To Endure Burning
K Hanna Korossy
"What is to give light must endure burning." – Viktor Frankl
"Sam can't do this."
Sam stopped and frowned at the half-open warehouse door. At his brother's voice, his brother's words from the other side. What? He set his jaw and threw open the door.
Dean and Charlie looked up, neither of them looking guilty of having been caught mid-confession.
Sam opened his mouth, hesitated. "Did you…say something?" he finally asked.
Dean shrugged easily. "I was just telling Charlie, you and I couldn't have done this without her." He looked fondly at the warrior princess they were well on their way to adopting as an honorary Winchester. "Not that we're gonna make this a regular thing, right?"
She held up her hands in mock surrender. "I know, I know. Lot different going on adventures when you're sitting safe in your bedroom than when you're in creepy warehouses with glowy-eyed monsters." She gave an only partly exaggerated shudder.
She was trying but she was still pale, not just from the run-in with the djinn, but also from what Dean had briefly whispered to Sam that she'd been through in the djinn's fantasy. Letting your loved one go: Sam knew more than most how hard that was. The way Dean was watching her, he was only worrying about her being okay, too. Not exactly the time to be discussing Sam's issues; he must've misheard. It wasn't like he was at his peak, either.
He shook himself and raised his arms, and the gas cans hanging from each hand. "Fireworks, anyone?"
It was a little disturbing how both Dean and Charlie perked up at that.
Their DNA, and God knows what else, was all over the warehouse, not to mention two dead djinn. It was an empty building on an empty block: easy to torch. They'd be long gone by the time firefighters made it to the scene.
The bodies and rooms doused with kerosene, Dean flicked his lighter on, then offered it to Charlie. She accepted with only a moment's hesitation, lighting the trail they'd left to the front door, then quickly stepping back as the fire whooshed up. She stood between them, leaning her head on Dean's shoulder as they watched the place burn.
"Pretty," she murmured.
Sam traded a raised eyebrow with his brother over her head.
They left when they could just hear the first siren in the distance.
They were heading to Charlie's apartment to pick up her car, which she wanted to drive herself to the bunker. Charlie insisted on sitting in the back on the way—some comment about how the front was "Sam's seat" that Sam didn't want to think about the source of—but she was so quiet, he wished they'd switched.
He traded another worried glance with Dean, relieved when his brother cleared his throat and took up the gauntlet.
"Hey, Red. How you doing back there?"
The nickname was said with affection, like Sammy usually was, and Sam turned enough to see her attempt at a smile.
"Not so great. Processing? I guess?"
Dean shrugged with misleading ease. "Sounds kinda normal to me, considering."
Sam wanted to listen to the conversation, but fatigue washed over him in a wave, and he leaned stiffly against the side window. He could feel Dean's attention dart to him, and he waved an okay with a limp lift of the fingers. Not hurt—well, not beyond the usual bruises of a physical hunt—just tired. A fight with the teen djinn on top of worry about Charlie on top of…well, whatever it was the Trials were doing to him. Dean had been right: Sam wasn't in hunting shape. Right now, he was pretty sure he wasn't even in tying-his-shoes shape.
"…Sam's the unworthy one. He keeps letting me down—I should be doing the Trials, not him."
The sound of his name yanked his attention back. The rest of what Dean said yanked Sam's head up.
"What?" Dean said off his stare, swiveling between the road and Sam. "What's wrong?"
Sam sank back against the seat. He was hearing things. Micro-sleep, or a half-awake dream. God knew he was tired enough.
"Sam?" Dean said more sharply when he didn't answer.
"Yeah, sorry. I'm okay. Fine, just…fell asleep for a second."
"Well, we got a couple hours' drive ahead—take a nap."
"I'm—" A yawn cut off his attempt at dissembling. "Yeah, maybe. Charlie?" he remembered belatedly, turning again to look at the back seat.
She was curled up in a ball in the corner, apparently asleep. He wasn't about to call her on it if she was pretending.
