And How the Sky Gets Heavy

Summary: Dean slips. The boys try to figure out how to survive the fall.

Set between 7x10 and 7x14, so spoilers through 7x10. Title is from the remix version of Otherside by Macklemore ft. Fences. Rated for some language and sensitive material.

A/N: Be warned, this fic concerns addiction and relapse. I have tried my best to be true to both parties involved. All the love and support I have to offer for those who do their best in situations like this one.

Disclaimer: Not mine! A good thing too, how I batter these poor boys.

"Dean. Dean. Come on, dammit, you've been in there forever."

He hears the voice from miles away, a soft echo into his waiting ears. They don't perk up, though, it takes too much effort to do that. He just lets the noise drift in and flit around as it wishes.

The water has long gone cold, but he doesn't feel it. He lets it run over his shoulders, down his back and across his arms, sending goosebumps across his skin like a brushfire. He doesn't notice.

"Dean! Seriously, man, you're gonna dissolve if you stay in there much longer. How the heck is that water even still warm, dude?"

The words tumble over each other on their way to him. He doesn't have the energy to untangle them.

It doesn't really matter. Whatever it is, Sam will be fine. Sam will get over it.

The pounding on the door does little to break through the scene. Dean just lets it go on, a metronome in the background set to the slow beat of their lives. Thump, thump, thump, as the seconds pass by, melting into the void of the world.

The pounding stops, and Dean is left in silence, save for the cool rush of water. A tentative voice pushes through the haze.

"Dean?" The door cracks open, a loud creak accompanying it. Any trace of annoyance in Sam's voice is gone, replaced with a quiet concern. He shouldn't be concerned. After all, they're fine. They're always fine. Never mind apocalypses and hell and funerals, losses and failures, they always come back around eventually. Hell couldn't keep them, Heaven couldn't keep them. They survive, time and time again. There's no need for concern when clearly they're not going anywhere.

Sam eases the door open the rest of the way. The bathroom is one of the few private sanctities for the two of them, so buried in each other's pockets all the time. Not to mention he's waiting for the reprimand from his brother for a clear invasion of his personal space.

Dean doesn't give him one. He doesn't look up, doesn't shift his position even though the water has made his jeans heavy and his ass is sore from sitting on the tile for so long. He just stares ahead, getting lost in the fog.

Sam's first thought is panic, that Dean's been injured and didn't have the presence of mind to ask for help, didn't even remember to take his damn jeans off before getting into the shower. But there's no blood, no bruises. Dean's just…drifting. He doesn't respond to Sam calling his name, only blinks slowly when Sam rests his hand on his brother's shoulder.

And a coil of anger flies out from his gut, because he knows this. He knows this stare, this pose. This emptiness that consumes his brother.

It only takes once glance to the sink, to the empty orange bottle abandoned in the corner, to confirm it.

"Dammit, Dean." There's little outward anger in that statement though, because Sam knows it won't do any good. Not here, not now. Not when Dean's so blitzed he can't even figure out that he's going to get hypothermia if he sits in the damn shower for much longer.

Dean doesn't feel the water turning off, but can tell that everything seems to get a little quieter. Quiet is good. Quiet is empty, for once.

He feels a tug on his arm and closes his eyes at the contact, pulling further away from the world around him. Hands reach around to grasp his face though, pull it towards something, and he finds the strength to open his eyes.

Sam always did say a lot with his eyes, and Dean's always been good at interpreting them. Famous 'puppy dog eyes', of course, but so much more. Humor and fear, love and grief, anger and intrigue and admiration and shame and so many more, all contained in those two little orbs.

Dean can't see them, though, can't get past the fog around him to tell what his brother's trying to say to him. Sam's going to have to talk for Dean to understand, this time.

So he does. Sam gets Dean's glossy eyes to focus on his long enough to ask.

"How much did you take?"

It's a simple statement, and so important. And Sam wants to ask so much more, the whys and hows and how could yous, wants to stamp his feet and tell Dean that you promised and it's not fair because they don't break promises. Dean always said that, ever since Sam was old enough to know what one was, that he wasn't like Dad, he didn't make promises he couldn't keep. That wasn't them. They might lie sometimes, and keep secrets, but they never broke promises.

