The words in bold had to be there for the challenge requests, and the same for the sentence in bold. If you like this maybe next time I can go for some real Dean/Sam/John (I love the man çç) interaction and even write something longer than a oneshot.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, or SPN would have some episodes on this side of the pond too.
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He had walked through the mirror.
He was living in a world of contraries. There was no other rational explanation for it.
Well, in his business the word 'rational' had quite a different shade of meaning compared to the dictionary's definition, but that was another matter.
He had fought against inhuman beings, angry and resentful spirits, and bugs driven by a secular curse. Damn, he had even seen the mother who died more that twenty years ago in fire, once again, before his eyes!
And yet that was more 'rational' than what had happened just a couple of hours ago.
Which was not Dean getting hurt. Man, his brother was right. It was a dangerous gig, you risked your life every fucking second, but he was not supposed to end up this bad.
He wasn't allowed to be so fragile. To be like any other mortal on this earth.
He had no right to leave him alone, since he has been the one to drag him in this fucking "Let's find dad and save the world from evil meanwhile" trip. He just could not do that.
Big brothers were meant to be there always, at your side: giving crap advice on how you should chat a girl up, teaching you the fastest way to get rid of an hangover, how to forge credits cards.
They should be also on your side in an argument with your father, but Dean was the 'perfect son', the one that would have never disagreed on the Word spoke by those lips that knew no mistake.
If he was this perfect, then, he should not be hanging on a thread for dear life.
How could he have been so careless, make such a big mistake as to hit that damn rawhead with something like a hundred thousand volts while he was lying down in a pool of water?
He had just one shot with those things, but that was no excuse. His brother could have just kicked that bastard in his putrefying crotch and moved to a better location.
It was Dean Winchester we are talking about, not some random loser who woke up that morning deciding he was going to be a hunter, for God's sake!
An asshole like that was not even worth the time wasted by his bedside. The said idiot deserved to die alone, reflecting upon his own stupidity.
There was something wrong with this world. It just could not be real.
'Yes, Sam, just keep giving yourself this bullshit. You might end up believing in it.' He mused furiously to himself, closing the laptop without any gentleness, his fingers twitching with anger.
It was all painfully true. Soon he would have been completely alone. Again, he would have to watch someone he loved dying right before his eyes.
No! He would not permit it, not twice in a lifetime.
He just needed some fresh air, to refresh his thoughts a little and go back to work as soon as possible.
Yeah. They knew things most doctors did not dare to imagine in their wildest fantasies, so how could he be discouraged by the diagnosis that "fabric softener teddy bear"- as Dean had mockingly nicknamed the doctor in charge - had communicated to him?
That moron had managed to build up his jaunty façade, to hold his mask of the spotless fearless knight, regardless of his disastrous conditions.
Jerk. As if Sam was not able to see right through the massive cracks upon its surface.
Enough.
He had to stop thinking about him, it would not have solved anything, and it was pretty hard if he kept staring at that untouched bed. Empty.
Get out. He had to get out of that room.
He grasped his jacket, then his fingertips lingered on the keys of the Impala…but he decided to go on foot.
It would have been fucking too weird to embark on a solitary drive, an unmerciful reminder of the wrongness of all of this.
Air was cold and bitter, the streets barely crowded.
Surrounded by nothing but dreadful silence he looked up to the sky, kind of trying to find some relief in its endless splendour.
It was a canvas painted with unearthly skills, so beautiful it took your breath away. So wonderful that it made him and all his matters seem so small and meaningless in comparison.
Feigning ignorance as the shoulders of the people walking by bumped into his own; he froze to savour peacefully the magnificence of the celestial vault.
A long lost memory surfaced from the abyss of his mind; a time when their beloved black metallicar halted in the middle of a deserted national road of Colorado.
He could see his breath coming out in puffs of condensate vapour just as his stepped out of the car. Yet, he was not going to give up to the chill until he found a shooting star.
"Dean! Get out of that car and look after your brother!" John's voice thundered, waking up the fourteen-year-old boy from his sleep.
Mumbling, the soldier performed his duties, and he was by Sam's side in a heartbeat. Like always, even if their dad said nothing at all.
Even if he thought back to the most remote time of his infancy, there was always Dean in the picture. He had always been there for him. Forced by a cruel destiny, maybe, but he was around whenever he needed him.
"No need to tell me. Would've done it anyways," Dean murmured in a barely audible tone. "'Cause I'm so stupid to leave Sammy alone again. In the woods. Yeah, right."
