe waiting to tell Sam when he thinks Sam can handle it better.
Castiel is gone. Sam remembers watching him die, the life pulled out of him bit-by-bit, tortured by Lucifer as punishment for standing with the hairless apes. It's one of the things that triggers the rages, remembering himself watching, locked inside his own head, his own body, while Lucifer wore him and rode him and used him to kill, and knowing Lucifer was doing it because Sam said yes.
It was part of the plan, his saying yes, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. If anything, it makes it hurt worse.
He welcomes the searing pain that comes then, body jerking in spasms as he pulls and pulls at the thick leather straps. He wears himself out straining, until his mind shuts down and he can rest awhile.
"I wish you'd let 'em unstrap you."
Sam blinks the sleep out of his eyes and looks in the direction of Dean's voice. The one chair in the room is against the wall, underneath a small, high window that blocks more light than it allows in. Dean looks as groggy as Sam feels right now.
"Morning to you, too," he says hoarsely, throat sore and mouth dry.
"It's nearly eleven--at night, Sam." Dean's knees pop when he stands up, and Sam winces at the sound. "They called me because you wouldn't—wouldn't stop. Screaming."
Sam stares blankly at Dean. "When?"
"All day? I don't know. I've been here a couple of hours; you stopped not long after I got here. Just went limp and quiet."
Sam coughs once, and turns his head to stare up at the ceiling before looking back at his brother. "Can I have some water?"
"You want me to untie you?"
"Only if the nurse brings me a sedative first." His arms ache, and his wrists, and his head is throbbing, and deep inside him is the blackest pit of all, waiting to swallow him up. "Water, Dean. Please?"
"Yeah, hang on." Dean fumbles with the pitcher and cup on the nightstand beside Sam's bed, then brings the cup up to his mouth, holding it steady while Sam drinks. The water is lukewarm and tastes stale, like it's been sitting there a while, but it feels so good going down he can't bring himself to care.
He drinks four cups before he feels sated, and Dean's looking at him with something like bemusement and concern. "What?"
Dean sighs and shakes his head. "I thought—the whole point of you coming here was so you could get better. Or whatever. But it seems like it's worse. That you're, that you can't control it anymore."
"I didn't have it controlled before, Dean." Sam breathes deeply through his nose, the sharp tang of chemicals in the air stinging and soothing all at once. "I had it locked down. That's not in control, that's in denial."
"So this is better? Screaming until your voice disappears, and pulling on your restraints until you hurt yourself?"
"Better that than hurting someone who has nothing to do with any of this. And it's not like you've never restrained me."
Dean draws in a sharp breath, and there's a part of Sam, however small, that's pleased he scored a hit, while the rest of him cringes back because he doesn't want to do that. Doesn't want to hurt Dean. "Only when you were out of your mind on demon blood," Dean says, voice calm, cool. Like Sam didn't just slide a verbal knife between his ribs.
"And that was to keep me from hurting myself, or others. Right? Well this is the same thing." Sam pulls gently on the leather straps, testing them. "When I think I don't need them anymore, that's when I won't need them anymore."
He wants to tell Dean that sometimes he still feels Lucifer inside him. How he feels the mental caresses, soft and sweet, good like nothing's ever been before. Until the soft and sweet turns to razors and barbs, biting, digging in, pulling that rage up through him until he's covered in it. Drowning in it.
Sam's pretty sure it's not Lucifer, not really. No more than it's Azazel's blood, or any other demon's blood. It's just him, and a lifetime of one thing after another building up, festering inside him.
The blood and his birthright and Lucifer? They were just the icing on the cake.
"I'm gonna head out," Dean says quietly, and Sam looks back at him. Sometimes, when the shadows hit just right, Dean looks like he's aged ten years in the last six months. Maybe he has. Maybe they both have. "I have to be up early, working overtime tomorrow."
Sam nods and wishes he could touch Dean again, even if it was just to touch his hand or pat his back. Words don't work for them anymore, but he can't remember the last time touches did, either. Before Dean went to Hell, probably. That's the last time he can remember touching Dean and having it really mean something.