Except they have. They do. The evidence is right in front of him, and has been for a while. Broken and bruised and bloody tatters of their lives built on the shattered promises they promise each other, themselves, the world.

And now Sam's stuck with this, this hell that he thought they'd gotten rid of, for crying out loud they both had enough scars from the disastrous consequences of this crap and Dean promised—and Sam just barely stops himself from slamming him into the shower wall when his eyes close again.

Sam breathes in, deep, feeling the cool wetness of the air flow into his lungs. He settles his hands on Dean's face again, tapping gently, until the muted green is visible.

"Dean, you gotta answer me, man, okay? How much? How many did you take, Dean?"

The current of worry is so clear in Sam's voice that it breaks through Dean's haze. He manages to get his eyes to focus on Sam's and sees what he heard—the concern, overwhelming. There's more, there, too, anger and betrayal and maybe just a bit of guilt.

Even his current stupor can't break down Dean's instinct to take care of his brother. The crap that's pulled them apart over the years, supernatural and not so supernatural, his fault or Sam's fault, none of it can destroy that need to make it better, to pour the salve over the wounds and tuck the little boy into bed again and guard the door from the things that go bump in the night.

So he rustles up that strength from deep within himself, from reserves that have gone so low over the years he's amazed there's any left every time he goes to dip into them. Forces himself to push away from the void he sought out so eagerly a half hour ago and ventures back into the world.

He clears his throat and leans forward, settling for what he hopes is some kind of reassuring look. "S'okay Sam, I got't. Be fine." Not exactly what he was aiming to get out, but he's trying.

Sam doesn't take the out though, because the slurred words breathed out of the man in front of him are just an indication of how awful the situation is. He shakes his head and adjusts his grip on Dean's face, hands sliding down to cup the back of his neck.

"No dice, Dean. How much did you take? How many?"

But Dean doesn't want to say it. He knows on some level that he screwed up, and he doesn't want to face it. He's tired of his failures.

He closes his eyes again and starts to slide away.

"Goddammit Dean! Just answer the question!"

Sam hauls him up, not even pausing to realize how compliant Dean is. They both slip on the tile and Dean's damn jeans make him even heavier to hold up and keep steady. Sam gets Dean up against the shower wall and shakes him enough to get his eyes to open again.

"Please, just tell me. How many? How many, Dean? Come on."

And he gets an answer, sort of. Dean mumbles under his breath, eyes cast down, just loud enough for Sam to hear.

"Rest o'the bottle. Dunno how many. S'not enough, though."

The fight goes out of Sam again, and he leans forward to slump his head against Dean's shoulder. Because there's too much in that statement, and he doesn't want to know exactly what Dean was referring to.

Not enough. It never really is for them.

Sam feels the coolness of Dean's skin beneath his soaked shirt. He shakes his head to clear out the creeping thoughts and gets ready to start the process that is getting Dean into bed. Because he knows his brother's not stupid, knows he was out for a high, nothing more, and wouldn't put himself in too much jeopardy. It's going to be a long night and a longer day, but right now Dean's wet and starting to shiver and still too out of it to figure out that he's shivering because he's cold.

Sam shouldn't be so good at maneuvering Dean around. But it only takes a few minutes before the elder man is dried and redressed and bundled into bed, water on the bedside and a trash can on the floor.

Dean hardly notices the shift from the wet bathroom to the dry bed. They're just faded sensations, felt through the cool glass of his skin. He can tell Sam's there, though, close by. The kid emits a friggen aura that Dean's always been attuned to, little brother vibes emanating from him just for Dean.

The bed is soft and cozy and much less scratchy than their usual ones, but he can't tell. All he can feel is the fog around him, in him. It's what he wanted tonight, so he soaks it in and tries his best to ignore the twinge of guilt in his gut that he knows is connected to the aura in the room.

Sam sits on the edge of the other bed to watch him. He'll give it four hours at least, his post for the night. Dean's not allowed to sleep for the first two, he's decided. There will most likely be frequent poking for the time being, and Sam knows that dialogue is a good way to keep Dean somewhat focused, but he doesn't know what to say.

