Except sometimes, he failed. Sometimes, he couldn't withhold harm from touching Sammy. Demons, ghouls, vampires, all those things that go bump in the night, those he dealt with easily. With rock salt, silver bullets, sharp steel. But there were things that no amount of effort on Dean's part could keep from hurting Sam. Like his brother's own compassion, that damned bleedin' heart of his, which saw so many shades of gray in a world that was far better viewed in black and white. But even if he could protect Sam from himself, Dean didn't think he'd want to. Because without that big, caring heart, Sam wouldn't be Sam. And then, what was left?
Still, Dean would have given anything to have preserved his brother from what he was going through right now.
Sam slouched in the shotgun seat, unseeing eyes gazing out into the falling dusk. The Impala was heading east, back to the American heartland, crossing the Nevada desert. San Francisco was miles behind, hours away. Sam hadn't spoken all day; in fact, he hadn't made a single noise since Dean bundled him in the car and took them away from Madison's place before the cops showed up.
The cuts on his cheek stood out against pale skin. They had scabbed over nicely, though, and would fade soon. All that'd be left would be three thin, white lines that never tanned. Just another battle scar among far too many such scars they both bore.
But it wasn't that superficial injury that had Dean worried. It were the wounds Sam carried inside that made him take his eyes off the road and glance to the right time and again. Those cuts were raw, bleeding. They weren't going to scab over any time soon. And even when they finally did, they would leave angry, red scars. Scars that, though invisible to the naked eye, would itch and burn on cold, lonely nights.
Sammy had too many of those scars as well. Their mother, his girlfriend Jessica. Dad. And now Madison from San Francisco. A woman in which he feared his own fate mirrored: a good person gone bad.
"She was a brave lady," Dean said. His voice was rough from lack of use, and the sound of it, loud in the car after so many hours of silence, startled even himself.
Minutes passed.
"Yeah." The reply came so softly, Dean could barely hear it over the hum of the tires on the road. But it was a reply.
"It was the only way."
The Impala devoured another two miles of dusty blacktop.
"I know."
Dean shot another look sideways. His brother hadn't moved, despite finally speaking. He was still staring ahead, slightly to the right, turned away from Dean.
"I'm sorry." Dean knew how futile those words were, how little they helped. But he didn't know what else to say.
The last of the sun's pink glow faded from the sky in the rear view mirror. Ahead, stars popped out. A large, silver moon rose over the low hills in the distance.
"Stop the car."
"Wha—"
"Stop. The car."
Dean pulled onto the shoulder, gravel scrunching beneath the wheels. Before he could kill the engine, before the Impala had even come to a full stop, Sam wrenched his door open and tumbled out. Dean expected him to bend and barf—what he had gone through was enough to turn any man's stomach—but instead Sam strode out across the cracked ground with large, furious strides, crashing through the low shrubbery that was all that grew in this forsaken place east of the Sierras, unmindful of any snakes or scorpions that might lurk in the shadows.
He stopped, some twenty yards from the car, far enough that he would have disappeared into the shadows of the night if not for the silver light of the moon. He sank to his knees, slowly, threw back his head and screamed—no, howled at the full moon, his voice so filled with agony and frustration that cold shivers ran down Dean's spine. He hugged himself and listened to his brother pour out his anger and grief. He had not felt this helpless since the night their house burned down.
At last, Sam ran out of air and he fell silent. For a moment, the last of his cry echoed through the darkness before it, too, faded. Quiet reigned. Nature itself seemed to hold its breath in the face of so much pain. Then a cricket chirped hesitantly and gradually the whispers of desert life crept back in.
Sam still rested on his knees, head hanging forward now, his entire body heaving with racking sobs. Could this be part of the demon's plans? To push, push, push, until Sam broke?
He had sworn to keep Sam safe from that fate. Sworn it upon his father's pyre. Sworn again upon their mother's headstone, when Sam wasn't watching. Dean wasn't the praying kind. But while he watched his brother cry, he sent up a small prayer nevertheless.
Lord, help me keep that promise, at least.
Disclaimer
This story is based on the Warner Bros. Television/Wonderland Sound and Vision/Eric Kripke/Robert Singer series Supernatural. All characters belong to their original creators. The story is meant for entertainment purposes only and no copyright infringement was intended.