"Sleep tight." His fingers curl inward a little, reflexive action where they want to reach out. Where he wants to reach out, grab fistfuls of Dean's shirts and just hold his brother close. Just hold him. Anything else would be awesome and wonderful, but just holding on to him would mean the world, too.
"I'll see you later, Sammy."
"Tomorrow?" He doesn't mean to ask that, but the word slips out anyway.
Dean stops in the doorway and glances back at him. "I'll try," he says softly.
It's all Sam can hope for. To hope for anything else is foolish. His damage might be more immediately obvious, but Dean's is just as bad. It's just hidden better.
The night-duty nurse comes in a little while later and shoots Sam full of something that makes him happy and relaxed, and he giggles his way through a bland meal of some kind of noodle casserole and green gelatin. Afterward he has a quick shower and uses the toilet, then he's bundled back into bed, arms and legs secured down and the thin sheet and blanket drawn up over him.
"Do the shadows ever talk to you?" He asks the nurse, eyes starting to droop as the happy wears off, leaving him to relax straight into sleep. "They talk to me sometimes. An' sometimes, they show me their teeth. I don't like the teeth."
"Sleep well, Mr. Winchester," the nurse says to him, ignoring his rambles about the shadows. They all do. The shadows probably told them to ignore him.
He sinks into sleep; into dreams about him, and Dean, and how they used to be, vague memories of comfort and happy blending with wishes to make a pretty, swirling landscape in his mind.
"So how're you doing today, Sam?" Dr. Daniels asks, and it's all Sam can do not to laugh. He spent most of the last three days strapped down, screaming until his throat was raw. How do you qualify something like that? Still, Daniels seems to listen to him, more than just an I'm-humoring-you thing, and Sam's grateful for that. He allows himself a small smile.
"I'm—I feel like I'm burning up from the inside out."
"Angry?"
Sam wants to shake his head because that? Is just too innocuous a word. He nods, though, because it'll have to do. "All the time. Hell, I'm angry sitting here, talking to you."
"Because you're talking to me?" Daniels makes a note on his pad, and looks back up.
"No."
"Then why?"
Why, indeed? Sam huffs out a breath, frustrated with his inability to put what he's feeling into words. "It's—everything. Stuff that happened when I was a kid, and then later, and arguments with Dean, and all the stuff with the—with—"
"The apocalypse." Daniels makes another note, and gives Sam a faint smile. "Even if I wasn't raised in a fairly religious household, the stuff that's been on the news for the past six months or so? That was enough to make me believe something was going on."
"It's hard to talk about," Sam says, thinking that's the understatement of the century. "It's hard to believe you believe me. Most people wouldn't."
Dr. Daniels shrugs. "Sometimes believing is just a matter of faith, and not necessarily the faith-in-God type. Just faith in a fellow human being."
"I used to have that. Faith," Sam adds at the open question on Daniels' face. "I don't know, anymore. I've lost a lot of my faith in pretty much everything."
"What about your brother? Have you lost faith in him?"
Sam thinks about Dean refusing to kill him, even when pushed and goaded toward it. About Dean selling his soul to bring Sam back. Dean coming to find him at Stanford. Dean holding him through nightmares and visions, bringing him chicken soup when he was sick. Patching him up, arguing with him, pranking him, teaching him to drive. Kissing him. Yielding his body to Sam.
Dean holding Sam's body after Lucifer was driven out of it, blood on both their hands, tears on Dean's cheeks while Sam's soul hovered just above them.
Dean walking away from him afterward, after his body and soul were rejoined.
"Sam?"
"I don't know," he says finally. "But I'm pretty sure he's lost faith in me."
"Does that make you angry?"
"I don't know," Sam says, the words sizzling in his mouth. "I've been so angry at everything for so long, I don't know how to separate stuff out."
"Alright." Daniels leans back in his chair. "Then tell me something you know for sure makes you angry."
