Author's Note #1: Okay, yeah, I'll admit, this is just a tad bit over the 100 word Drabble limit, and by "just a tad," I mean 6500 words or so. But this started out, coming up on almost a year now, as a Drabble for our then WoW of "Worship."
My original idea was to incorporate "Worship" into my "A Night, To Forget" and "Morning Routine" series, having the woman that Sam is with "Worship" him in some way; cuz really, who among us doesn't? Riathe Mai in her infinite wisdom and snark offered this piece of advice, "As long as you don't have her worshiping at the altar of his heavenly God-stick, you're good."
With my original idea not only not cooperating, but always coming off as sounding corny, I started to rethink things.
And, well, who can resist that line?
So this was born. Again, my plan was a for a Drabble, but, I ah, I got a little carried away.
Between Real life intervening on more than one occasion, my muse up and taking an extended vacation, and my many doubts about this (I think this is the first story I've written that's not tagged to an episode) this was a long time in completing.
Author's Note #2: Thanks to LoveThemWinchesters for the advice, read-thru, and wonderfully encouraging words. And to Riathe Mai, for whom Thanks will never be enough.
ooOOoo
Shock and horror stole his breath at the sight before him, and the terror that surged through his veins froze him in place.
Huge torches stood like sentries around the room, ancient symbols etching the dark gnarled wood that twisted and spiraled above him. Their fire-light flickered throughout the cavernous room, sending eerie shadows dancing across the walls, the floor, the small raised platform in the center of the room, and the dark, inky fluid that dripped from its edge.
His mind was frozen mute, and so he could only track the thick, viscous fluid as it trickled leisurely down the fissures of the stone; the little wet splats falling like anguished teardrops onto the marble floor. There it pooled around the base of the platform, seeming to pulse and ripple like a living thing.
No, not a platform. An altar.
And in its center, laid out on top in sacrifice and surrounded in an ever-widening sea of blood, was his brother.
Everything around him in that moment ceased to exist. His vision tunneled and his blood roared in his ears. His breath came in short, painful bursts. He stood rooted to the spot; unable to look away, unable to move closer; fear and dread suffocating him as the worst of the worst-case scenarios ran through his head.
Tolatetolatetolate
He locked his knees as his legs threatened to buckle beneath him. The blade fell, forgotten, from his numb fingers; the sound startling as it clattered loudly against the stone floor. Just like that, his paralysis broke. His body was his own and he forced it to move step after staggering step closer to the altar and the macabre site that would shatter his soul or calm his dread.
The room spun and swayed around him as he walked, and he clenched his fists at his sides, digging his nails painfully into the palms of his hands to try to regain even a miniscule semblance of control; a feat he knew—even as he attempted it—was useless.
"God… Dean," Sam whispered brokenly. He reached out and his heart clenched tightly in his chest; his shaking hand hesitating as he looked down at Dean's bloody and bruised body.
His brother's arms were stretched above his head, bound taut to the marble dais; his wrists raw and swollen from the thick, coarse rope biting into his tender flesh. The position forced his chest and ribs upward in what Sam knew from unfortunate experience to be a painful, awkward angle; making it nearly impossible to breathe in more than short, shallow gasps.
A matching rope, drawn just as tight, bound his legs. Jagged cuts and slices—the sheer number of which made Sam's stomach churn and roil—had torn his shirt to pieces; the grey tee—dyed a vivid, angry red—lay in tatters over his too pale, bloody skin.
A sob escaped as the shallow rise and fall of his brother's chest finally registered; and Sam reached out, gently laying his hand on the top of Dean's head. It was the only unmarred spot he could see to touch him that wouldn't cause him more pain.
Sam squeezed his eyes shut, silent tears escaping and rolling down his checks. The cold, emotionless, lethal hunter he'd been just moments before suddenly vanished, leaving only a terrified, panicked little brother in its wake.
He gently ran the pad of his thumb over his brother's eyelid, wiping away the blood running sluggishly down his forehead from a large gash.
"Dean… hey," he called, his voice trembling violently despite his attempt at bravado. He gently tapped the side of Dean's head, his brother's short hair stiff and tacky beneath his fingers. "Come on… open your eyes. No sleeping on the job, man."