"Did I hear you complaining, Dean, or that was just my imagination?" John questioned with a hint of irritation in his voice, due more to the fact that the repairing was taking damn too long, exposing them all to danger, than to the unruly behaviour of his son.
"I would never dare to complain, sir. It was just your imagination, sir," was the prompt reply to his drill sergeant.
John went back to his fixing, and Dean sat down on the wet grass, not far from the wayside. Less than a metre away from Sam, but the latter was too busy gazing frantically from one side to the other of the firmament to pay the smallest attention to their banter.
The shooting star was playing hide and seek, damn her.
"Woah, Sammy! Look, a shooting star!" Dean had exclaimed at his first gaze towards the sky.
Some people were just gifted of the sheerest luck, in anything they did, even the most minimal anyone could think of, dammit.
"Where, where?" Naturally, when he actually found the spot his brother was pointing at, even the tiniest trace of it had been long gone.
"If you just stop looking for it like a madman, you might see one. Good things come to those who wait, you know?" He soothingly explained to his little bro. The darkness made it impossible to see the expression on his face, but Dean could bet he had the hugest pout on his lips.
"Yeah, yeah, right…" The answer had been as pestered as he expected it to be. On the verge of a tantrum.
"I'm serious, dude. You know, like the knife you were looking for a couple of weeks ago and that you found just when you stopped looking for it? Get it?" He said as a matter of fact.
"I should pretend to look for something else so the star would actually show?" The younger kid wasn't sure he actually 'got it'.
"Kinda. Try to identify some constellations, instead. Like the Little Bear. You won't have a compass anytime you need it, so it's useful to know how to spot the North Star, Sammy." And here you go: Dean in his educational mode, as if he felt the need to teach something to his sibling every time he spoke.
"I know very well where's the Little Bear and the North Star, thanks. And it's Sam, not Sammy." Yet he followed his brother's advice, 'cause maybe this time he could be miraculously right.
Glacial silence clamped over them once again and when it seemed like hours had passed, Sam still had not found what he longed so much to see.
He could have sworn a mischievous spirit turned his eyes away any time one of those shining cuts scratched the dim cloth, like tears from the stars.
In that moment, he would have deprived himself of all his belongings to be able to touch with his own hand that stunning sight.
Hand that was freezing by now, he hardly felt it. He was about to draw it to his mouth along with the other one, trying to convey a little heat onto them, when someone else prevented him to do so. A bigger, rough and warm hand landed upon his own.
Dean had just shifted, and now sat right behind him. He brought their hands onto Sam's belly, rubbing them together to heat them up.
"Lean on me, perhaps I will be able to pass you a little of my luck." He could claim he had sensed his brother smirk, even though he was still sitting at his back. "I can't help my charm, I'm sorry."
He did it and…He found it. One, two, even three!
Dean was awesome, like a magnet for shooting stars.
Although Sam didn't really know if he had so much to ask for. What demand could you make to a shooting star, in the first place?
Presents like you did with Santa Claus, or did the desires have to be more 'abstract' ? Like peace throughout the whole word or something like that?
He really didn't care 'bout peace in the world. It was so much better to have a home like any other child he had seen in the countless towns they visited in those ten years, or to have just a few friends!
To the last one, he made a request to protect Dean and their father from evil, so that no Winchester would end up six feet under the cold ground, like the skeletons they had dug up, spread with salt and burned.
His stomach contracted into a painful knot at the thought, hurting so much he found it hard to breathe. He doubted that even when he grew up he would find himself able to do something like that, he would even refuse to see their graves!
No, the star would have watched over them.
A bitter smile crept on his lips. He wasted so much innocence over the last thirteen years, he stopped believing that stars had to power to fulfil desires, much less save someone's life.
Nevertheless, we he saw one he found himself drawn back once again to that night in Colorado.
'Please, help me find a way to help Dean. Even if I have to sell my soul to the devil.'
Joining his hands together, holding them painfully close like he was praying to some kind of God, Sam concentrated with all his will on that wish.
It would have been a fair exchange, since it seemed that demons were trying their best - since forever - to get him.
Though Dean was so stupid that he too would have dared to swap his soul with Lucifer to have Sam back, wasting his efforts.
He would not have even thought that the latter would not have known what to do without his big bro, since he couldn't go back and live again a normal, safe, life.
He was not so sure he ever really craved for it; it was just a matter of cutting that umbilical cord which tied him inexorably to the other man. To walk on his own legs, living a life that did not include just three people and a car full of weapons in its trunk.Not even for a second had he really thought it could have been 'safe'. Just reading the headlines of any newspaper was enough to know that the world was packed with psychos, more sanguinary and perverted than any creature they fought in all those years.