Sam thinks for a minute, then sighs. "I wasn't raised religious—I don't think my Dad would've been into all that even if Mom hadn't died. But I always, I dunno, believed. That there was God, and angels watching over things, and I prayed. Maybe not as faithfully as I could've, but I prayed. Especially after stuff started with my, with the visions and the demon. I wanted to believe there was someone, a higher power, helping. Guiding." He bites his lip, chewing at the ridge of dry, chapped skin there. "Even after Dean went to Hell, and the angels came, and all the stuff that happened—then we're told that none of this was an accident. That it was set up to happen like this, that Dean and I, we were born to be the ones who started it and ended it. And I just, it makes me furious to think about that, like, why bother? Why start the human race, and nurture it and watch it tear itself apart if you're just going to end it – or pit brothers against each other, again?
"I didn't used to believe in destiny, and even after I found out about the demon blood and learned about everything, it's still hard to wrap my head around the idea, because what's the fucking point in anything, if the endgame is the same?"
Sam stops to take a couple slow, deep breaths, because just thinking about this makes his blood feel hotter inside his veins, and he's not strapped down to anything right now. Just sitting here in a chair, free to do anything the impulses urge him to do.
"Seriously, if it was all going to play out like it did regardless, why couldn't we at least have had good stuff happen – or not had the bad stuff."
Daniels frowns at his notepad. "Such as?"
"Like mom dying. Dad being alive, but absent. Jess dying. Me dying. Dean dying. A whole lifetime of running, hiding, staying in the shadows same as the monsters we hunted. I mean, if it was our destiny to start the fucking apocalypse, why not at least let us have good memories before it? Why screw with us, and break us down, too?"
"So you don't have any good memories before things got bad?" Daniels tips his head slightly to the side. "Because most people have a mix of good and bad memories, Sam. That's how life works."
"No, I know." Sam runs his hands through his hair. "And I have good memories. Just, it feels like everything's tainted by the bad. No matter how good something was, there was something else equally awful to fuck it up."
He's starting to get agitated, and knows Dr. Daniels can sense it. See it.
"It's okay to get angry in here, Sam. Nothing's going to happen."
The bark of laughter that flies out of his mouth seems to take them both by surprise. "No offense, Doc, but there's a psychiatrist and an orderly in Oklahoma who would disagree. I nearly beat 'em both to death."
"But you didn't."
"Not for lack of trying. Well, the doctor, we thought he was—never mind. We thought he was our monster. But the orderly…" Sam shakes his head. "That was just me, caught up in it, giving in to it."
Dr. Daniels sighs and puts his notebook and clipboard down on the desk behind him, then looks straight at Sam. "Sam, not once since you've been here have you been violent toward any of the staff, or any of the other residents. You've been violent, sure. It's clear you're dealing with a lot of deep-seated rage that's built up over time. But that violence hasn't been aimed toward anyone, except yourself. We've restrained you at your insistence, but I'm not sure that's helping. In fact, I wonder if it's not making things worse."
Sam feels his eyebrows go up in astonishment. "What're you saying?"
"I think you're relying too much on the restraints, when what we need to be doing is working on getting you so you can manage the anger when it comes over you, not just let it engulf you until you ride it out. You're going to be dealing with this for a long time, Sam. Even if I only believed a fraction of what you've shared with me – " He holds a hand up to forestall the comment Sam's ready to make, " – I believe what you've told me, Sam. I'm just saying even if I only believed a fraction of it, it's nothing you're going to just get over. Anger management is a long-haul thing. Medication, therapy, getting back into life."
"I don't—" Sam swallows. "I'm scared. That I'll hurt someone."
"Someone, like a stranger? Anyone who happens to get in your way? Or one person in particular?"
Sam nods. "Both, but yeah. Dean. We've hurt each other so much in the last few years, and I'm not sure how many more hits either of us can take."
Daniels' voice is gentle, cutting through Sam's anxiety. "Sometimes you have to take the chance. You might surprise yourself."