"Been a long day." Dean, King of the Understatement.
"Yeah." Sam cleared his throat, tasting blood in the back of it. "If the djinn had killed her…"
"Yeah," Dean said darkly to the windshield. "I know."
"We could ask her to stay at the bunker? God knows we could use her help with cataloging and research." And she'd be safe, was the unspoken he knew Dean could hear.
Dean's mouth quirked in a melancholy smile. "She wouldn't stay for long, you know that."
Yeah, he did know that. Sam sighed, picking at a loose thread in his jeans and trying not to feel like life was unraveling around him.
"You don't deserve the help, anyway."
He blinked as Dean's words hit home, raising his head to ask what?, when his arm pulsed with a glow and a deep jolt of pain. Sam hissed instead and grabbed it, massaging muscles that felt like they were tying themselves in knots.
"You okay?"
Teeth still clenched, Sam looked up at his brother. "Yeah, I'm… Did you say something?"
"Uh…" Dean eyed him. "'You okay?'"
The light was gone, muscles tired and aching but no longer in danger of snapping. Sam rubbed carefully. "No, like… Never mind." If the Trials were affecting his body this much, they could easily be affecting his mind, too. Which was a…really disturbing thought.
"Sam?"
"It was just a cramp. I'm all right," Sam insisted, making himself let go of his arm. Without the tension of pain, he sagged back into the seat, boneless.
"Sure you are." But Dean didn't challenge him further than one more glance filled with skepticism that, truth be told, Sam totally shared. "You want the blanket from the trunk?"
"'M good," Sam said, a qualified truth. He could've slept on a bed of nails just then, not that after a nap he'd be anywhere near good. He slid down on the seat so he could tilt his head more comfortably between headrest and window.
Unworthy…don't deserve the help. His subconscious's condemnation followed him down into dreams of darkness.
00000
"Whaddaya say we find our prophet?" And Dean walked away, leaving Sam reeling from his brother's unexpected, hard hug.
"Uh…yeah." He pushed his hair out of his face, still nonplussed. What had Dean and Charlie talked about outside after Sam left, anyway? But he had to admit, if only to himself, his brother's rare open demonstration of love felt…nice. Encouraging. Accepting.
Dean stopped in the doorway, one hand on the jamb, and glanced back at Sam. "And we gotta finish these Trials soon, or you know they're gonna kill you." With a sympathetically pointed look, he walked out.
Sam's stomach wrenched. He'd basically figured as much, but to hear Dean say it, especially after that show of faith, was unsettling. He rubbed one shaking hand against the other, flinching when he realized he was digging his right thumb into his scarred left palm. Sam let out an unsteady breath and shook his arms free.
"Screw this." He was going to bed.
He didn't bother with a shower, tooth-brushing, or even hitting the head. Just kicking off his boots drained what little energy he had left. He fell on top of the covers, asleep before he could think another thought besides ahh.
Something woke him up.
Sam blinked gritty eyes and rubbed his face in the comforter he'd been sleeping on top of. Yeah, definitely awake, although he could have sworn he'd heard something from his dream. A yell—a thud? His mind felt muddy, stuck between waking and dreams.
There: a grunt, then another definite thump down the hall.
Sam pushed himself up on all fours, then clambered awkwardly to sit on the edge of the bed. His vision darkened for a moment, head swimming. He closed his eyes, trying to find balance, inside and out. Okay. Maybe he wouldn't fall over now if he stood.
He pushed up. Tipped back a moment, fingertips pressing into the mattress to keep himself upright, then mostly stable on his feet. He shoved hair impatiently out of his face.
A scraping sound.
Frowning, Sam wobbled to the chest at the foot of his bed and grabbed the Smith & Wesson that was packed on top. Checking to make sure there was a bullet in the chamber, he made his way to the door.
The hallway was quiet and deserted. Dean's door was closed, no sound coming from inside. But small noises from the direction of the library were more noticeable now.
Adrenaline steadying him—finally—Sam crept down the hall.