But he was living his own life, not the one others settled for him, and that had been enough. For a couple of years, he deluded himself thinking the bond with his family was finally lessening, that whilst he still loved them he would not think twice about being perfectly fine hearing from them once a year.
Or not at all.
He was lying to himself and he was well aware of it.
Those fortnights spent with Dean in Jericho made it clear: the bond was unbreakable.
Not even emigrating to the other side of the pond, hiding in a far-off town in Holland, could accomplish such a task.
It would always be there. In his own blood.
Blood now boiling at the thought of having a piece of his heart torn away. Kind of ironic, since his brother was dying of a heart disease, wasn't it?
He sighed. He pursued with all his willpower not to make this a lost cause, but that was what it was. Not thinking about Dean was way more complicated than standing up against his stubborn father, and that was pretty hard.
Twisting the knife into the wound, his synapses worked restlessly for a cure.
It seemed impossible. With all the crap you could find online – not to talk about Dean's 'Favourites' – he wasn't able to stumble on something handy for this. With all the books in town's library there wasn't one which was fucking useful!
In the last few months he trusted so much in books to find a solution to all his problems, that now it was almost insane to have to rely on a wish made upon a star.
On the other hand, as a hunter for twenty years and more, he had witnessed a lot of incredible happenings. Too many to be utterly sceptical about this. Just because they'd always seen the negative side of supernatural didn't mean there wasn't more than that.
Honestly, he couldn't make out where to begin, although someone who was more of an expert on miracles and similar stuff certainly would have been helpful.
Yeah, it was definitely the right track to follow.
Now he just had to think hard about who could be that someone, where and how to contact him or her.
He looked up to the sky again, now his only companion. As much as he fixed his gaze upon it, however, no suggestion, of neither a name nor a face, came up in his head.
Actually his mind went down another road. He found himself imagining how his father and Dean would be pissed to see him like this, waiting for an answer to rain down from the sky, picturing vividly their angry faces and annoyed tone. A lonesome tear ran down his cheek, hastily drying it in frustration.
Damn, he was missing them like crazy. He wanted his family back.
Dean.
It was then that he had 'the shining', to prove that it was true that 'good things come to those who wait', as he told him that night in Colorado.
A clear and limpid vision, as vibrant as those nightmares which led them back to Lawrence.
His father's journal! All his 'friends' contacts were written down on that agenda. He didn't have the same blind faith Dean seemed to have in them, but they were his last alternative.
If the star, or whoever through it, sent that wave into his brain…All he had to do was to follow the advice.
"Thanks." Sam whispered to the sky, getting a couple of bewildered looks from the old women passing by, which he just shrugged away along with some of the anguish that had been tightening his gut since he had seen Dean losing consciousness down in that basement.
He came back to the hotel, almost running. It took him a while to find the old weary journal, overflowing with all the case histories, awarded studies, and any other kind of stuff on the cardiology subject.
Here it was, just beneath "Chakra: know it, feel it" and above "Heal yourself through acupuncture"
Books for which Dean would have teased him about for years, 'cause the man barely knew alternative medicines existed, let alone gave them any respect. Not that Sam did think it could work with Dean, but you know. Anything was worth checking to save his life.
Finding the phone numbers turned out to be a mission on its own, hidden as they were by John's sloppy handwriting and drawings.
Some of the folks consulted weren't the epitome of happiness after being woken up in the middle of the night, but once they learnt about Dean's condition they were all more than willing to help, and they all wished the eldest of Winchester brothers to get well as soon as possible. Of course, Sam had no intentions of reporting their regards to Dean. It would have been like admitting he had been wrong, that he had preconceptions about those who he often called 'scum' in private, and this was a truth he would never confess facing his bro, not even under torture.
He spent the night like this, calling dozens of people and leaving voice mails to as many, pleading to be called back as soon as possible.
Waiting for them to get their lazy asses up and dial his number – actually he couldn't conceive what in the world could be more important than rescuing Dean – he paced back and forth across the room for so long that in the end he partially spoiled the carpet, he nearly made his fingers bleed gnawing at his nails, and as he let himself fall down on the mattress he earnestly took into consideration the notion of taking up smoking.
This would have meant leaving the cosy soft bed to go buy some cigarettes, but since the many vices the Sin embodied (known as Dean)possessed didn't include 'intoxicating his lungs to death', he didn't feel like standing up.