Dean's surprise at seeing Sam out of the restraints is an obvious, palpable thing. He stops just inside the door to Sam's room and looks around, like he's searching for hidden cameras and someone to jump out yelling, "psych!".
"Apparently," Sam begins, answering the unspoken but clear question, "my doctor agrees with you. He told me, basically, that I'm a chickenshit, hiding out here."
"He used those words?" A small smile plays at the corners of Dean's mouth, and Sam wonders what he would do if Sam kissed him there. It'd been so long, one of many things that fell by the wayside while they grappled with death and Hell, and demons and angels, and the apocalypse and their destinies.
"Well, he didn't actually call me a chickenshit. But it was definitely implied."
Dean nods. "So when're you getting out?"
"Couple of days, a week at most. He's changing some of my meds. Upping the dosage on my anti-depressants, and adding some other stuff to help me kind of stay balanced—"
"So they make miracle drugs now?"
"Bite me," Sam says automatically, and grins when Dean gives him an honest-to-goodness actual smile. "Anyway, like I was saying before someone interrupted me, he wants to make sure I tolerate the meds okay, and then I'm free. Still gotta come back for counseling and stuff, but I'm supposed to, and I quote, find a place, get a job, start living."
"I got the place covered." Dean settles himself in the chair and tips it back against the wall, rocking back on two of the four legs.
This is the part Sam's been dreading, because he wants to assume, wants to believe, that Dean wants him – but he can't do either. He has to ask. Has to clarify. "Are you sure? That you—want me, y'know. Living with you?"
Dean snorts, but Sam sees the surprise on his face. "You're kidding me, right?"
Sam shakes his head, and pushes his hair back when it flops down over his eyes. "No. I mean, I want—that. It's gonna be weird enough staying put for a while. But I just. I've been in here a while. I didn't know if you'd, y'know. Want your space. Or whatever."
Dean's quiet for a while, staring steadily at Sam until he wants to squirm just to relieve some of the tension growing. "It's always amazed me," Dean begins, voice pitched low, almost gentle, "how someone as smart as you are can be such an idiot about some things."
"I—what?" Whatever Sam was expecting, it wasn't that. He frowns.
"Sam. Sammy. I've never not wanted you around. Even when we—when we took a break, I didn't want that. Thought it was necessary, but didn't want it. So yeah. Got a little place not far from here; been squatting, but I don't think the owners are coming back."
Hope is bubbling through Sam, warm and comforting, and he smiles. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Little cabin-type thing. Pretty sweet, actually. Everything works, it's got two bedrooms, and there's a garage with a decent tool bench."
Two bedrooms. Some of the hope subsides, though Sam tells himself he was a fool for ever hoping for that again. He nods. "Sounds good."
"Better than a lot of folks got it right now."
Sam sighs. "How bad is it, out there? I don't—I mean, I remember some stuff. I know stuff is gone. Places, towns, all that. But is it…bad? Like, end of the world bad?" How much of it is directly because of me, of Lucifer? He wants to ask that, but even if he could come up with the courage, he's pretty sure Dean won't answer.
Dean shrugs. "Bad in some areas, not so bad in others. Worst damage was highly populated areas – big cities. Lot of New York's gone, and the state of California's a whole lot narrower than it used to be."
"Stanford?"
Dean won't meet his eyes, and his voice has gone quiet again. Careful. "Gone."
For some reason, that hurts more than Sam would've thought. He severed his ties with California years ago, but so much of what made him happiest was there at Stanford, and it's painful to think of it being gone.
"What else?" He asks finally, when the silence stretches out awkwardly. Dean drops the chair down onto all four legs and sighs.
"Well it's not complete anarchy out there, if that's what you're asking. There's shit that's messed up – obviously, if cities are gone. There's roads destroyed, utilities down or damaged, and cell reception sucks – but the world's still standing. People are still living their lives, rebuilding, going about their business."