He didn't see anything at first, the room dimmed the way Dean usually left it for the night, with the lights turned down low but not off. The long table and the chairs scattered around were all just dark shapes. Nothing moved.
Until it did.
"Hold it!" Sam barked, gun coming up.
The figure turned, light bouncing off something in its hand. Its eyes gleamed even in the faint illumination as it raised its hand.
Sam fired twice, the sound bouncing painfully through his head, and saw the intruder topple.
He rushed forward, hip bumping a chair, hand sweeping along a table until it found the cord of one of the banker lamps. He jerked it on, and the halo of light illuminated his kill.
Kevin lay on the floor, eyes open but unseeing, a polished aluminum mug loose in his grip.
"Oh my God," Sam breathed, and went down to his knees. "Kevin." He shook the kid, making the dark head loll. "Kevin!"
Dead. He was dead, chest stained with red, eyes staring accusingly at Sam. A keen pushed out of Sam's throat—how could he have done this? How could—?
"Sam?" his brother's voice called from behind him.
And, oh, God, what would Dean think? Sam had killed their friend, the kid they were supposed to be protecting.
"Sam!"
He squeezed his eyes shut, rocking where he knelt. No, no, it wasn't possible, he couldn't have—
"Sam." Hands gripped his shoulders, let go to cup his face. "Hey. Sam. Snap out of it."
If only he could, if he hadn't…killed…
"Sammy, c'mon, man, you're scaring me here."
Sam bit his lip and opened his eyes, bracing for his brother's revulsion. But all he saw was Dean crouched in front of him, eyes dark with worry skipping over his face.
"You awake now? Sam?"
He sucked in a breath, aware of Dean brushing at his face. "I—what?"
"You're in the library, dude—you were yellin' and cryin'. Must've been a helluva dream."
With them, the question was literal. "Kevin," Sam whispered, and pulled away to look down at the floor…
…where Kevin wasn't. No body, no blood, no accusing eyes.
His gaze darted back to Dean. No accusation there, either, just compassion and concern.
"Kevin? He's AWOL, remember? Booked it from Garth's boat. I swear, if we track the kid down, I'm chaining him to one of the tables here."
Sam swallowed, heart no longer threatening to break out of his chest. Kevin was safe. A dream—it had been just a dream. A nightmare. He sputtered a relieved laugh.
Dean's grip on his arm flexed. "Sam?"
Yeah, that probably didn't sound too sane. He shook his head, rubbing the last of the wetness from his face. "No, I'm okay. Just…bad dream. Like, killing-people-I-care-about bad."
Dean would get it. Ironically, was probably the only person on Earth who would. He sat back on his heels, only one hand on Sam's elbow now, but it held him tight. He snorted. "Yeah? You weren't in Army khakis, were you?"
"What?" Sam stared at him, still feeling three steps behind.
Whatever it was sent a fleeting smile across his brother's face. "Never mind. You ready to get up now, or you wanna sleep some more on the floor?"
"Up," Sam said firmly, hanging on to Dean as much as Dean hung on to him as they staggered to their feet. Crap, he was weak. And nauseated. And exhausted.
"Bed, or breakfast?"
"Breakfast," Sam answered instantly, a lesser of two evils. Not by much, he thought as he trudged alongside Dean, gulping at the thought of food.
But one glance back at the empty floor, and it was no contest.
00000
"You sure about this?" Dean stared hard at him.
"For the third time, yes, I can stay home by myself for one hour."
Dean's face twitched with indecision. But considering breakfast had been crackers, peanut butter, and coffee with that gross powdered milk creamer, they needed a supply run. For a girl half Sam's size, Charlie had eaten twice as much as he had.
Sam sighed as his brother continued to vacillate. "Dude, seriously. I'm just gonna sit here and research, okay?"
This time he saw a different hesitation. Dean knew what he really needed was sleep, and knew just as well that Sam feared another nightmare, especially if Dean wasn't there.