Silence echoed deafeningly in the room and the fragile, tentative grasp on control that Sam had gained, slipped into nothingness. Dirt and tears stung his eyes as he roughly scrubbed at them with the back of his wrist. He blew out a heavy breath. He reached down, grasping Dean's hand in his own, mindful of his brother's slick, bloody wrists. It was gruesome proof of just how hard he had fought to get free.
"You don't get to do this… not yet… not ever," Sam stammered. "We still have time. Brothers, remember? You promised, Dean."
Dean's eyes started to move beneath his lids and Sam's heart leapt into his throat. "That's it. Come on, Dean. I need you to open your eyes for me"
Slowly, they opened halfway. As he watched, they sluggishly tracked around the room before finally coming to rest on Sam; pain-filled and glassy, and looking very green against his pale face.
"Hey." It was all Sam could manage to choke out, but it was enough and more, everything. Sometimes words didn't need to be spoken for the other to understand.
"H'ya, S'mmy," Dean uttered, the corner of his mouth lifting into a miniscule smile. "Ya missed all th'fun."
Sam's own lips curved up in a small smile. "If this is your idea of fun, dude," he said, voice thick with emotion, "then we have some serious talking to do."
Suddenly, Dean began to cough, his back arching off the cold, hard surface of the altar. Blood filled his mouth and dribbled over his lips and chin as he gasped and choked for air.
"Easy. Easy, Dean. Just… Slow, slow breaths, okay?" Sam coached, turning his brother's head as he coughed violently. He wiped Dean's mouth and chin with his sleeve, and the dark crimson took on a life of its own as it spread and stained the cuff and sleeve of his green jacket. "It's okay. You're… you're okay. You're gonna be fine."
He squashed down the seed of panic as its roots twisted and sunk into him, telling himself that the blood wasn't a sign of internal injuries… wasn't life threatening… that he wasn't standing there watching his brother take his last breaths.
"That's it. You're doin' great. In and out. Nice and easy." Sam squeezed his brother's hand a bit tighter, grounding him, offering him his strength and letting him know he wasn't alone. "I got'cha, Dean. You're safe. Nothin' gonna happen. I got'cha."
He knew he was babbling, but Dean… Dean was gasping and choking, freckles stark against a face that was so very, very pale as he fought for each shallow breath. And maybe, just maybe, if Sam talked enough, if he convinced himself that it wasn't as bad as it all seemed, it would make it true.
Sam prayed that his words would reach his brother; that his voice was enough to cut through the thick blanket of agony and pain and bring Dean back from the brink.
His body still bound in place and unable to move, Dean turned his head slowly towards his brother's voice. "M'good." His voice was a raspy whisper; sounding like he had swallowed shards of glass, and Sam winced in sympathy. Dean squeezed his eyes shut as he coughed weakly and cleared his throat. "M'fine, S'mmy."
"Uh huh," Sam hummed. "Yeah, I can see that. Think ya' need a new dictionary, man, 'cuz neither of those words mean what ya think."
"B'tch." Dean's eyes slid closed. "Jus' gonna rest a sec'." His head lolled further sideways, coming to rest on Sam's forearm.
"No!" Sam cried, reaching down with frantic fingers to find his brother's pulse. The steady, albeit too slow beat he found did nothing to calm his frazzled nerves. "No. No, no, no. Dean, hey. Come on… open your eyes."
Sam nudged his brother's shoulder, needing to keep him conscious; knowing that pain, blood loss, and exhaustion were a deadly combination for shock; fearing that if he allowed his brother to slide into the darkness…
Sam swallowed that thought, pushing it down as far as he could because that was not an option.
Not on his watch.
Not while he still had a breath left in him.
Not ever.
"Yer b'ssy," Dean mumbled without opening his eyes. "Y'know that?"
"Pot… kettle," Sam drawled, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. "Learned from the best, now open your eyes. Gonna break you outta here, then I'll let you sleep for a week." Sam rubbed the back of his wrist across his mouth as he laughed, the sound quick and manic. "Bet'cha won't be complaining about the motel beds being too hard now, huh?
"Yer a reg'lar c'median, Fr'ncis." Dean's eyes squinted open a fraction. "H'ppy?" The sarcasm in his voice didn't come close to masking the pain that showed in his eyes. The sudden, terrifying realization—the sheer implication that any amount of pain showed at all on his normally stoic older brother's face, and what that could mean—slammed into Sam, and a fresh wave of panic surged through him.