He didn't even notice he had closed his eyes and fallen asleep; instead it seemed rather normal to him to be walking along a riverside, barefoot on the grass wetted by the morning dew.
And it was quite ordinary to be surrounded by gravestones too. The names on them were not readable at all, their surfaces had been weathered too long, damaged beyond repair.
The tombs, however, were covered with flowers and goodbye cards for the deceased, a meaningful trace of the love of those they left behind: gone but never forgotten. Nothing that he hadn't already seen billion times. Still, he could tell that something was weird.
Three of the headstones, in fact, stood alone in a neglected corner of the small cemetery. Abandoned and bare, it looked like ages since someone has been there yet the names on them were brightly engraved.
"Mary Winchester" he read on the first. He wanted to run away, avoiding seeing the next one, which surely was going to be Jessica's. Seeing it for real once had been enough, he didn't look forward to visiting it once again.
The corner of his eyes dropped on it, anyways. His heart stopped beating, torn away from his chest when he made out that it was his father's sepulchre. Not Jessica's. His dad's. The last time they met he was perfectly fine, throwing his arms around and shouting "If you leave, stay gone!"
Did he die? Did he dare to, without giving him the occasion to apologise for the words he let slip from his lips the night he communicated to his dysfunctional family that he was going to Stanford?
Selfish, loathsome, indifferent to everything but his revenge, he hadn't changed at all!
With great difficulty he repressed the urge to kick the tombstone, just because he wanted to check out the third.
'Please…Not his. God, please. It couldn't be his.' No one heard his prayer: it had "Dean Winchester" written on it. Moreover the vault looked like it had been violated.
Not in the way they usually did it, the coffin was open but the corpse wasn't there anymore. No salt, no bones or ashes.
Who could be so perverse to steal a body from its funerary box, and why the hell would he/she/it do that?
Rage blinded him. Far more intense than the one he was feeling towards his dad. He could take any offence upon his brother, 'cause he knew Dean defended himself better than anyone with his lightening quick tongue. But this. This was a big no-no.
To attack him openly when he couldn't protect himself anymore, was something that Sam couldn't stand.
He looked around, hoping against hope the offender was still around, running along the riverside until he saw a shadow bathing in the still water, surrounded by mist.
Approaching to the silent figure, he noticed he (she?) was covered with dirt and mud. Could he or she be the tomb raider he was looking for?
"I think I would notice if I turned into Lara Croft. Though I'd still be hot if I we-..." Without even listening to him (her?, thought the voice seemed a masculine one) he waded into the stained shadow.
"You bastard!" he yelled, hitting everything his fist could reach. Truthfully, he didn't care about hurting a innocent, if there was the smallest possibility he could be the culprit.
"I was expecting a little more creativity from my geek sidekick, Sammy." The shadow dodged every hit, securing his wrists in a tight grasp. "I mean, you had years to come up with something better, dude. Like 'motherfucker genius with a charm I'd never have, even in my wildest fantasies', you know? It would have fit."
"That would be an offence?" Sam retorted, freeing himself from his brother's hold.
"Could anyone insult me without implying that deep inside they adore me?" The mist cleared a little, enough for him to see. That smirk. His perfect white teeth. Damn. "I don't think so."
"You moron! How could you even joke about that!" Sam roared once more, 'till he ran out of breath. "I thought you were…"
"Dead? Not yet. But they already prepared a nice cosy place for me, ain't they lovely?" Every word dripped with sarcasm. Dean's favourite façade to hide his fear. "When I'm be gone it'll be up to you to take care of…"
"No! No, no, no! Just stop it!" He raised his tone so high his vocal chords hurt. "You shouldn't even think about it, you'll be the one to bury us all."
"Why can't you just let me go?" The reply was barely a whisper, lost in the murmur of Styx. "An eye for an eye, a life for a life, this is how it works. Who are you willing to sacrifice for me?"
"Anyone. Everyone. I just want you back, Dean." He coughed, his voice raw for the prior effort.
"No one is worth dying for me. You are heading to damnation, Sammy. Stop this now. Let me go." He was imploring Sam, and the young man was so taken aback he just didn't know what to do.
Yet he didn't want to let go of him. Despite being hard to believe that this was the same man who loved to drag him like luggage, ordering him around as some kind of fearless god, he just knew it was him, every cell in his body recognized him as blood of his blood.
"I won't give up you up. Or let you go. Ever." He moved Dean away from the river with a hard shove, making him stumble on the slippery rocks of the bank.