Gratitude-infused annoyance, a familiar feeling where Dean was concerned, colored Sam's tone. "You want me to go to the store?"
There: horror replaced Dean's worry. "Uh, yeah, no, you're not going anywhere near my baby's steering wheel until you can walk a straight line by yourself."
"I can—" Sam automatically started to protest, but thought better of it in case Dean called his bluff. "You want me to call for food delivery?"
"Dude, secret bunker?"
It was true; they'd tried ordering a pizza once, and Dean had gone to meet the guy after he'd driven around for a half-hour trying to find the place. "Secret" apparently meant warded even from innocent deliverymen.
Sam glared at his big brother.
"Okay, okay." Dean put his hands up in surrender. "You're a big boy, I get it. Just try not to…implode or anything while I'm gone, okay?" He was finally shrugging on his jacket.
"'Implode'?" Sam reared back. Because that was probably one of the few things he wasn't worried about.
"Whatever, just, keep the gun with you," A nod at the Smith & Wesson Dean had retrieved from his room and that Sam was pretending wasn't there. "And if anything happens, and I mean anything—"
"Call you. Yes, I got it the first five times," Sam said with weary patience. "Would you just go already?"
One last hesitation, no humor in this one. Just an acknowledgement that they'd been through a lot that truly sucked, and Dean had good reason to worry about him. He finally gave Sam a small smile and turned and left. A few seconds later, the bunker door clanged shut.
And a little fear-fed loneliness settled into Sam's chest.
Resolutely, he grabbed one of the water bottles Dean had set out for him, washing the taste of blood out of his mouth, and flopped down into the nearest chair to get to work.
Easier said—or thought—than done.
They weren't looking for new hunts. Kevin—wherever he was—hadn't figured out the last Trial yet, and there really weren't any other resources for that. Dean hadn't been able to get a bead on their missing prophet, either, but if Dean couldn't find you, you couldn't be found. And Sam was pretty sure the Bunker's library didn't have anything on what Dean alternately called "Trialculosis," "Bunker Fever," and, colorfully, "Sam Pox." There was a ton of cataloging to do, true, and they hadn't even begun to really delve into all the Bunker contained. But Sam didn't have the energy to go poking through the shelves and storage rooms.
He sighed, pulling his laptop closer. "Might as well catch up on notes," he muttered to himself. He hadn't had time to record any of what they'd learned about the Trials so far, and it wouldn't even occur to Dean to do so. While his big brother kept his own journal, or occasionally even updated Dad's, the Bunker's library was tacitly Sam's domain.
The task would've been easier if the screen didn't keep going fuzzy and his shaky fingers weren't hitting the wrong keys. Sam stopped to rub his eyes, then glared at his traitorous hands. He couldn't even research well; Dean had been right about his being useless.
Wait, had he said that? Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think through the headache that seemed a permanent resident now. No, not useless, just not up to hunting. He snorted; no kidding. In his current condition, he'd shoot everything but what he was aiming for, and a toddler could outrun him. Even when laid up, he'd always comforted himself with the thought that he could still hunt in other ways: research, contacts, experience. But that was kind of hard when your brain felt like mush and your body followed suit.
Sam shoved the laptop away with a growl of frustration and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. The Trials were important; what he was doing was important. And he was still grateful it was him and not Dean. But…what if he didn't get better with the last Trial? Or, like Dean had said—hadn't he?—Sam could die first if they didn't figure out the last Trial soon. He really was useless like this. Dean already looked like he was ready to give up on Sam…
A klaxon started shrilling through the Bunker, and Sam jolted in his seat. What the…?
But it was okay, because Dean was back. Walking down the stairs toward him. Not seeming bothered by the alarm at all. Smiling, in fact…
Sam's blood ran cold. That wasn't Dean.
Sam shoved to his feet, chair scooting back. "Wh-who are you?" Was the Smith & Wesson in arm's reach? Anything else he could use as a weapon? His mind churned like an overworked machine, producing nothing.
