take it

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/66690763.

Rating: Not Rated

Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: Gen
Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005)
Relationship: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Additional Tags: Bobby Singer's House (Supernatural), Season/Series 07, Sam Winchester
Has Trauma From Lucifer's Cage, Past Rape/Non-con, very vague and
very up for interpretation, Dean Winchester Takes Care of Sam
Winchester, POV Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, also
some on screen self harm in the form of sam biting his fingers, Self-
Harm, Dubious Consent, not for anything sexual, Dean Winchester Tries
Language: English
Collections: Anonymous
Stats: Published: 2025-06-19 Words: 1,684 Chapters: 1/1
 take it
by Anonymous

Summary

Sam stopped fighting a long, long time ago. Long before he ever left the cage.

Notes

this isn’t exactly canon-compliant. mainly, there’s no leviathans.

Also, take a close look at the tags pls

Sam’s spacey today. He’s sat on the sofa with his knees pulled up to his chest, busily
chomping on what’s left of his thumbnail. He’s watching an old Western Dean put on for
him, but his gaze keeps drifting to the left, not quite far enough to where Dean is assembling
a sandwich in Bobby’s kitchen, but somewhere in the middle.

There’s nothing there.

It feels like every time Dean turns around, though, the nothingness of the blank wall is what
has Sam’s foggy attention over the TV. He finishes making the sandwich quickly so he can
get back over there.

Dean would cut it into triangles, but he hid all the knives due to Sam’s recent incident and
doesn’t feel like digging one out. He figures his brother can eat a whole sandwich just fine, so
he picks the plate up and carries it to the couch.

“Hey,” Dean says, slowly sinking down onto the cushion beside his brother. “Food for ya. Eat
up.”

Sam wrenches his eyes away from the empty space between the living room and kitchen to
look at Dean instead, blessed recognition on his face. He removes his nail from his mouth
and wordlessly takes the plate, using his upturned knees as a table. He eats slowly, attention
on the TV again.

Dean’s thankful that Sam doesn’t fight him on eating—as long it’s not something sticky or
crunchy or that used to have a face (Sam’s sandwich is banana slices stuck between two sad
pieces of lightly toasted, lightly buttered bread). The implications of the obedience, though,
are devastating.

Sam stopped fighting a long, long time ago. Long before he ever left the cage. Now that he’s
out, he lets Dean do anything to him, barely mustering a flinch and never once a protest. He’s
docile as Dean strokes his hair and cleans up his self-inflicted damages and makes food for
him like he’s a toddler.

The way he just takes it breaks Dean’s heart. Obviously, if Sam were to fight and resist
Dean’s care, it would be annoying. It would be detrimental.

At least it would be Sam.

Dean sometimes wonders what Sam’s thinking when Dean touches him. When he cradles his
face and rubs his back and pats his arm. Does Sam only let it happen because he’s lost his
fight, or does he recognize it as the touch of his brother—not of Lucifer?

Either way, Dean tries to do everything gently with Sam—his voice, his hands, his words.
What Sam takes is up to Dean now, and if Sam’s going to take something, he’s going to take
love.

“Dean?”
Dean turns to look at his little brother. Sam doesn’t talk much these days, so Dean makes sure
to give him his full attention when he does. “Yeah?”

Sam’s looking down at his plate, half of his sandwich still on it. He takes a long moment to
continue, as if gathering what it is he wants to say. Finally, he asks his sandwich, “You
‘member when I was psychic?”

“Yeah, a’course,” Dean softly responds. He doesn’t know where Sam is going with this, but
he tries not to be wary.

Sam looks up again, but not at Dean or the TV. He looks at that cursed spot on the other side
of the room.

“Hey,” Dean says, and Sam’s attention snaps back to him. “I’m right here. Look at me,
‘kay?”

Sam blinks, and a second later, his shoulders droop in something that’s not quite relief, but
something close to it. He nods.

Dean nods back. “What were you gonna tell me?” he asks, voice as gentle as ever, as
soothing as he can bear. “About bein’ psychic.”

“Oh,” Sam murmurs. “Nothin’. Jus’ wanted to see if it was real.”

God, this kid. Dean tries not to screw up his face too much as he reassures, “It was real,
Sammy.”

Sam nods and turns back to the TV, continuing to nibble on his sandwich.

They haven’t stayed at Bobby’s house for such a long stretch of time since they were kids. It
feels weird, standing still, but it’s necessary. It’s not like Sam can hunt in his condition, and
Dean’s not interested in leaving him alone.

So, they stay with their old man. It’s fine. They cohabitate the upstairs bedroom that they
used as kids—two beds, enough drawer space for both of them, and the ugliest curtains
known to man.

Dean keeps an eye on Sam at basically all hours of the day. If they need a break from each
other, and Sam’s doing okay, relatively, Dean’ll spend time with the cars outside and Sam’ll
spend time with the books inside.