He clenched his jaw, his lips a thin, tight line, as he glanced back over his shoulder at the room he had just come through.
In his mind's eye, he could still see the carnage he'd left behind as he'd easily swept through her guards. He could still see the gleam of triumph in her blue eyes as she'd wrapped herself in the glamour of a blond-haired, scared, innocent, young girl; and the look of shocked horror that had filled those same eyes as she'd realized that her trick wouldn't work on him.
He'd swung his blade, and watched—detached, emotionless, satisfied—as he'd taken her head.
He could feel the fury building anew; the irrational want—need—to bring her back to life so he could kill her all over again. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, his breath harsh and loud to his ears in the confines of the suddenly too small cavern. He pushed the anger and fury down and away, burying it deep; concentrating on the only thing—the only person—that mattered right now; that only ever mattered.
Sam softened his voice as he squeezed his brother's hand again. "Ecstatic. Few minutes, I promise, and we're outta here. I'm gettin' ya' out. I just..."
He looked down at Dean and offered him what he hoped was a reassuring smile, but the small tremors he still felt pulsating throughout his body told him he had failed miserably.
"I'm gonna get you outta these," he promised. "Then we're going, okay?"
Sam let go of Dean's hand, the loss of contact with his brother an almost physical pain; and grabbed the small knife out of the sheath attached to his belt at the back of his hip. He flipped it open with practiced ease, the blade locking into place with a soft click.
He gripped the knife tightly in his hand as he took a couple of small steps towards the end of the altar. Dean's ankles were bound together; the rope stretched tight and anchored on either side of the altar to large, iron hooks imbedded into the floor.
Sam slipped the knife under the rope at his brother's feet, one powerful upward thrust of the small, sharp blade making short work of the thick cording and it coiled silently to the floor. As firmly as he was being held down, the rope had been bound over his jeans and heavy, leather workboots, protecting the skin on his legs from both the bite of the restraints and the small, deadly blade he was currently wielding.
Sam supposed he should be thankful for small miracles where he could get them.
He gently placed his left hand in the center of Dean's chest, careful of the numerous cut and bruises marring his pale skin. Dean's heart pounded furiously beneath his palm. He let his hand rest there, hoping its weight would anchor them both, and then brought his knife to the coil of rope around Dean's wrist.
The knife was unsteady, between the blood slicking his palms and the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. He suddenly didn't know if he could slip the blade between the rope and the swollen, abraded skin without cutting his brother's wrist. No angle seemed right and the more he tried, the more unsteady the blade felt in his hand.
Suddenly, the galloping rhythm of Dean's heart slowed to a steadier beat, and Sam felt the panic subside. He knew this beat. It was imprinted on his earliest memory, ingrained on his soul for as long he could remember; and was as familiar to him—maybe even more so—than his own.
He looked at his hand resting on Dean's battered chest, noting its steady rise and fall, then met Dean's eyes. Lurking beneath the haze of pain and exhaustion lay the gleam of sarcastic, big brother humor that teased, 'Get a move on, Samantha. Time's a wastin'!'
Then something shifted in Dean's gaze. 'It's okay', it said as clear as if Dean had spoken it out loud, and the knife in Sam's hand grew still and steady.
The thick rope had been coiled once around each of Dean's wrists before his arms had been pulled above his head. The rope was then wrapped around both wrists, binding his palms tightly against each other, before being anchored taut to the floor. The torturous angle forced his hands and fingers to arch backwards, leaving little to no open—or safe—place to cut.
Sam's hope that he could cut one rope and free his brother flew out the proverbial window. Anger tightened his chest, and he growled a litany of curses at the bitch that had kidnapped and hurt his brother.
Weaving and slithering amid the veil of anger, though, guilt whispered at him just at the periphery of his conscious. It whirled around him, threatening to suffocate him with its growing intensity. Breathless murmurs spiraled closer, taunting him for not having his brother's back, for leaving him at the bar alone.
He hadn't wanted to go; had gone reluctantly, the almost pleading quality to Dean's voice breaking him worse than any weapon could. Sam had understood where he was coming from, the desire to just be brothers, to not think about the dark cloud that was looming ever so closer just over the horizon.