Not-Dean's smile widened. "Aw, Sammy, you don't recognize me? Your own brother?" It was wearing the same clothes as when Dean had left, face still unshaven and pale with fatigue. But its expression was unfamiliar, its body language wrong. Slithering.
"Exorcizamus te, omnis—"
Not-Dean laughed. "Oh, you think I am Dean, just possessed? Huh. I'm flattered, actually. Looks like I got it right." He blinked…and his hazel eyes were suddenly golden, the pupils black.
That was like nothing Sam had ever seen before. His throat closed up in panic.
Not-Dean reached the bottom of the stairs and looked around the Bunker with interest. "Nice digs. Lot better than the caves I've been living in. It'll need a few improvements, but," those awful eyes pinned Sam mockingly, "what home doesn't?"
"No," Sam said weakly. Wasn't the Bunker warded against, well, just about anything? How could something evil get in? And it had to have crossed Dean's path to look so much like him. But it was here and Dean wasn't, and that… "Where's my brother?"
"Oh, don't worry about Dean," the thing said carelessly. "He won't be back."
With a strangled cry, Sam reached for his gun.
It wasn't the usual demonic power that threw him back; this felt like a giant hand casually swatting him, sending him flying across the room. He hit a bookcase in a white blast of pain and went down, stunned.
Not-Dean sauntered toward him, inhuman smirk in place. "He begged me to leave you alone, you know. Dying breath, maybe?" It feigned contemplation. "Eh, guess it doesn't matter. He said you were sick, weak." It skirted an upturned chair and crouched down next to Sam, bringing with it a fetid smell that made him gag. "A helpless hunter."
And he was. Paralyzed more by his frailty than by the attack. Unable even to…to avenge… Sam bit his tongue against the rage, the grief, fingers scrabbling uselessly against the floor.
Bumping up against the katana that had been knocked loose from the bookcase with his impact.
Sam took a breath, clearing his head of the despair that threatened to shut him down. "How did you get in here?" he asked calmly.
Real-Dean would've known to be on his guard when Sam went still like that. It was his brother's example he was following.
Not-Dean just grinned at him, mouth stretching too wide. "Easy-peasy. I just—"
With one move, Sam lifted the katana and shoved it through the thing's chest.
The eyes flashed gold, returned to hazel. The smile disappeared, lips moving soundlessly, forming a word he knew in any form. Sammy. An expression of bewilderment. Betrayal. Forgiveness. Also too familiar.
And then blood spilled out of its mouth and not-Dean—Dean?—seized and fell over.
Red blood. Human.
"Dean?" Sam didn't recognize his own voice as he shoved up on his hands, sliding over to the body. "No—Dean?"
It coughed once, then went still. Dead. He was dead. No movement, no tension in the body, hazel irises fixed and wide. A quick fumble found no pulse under the warm skin, no tickle of breath from the lax mouth.
"No, no," Sam breathed. He pulled at the coat, finding the well-known Colt tucked inside, Dean's worn wallet in his jeans. "Please, no." The Impala's keys in another pocket. "God, no." The small scar on his thumb he'd returned with from Purgatory, never explaining how he got it.
Sam fell back, tears clouding his vision, his breathing. "Dean. Dean. I can't…" He choked on a sob, fisting a hand in his hair. A hand coated in his brother's blood. "No, no, no, no!" The last was a scream in the silent room, and then he was crying too hard to hear anything else.
His blurred vision caught the movement, though. Too slow to do anything, he gaped, uncomprehending, as Dean lunged up from the ground and stabbed him in the chest.
What? He was… He looked down. Was that…a syringe? But…he wasn't…Dean?
His mind and body were fragmenting, shaking apart. He thought he heard something, maybe felt something grab him, but it was all a hurricane of sensation now: loss, fear, hope, confusion.
And then it all exploded, and mercifully went out.
00000
His throat hurt.
He flicked what felt like a grossly swollen tongue over his lips, finding no moisture at all.