He certainly can't say what he wants to. Not now, anyway. What he needs to say is for his brother's ears only, not this man in the bed. The stranger. Not for him.

They sit in silence, then, Sam ticking away the time in his head. Dean's still awake for now, though teetering on the edge of letting his eyes close again. He's holding on for the time being. It's got to be one of the few times he can sit without thinking so much. Without feeling so much. And sure, the idea of not having to think or feel is tempting to Sam. They never get the luxury of stopping. Even in sleep they can't find peace anymore, and Sam likes the thought of finding some way to escape from it all.

But he won't, because the ramifications of making that decision are right in front of him. Dean wanted the out, wanted the peace for a change. And maybe it worked the first time around, the second, the hundredth. But the price was too high. The smoking gun in that little orange bottle was enough. The scars they both have are enough. The body in the ground is enough.

Sam would never want to go through that again. Dean, it seems, has other ideas, and Sam wants to throttle him for it. Does he need to remember what happened again? Sam was willing to forgive it all after Dean got clean. Dean never was. The pages were written and he refused to erase them, refused to let him go. He said it was motivation, the reason for staying sober.

And yet, here they are again. Sam literally picking his brother—Dean, not his brother, it's not his brother—up off the floor and trying to figure out how to put him back together again.

It slips out, really, but Sam can't help it. They've been sitting there for a half an hour without a word, and even though there's a stranger in the room with him, wearing his brother's face and carting around his tired soul, Sam still needs to talk to him.

"Where'd you get them?" He's genuinely curious. He was with Dean when the old pills went down the toilet, was there to hold him back as Bobby flushed them away. Come to think of it, he never found out where those came from either.

"Doesn' matt'r. Tha'was it, there's no more."

Dean almost sounds remorseful, the first emotion Sam's heard out of him tonight.

"Were they…left over from last time? Did you keep some?"

Dean swivels his heavy head to face his brother. Another near-emotion, just barely there. A whisper in his features. Hurt.

"No. Gave y'all those."

Sam nods and looks down again. "Okay. Okay."

He finally gets up, just to stretch his legs and try to shift around some of the tension hanging stagnant in the room. Dean watches through heavy lidded eyes.

"Sam."

"Yeah?"

"Sorry."

Sam stops pacing and glares at the man on the bed. "You always were. You always are. I don't care, Dean." He knows it won't help anything to say it, but dammit, it helps him. Because for all his brother's selflessness, his constant protection and guidance and overwhelming passion to do something good for the world, the fucker still manages to hit Sam where it hurts. And he knows, he knows it's not really his brother, but it still hurts like hell. He can hear the pamphlets screaming at him that he's doing it all wrong. Don't accuse, don't use you. Speak in I's. It's an illness, it's not their fault. Well, screw that. He wants to accuse.

"I thought we were done with this shit, Dean. I thought you stopped. We know where this goes, man. You know, you know it's not right. You told me…you said…dammit, Dean, you promised me."

Normally when Sam raises his voice to his brother he's matched in turn. They both have stubborn streaks and yeah, they like to argue. Maybe that's what Sam is looking for, maybe he wants to see the fight come back to his brother again, that passion that fuels him. He doesn't care if the anger's directed at him, he just wants something, something other than this dead-eyed thing in front of him.

Dean doesn't do what he's supposed to. He doesn't argue. He doesn't rise to the occasion for a fight. He's too numb to fight. He's too old to fight. A lifetime and more has worn him down and now he's just content to lie there. He sighs and turns his head away.

Sam scoffs and shakes his head, stretches his arms out. "That's it, huh. You just give up, is that it? You're not even gonna try anymore?"

There's fire in his words, but his eyes are pleading. If only Dean would look. If only Dean could see.

Instead, there's nothing. "M'tired."

"And what, you think you're the only one? I've been in this with you too, man. I've been to Hell, too. I lost Bobby, too. You're not the only one who's suffered, Dean. You don't see me running to the nearest junkie on the street for a fix." Sam steadfastly ignores the little voice in his head that whispers Ruby in his ear.

