August Prompt Exchange:

"I truly am my worst enemy and my very best friend at the same time and I come to realize I'm not as alone as I feel." –Unknown [Sent by Loftwing1022]

Set somewhere in season 3 so mild spoilers. This will be my final Prompt Exchange Challenge (a big shout out to Unattainable Dreams for organizing it each month) and I've decided to combine this prompt with a request from Lilybolt who asked for "a story in which we see Bobby have a fatherly moment with Sam." Hope I did both justice!

Sam's POV

Hell's Hold

You know when something bad's about to happen, but all you can do is watch? Those moments where time moves slow and for a second, you think you must be dreaming. Because it can't really be happening like this, right now, right in front of you.

That's what this is like.

I watch it all happen like a scene from a movie. And the worst part is that this isn't the first time. It isn't the first time my brother has made a dumb move in the name of saving the goddamn day. Or, more specifically, me. And it isn't the first time I've been helpless to stop it.

Because there I am, sprawled out on the ground, gun too far out of reach, ankle shot to hell and bloody running a steady stream down my face.

There's the blackdog, stalking towards me, teeth bared in a menacing snarl as it advances. Large black eyes glaring at me with the naked hunger of the starved mutt that it is.

And then finally, there's Dean, coming from just out of the corner of my eye. He's sprinting to fill in the space between me and that murderous dog, eyes locked on target. I know this ends bad (because it's all happened before, so many times before), but all I can do is scream my brother's name and watch him collide with the mutt like he's some kind of college football star. It could be funny that way but it's not because a blackdog is not a wide receiver and the play doesn't end with a whistle, so now it's Dean who's screaming, blood soaking his jacket where the dog digs its teeth in.

It's dead in the next second because I've crawled (painfully, too slowly) to my gun on the ground and fired off a couple well-aimed shots but the dog isn't the only one who's not moving anymore. Dean's on the ground and he's still got a pulse but he's fading fast and it takes way too long to load him up into the Impala that's parked way too far away. He's got my jacket pressed against the wound (gaping wound holy shit what an idiot why'd you have to do that?) and I've done all I can to stabilize him so now I'm speeding and I'm swerving all over the road because of course it's the right ankle that's sprained or broken or whatever and who learns to drive with only their left foot? And the worst part is that there's no one to tell me to slow the fuck down and stop driving his baby like a maniac because the only person who'd say that is slumped unconscious in the passenger seat, slowly bleeding out. I'd at least expect him to wake up long enough to slap me- if not for the driving than for the number of times I've leaned over to check he's still breathing.

(Don't die on me yet Dean, not yet. Please not yet. More time, I need so much more time than what's been given to you).

We're literally in the middle of nowhere (fucking blackdogs hanging out in the farthest corner of the goddamn hundred acre woods or whatever) but Bobby's is only an hour and a half out so I point the car in that direction and make it in fifty seven minutes, horn honking as I screech into the salvage yard so that Bobby's already out the door and grabbing Dean under the arms by the time I've made it around to the passenger side.

We make quick work of laying Dean out on the table that most people would eat at and grabbing the provisions we need. The bleeding's slowed and his pulse is strong enough (weak, but strong enough) and he gasps awake when the holy water sears his torn skin, so of course that means we have to pour more into it just to make sure there'll be no infection later. Dean doesn't like that too much. But then he's all doped up on painkillers and we've moved him to the couch and he's dead to the world (but alive, thank god still alive) so it's okay for me to start breathing again.

"I can't keep doing this Bobby," is what I say with my newfound oxygen as we both stare at my nimrod of a brother. And Bobby nods a little and pats me on the shoulder twice before going to grab some ice for my ankle (I'd forgotten about it earlier but now it's throbbing like it's trying to regulate its own heartbeat). I sit down on the armchair nearest the couch, watching Dean's chest rise and fall.

When Bobby comes back over he's got that look on his face, the one that tells me I'm about to get a talking to. I can tell because his forehead gets all scrunched and his eyes get this sort of glazed look, like he's staring backwards, looking for the right memories to dredge up to get his point across. He comes to sit on the chair beside me.

"I know I'm coming to the end of my days but I swear, you boys seem intent on beating me to it. I'm telling you right now, I won't stand for that shit."

So not as profound of a speech as I'd expected but then, this is Bobby and the real meaning is always buried beneath whiskey and wrinkles and wisecracks.

"He's just so goddamn careless," I say, even though Bobby doesn't need to hear it because he's been witness to more than a few of Dean's suicidal tendencies these past few months. Ever since he made that deal. That stupid fucking deal.

The fact that my brother is leaving me (and not coming back, never coming back) in just six short months is really starting to sink in. I don't know if that's the plan here. If maybe Dean's strategy of running recklessly at the monsters who want to kill him is his way of preparing me for a future without him, but it's not working out too hot for either one of us. Because once again, Dean's lying unconscious on a lumpy couch and I'm left to drown in the guilt and the terror of losing the one person I can't imagine living without.

"Your brother may not have all his screws in place, but that boy's one hell of a fighter Sam," Bobby says, bringing me back and away from the thoughts that never really leave me anymore. It's always a constant screaming in my head now. You're brother is going to die. Your brother is going to Hell.

I can read the double meaning in Bobby's words and I nod and smile and try not to break down because Dean's the strongest person I know but even he isn't immortal when Hell's the one calling his name. Not that I've given up trying to save him. I won't give up until the last tick of that clock on that very last day.

It's just that sometimes it's hard not to tally up all the things we might've just done for the last time.

"Hey." Bobby's still looking at me with that scrunched expression and I thought we'd be done with the heart-to-heart by now (and when did I start dreading those as much as Dean?) but I can tell he's got more to say so I finally turn and meet his eyes. "We're going to fix this," Bobby says. "We're going to save your brother."

And it's then that I realize that I truly am my worst enemy and my very best friend at the same time. And I've come to realize I'm not as alone as I feel. Because as much as I hate myself for always being a step too slow and as much as I regret the cold steel of Jake's knife in my back (god why didn't I move faster?), it's that same hatred that fuels me. It's that same rage that gives me the strength to fight with all that I have. And sometimes I get so lost in all the blackness that I forget about the people standing next to me, the ones who are fighting for the exact same thing that I am.

Bobby is here (hand now pressed between my shoulder blades as I slump forward) and Dean is here (still here, still here) and together we've managed to take on some of the most terrifying monsters that walk this earth. So maybe this isn't too much to handle after all. Maybe it's just another obstacle to overcome.

And maybe we can win.

Thanks for reading!