I picture this taking place in Season 1 or 2, because those tend to be my favorite time periods for these random fics for some reason.
Bury My Heart
He came to on the floor of their motel room. His head hurt and he felt... funny. He felt off, like he'd been asleep for a week. He sat up and pushed himself off the floor. The muscles in his arms were sore. His shoulders popped and muscles were tight. He winced at the unexpectedness of it.
He looked around the room for signs of anything amiss. There didn't seem to be anything. Then he looked down at himself. His clothes and hands were streaked with dirt and he had no idea how he got back to the motel. The light looked wrong, yellow, like it was waning. He checked his watch. It was nearly evening. Last he knew it had been morning.
Sam. Where was Sam?
"Sam?" he called, not really expecting a response.
He dug his phone out of his pocket and hit his brother's speed dial. It rang until it went to voicemail. He tried again with the same result. He swore.
A cold stone was beginning to settle in his gut. This was very wrong.
The last thing he remembered was talking with Sam in their room about the latest arrest in three people buried alive by their loved ones. Not something you see too much of, especially by three people with nothing in common in the same town, so it caught their attention.
They had gone to the station to speak with the woman, who broke down sobbing and swore she couldn't remember any of it and how could she have done that to her husband. Her last memory of anything was from grocery shopping the morning before. They slipped holy water into a cup of water, but she had no reaction, nor had she smelled sulfur or seen black smoke, so demons had been ruled out. Their general consensus was ghost possession.
Oh, God.
The pieces fell into place: The loss of memory, feeling strange, the dirt and Sam missing. He must have gotten possessed and Sam...
"Sam," he breathed as his heart started to race and his body went cold with fear.
"Okay," he said shakily, rubbing a hand through his hair. He tried but couldn't remember anything beyond being in the motel room after speaking with the witness. He'd start by retracing his steps. He went to the motel office, noting the Impala parked out front of the room and feeling that sinking feeling intensify. He asked the manager if he had seen Sam.
"Not since you left," he answered.
"How long ago was that?"
The manager stared at him like he was crazy. Dean couldn't have cared less. He just needed answers.
"Few hours ago maybe."
Dean's heart clenched. "Do you know where we were going?" he asked.
"Now why the hell would I know that?"
Dean's face tightened in angry annoyance and he turned and walked out. He checked the Impala for anything. There was nothing there either. He called Sam once more and got his voicemail again. Anxiety kept tightening its hold around his heart.
Dean went back to the room and opened Sam's laptop, hoping for a lead. He got one.
The latest pages in the browsing history showed that apparently they had figured out who the ghost was: Matthew Birch. He had been the town's undertaker, holding services at his family's farmhouse and had reportedly been buried alive by his cheating wife and her lover in the late 50's. His murder went unknown until the man his wife ran off with, Frank Meyers, confessed to the crime after he was found guilty of murdering Birch's wife in the same manner. He claimed to have no recollection of the event and committed suicide a week later.
There was nothing on where Birch was buried. There was however, a link to the address of the local history museum that had more on the crime.
It was dark as he came to. He knew his eyes were open but he was surrounded by complete darkness. He was laying down and his head hurt. Then he remembered why: Dean had hit him across the temple with the butt of his gun, only that hadn't been Dean.
They had found the grave of Matthew Birch at the old family farm- The man who's ghost had been possessing people and making them bury their loved ones alive to die as he did. Sam had started digging, Dean holding the light above. Sam's shovel had struck something solid.
They had put Birch in one of his caskets.
"They must have wanted him to die slow," Sam had commented grimly.
He opened the lid to find his bones. Sam regarded the deep scratches and grooves on the inside of the lid. Feeling uncomfortable, he hopped out of the grave. He brushed his pants off, looking back down at the hole.
"You're right. It is a horrible way to go," he heard Dean's voice say, but there was something off about it.
Sam turned to look at him. Then suddenly Dean had his sawed-off pointed at him. For a split second Sam thought the spirit had appeared and Dean was about to give it a shot of rock salt, but it was clear he was aiming at him.
"Dean, what are you doing?"
"I'm going to make you suffer as I did." It was Dean's voice, but it wasn't Dean. Somehow the spirit had gotten into his brother.