"Please, Dean…I…" Sam sighs and slumps back down onto the bed, cradling his head in his hands. "You're not even hearing this, are you. Hell, you're not even here. I'm wasting my time."

The sharpness of that statement slices through Dean's brain. The last house he shared with his family is cast up before his eyes. Sam walking down the road, storming out of the motel room, jumping into the pit, all jumbles together in his mind, and Dean feels pure terror pumping through his veins.

"You gonna leave?"

And that, right there, is Sam's brother. Something's broken through. It's not like Dean hasn't asked that question before. But now, there's so much more in it. So much pain and fear and longing and pleading and just the ever-present ache that Sam's shocked all that came from three little words.

He looks and sees his brother through the fog. Dean's never looked so young, so lost before.

Sam sighs.

"No. I'm not leaving, Dean. But you can't leave either."

They can't leave each other. They'll have nothing else. There's no one left.

"M'not. I won't."

Eyes water, and the next words are whispered. "But you do. Every time you do this, you leave me. And I can't, Dean, I can't."

It's Dean's turn to sigh, long and slow and sad. "I know."

Sam can't bring himself to continue. To tell Dean about his fears, his terror over finding his brother's cold body on the bathroom floor. Fears he had for months after the first time, ones that slink into his nightmares and are whispered behind Lucifer's evil grin. Those are private, to be left in the shadows in hopes that they never come out into the light.

More time passes in silence. The lone tick of the clock echoes along the walls.

"Why'd you do it? Why today?"

Dean contemplates an answer. He could give a reason, hell, he could give a hundred reasons. They have more than most, after all. But they'd be lies, whatever he decides to dish out as an excuse.

Addicts don't need a reason. He knows that. Sam knows that. So he tells the truth, as much as he can.

"Just did."

Sam nods slowly.

Dean's clumsy hands reach for the water bottle and clasp onto it with shaky fingers. A second of struggling to open the top and Sam's there, gently easing it open for him. It's not much, but it's something for the two of them.

"I'm gonna head to the kitchen and get you some toast, okay? You should have something in your stomach."

"Kay."

Dean is left to idle on the bed while Sam heads into the kitchen of their small room. He still feels like drifting, but he tries to tether himself down. For his brother, at least.

Sam wasn't supposed to know about this. Sam was supposed to be caught up in his own emotions and his own head games to pay attention to the wreck that is his brother. Dean's learned how to thrive on being invisible, on being alone, and while he hates it, it comes in handy. For when the guilty man needs to wallow in self pity and hate. For when the alcoholic needs to get hammered. For when the junkie slips up. And now he's been caught with his hand coming out of the cookie jar. He's ashamed and guilty and weak and still too high to really feel it all.

He wonders what it will feel like when he has to face Sam again in the morning.

Maybe his brother should leave, save them both the trouble.

But he doesn't, and in a few minutes Sam's back with a plate and a shielded stare. Dean knows he's trying to stop his judgement on Dean, at least for now. He's grateful for it.

The two hours fade away and Sam concedes the night as finished. He goes to rise from the bed and pats Dean's arm. "Go to sleep, I'll see you in the morning."

They both wonder what that will be like. They'll contemplate what to say and how to act, but it's a toss up. Dean knows that Sam will probably spend the next few hours online, turning to the rest of the world for the pamphlets and best lines to say when someone you love relapses for the first time. Pamphlets and papers will only do so much, though, especially for two people as messed up as they are.

Who knows, though, maybe all the scripted material will work. And even if it doesn't, they know how to pretend.

The light is turned off and Dean lets the world gray out around him, finally succumbing to the pull he's been feeling for the last few hours. Until the little brother aura creeps around again, and the tension in Sam's shoulders as he sits away comes into sharp relief.

Dean makes just one more effort. He can't say much, can't put everything into words for his brother. He's tried to and there are just too many walls to jump over. He can't talk about his fears and his shame, his guilt, or the empty pit in his soul. But he can try for absolution, even just a little bit. To put one more plank into the bridge between them, the bridge they've ripped apart over the years, the one that's just been battered again over the events of tonight. He tries for just that little bit.

"M'sorry, Sammy."

And Sam complies, nailing that single board back into place.

"I know, Dean. Go to sleep."

End.