Despite himself, though, he'd ended up having a great time. The beers had been cold, the conversation between them easy and carefree about everything and nothing at all. Good-natured teasing and jokes had increased exponentially as challenge after challenge had been laid down in no-holds barred games of pool and darts; and Sam couldn't help but watch in amusement, and yeah, he'll admit—to himself only, of course—a tad bit of awe as his big brother had worked the room; his—to use Dean's own words—'rugged good looks and roguish charm' winning over every pretty girl he talked to.
He had bid his brother goodnight with a wave and a chuckle as he'd watched Dean head back over to their table with a brunette on one arm, a red-head on the other and a lopsided, shit-eating grin on his face; recognizing all too clearly the look in his brother's eyes that he was about to be pulled into one of his schemes.
It had been just like old times.
And, it was a double-edged sword that had torn through Sam's heart as he'd walked the short distance back to their motel, driving home the vicious, vivid reality that in too short a time he would lose the most precious thing he had.
It made him search that much harder, determined to go to the ends of the earth and beyond to find a way to break the Crossroads deal.
In his frantic, endless attempt to find a way to save his brother from one monstrous fate, he'd almost lost him to another.
He shook his head, scattering the 'what-ifs and 'should haves into the furthest recesses of his mind. He'd deal with them at another time, another place. Right now…
Sam reached up and grasped both of Dean's hands in one of his own, the red, swollen skin cold and clammy beneath the heat of his palm. He gently straightened his brother's fingers and hands—fighting against his own racing heart that was screaming at him to go faster— and slowly drew them together, then clasped them in his own.
Emotion bubbled up within him; nearly sending him over the edge as Dean clumsily looped his thumbs around Sam's little finger and squeezed weakly. Sam tightened his grip as he tipped his head down, catching his older brother watching him. Hazy green eyes filled with confidence and reassurance reflected back at him. Sam wrapped that around himself, letting it buoy his spirits and emotions.
The smile came easier this time, felt a bit lighter, and Sam nodded his head; comfort and assurance that they'd both make it out of this mess. "Hey…" he said lightly, making sure to catch and hold his brother's gaze before he continued. "I need ya' to stay still for me, okay?"
Dean nodded his head, even more carefully than before, Sam noted the motion, and he added 'possible concussion' to the growing list of injuries he'd already started to mentally catalogue.
Research and lore had told him that most of the injuries these sons-of-bitches inflicted on their victims—his stomach clenched suddenly and he swallowed hard against hot, acidic bile that rose in his throat as the image of 'victim' and 'Dean' superimposed over each other and slammed into his mind—was superficial, meant to keep them alive—and in pain—for as long as possible, until the exact moment of sacrifice was at hand.
That knowledge did absolutely nothing for Sam's sanity.
Sam shook his head. Leave it to his brother to stumble into the hands of a creature that only rose once every one hundred years to feed.
Sam took a deep, steadying breath. He tightened his grip on the hilt as he adjusted the blade, resting it perpendicular to the rope that bound both of Dean's hands. The switchblade had been a gift from his father for his tenth birthday, a sort of 'coming of age' present that he hadn't appreciated or valued until years later. Despite the span of years, the length and balance of the small, deadly blade seemed to fit his hand as perfectly now as it had what seemed a lifetime ago.
Sam edged the blunt side of the knife slowly between Dean's wrists. Slowly he sliced through the thick braided rope; tiny flecks of dried blood dusting his hands with each score mark he made.
The coarse rope was tough and it fought his efforts as though reluctant to let loose the prisoner it had held onto for so long. But, Sam was a Winchester, born and bred by the toughest of the tough; stubborn to his very core and single-minded in his determination. Back and forth, millimeter by millimeter he worked the edge of the blade, the coils fraying and splintering until unable to hold itself together; and with one final swipe, they fell away.
Immediately, he felt Dean's muscles tense in a bid to move, and Sam tightened his grip on his brother's hands to hold him still.
"Hey, hey, hey, Dean. No, no. Don't move. Not, yet."
Dean huffed out a frustrated breath, and Sam couldn't blame his impatience. He wanted Dean to be free and out of this place as much as he knew Dean did. Dean was a man of action and even in the best of circumstances he needed to move; to be leading the charge, at the heart of the action, not held back or tied down. Restrained, in the literal sense… Sam could only imagine how much his brother was losing his mind. But, moving as fast as he knew his brother wanted to move would not only result in further injury, but in his brother falling flat on his face.