"Dean, I know you're still in there. You gotta fight him," Sam said ignoring the spirit using his brother as a puppet.
An unnatural and grotesque smile spread across Dean's face.
"Your brother can't hear you, and he won't save you," it said.
A chill ran up Sam's spine and his stomach sank.
He saw his shotgun laying a few yards away. He didn't want to shoot his brother with rock salt, but if it came to it, Dean would survive and it would expel the spirit. He darted for it as a gunshot filled the cold night air. It missed.
He had his hand around the stock as he finished his lunge and turned, bringing the barrel up just as Dean rushed upon him, kicking his leg up and knocking the weapon from Sam's grip. Sam looked back to Dean as he brought the butt of the stock down towards him with intense speed. He heard a crack, felt something connect with his head and saw a brief explosion of white and he had known nothing more.
Sam raised his hand towards his throbbing head only to have his elbow hit something close to his side. Realization hit immediately.
He was in the casket.
A panicked breath escaped him and he reached above his head. Sure enough, his hand connected with something solid, only inches from his face. He felt around at his sides and found the same. His breaths quickened. He flattened his palms and pushed against the casket lid above his face, muscles straining. He began pounding on it.
"Hey!" he yelled, "Hey! Is anyone there!? Hey! Help!"
There was no answer, no sounds at all. He stopped, chest heaving. He needed to get a hold of himself or he'd run out of air faster. He closed his eyes and tried concentrate on slowing his breathing. He fought the panic desperate to rise and for control of his mind to figure out his next move. Except he didn't know what that would possibly be.
Dean.
The people possessed were alive. That meant Dean was too. They had no memory of any of the events or where their loved ones were, but Dean was still out there. He would find him. He would be the one to figure it out. This ghost hadn't met the Winchesters.
"I'm sorry we're closing for the eve- Agent Smith."
Dean was greeted by an older man with thinning hair as he walked into the museum. He didn't recognize him but he clearly knew Dean since he came over and spoke directly to him.
"Back so soon?" he asked.
Dean wrestled with a response. Had he and Sam already been here? "Uh, Yeah, I guess so-" He looked at the man's name tag. "Walter."
"Well I'm sorry, but I'm closing up for the night."
"Please. I just need to ask you a couple of questions."
Walter sighed. "What can I help you with this time?"
"Well, I uh, was hoping you could refresh my memory."
"About the Birch murder?"
"Yes. That."
"What is it you need refreshing?"
"About where he was buried."
Walter looked at him oddly.
"As I said before, no one really knows for sure. The location Meyers gave to the police had been washed out in the Flood of '72. His grave was never found."
"Right," Dean said, "And where was that again?"
Walter gave him that look again. "Off of Wethersfield Road. The old Miller farm."
"Thanks," Dean said curtly as he turned to leave, not thinking or caring about the puzzled man left standing behind him. He had bigger concerns.
Sam waited. There wasn't much else he could do. The spirit of Birch had emptied his pockets and even taken his jacket off of him before he buried him.
He tried not to think about the fact that he was buried alive, but it kept wanting to bubble to the surface of all thought, and several times when it came close, a burst of adrenaline, a need to do something, anything to try to get out overcame him. He pounded his fists on the lid, the sides, yelling again to anyone that might be able to hear.
Of course there was never a response.
Desperation took hold and he kept slamming his fists against the wood. He could absently feel his skin ripping open and splinters sliding in but didn't stop. Then he started tearing at the wood with his nails and finger tips- anything to try to wear it down. He was vaguely aware of his nails ripping away from their beds, bending and popping off.
It was useless and he knew it. He let out a frustrated and desperate yell and put his ruined hands over his face.
Dean was doing what he could to keep his head and figure this out. Like any case, that meant find out who the ghost was, where they were buried and burn the remains.
Apparently they had found out the who and where part. They must have gone to find the grave and that's when he got jumped by Birch.
The fact that Dean had already done these things and couldn't remember as his brother may be dead or dying was excruciating. At least he had the trail to follow. He only hoped it was the one that would lead him to Sam.
He drove as fast as he could to the old farm. As he drove, a peculiar feeling started to overcome him. It was almost as though something was guiding him. He didn't know if it was some kind of deja vu or his big brother sense, but he didn't feel so lost from his brother. On the contrary, it felt like he was actually getting closer.