He wants to ask Dean about Bobby; feels the question pushing its way out, and turns away, knowing he's not ready to hear, even if Dean's ready to answer.
"I can get you a job on my work crew," Dean says after a moment. "If you wanna do construction. Might be good, get you outside, outta your head for a while."
Sam turns back around. "You don't think you'll get tired of seeing me all day?"
Dean gives him a half-smile. "As opposed to all the other days we spent twenty-four-seven together?"
"Well—"
"Sammy. Seriously. I'm not sure where you got the idea I don't want you around—"
"There's around, and then there's working and living together. I didn't think, I don't know, I just." Sam gives up when Dean's smile flashes wide and white, if brief. "Fine, I'll shut up now."
"Thank you. So, was that a yes on the job?"
"Yeah, I guess? It's something to start with, anyway."
"Attaboy." Dean slaps his hands on his thighs, then pushes to his feet. "I got someplace I gotta be in half an hour. You have my cell number; when you're ready to get sprung from here, call me. You'll probably have to leave a message because like I said, reception isn't for shit anymore, and I don't get a lot of the calls."
"It'll be a few days, but yeah. I'll give you a call." Sam wonders where Dean has to be and feels something inside him twist with jealousy and uncertainty. Probably a girl somewhere, and he really needs to get over this, because Dean isn't his, hasn't been his in a long time. He's damn lucky they're both still alive and kicking to be brothers, much less anything else.
It turns out to be ten days before Dr. Daniels releases Sam.
He has some really odd reactions to the first medication change, and an actual allergic reaction to the second one, hives and shortness of breath, all of it.
In the midst of dealing with the hives that break out fucking everywhere, Sam also has a complete rage-induced meltdown triggered by too little sleep, and a fellow patient mouthing off about how the whole world has gone to shit and maybe it should've just ended, and too bad it didn't.
It takes three orderlies to pull Sam off the other guy – cowering and gibbering in fear, hands and arms curled up over his head to try and stop the blows – and then Sam spends the night strapped down physically and mentally, shot full of so many drugs he doesn't care what happens around him.
When he opens his eyes to the early morning light, feeling lucid and calm again, finally, Dean is asleep beside him, arms resting on the mattress, his head pillowed on his arms. For the first time in longer than Sam can recall, Dean looks peaceful, looks almost young again, all the stress and tension melted away.
The straps Sam went to sleep with are undone, leaving his arms free and loose beneath the sheet and blanket covering him, and Sam wonders if Dean did that – and when. He wiggles one arm out slowly until he can touch Dean, just a gentle touch to his head, fingers slipping through longer-than-usual hair. It's soft, almost silky, and Sam closes his eyes and lets the sensation just wash through him and over him.
He's almost asleep again, fingers rubbing lightly, slowly, when Dean shivers. His voice is sleep-rough, dark and gravelly, and Sam feels it like a bolt of lightning through him. "Dude. Are you petting me?"
Sam freezes, then coughs and slowly withdraws his hand. "Maybe?"
"Huh." Dean gives him a sleepy smile, then sits up and stretches, arms high up over his head, shirt riding up to show a slice of belly. He yawns and holds the stretch, then relaxes back against the chair. "So, what happened yesterday? I showed up last night expecting you'd be telling me we could head home today, and they tell me you flipped out completely and had to be sedated and restrained."
"Not really sure," Sam says, frowning as he pushes himself to sit up. He scratches at a patch of blisters on his arm, but they don't itch as badly as they did. "I just—I don't know. One of the guys in the common room was talking about stuff, how it seemed like the world was ending and everything was so bad and maybe it should've ended, and I just kind of lost it. I don't remember much beyond hearing him say that, and waking up just now. Just, I was completely gone."
"Gone."
"Yeah." Sam looks over Dean's head at the morning sun, blood-red spreading across the horizon. "I don't know if I can—"
"Yes, you can." Dean scowls. "So you lost it. Big deal. It's gonna be okay, Sam."
"If I do it again? If it's you I'm whaling on?"
