Prompt:"Sam CARRIES Dean out of Purgatory", by i_speak_tongue over at livejournal in mad_server's S7 Finale meme.
A/N: This is quite simply a prompt fill, and not a very thorough one at that. I'm sure there are spelling errors and typos that I haven't caught, and so I'll just say I'm sorry in advance. It's a thought heavy little oneshot, so be warned if that's not your cup of tea.
Thanks for reading, thanks for reviewing if you find the time. :)
Disclaimer: I don't hold any claim to Supernatural or any of the characters, and I'm not making any money on this.
The When
Summer turns to autumn. Autumn turns to winter, and Sam is still looking.
Oh, he knows how. He's waiting for the when. Literally waiting, because the timing has to be right. Sam will get through, and not back, otherwise. He waits for the signal.
Honestly, though, living with the knowledge that Dean is in purgatory, and Sam is still up here? It's almost tempting to go through too soon and get stuck and then figure it all the hell out with Dean.
The little cottage on the edge of Bobby's land, left to Dean, and then on to Sam, has taken on a new life in the last few months. Sam carefully set up the ritual in the only room that had a roof and remotely waterproof surroundings in the house, and then set about keeping his hands busy. It's a tiny little thing, with two bedrooms upstairs that boil with heat in the summer sun, and a kitchen worn down from years of being in use, and then standing there all alone with no one to even wipe down the counters. It's more like someone's vague idea of a kitchen than an actual kitchen, but Sam is working on it. Truly is.
And somehow, through the long, long months in waiting for the when Sam makes it a house someone can live in. Not a home, but a functional house. Sort of.
The Impala has a spot out front, and though she isn't as spotless as when Dean takes care of her, Sam can carry his own. She was his November project.
It's March now, and as he does laundry in the second (more like fifth) hand washing machine, the when hits him.
Castiel, his eyes wide like he knows things he shouldn't, his words confused and muddled as he talks of boardgames and says what Sam is pretty sure is actually "It was the butler, in the living room." like he's playing Cluedo, not saving Dean's life, stands in the middle of the room. Which is tiny, and Sam is huge, and Cas doesn't have any concept of personal space at all.
Sam shoves him into the hamper, then runs for the living room. Lights the candles. Reads hurriedly in latin, doesn't need the cheat sheet because he fucking knows it all by heart by now, having recited it under his breath for the better part of nine months. He twists it in his fingers anyway. Doesn't have the luxury of fucking up.
The living room blurs. The painted green floor turns brown with rotten undergrowth, and the sweet scent of fabric softener turns sweeter still, decay and misery heavy in the air.
Sam shudders, looks behind him. It's the strangest thing, like he's in a Disney cartoon. There's a door. A plain, painted door. Homemade, with a round handle worn by years of use.
He wonders vaguely who used it, and steps further in.
He should be close. Should.. Should see Dean. Strictly speaking, he should be right in front of him.
His ritual, it hones in on the thing that belongs the least in purgatory. If that isn't Dean, Sam isn't sure who it is. What it is. Might be. Whatever.
There's a soft sound behind him, like someone bit their tongue. A scared sound no one was ever meant to hear, or certainly not try to decipher. He turns to find Dean, almost 20 cm from his own face, hand outstretched to touch his hair. He's filthy, but he looks the same as Sam remembers. He isn't wasted. Doesn't look like he's been living on a deserted island for nine months, talking to a volley ball. His hair, always cropped short, is still cropped short in the same controlled ways it always is. Sam doesn't know why he imagined Dean with a sharp rock, tugging it off and cutting it away.
He's unshaven, a few days growth on his face, and his clothes are torn, and fuck, they're bloody.
"Sammy" Dean whispers. "What the fuck took you so long?"
And then his eyes roll up into his head. His shoulders seem to contract into his stomach, but Sam realises it's only because he's falling.
Sam doesn't let him. Wraps his arms around his brother, pulls him up. Dead weight against his taller frame. He heaves him up, the weight staggering him slightly, but Dean's broad shoulders have always hidden a slighter body than most people think. Larger than life personality hiding a body of average size. Sam knows, because he's hauled Dean's ass out of more tight spots than he can count.
And Sam is a fucking Sasquatch, for crying out loud.
I ain't heavy, I'm your brother, the creepy voice that sounds like Dean in his head sings.
He stumbles through the door, and realizes belatedly that no one has used it to get out of Purgatory, because it's the door that leads to their pantry. In their kitchen.
Dean gurgles in the back of his throat, and Sam almost drops him in his haste to get upstairs, the staircase even narrower than when Sam navigates it alone, his head always banging on the ceiling, shirt sleeve catching on the nail he always forgets to pull out of the wall.
Up the stairs, to where there's a bed, and a tiny little bathroom which sometimes has water and medicine and bandages because fuck shit fuck fuck stupid, the living room was all taken up by herbs Sam has religiously switched weekly, and candles that have gotten progressively more dusty as time ticked away, closer to the when.
He's not nearly as prepared to have Dean back as he thought he was.
The musty smell of decay clings to Dean as Sam pulls off his boots, his jeans. Doesn't give a thought to dignity or personal space, tugs it all off.
Dean is pale. Thin, because they didn't exactly eat well in the time before he went down.
His leg is broken. Badly.
His head has bumps and bruises, and his pupils are uneven and slow. Sam worries.
His chest has a deep cut that's already turning pink at the edges, that Sam can't close with stitches out of fear of infection, and there's an unhealthy pink tinge to his cheeks and rattle in his breath as Sam heaves him into the tub, showers him off with water that's warm. And fuck if that little accomplishment doesn't almost make him cry. He feels like putting Dean in the tub, with the little piece of lavender soap sitting on the edge and leaving purple markings, makes it more permanent somehow. Like the mundane act of bathing is the final signal that the when came and went and it's all all right.
He's got Dean back, in a house with warm water. Got him away from leviathans and crazy ass angels and into the safe, warm arms of a baby brother with a head full of regret and worry.
And he's a fucking Sasquatch who went to Purgatory to carry his older brother, by three years now, home.