Wethersfield Road was long and straight with only fields and woods on either side. Ahead he could make out an old house that's roof had given in with two dilapidated barns behind it. He could make out the faded lettering on the front of the closest one- It had once spelled "Miller" in black capital letters.
His chest tightened with both fear and hope. He pulled into a lane way overgrown with goldenrod that ran down the side of the house and past the barns, shut the engine off and got out of the car.
"SAM!" He tried, still not really expecting a response.
The night was clear and the moon full, blessedly allowing for enough light to see. Dean opened the trunk, grabbed his duffel with lighter fluid, salt and his sawed-off a part of its contents. He threw extra rounds in his right jacket pocket and the EMF meter in the other. He tossed the duffel strap over his shoulder, took the shovel in his right hand and a flashlight in his left. Everything he might need. He began walking, looking for any signs that they had been here earlier.
The more minutes that passed, the more agonizing it became. The little sense of hope Dean had had when he first arrived was dwindling. There was simply so much land here.
The acutely frightening thought he may not find Sam in time- or at all- was filling him with an anxiety that threatened to send him into hysteria. He fought it against it. It wouldn't help him help Sam.
He was coming upon an old shack with a stack sticking out from the roof in the hardwoods behind the barns, likely what used to be a sugar shanty, when an electronic whine began emanating from within his pocket.
Dean reached in and pulled out the EMF meter. It hummed, red lights flickering like beacons in the dark. Dean instinctively tensed with alertness. He glanced around, shining the beam of the flashlight into the dark.
Nothing.
But his gut told him otherwise.
He lowered the shovel he was holding to the ground and let the strap of the duffel slide of his shoulder with it. He laid the flashlight down, pulled the sawed-off out and stood. A chill enveloped him and he knew it wasn't from the cool night air.
"C'mon you son of a bitch. Show yourself," he whispered angrily, bringing the stock of the shotgun to his shoulder.
And he did.
Sam didn't know how long it had been. What were only minutes felt like hours. He only knew darkness and that what air was left was stale and getting harder to breath much of it in. He tried to focus on keeping his breaths shallow. His chest felt tight and he was starting to feel light headed.
'Your brother can't hear you, and he won't save you.'
He was scared. In spite of himself, Sam began to cry silently.
He had held on to some hope that Dean would find him, but he wasn't going to make it. He didn't blame Dean- His brother couldn't have known and Sam knew he had to be frantic trying to find him.
He wanted to hope that Dean wouldn't blame himself, but Sam knew he would. His heart ached for his big brother. He wished he could tell him this wasn't his fault.
Acceptance is hard when there's a will to live. Sam didn't want to die in a box in the ground, but he was utterly helpless to change it; all his attempts were in vain. He tried to wrap his mind around the fact that this was going to be it. That being the case, he was not going to go out feeling sorry for himself. He'd go out as much like a Winchester as possible, because that's who he was. He took a couple of steadying breaths out.
"Okay. Okay," he whispered.
The spirit of Matthew Birch materialized to Dean's right. He had been a middle-aged man with a build not unlike Dean's, with short reddish blond hair parted to one side and a trimmed beard. He was wearing dirt-smeared khaki pants and a white long-sleeved button up. The guy would have looked almost normal if not for the way his body occasionally flickered and the disturbingly unnatural malice on his face as it sneered at the hunter.
Dean narrowed his eyes, finger already starting to squeeze the trigger. In a blink Birch was gone and something unseen shoved into Dean, sending him mercilessly sprawling backward.
"Sonofabitch," Dean muttered angrily as he quickly tried to regain his feet and hold of the gun.
Birch hit him again as he tried to stand. He landed by the rotting shack. Dean stood, looking for his attacker, murder in his eyes.
There was a flicker just a few yards in front of him. Dean fired, the shot reverberating off of the trees in the dark.
Birch was there again. He glided toward Dean with inhuman speed, this time connecting with him solidly. The shotgun fell to the ground. Dean's arms flew up across the front of him, holding the spirit away. His back smacked against what he assumed was a tree and he was looking into the enraged eyes of Matthew Birch inches from his own.
"Where is he?" Dean seethed. Birch smiled.