He put the knife down on the altar and placed his hand back on Dean's chest. He gave his brother a pointed look. "Try not to move, okay? I'll try t'be careful, but…"
They both knew how painful the next part was going to be. It didn't matter how careful Sam tried to be. Dean set his jaw and the tension eased from his body.
Sam removed his hand from Dean's chest and slowly, carefully, unwound the heavy dark rope from Dean's right wrist. He sucked in a hiss at the amount of damage that had been inflicted. Welts and deep, angry burns encircled Dean's wrists, the skin ripped and shredded from fighting against the ropes. Blood still flowed sluggishly in places. Sam used the cuff of his jacket to wipe it away and Dean flinched. "Sorry… sorry," Sam said, stopping.
"S'okay. S'fine. Keep goin'." Dean said through gritted teeth. He squeezed his eyes shut; his jaw clenched so tightly Sam wasn't sure how he was even getting the words out.
Sam squeezed Dean's fingers then returned to his grisly task; both of them working through the pain—physical for one, emotional for the other, both just as torturous—knowing it was the means to the end they both desired.
Finishing the job the usual 'Winchester way'—counting to three, and just moving on two while the other was unprepared—wasn't going to work in this case. Old, dried blood stuck the coarse fibers of the rope to some of the wounds, causing the flesh to tear if he pulled too quickly.
Working slowly, Sam carefully peeled the last of the rope away, then repeated the same arduous task on the left side. With a vehement growl, he threw the rope across the room. Tiny hair-fine fibers had been left behind, deeply imbedded in the broken and bloody skin, and Sam would make sure Dean was far under from whiskey and good drugs before he started on the task of removing them.
"We're done, Dean. All done. Finished. You're free," Sam announced, the words coming out in a breathless rush; the elation of Dean finally being free amped ten-fold by the adrenaline coursing through him.
Sam cradled one of Dean's hands in his own and rested his other hand on his brother's shoulder. "Slow, okay? Let me do the work," he told his brother as he slowly lowered Dean's arms one by one to rest by his side.
A pained groan escaped Dean's still clenched jaw; his muscles no doubt protesting the movement after being locked for so long in such a torturous position.
"Th's sucks," Dean ground out with a pained groan, flexing and extending his fingers in what Sam knew was an attempt to get circulation and feeling back into them quicker.
Sam worked his fingers up and down the muscles of Dean's arms, trying to restore some of the blood flow to his fingers. It was risky with the wounds at his wrists, but who knew how long he'd been bound. Nothing was going to stave off the impending 'pins and needles' feeling that would inevitably hit—and hit hard—and that would be torture in itself.
"Kn'ck 'toff," Dean scoffed, batting uselessly at Sam's hands. "'Less yer blonde 'n stack'd… not int'rest'd in a m'ssage."
"Thinkin' with the wrong brain again, dude," Sam teased. The often used taunt was automatic, spoken without his conscience thought; but the words emerged flat and oddly detached; emotions falling far, far short of their usual target as his brother's flippant comment washed memories of lighthearted laughter and relaxed companionship in some no-name bar over him—memories that now, seemed like a life-time ago—before…
"M'sorry." The softly spoken, broken words were out of his mouth before Sam realized he'd said them, exhaustion, fear, and dwindling adrenaline making his thoughts swirl and his tongue loose. The guilt he felt escalated a hundred-fold at the hope that his brother was far too out of it to realize the real meaning behind his quiet words.
Dean's sudden hand on his wrist reminded Sam that he should never underestimate his brother.
"Dean… please, I gotta—" Sam's voice wavered brokenly and he bit his lip. The simple act of stringing together a sentence disappeared, words fading into the ether, and he suddenly didn't know where to begin… how to articulate the emotions that churned within him.
He bowed his head down further, his long fringe of bangs falling across his eyes and hiding his face from his older brother's scrutiny. Dean squeezed his wrist tighter, his grip impossibly strong despite his injuries, and Sam looked up on instinct. Calm and understanding green eyes stared back at him.
"'S okay, S'mmy," Dean assured, his voice slurred but remarkably steady in spite of the pain Sam knew he was in. "Ya did g'd. S'g'nna b'fine."
