As long as you hold my hands...

When Bobby met the brothers, smelling of fire and despair, to take them home and let them recover in relative peace, nothing changed, but at the same time nothing remained the same. Life continued its course, the evil spirits did not go away, people did not freeze in time. Only in the house on the car dump, the atmosphere absorbed the pre-storm tension, and the storm never happened. "Sam, there's a casserole dish in the fridge. Eat, okay?" Sam blinked a couple of times, and his eyes, which had been staring at the page of the book for almost an hour, became more meaningful. "All right, Bobby. Thank you." He didn't eat. *** Dean spent most of the time it was light outside working on some machine with his tools, which were more than enough in the yard. The Impala, which Winchester had been following for the first time, was already shiny and looked as if it had just been assembled at the factory yesterday. They seemed strangers to each other all at once. Sam knew how hard it was for his brother, and he was suffering too, even though his relationship with his father wasn't exactly good. The older one was hit by the death of his parent, the younger one mostly by the older one's detachment and pain, and Bobby tried to smooth things over as best he could by drinking heavily in the evenings. Bobby did most of the grocery shopping, too, although half of what he brought was beer and whiskey. And every time, vegetables and something from the health food department for Sam. Sam noticed this when he came into the kitchen just to make himself a cup of coffee. The old man's concern only caused a huge sense of guilt, because Sam wasn't too worried about eating. Food was carefully discarded. What started out as a lack of appetite turned into starvation. If there was one thing Sam could control in this life, it was himself. *** One morning, before another cup of coffee, Sam saw it. His ribs, clearly protruding through the skin. The sight of it suddenly gave the younger a strange pleasure. He liked what he saw. He wanted more. He wanted to know what he could do. And if his face looked unhealthily pale and haggard, it didn't really matter. For himself, Sam was someone who showed great results. *** It had to be extremely quiet at night. He was suddenly so hungry that he literally couldn't control himself. He only stopped when he was sick and there was no roast meat left in the pan at all. It turns out that if you drink enough water, puking is much easier. Sam was getting rid of the contents of his stomach until all that was left was bile and a few strands of meat. His legs were shaking as he rose from his knees and pressed the drain. With shaking hands, he washed his face, brushed his teeth, and drank more water. Shit happens. You're disgusting, but shit happens, Sam thought as he collapsed on the bed and wrapped the covers around himself. In the morning, Bobby looked at him strangely, but didn't say anything. *** Getting out of bed was becoming increasingly difficult. Sam began to sleep a lot more, leaving early in the evening and waking up closer to eleven in the morning. Sometimes he was sleepy during the day, but he kept focusing on a book or an article on the Internet. He looked longingly out the window, where he could see Dean working on another car with a supply of beer and food, as if nothing else in the world existed for him. And now it was impossible to abruptly explode from the spot. Once, when he quickly got up from his chair to take the kettle off the stove, his legs cramped and his vision went dark. Bobby caught him by the arm and dragged him back to a chair, scurrying and cursing. "Fuck, Sam, you look like shit. Are you I'll? Are you hurt?" Sam reached for the water bottle and took a couple of sips. It became a little easier. "It's all right, Bobby. I am fine. I just didn't sleep well." The old man didn't believe it for a second, just shook his head. But I left him alone. *** His stomach was occasionally shot through with pain. Sometimes it purred so loudly that it seemed to be heard all over the neighborhood. Sam forced his thoughts to shut up as he drank the water and threw the food away under the noise. He looked at his bones in the mirror when he was alone. He looked much better, felt deeply satisfied. He's in control of himself. He's strong, he can handle it. The skin stretched like thin, dry parchment where the hip bones, ribs, collarbones, and spine showed. Now he could wrap one arm around his shoulder and two hands around his hip so that his fingers would lock. He looked good. He felt good. For the first time, it seems, in mhisentire life. *** Bobby was worried when Sam hadn't left his room once in almost twenty-four hours. When Singer opened the door and stepped into a room with curtained windows and minimal light, Sam sat up slowly, waking up. "Fucking God, have you been asleep all this time? Sam, are you sure you're okay?" The younger boy reluctantly got out from under the covers, lowering his feet to the floor as slowly as possible so as not to save energy and shake so obviously. "Just a little unwell. Don't worry, I'll get some sleep and be fine." This might have sounded plausible if the voice wasn't weak and muffled, as if even speaking was already difficult. *** Everything went crazy a month and a couple of days after the burning of their father's body. Sam thought he was close to death last night. It is extremely stupid for a hunter to die over the toilet in an attempt to get rid of food that he has uncontrollably stuffed into himself. So in the morning, he still staggered and tried to hide his tremors and scratched knuckles behind the long sleeves of his sweatshirt. The house was cold as hell for some reason. Today, he allowed himself a break. An unaffordable luxury, but still: coffee. He had long been afraid to add milk, as if a couple of spoonfuls could destroy all his efforts. He loved watching himself get thinner so much, even though it still wasn't enough to be completely satisfied with himself. He liked to use the knife to make new holes in his belt, because the old size was already too big. That damn coffee cost him a lot. He was starting to get a little breathless when he got to the kettle, and was about to ask it to sit down while he poured the boiling water over the powder, when Bobby came into the kitchen, looking tired and annoyed. Unlike his brothers, he worked, and was periodically called by hunters. Most often by phone numbers hanging in rows on the wall with various stickers on the cases, but sometimes operational research was needed, and yesterday there was one of these calls. So Singer probably sat up all night reading books. "Coffee, Bobby?" The man nodded gratefully and pulled a bottle of whiskey from the shelf with a practiced gesture. Sam told himself to hold on, because it was impossible to show weakness now, in front of another person. But his legs were already cramping, his hands were barely holding the spoon, and he was so weak, so damn heavy, and black spots were floating in front of his eyes... *** Sam came to on the floor where he'd been standing. Bobby was leaning over him, swearing every word and shouting Dean's name in an attempt to call him from the outside, not leaving Sam's side. "Did I fucking tell you something was wrong, dumbass, was it so hard to listen to me just once?" Bobby was no longer shouting, but his voice was ringing in his ears through the ringing and headache, as if the old man was speaking directly into his ear. Dean snapped out of his stupor and threw himself on the floor on the other side of the younger boy. Sam felt as if they were looking at him as if he were dead. "Sammy? Do you hear me? Can you stand up?" Sam wanted to answer, but it was really hard to speak, and he didn't have the energy. He was just taking a deep breath to get something out of his mouth when Bobby shot him a lightning look and answered for him. "Of course he can't, you idjit. Look at him, he is will blow away if you breathe near him!" "Stop yelling at me like this shit is my fault!" "Who the fuck else?" Sam took a deep breath, trying to focus on anything but the dizziness and numbness in his limbs. "Dean..." The older man looked up, and he and Bobby finally remembered why they were sitting on the floor. "Yes, Sammy? Let me help you." The older man helped him sit up and wrapped his arms around his shoulders and under his knees, lifting him up in his arms. When he looked at Bobby, there was pure horror on his face. The last time he'd been able to hold Sam so easily in his arms, he'd been almost a child.