Bobby, for the most part, does grocery shopping and stays out of their hair. Dean thinks
Bobby’s kinda freaked out about Sam’s hallucinations, which is fair enough. Dean likes
taking care of Sam by himself better anyway, and Bobby’s doing more than enough by
lending his living space.

Dean’s least favorite parts are the nights. Sam can’t sleep, meaning that, by extension, Dean
can’t sleep.
It’s about 4 AM, and Dean’s had maybe an hour total of shut-eye that’s started and stopped
throughout the night. Sam’s probably had less.

Dean rolls over onto his other side to look at the kid—his eyes having long-since adjusted to
the darkness. Sam’s lying on his back, and he’s progressed from chewing his thumbnail to
chewing his middle finger. He looks like he’s gonna seriously hurt himself.

“Hey,” Dean says, voice gruff. “Quit that.”

Sam doesn’t seem to hear him.

Dean sighs and shoves the covers off himself to walk over to Sam’s bed. “Hey,” he repeats,
standing over his little brother now. Finally, he lays his hand on Sam’s shoulder.

Sam stops gnawing as he turns to look at Dean, a glassy look in his eyes. As his finger—
thankfully free of any blood—slowly slides out of his mouth, he mumbles, “It’s time again
already?” He sounds resigned, like he’s already accepted his fate.

“Time for what?” Dean asks, voice softer than before.

Sam doesn’t respond, just continues staring at Dean—or maybe through Dean.

“Sam?”

Nothing.

Dean gently rubs Sam’s shoulder. “Sammy?”

Sam finally seems to come back to himself then. Dean barely gets one second to be grateful,
because Sam’s tearing up the next. “Dean?” he mouths, no sound coming out.

“Yeah,” Dean whispers. He keeps his hand on Sam’s shoulder as he slowly sinks down to sit
on the edge of the bed, his torso turned to look at Sam. “It’s me. I’m here.”

“W-Where…” Sam pauses, and when he speaks, his voice is still distraught, if a little clearer.
“Where ‘m I?”

Dean tries not to show his distress. “You’re at Bobby’s house, Sammy. Topside. Our
bedroom. You’re with me.”

Sam sniffles. “I thought…” He lets out a tiny sob.

God, Dean could cry too, right now. “It’s okay,” he whispers. He squeezes Sam’s shoulder.
“You’re not, okay? You’re not. You’re here. You’re safe.”

Sam continues to cry, and a part of Dean prefers this over the alternative—the nothingness,
the passiveness. Sam still doesn’t fight the touch Dean’s giving him, but at least he’s showing
some emotion—some semblance of himself.
Dean doesn’t remove his hand. He doesn’t know if Sam actually likes it, but it’s gotta be
better than however the devil touched him.

It’s time again already? Sam had asked when Dean first touched him. He’d mistaken him for
him.

Dean feels like throwing up, and, frankly, he doesn’t know what to do. It’s always been his
job to take care of Sam. But this? This is new territory.

“You’re okay,” Dean murmurs, unsure if he’s trying to convince Sam or himself. He strokes
his hand up and down Sam’s arm in what he hopes is a soothing gesture. “I’m here, alright?”

Sam’s sobs are turning into hiccups, and he sounds like his old self as he says, “‘m sorry.”

Sam hasn’t apologized in a while, mostly because he’s been too out of it. He’s lucid now,
though.

Dean shakes his head. “Don’t ever say that. Not to me.” He moves his hand from Sam’s arm
to cup Sam’s cheek. Sam doesn’t lean into the touch, but he doesn’t pull away either. Is that
because of the submissiveness that was beat into him in the cage? Or because he feels
comfort in Dean?

“I am, though,” Sam whispers. Sorry.

He’s sorry. Well, fuck him.

“Sammy, stop it,” Dean says, voice ruder than it’s been since Sam got his soul back.

Sam just takes a shaky breath and sniffles. “Okay,” he whispers.

Jesus. Dean knows Sam didn’t say okay because he realized there’s nothing for him to be
sorry about. Sam said it because Dean spoke roughly with him and Sam got scared. Sam has
learned to take that kind of stuff instead of fighting back.

“Hey,” Dean murmurs. He adjusts his sitting position to face Sam more fully, and he places
his other hand on Sam’s other cheek. He tries to think of what to say, but the only thing he
can think of is sorry, which might be hypocritical. So, he settles for leaning in and kissing
Sam on the forehead.

Sam only flinches a little bit, and he lets it happen. It breaks Dean’s heart.

He doesn’t know what to do—what he should do.

What he does do, is continue holding Sam’s face for a few moments.

The brothers look at each other in silence until Dean speaks up, his voice a whisper. “You
know it’s me, right? Your big brother. Dean.”

“I know,” Sam responds, voice just as quiet.

“Okay.” Dean lets go of Sam’s face and, in a thoughtless action, climbs over his little brother
to lay down on the other side of the bed. He touches Sam as much as he dares—just a soft
grazing of his fingers against his elbow—and closes his eyes.

Dean can’t sleep if Sam’s not asleep, especially when they’re in such close proximity. He gets
at least another hour of rest that night.
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