Sam shook his head in protest, them and 'fine' weren't even living on the same continent, wouldn't be until… His breath stuttered in his chest as he blew out a heavy sigh. "I shouldn't've left you alone. I should've stayed at the bar. I should've realized—known—there was a threat. I'm supposed to have your back…keep you safe… I was lookin'… tryin' to find…" Sam's voice hitched, and his words broke off as he looked away.
"Hey." Dean rolled abruptly, fisting his hand in Sam's jacket for leverage, and hauled himself up to a sitting position.
"Dean! What the hell?" The move was so sudden and unexpected he nearly took them both to the hard floor. Sam braced his legs, easily taking Dean's full weight as he collapsed against him, his arms shooting out in a mad grab to keep his brother steady and seated on the stone altar.
Dean groaned low in his throat and dropped his head onto Sam's chest, no doubt riding out the severe case of vertigo and pain that his impulsiveness cost him.
"Damn it, Dean!" Sam ground out through clenched teeth, his own hands gripping his brother's shoulder gently but securely. "What're you thinking?"
Dean patted Sam's chest as he leaned back, swaying to the side before righting himself and sitting up under his own power. Dean's face was pale. Sweat beaded up across his forehead, and Sam knew the only thing keeping his brother conscious was sheer force of will.
"If I c'ld lift m'arm…I'd slap ya u'side 'ur stupid-assed head. This…" Dean gave Sam a pointed look, then lifted two fingers a fraction of an inch off his lap and gestured weakly around the room before they fell back down. "This 's'on me—"
Sam shook his head, cutting his brother off. "Dean. No—"
"Shut up, S'm," Dean growled, his body swaying slightly to the side despite Sam's grip on him.
Sam huffed out a frustrated breath as he steadied his brother, sitting him back upright and holding onto him a bit tighter. He clenched his jaw, lips pursed together in a thin line, biting back the instinctive reflex to argue his point.
He wanted nothing more than to get Dean to lie back down; or better yet, to just toss him over his shoulder and carry him out of there and put this whole nightmare in their rear-view mirror. But, he knew that neither of those scenarios was likely to happen. The best he could hope was for his headstrong older brother to—maybe—allow him to support him with a steadying hand as he determinedly attempted to walk out under his own quickly fading power.
They didn't have time for this… Dean didn't have time for this.
"M'fine, S'mmy, really." Dean uttered genuinely, as if knowing exactly what he was thinking; and Sam didn't doubt he probably did.
Dean held Sam's gaze; green eyes calm and understanding despite the haze of pain. "Not 'ur fault. Looks worse 'an it is. We clear? Ya found this damn place…don't kno' how…but ya did. S'all that counts. Ya saved me, S'mmy."
'Always. Nothing is going to stop me from saving you, Dean. Ever.'
"Guess it's cuz I'm so awesome, that's why," Sam said instead with a nonchalant shrug of one shoulder, parroting his brother's favorite line even as his vow flowed fierce and strong in his mind.
"So, whadaya say," Sam asked, "you ready to get the hell out of here or what?"
"God, yes," Dean agreed, his voice weary but fervent. He moved his hands off his lap, placing them gingerly on either side of his hips and ever so slowly scooted forward on the stone altar.
Sam took a hesitant, unwilling step back, knowing his brother needed his space; needed back the independence and control that had been taken from him for so long.
The flat surface of the altar wasn't that high, a little less than hip height as Sam stood beside it, but it may as well have been Mount Everest for the effort it was taking Dean.
Shudders rippled along his biceps, shaking the tattered remains of his t-shirt as they traveled down the length of his back. Dean squeezed his eyes shut, his breath wheezing heavily in and out of his nose as muscle worked to exhaustion against searing pain as he slid himself to the floor. A small, pain filled moan escaped, and he bit down on his bottom lip, teeth sinking into the tender flesh so deeply that Sam expected to see a gush of blood at any minute.
It was a fight to hold himself back, the itch to reach forward and lend a hand almost overwhelming. He wondered if this was how Dean had felt every time he'd watched Sam tackle something for he first time.
Dean's boots hit the floor with a soft thud. Dean looked up, his gaze catching Sam's as Sam stared at him in concern. The side of Dean's mouth rose and he waggled his eyebrows, holding his arms out loosely on either side of himself. "Look, Ma, no hands. I did it."