"Where is he!?" The spirit continued to smile sadistically.
Enraged, Dean mustered his strength, shoving the spirit away with a grunt. He saw the sawed-off laying between him and the shack and went for it, only to be collided with again, head smacking into a tree. He felt a warm wetness trickle down the side of his head.
"Damn it!" Dean yelled in frustration. He didn't have time for this. Birch appeared behind the dropped gun. Dean looked from the gun to the spirit, then from the spirit to the shack.
Realization dawned.
Birch wasn't trying to keep him from the gun. He was trying to keep him from the shack. Ghosts have a proclivity for getting up in arms when you're near torching their bones. He had removed them from his grave after possessing Dean, using Dean to hide them.
Dean dove from the gun, managing to roll out of the way and Birch went for him at the same time. He grabbed it, got to a knee, swung the weapon and fired. It hit Birch square in the chest. He screamed, a mixture of surprise and hatred, and was gone. For the moment anyway.
Dean wasted no time. He grabbed the duffel and burst into the shack, eyes darting around for Birch's hiding place. They quickly found the leaves and other debris on the floor in one corner that sat in a peculiar heap, as though the rusted metal bookcase that sat there had been moved across the floor, pushing them into a pile before being moved back.
He shoved the case out of the way. The floorboards underneath were broken. He pried at them. They came up with no resistance. Sure enough, there was what was unmistakably a pile of human bones.
Dean delved into the duffel, pulling out salt which he promptly poured, then the lighter fluid, which he drenched the S.O.B's remains with. He went to flip open the lighter when Birch was able to somehow wrap arms around him from behind. Dean stumbled backwards, falling on his back. Birch was suddenly over top of him, smirking manevolently again. He raised a pale hand to Dean's head, but then his face fell.
This time Dean smiled. He pulled his shirt collar aside to reveal an iron chain and pendant around his neck.
"Anti-possession charm, asshat. You're not getting back in here."
Birch looked afraid, and Dean was glad. He flicked the lighter still in his hand. Birch looked from his face, to it and back at Dean.
"Your brother's dead. Dead by your hand," the spirit spat at him. Dean could see the fear in its eyes.
"Never going to happen. Now go to Hell." Dean threw the lighter into the hole in the floor.
There was a burst of orange light there then Birch was standing, backing away from Dean with an unbelieving and fearful expression.
Bits of his form caught fire a little at a time then engulfed his whole body. Birch shrieked crazily. It filled Dean with satisfaction.
The scream finally died with the light. Dean's eyes unsquinted. Birch was gone and the shack was empty and dark again.
Dean got to his feet, feeling more urgency than before. More time had passed. He quickly gathered what he needed, scooping the discarded flashlight up as he broke out into a near run.
He zigzagged through the woods, eyes frantically searching. He came to a small clearing and looked around, putting his arms over his head.
"Sammy. Please. Where are you?" he whispered, eyes filling and chest heaving. "Please." His voice was strained from the lump in his throat. It was unsteady and tearful and he didn't care.
His blurred vision caught site of something across the clearing. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. There was a fresh mound in the earth. He raced toward it
Time ticked by. Though it was crucial, he had little concept of it. Seconds, minutes, hours. He wasn't sure. It all felt like an eternity.
Sam's body felt heavy and weak. His lungs expanded but there was seemingly nothing left to fill them. He foggily looked forward to passing out. At least then he'd know no more of this.
He worried about his brother, what his dying might do to him, but there was nothing he could do. He had to trust that Dean would be alright. His heart reached out to his brother and he willed him to be. It was all that was left that he could do. It was everything left he cared about.
He quietly said his brother's name as he finally lost consciousness. He was saying goodbye.
Dean dug. He dug like, well, like a man possessed. Except this time it wasn't by a vengeful spirit.
He was so focused on his rapid and fluid motions to get through the dirt that he almost didn't realize he had hit something solid as soon as he did. He tossed the shovel to the side and dropped to his knees, hands vigorously brushing dirt off of the lid. A lump of fabric moved with it. Dean held it up in front of him and fisted his hands in the material. It was Sam's jacket.
"Sam!" he called. There was no response as he got to one side of the casket, lifting the other. It wouldn't budge. He pulled harder, yelling as he did. There was a crack, and then a reluctant pop and the lid flung open.