Dean snorts. "I'll hit back."
"Would you really?"
"Jesus Christ, Sam." Dean's early morning calm is dissolving, a tic appearing where he's clenching his jaw. "You'll have drugs, you'll have hard labor, you'll have me, okay? I'm not gonna let you hurt anyone else, and I can take whatever you dish out."
"Fine." Sam crosses his arms over his chest. He knows he's pretty much sulking, but he's afraid Dean's not taking him seriously.
"Fine." Dean stares at Sam, and Sam stares back, and it's totally a stalemate that would've gone on for who knows how long, except for the door opening and Dr. Daniels coming in.
"Morning, Sam—oh, hello, Dean. You're back awfully early, aren't you?"
"More like still here." Dean scoots the chair back out of the way, then stretches again. "I should go—gotta get ready for work."
"Do you have a minute or two? I was going to talk to Sam about his release." Dean looks like he'd like to be anywhere else right now, but he nods, and Dr. Daniels smiles. "Super. Sam, I think we're going to let you out of here tomorrow. I want to keep you today to make sure you're not going to have any problems adjusting to the new meds, and to make sure there aren't any side effects like the hives."
"Are you going to keep him strapped down?" Dean's staring at a spot somewhere over Sam's head, not quite looking at either him or Dr. Daniels.
"No. He doesn't need it. We only strapped him down last night to give the sedatives a chance to kick in."
"He was still strapped down when I got here," Dean says, and Daniels frowns.
"He was? What time did you get here?"
Dean shrugs. "I don't know. He was sound asleep, though. Didn't so much as twitch when I called his name. I waited for the nurse or orderly to come in and undo 'em, and then undid them myself. Ankle straps are still on," he adds, looking toward Sam. "You should probably undo them before you try to get out of bed."
That Dean is telling him that means he's still pissed, because Sam knows ordinarily Dean doesn't miss a chance to do something – or allow Sam to do something – he can laugh at Sam for.
"I'll have to look into that," Dr. Daniels says, frowning. "But no, Sam's not going to be restrained, unless something should happen again. But I think it was probably more an exception than the rule, and he's fine. How're you feeling, Sam?"
"Okay, I guess," Sam says slowly, watching Dean. He blinks when Dean refuses to look at him, and looks up at Daniels. "Not sure I should be going home—" He cuts off when Dean sighs and fidgets. "Um. What time, tomorrow?"
"Dean, are you going to be able to pick Sam up?"
"Yeah. Just tell me when I need to be here; I'll clear it with the foreman today."
Daniels looks at Sam. "How about afternoon? That way you can still be here for group."
"That's fine. Dean?"
"I get off at four anyway; I can be here a few minutes after that." He looks at Daniels, then finally at Sam. "I have a—thing, tomorrow. About seven. But that's time to get you home and settled, right?"
A thing? Like the thing he had last week, and the week before that? Again Sam wonders if it's a girl; though if Dean's dating someone, wouldn't it be more often than once a week? He realizes Dean and Daniels are both looking at him and nods. "Yeah, um. That's fine. I'll be ready."
As ready as he's likely to be, heading back out into the world.
"Great!" Dean says, with what is so obviously fake enthusiasm. "I'll see you then, Sam." He pats Sam's leg, calling attention to the ankle restraints Sam hadn't really noticed before, along with the sudden itching, hives under the straps undoubtedly irritated by the leather, and sweat.
"See you then," Sam echoes, his chest painfully tight. Daniels keeps talking after Dean leaves, but Sam doesn't hear a word of it. He's too caught up in anxiety and fear to let anything else in.
On to Part Two
no subject
Love that the apocalypse actually happened here and there was damage and destruction. Can't wait to find out what Dean's doing on those evenings when he has somewhere to be. Great start!
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Oh Sam, can't even bring himself to ASK, has to bring it up in this roundabout way.
I like these hints of a world half-destroyed and slowly recovering. I wonder how Dean's dealing with his own damage, and if it has anything to do with these appointments.