Suddenly, his knees buckled from beneath him and his body crumpled boneless towards the hard, stone floor. Sam shot forward, long arm easily wrapping around his brother's chest and stopping his descent mere inches before his head impacted with the floor. "Yeah… alright Evel," Sam chided lightly, standing them both up, "last stunt for the night, shows over."
"Spoilsport," Dean groaned out as his body relaxed against Sam's side.
"Not listening," Sam returned easily, drawing out the words as only a little brother could. He ducked under Dean's arm and drew it slowly and gently across his own shoulder. He hooked two of the fingers on his other hand into the belt loops of his brother's jeans, further steadying him as he drew him close.
Dean's chest rose and fell along Sam's side in shallow, rapid, uneven beats; his breath short, heavy pants against his neck where Dean's head hung.
"Hey, Dean. Hey. Hey." Sam ducked his head to try to catch Dean's gaze, only to find his brother's eyes closed. He splayed his hand lightly across the middle of his brother's chest. "Slow it down, alright? Too fast."
"Mmm."
It was more a sound, than a word; a barely heard mumble, but Sam would take what he could get. "Just like me, okay?"
Sam took a deep, steadying breath of his own and forced the adrenaline pumping through him to slow, the overwhelming need to just toss Dean over his shoulder and get the hell out of here to subside.
He inhaled a deep, even breath, closing his eyes as he counted to three in his head, feeling his own heart beat against his chest just as fast as he could feel Dean's. He pulled Dean closer, tightening his grip just a bit as he slowly exhaled before starting the sequence again.
"Good. Good, that's it," Sam could feel Dean's breath as it stuttered in, the exhales just as shaky as he fought through the pain and exhaustion before it gradually slowed, and while not close to the normal rhythm that he would've liked, at least the fear that his brother was going to stop breathing all together had subsided.
"Alright," Sam started as he pivoted them both around. He took small cautious, measured steps, guiding Dean down and around the far end of the altar. "Let's go…" The rest of his sentence stuck in his throat as his gaze once again caught on the large pool of darkened blood that stained the rough stone floor.
His brother's blood.
Warm fingers squeezed the back of his neck, bringing him back, calming him like they had done for as long as he could remember and he looked sideways over at his older brother.
"N't all mine, dude," Dean reassured, casting a quick glance at the crimson stain. "Took out four o'her henchmen b'fore th'bitch mojo'd me."
"Only four?" Sam commented lightly, his eyes reflecting the pride he felt at the skilled hunter his older brother was even when faced with such incredible odds. He made a wide pass, steering them both around the discolored stones, their leather boots barely making a sound as he let Dean set the pace as they set out across the large room.
"Yeah, well…" Dean held Sam's gaze for a moment, tipping his head minutely before clearing his throat and shifting his focus again front. "Had to leave s'thing for you. Know how delicate an' tender y'r emo-self c'be." He panted. "Didn't want ya t'get y'r little pink princess panties all in a knot if ya thought I l'ft you outta all th'fun."
"That was really kind of you, you know," Sam deadpanned.
"I know." Dean's fingers tugged clumsily at the front of his shirt and Sam glanced down quickly before raising a quizzical eyebrow at his brother. "Ya alright? How bad Morgana get ya?"
He glanced back down at his shirt, noting—for the first time—the jagged rips and tears and streaks of blood coating the front of him.
Some belonged to him, he knew; remembering the strikes and blades that had come too quickly and too often for him to defend and evade. Now that he was aware of them he could vaguely feel the pull and burn of torn skin as he walked. Adrenaline was a wonderful thing, he supposed.
The rest of it… he didn't want to think about.
"M'fine," he assured Dean, and laughed lightly at his barely-conscious brother's snort of disbelief at his self-assessment. He knew more than one of the razor-sharp blades had cut deep, that he needed a bit of patching-up and stitching as well; could feel the slow trickle of blood as it ran down the muscles of his arms.
But, none of that mattered. It was negligible in the overall scheme of things. Dean was alive—a little worse for wear, definitely—but, living, breathing and back beside him.
"And she wasn't a witch," Sam corrected as he continued, "she was from an ancient race of…" He paused, taking in Dean's slumped shoulders and bobbing head. "You know what, never mind. I'll explain it when your eggs are little less scrambled.