For a moment the world stopped along with Dean's heart and breath.
Sam lay with his head slightly to the side, eyes closed. One hand lay across his chest, the other across his stomach. They were torn and bloody. There was a trail of dried blood down the side of his head, and he was blue.
"Sam," Dean breathed and reached down. He pulled Sam upright by his upper arms. Dean lowered himself and got underneath Sam's torso, slinging him over his shoulder. He stood, using the edge of the casket for added height and raised Sam to the surface. He pushed hand over hand, hauling both his brother and himself out of the ground. He got Sam mostly out, and then pulled himself out. Dean grabbed Sam under the arms and pulled his long lower half up.
Once he had dragged him well away from that damn hole, Dean gently lowered Sam on his back on to the ground.
"C'mon, Sammy."
He placed the tips of his fingers against Sam's neck then laid his ear against his chest. He was relieved when he found the faint thump of his heart, but he wasn't breathing.
Dean tilted Sam's head back, pinched his nose and began rescue breaths.
He'd play cool the awkwardness and hurang Sam about the up close and personal encounter later. Right now, he just wanted him breathing.
"C'mon, Sam," he willed between breaths, but Sam didn't respond.
Dean was growing more frantic with each passing second.
"Please," he cried. "Sammy breath. Breath, Sam!"
He continued to breathe for his brother, willing to give him every last breath from his own body if it meant he would live.
He stopped briefly, once again laying his head against Sam's chest. This time the thump was faint, barely there, and Dean was over the edge of panic. He was terrified.
"No, no, no, no," he muttered disbelievingly, looking at Sam's ashen face. He resumed the breaths, this time pushing his fists against his brother's still chest, now willing him his own heart if that's what it took.
A few more seconds passed. Dean wasn't aware of the wetness on his cheeks, only of Sam. He withdrew from a breath, keeping his face just above his brother's, his forehead touching Sam's. He took either side of his face into his hands.
"Don't you do this, Sam. You hear me? Come back, Sam. Please come back… Sammy." Dean's voice broke on the last word, throat closing up at sound of his name for his brother, his last desperate plea.
Sam twitched then jerked in his grasp. He heaved in a deep ragged breath that elicited a spasm of coughs as he tried to get his breath in between.
"Sam!" Dean turned his brother to the side, keeping his hands on his shoulders. The coughing fit began to abate and Dean hauled Sam up again, wrapping his arms around him and holding him against his chest.
"It's okay. You're okay," Dean said with breathless relief.
Sam looked up and flinched away.
"Easy. Easy, Sam," Dean offered to no avail. Once more, he put his hands on either side of Sam's face. He made his touch gentle and known and his tone matched it. "It's me, Sam. It's okay. It's me."
Sam stilled and his half open and vaguely aware eyes looked at him. A warm smile tugged at his lips.
"Dean," he said hoarsely, relief and complete trust plain in his voice. It made Dean smile and his eyes sting. Unable to resist, Dean pulled Sam back against him, a hand brushing his hair back in a familiar gesture and settling on the side of his head.
"Yeah. It's over. You're safe. I got you." He felt Sam trembling, either from the cool night air or the trauma. Probably both.
Dean shrugged out of his jacket, not noticing the way his own body shook, and wrapped it around Sam. He pulled him in closer and rested his cheek on the top of his head. He felt Sam's warm breath against his neck and the world was alright again.
Warmth seeped in and Sam let himself fall into Dean gratefully, feeling his heartbeat beneath his shirt. He felt utterly spent and he hurt yet he had never felt so relaxed. He took deep breaths, breathing in the ample and fresh air along with the scent of his brother amidst the sweat and dirt.
He wasn't alone in the dark anymore with the air going out all around him. He was with Dean. He had found him. He gives in and lets himself melt into his brother.
Sometime later, fear and adrenaline abating and comforting reality having begun to sink in, Dean notices that Sam's breathing has eased into a quiet and steady rhythm. He notices that his own has as well. He decides he's had enough of this place and it's time to get Sam the hell away from here.
"Let's get out here," he says, gently pulling Sam's arm across his shoulder. He places an arm around Sam's back and helps him stand.