"Easy. Got some water right here." Blunt plastic nudged his mouth.
Squeeze water bottle. The liquid felt terrific going down, even if it made him choke a little. A hand turned his chin to the side, mopped it dry.
"Wha-?" His eyes felt glued shut, so he tried to lift his hands to investigate.
One was held down, gently but firm. "Not yet, kiddo. Got an IV in you. You were pretty dehydrated."
He grunted, turning his head toward the voice. Dean's voice. Something about that should have given him pause, but he just felt relieved. Safe. "Fe'er?"
"Partly." His hair was pushed back off his forehead and something wet and cold settled there. It felt like a chilled piece of heaven. "Did the djinn kid touch you?"
Djinn kid? His mind was full of unsorted memories: Charlie, Kevin, Trials, tablets, Dean. Blood on his chest, leaking from his mouth, eyes blank. Sam's brow furrowed. "Dean?"
"I'm here, Sammy." His chin was tapped. "Open your eyes, dude."
He tried, found it easier when the washcloth swiped over them. His brother swam into view against a bright white backdrop. Hospital? No, uh…bunker. Dispensary.
"What?" he asked, completely baffled now.
Dean's face was expressionless, his eyes too dark to read. "I think Djinn Junior got you. Not the full treatment—more like me at Lisa's. You been seeing things, hearin' stuff?"
Unworthy—Sam can't do this. Kevin. Sam swallowed. "Saw you but…not you. Killed you. I think."
Dean snorted. "Yeah, that makes a lot of sense. You got the antidote now—it should be better."
Sam sighed, letting his eyes slide shut. His head was clearing as much as it cleared these days; he was pretty sure he remembered everything now. Enough to wonder how he would he even know "better" if he felt it. His new normal was a head cloudy from the toll of the Trials, a deep ache in his bones, and a heaviness in his chest. He was so far from good, he hadn't even realized he'd been poisoned.
"Hey…I wanna say something."
He turned back at that hesitant, grave tone from his brother. Then, sick of looking at Dean from the cot, he pushed himself up, compress sliding off. He wouldn't have made it if not for Dean helping him sit, or, well, slump against the wall, more or less eye-level now with his brother. His uncomfortable-looking brother. Sam frowned. "What's wrong?"
"You, uh…" Dean looked down at his hands, where he was turning the instant thermometer over and over. "You said a coupl'a things when you were out of your head, and…" He cleared his throat, then his shoulders straightened and he looked up to meet Sam's eyes, no longer fidgeting. "You are not useless, you hear me? Not unworthy, or helpless, or-or a failure, or anything else these Trials are kicking up in your head. Yeah, all this locking-Hell's-gates crap is working you over, and I still wish it was happening to me instead of you. But…you are doing this, Sam. You're kickin' it in the ass. What did Charlie call you, 'one tough customer'?" His brief smile slipped. "And you don't have to face it alone, man. I'm here, too, and we can get this done, together. So, no more of this 'you don't wear my chains' crap, okay?"
The upward tug of his lips was almost foreign. "Now you're quoting Augustana," Sam murmured.
Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, look who I'm quoting it for."
Sam took a long, shuddering breath. "Charlie did say there's pretty much nothing we can't do if we work together."
He saw Dean relax. "And who would know better than a fun-sized hacker with a thing for Harry Potter?"
"I'm gonna tell her you called her 'fun-sized,'" Sam said mildly. He still hurt all over, but something like contentment was seeping through him. Or maybe it was just the IV.
Dean huffed. "Like she doesn't know." He sat up straighter, dumping the thermometer onto the nearby counter. "Twenty more minutes of fluids, then you can get up."
Sam groaned, opening his mouth to complain, then flashing back to his very dead-looking brother lying on the floor, to Dean's desperate hug. "Yeah, whatever." Jerk, he added under his breath, so quiet he didn't think his brother even heard it.
Wasn't sure he heard the Bitch that wafted back through the open door as he started to doze, either, or just dreamed it.
The End