"In that case be ready to bear yet another cross. Be prepared to lose other loved ones." The older man took his shirt collar, almost choking him.
"I said I fucking don't care, it's not like I'm not cursed already! I will do anything to have you back in perfect shape. Enough said." There was no space to protest, it was all settled.
"Then go on…Curse me, but don't say you didn't know, Sammy."
A noise, completely extraneous to the place they were in, silenced them.
It sounded like…Clearly it was…It couldn't be anything but…A mobile phone?
He was sweating with exertion when he finally managed to open his eyes, but his mind was still fogged by the dream, so once he found it the phone had already stopped ringing.
Since he was standing up already, he headed for the bathroom, looking for an aspirin to soothe his headache.
With every movement he made, a piece of his dream was erased, 'till he was left with the mere sensation of having had a very important vision in his slumber, but unable to recall it.
Well, he would remember it next time. They were supposed to be recurrent dreams, so…
Rather he should establish who called. Probably it was just the umpteenth call for help from someone who couldn't reach John (oh, what was exactly new about that?), but it could also be someone who got his voice mails.
"Samuel Winchester?" A man that knew his Christian name was likely to belong to the second group. Most of the people who tried to reach his father by phone didn't even know he had two sons, let alone that one of them was called Samuel. "I'm Joshua Tyler, a friend of John's. You know, he and your brother saved my back a couple of years ago. If it wasn't for them I'll be dead already. So, even though I'd like to keep this information for myself, I will text you with the address of a specialist in Nebraska. I swear, I've yet to meet someone who hasn't been healed by him. I hope Dean will be no exception. Take care." It took a second or even less and the mobile was buzzing, a message with the address of a man called Roy Le Grange.
Now. He still had to pick up Dean at the hospital, and persuade him to be driven to that guru.
Easy task: he wouldn't have left Dean any option. Either he'd come willingly, or he'd have to knock him out and yank the idiot into the car.
He was learning how to behave properly around his brother, how to turn him jelly in his hands despite not being a little boy with big puppy eyes anymore.
There was one last thing left to do before going out. Call his father.He didn't know why, but he felt like he had to tell him, even though he'd probably speak to the answering service recorded message.
What time was it? He didn't know. Catching a glimpse of the sky from the window it seemed to be late morning; everything was illuminated, from the front yard of the motel to the farthest chimney his eyes could detect. Nevertheless, staying up all night for 'work' dad could have just gone to bed.
Oh well, it was just another issue he didn't give fuck about.
"Hey, Dad. It's Sam. Uh…You probably won't even get this, but, uh…It's Dean. He's sick, and uh…The doctors say there's nothing they can do. Um…But, uh, they don't know the things we know, right? So, don't worry, 'cause, uh…I'm gonna do whatever it takes to get him better." °Awkward silence. "Alright…Just wanted you to know." °
Sam felt stupid for expecting any comforting word in times like this, from that surrogate of a father. He was asking too much from him, wasn't he?
Biting the nails of his right hand hard he got angrier and angrier, furious: once again they couldn't count on Dad, not even when one of them was fucking dying.
A knock on the door interrupted his train of thought. He wasn't waiting for anyone, so he got up stealthily, snatching the gun from the night table and slipping it into his baggy trousers.
The door was opened furtively, and he found himself standing in front of the last man he was expecting to find there.
Dean.
"What the hell are you doing here?" ° His hand trembled, just wanting slap him, but the shorter man looked like crap. Pale as a corpse, with purple circles under his bloodshot eyes, and the steady walk of a cripple having arthritis in his one good leg.
"I checked myself out. I'm not gonna die in a hospital where the nurses aren't even hot" ° his brother replied, shrugging his shoulders, adding without speaking a 'Dontcha agree?'
He hardly held a smile back as he helped him to sit down in the armchair. Still the same jerk as always.
Avoiding any further waste of time, he informed Dean on what he had learnt from Joshua, making it clear there was no option.
It was quite sad to see how easily he gave in to his baby bro requests, which plugged more motivation into Sam to take him to that Le Grange guy.
Still there was uneasiness in his world, everything just felt wrong when he thought about that thaumaturgy guru.
Dean would have said that they had been hunting long enough to know to trust a feeling like that.
On the other hand, if it was true that despite the premonition he had had for days, he wouldn't have been able to save Jess - if he hadn't been wrong ignoring those nightmares, why should he have to worry about one he didn't even remember?
Case dismissed. He wouldn't let Dean die for a 'sensation', a 'feeling.'
Whatever the consequences might be.
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(°) means I've taken the lines from the episode.