Chapter 35

It took some doing, but Buffy and Willow finally pried Sam away from Dean’s side later on Christmas afternoon, so that they could go to Max’s for dinner, the way they’d planned, with Kalani keeping an eye on Dean. He didn’t make the best company, and she was reasonably sure he ate a plastic cherry without realizing that the centerpiece wasn’t real fruit, but at least it was the nice kind of distraction, not the increasing despair of the last few weeks. Making sure he got some sleep when they got back home was even easier; Will whacked him with the sleep-spell again, and he was so drowsy he didn’t even fight when Buffy steered him to his own bed, though he did argue a bit. She pretended not to understand any of his increasingly slurred words.

Buffy took the night watch, but the long day took its toll; she was dozing in the comfy chair when Dean groaned. She was awake and across the room before his eyes opened. He squinted against the light. “Buffy?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Thirsty,” he said, his voice rough.

“I bet.” She poured him a glass of water; he drank that and another before he finally fell back in the pillow and looked around like he was actually awake. “Better?”

“Yeah.” He reached up to scratch his nose, and she nearly laughed at his expression when his fingers found the feeding tube. “Sam said—”

“Sam said no such thing, and besides, Sam’s not the nurse. She’ll be in tomorrow, but Max said she’d probably say it stays in until we’re sure you can eat.”

“Bring me something and I’ll—”

“Easy, Dean. You have to start slow, or you’ll hurt yourself.” He muttered something—a little muffled because of the tube, but Buffy was pretty sure she recognized the emotion behind it. “How does broth sound? Max said it’d probably be all right if we stuck to clear liquids.”

“Will there be a steak at the bottom of the bowl?”

“No.”

“Terrible.”

“Your choices are chicken or beef.”

He made a face. “That’s not food.”

“The quicker you start eating it, the quicker we can get you that steak.”

He sighed. “Chicken.”

“I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

“But—”

“Dean Winchester, if you try to get out of that bed, so help me, I’ll beat you up.” He looked sufficiently cowed by the threat that she felt safe leaving him alone for a few minutes.

She checked on him while the broth was heating, and noticed that he was pale and breathing a little harder than he should be. Good Lord. He’s as predictable as Giles. “I told you to stay in bed.”

“So I’m a sucky patient,” he grumbled.

She snorted. “You were a sucky patient three months ago. Now you’re impossible.”

“Thanks.”

Buffy laughed. “Stay in bed this time, or I won’t let you feed yourself.”

“You wouldn’t.”

She gave him her best maternal glare, and she could have sworn that he wilted a little. A very little. And he’d recovered completely by the time she brought back a tray with a bowl of broth and a pitcher of ice water. “Eat slowly,” she ordered. “It might come back up.”

“That’s reassuring.” He glared at the glass, then added, “You know, I think vodka counts as clear liquid.”

“Nice try.” She helped him up long enough to shove some extra pillows behind him, then set the tray carefully in his lap and poured a glass of water to go along with the broth. “Eat.”

It took him a couple of tries to get his fingers to work, and his hand shook even then, but he applied himself to the broth with a determination that reminded her of—well, her. He wasn’t going to give her any reason to feed him. Proud little brat.

He managed to finish half the bowl, and downed a couple more glasses of water, which was more than Max had said would be a good sign. “Hurts to swallow around this damn thing,” he grumbled, slamming the spoon down.

“There’s a reason people don’t walk around with them for fun,” Buffy said pleasantly, earning a glare and muttered comment as she took away the tray and set it on a chair. He closed his eyes, suddenly pale; his expression made her wonder if the broth was going to reappear. “Need a trash can?”

He shook his head. “Just dizzy—”

“Back to bed, then.” She pulled pillows from behind him so he could lie back down. His color started coming back immediately. “Dean, I have to ask—”

“You want to know how much I remember.” She nodded. “I remember being Liam as clear as I remember being me. Everything.”

“You didn’t—”

“Tell Sam? No. But he already knows.”

“We haven’t—”

“He asked me if I was Liam.”

“Shit.” On the bright side, that meant the chances of Sam’s blocks breaking were lower, assuming she’d understood Will’s explanation properly. “Are you okay? With—with remembering all that?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His hand went to his throat, looking for the necklace; his fingers found the cord and followed it down to the talisman. “Part of me says that Dad gave this to me,” he said finally, “after we started hunting. But it was Willow. On the trip to New York. Before—before she erased everything.”

“Yes.”

“He loved you so much. He didn’t understand what was happening.”

Tears stung her eyes. “I know.”

“Why didn’t you let m—him stay in London?”

“You were twins. A lot of people thought— Just because you hadn’t shown any signs of power, it didn’t mean you didn’t have it. It could just mean you’d take longer. Be more powerful. Giles—” Her voice broke on the memory. “Giles was one of them. We lived with him. I couldn’t protect you from him. If—if he’d just left you alone, Willow would have never done what she did.”

“You would have let him kill—” He hesitated, as if he almost said a different name—the same way she and Willow had been tripping over references to the twins since Dean and Sam’s arrival. “Alex.”

“Yes,” she whispered, unable to meet his gaze. Willow, Xander, Giles—they all knew that horrible reality, but they never spoke it. It had haunted her every day since Willow took the twins away; what kind of mother would kill one child to save the other, even if killing that child might save the world? Sacrificing a sister, a lover, a friend—that was different. Still painful, but different.

To betray your own child...

Dean’s hand closed on hers. Startled, she looked up, and saw an understanding in his eyes that frightened her. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “You do what you have to do.”

“Would you sacrifice Sam?”

He didn’t answer immediately, the way he would have before this—and then was saved from having to answer by Priss, who chose that moment to headbutt Dean in the face, demanding attention; he chuckled and reached to scratch her behind the ears. “Hi, Priss.”

“We never told you her name.”

“I named her, didn’t I?” He sighed. “At least that explains why I always wanted a cat. Dad thought I was crazy. So did Sam.”

“Didn’t stay in one place long enough?”

“Dogs are guards. Cats are familiars.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think John was a little nuts.”

“Damn—” he yawned “—straight. Why am I sleepy? I’ve been—”

“You’ve been delirious, not asleep. And there’s still some drugs in your system. You’ll be sleeping on and off for a few more days. But it’ll be real sleep.”

“Good,” he said, closing his eyes. Priss crawled up on the pillow and curled up so close to his head that he was practically inhaling her whiskers. “Sammy—”

“He’s asleep. He stayed here until we had to go to dinner, and we had to drag him out of here then. He’d be in here now, except that I had Will spell him. He’ll be in here when you wake up.”

“That’s good,” he murmured again, and was asleep.