"Mmm, yeah," Dean muttered, "m'n't sure m'g'nna listen t'ya even th'n. Bitch s'dead, s'all th't matters." He tilted his head slightly, gazing at Sam out of the corner of his eyes. "Sh'dead, right?"
"Very," Sam affirmed firmly, succinctly; the hard edge to his voice ending any further questioning regarding the matter. "Gonna come back and torch the place after I get ya outta here."
Their pace was slow, agonizingly so, one step every three seconds it seemed as Dean gasped and faltered beside him. It was all he could manage, and Sam knew it was sheer Winchester stubbornness that was keeping his brother on his feet and moving.
Dean's feet scuffled along the floor, the fine grit of sand that coated the stones sounding like coarse sandpaper as he all but dragged his feet. He hitched Dean up a bit higher, clasping him a bit tighter as Dean's body grew heavier and heavier against him with each step they took.
"Not much farther, Dean," Sam encouraged, as they passed—finally—under the ornate archway and headed towards the door beyond. "Come on, dude, you can do it. We're almost there."
"Let m'guard d'wn, S'mmy," Dean admitted suddenly, quietly. Sam jolted slightly in surprise at both the soft, somber admission and the barely audible voice. Dean had been silent for so long Sam was convinced that his brother had lost his battle with consciousness and his body was moving by rote memory alone.
"Yeah?" Sam asked. The concern for his older brother and the horrible cascade of events that had led to his capture were evident in the tone and emotion lacing his voice, but he didn't stop their forward momentum, not when they were so close.
The wooden door still hung askew from where Sam had burst in, one hinge the only thing keeping it standing as it swung gently in the warm, summer evening breeze. He raised his leg as they approached, never loosing stride as one powerful, swift kick splintered the wood and toppled it over the outside railing, leaving it in pieces on the dewy grass below.
"Coupla steps down, Dean," he cautioned, still waiting, hoping—but not really expecting—for Dean to go into details as to what had happened after he'd left him alone. Sam stopped them on the stoop, giving his brother a moment to rest and catch his breath before they headed down the stairs and to the Impala waiting hidden just inside the treeline.
He glanced over at Dean. Whatever question he was about to ask vanished from his mind at the twitch of a grin that pulled the corner of Dean's mouth. Sam cocked his head, his eyebrow quirked in a silent question that he just knew he was going to regret ever asking.
"Wha' c'n I say, S'mmy," he drawled, his voice growing along with his grin as he let the sentence hang. He took an ungraceful, awkward step down, white-knuckling the metal railing while his fingers gripped Sam's shirt even tighter.
"Heard some…pretty in'restin' lines in m'time," Dean continued thoughtfully, easing himself gingerly into the passenger seat of the Impala with a sigh of relief and a slew of curses. "Nev' had…a hot chick atta bar say…she wansta…worship at the altar of… of my Heavenly G—god stick."
There was a twinkle in Dean's exhausted, pain-filled green eyes that Sam hadn't seen in longer than he could remember, and he couldn't contain the snort of laughter that bubbled forth from the very depth of his soul.
He rolled his eyes, shaking his head in a mixture of exasperation and fondness as he closed the passenger side door. He'd had wanted to know, silently hoped that Dean would open up to him—take him into his confidence—and tell him details about what had happened. That wasn't what he'd had in mind.
That the image would be forever burned into his psyche and would probably give him more nightmares than all the horrendous things he'd had to endure so far in his young life; the last three days included. Be careful what you wish for as the old adage goes.
Sam slid behind the wheel. He turned the engine over and the muscle car roared to life, her deep rumble filling the night. He glanced at Dean across the bench seat. His head was resting up against the glass, eyes closed.
Sam felt a spike of panic and reached out his hand to check for a pulse.
"That one may hafta go in my memoir, eh S'mmy?" Dean said, sleepily. His eyes stayed closed, but he sank deeper into the seats.
Sam could hear the unspoken, 'Quit fussin' Florence,' and he curled his fingers into a light fist and shook his head.
"Oh, it should go somewhere, alright," he remarked sarcastically.
Dean smiled in his sleep, and it was so smug and… Dean. Sam found himself matching it, laughing lightly again as he turned the radio on low and shifted the car into drive.
They still had a long road ahead of them.