Sam walked wearily, trying not to lean on Dean too much as he led him to the Impala.
Dean opened the passenger door and eased Sam in, laying his jacket back over him. He let his hands linger on his shoulders and looked into his brother's dirt and blood smeared face.
Sam met Dean's eyes, which were bright with glad relief, but he saw the guilt and deep-seeded fear behind them. He offered his brother a small reassuring smile and patted his arm, squeezing it.
Dean lightly clapped him on the shoulder, shut the door and walked around the driver's side. He paused a moment before getting in, closing his eyes and took in a steadying breath. He turned to look disdainfully at the grave site behind him, the place where he had just nearly lost his brother. He turned away and got into the car, leaving it behind without another glance.
Back at the motel Dean half carried Sam into their room. Sam was more aware now, and thought he should take initiative to support his own weight fully, but he was so tired he didn't care. He knew Dean didn't either.
Truthfully, Sam was content to lean on his brother at the moment.
Dean set him down on his bed and turned away. Sam reached out and grasped the sleeve of his shirt.
"I'll be right back, Sam."
Sam relented, feeling a little embarrassed, but Dean only squeezed his shoulder assuredly.
He came back in with a bottle of water and the first aid kit which he set next to Sam. He handed him the water bottle. "Drink this," he instructed.
Sam started to twist the top off. His hand jerked and he let out a small breath, shoulders slumping a little. Dean took the bottle and removed the top, handing it back to him.
"Thanks," he said softly.
"Welcome."
Sam drank. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was and quickly downed the contents.
Dean walked over to the bathroom and brought over a couple of washcloths after wetting one under the faucet. He knelt in front of Sam.
"Let's get you cleaned up," he said gesturing to Sam's head.
Sam didn't respond, only sat there with his head hung. Dean lifted Sam's chin with one hand and started wiping away the dirt on his face and the dried blood from the head wound. It still surprised Sam sometimes how gentle his brother could be. The cool cloth felt good against his skin. He winced as Dean got close to the small gash above his temple.
"Sorry," Dean said apologetically, "Should be able to get away without stitches. Hang on."
Dean pulled the bottle of alcohol from the kit. He held the cloth underneath the gash and poured the liquid above it. Sam hissed. Dean swallowed and reached for the bandages, securing a small one over the wound.
For the first time he really looked at Sam's hands that lay in his lap. Blood was smeared this way and that and still oozing from the scrapes and cuts and there were visible splinters sticking out of some of them. Three of his finger nails were missing and the tips gone from three others.
Sam had tried to claw his way out.
Dean swallowed thickly. He took the tweezers out of the kit, held them over a cloth and wet the tips with alcohol. He paused a moment, mentally preparing himself and looked at Sam.
Sam looked up tiredly, mouth stretching into a thin line. His eyes held nothing but trust as he looked into Dean's and Dean felt a pang of guilt. Sam gave him a small nod: Go ahead. He gingerly lifted Sam's right hand and got to work.
Dean had removed the splinters that he could see and cleaned out the wounds on his brother's hands. The worst he bandaged while the rest he let air out.
Sam had remained composed. He grimaced and clenched his teeth through the worst of it: His missing fingernails. Dean had to pull a long splinter out of one and thought of how pulling fingernails was a torture tactic for a reason. Sam had felt a bit nauseous, like the water he downed would be racing back up his throat, but quelled it; He didn't want to make it harder for Dean.
By the time Dean finished cleaning his hands, he began to sway a little. As Dean looked up he saw his brother was barely able to keep his eyes open and he was pale.
"C'mon, little brother." Dean grabbed his legs and swung them up on the bed then grabbed his upper arms and lowered him down. His eyes were closed before his head hit the pillow. Dean pulled off Sam's boots and sat on his own bed facing Sam. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed.
For an hour Dean just sat across from Sam, watching him sleep as though if he looked away, he'd be gone. Everything from that day was settling in. He couldn't help but feel responsible. It may not have been him that did this to Sam, but the spirit had used his body.
He almost hadn't gotten Sam back.
As Sam slept on, chest rising and falling deeply, Dean started feeling like he'd actually be okay. He was exhausted. He looked down at himself, realizing he was still streaked with dirt.
Dirt from where he had buried his little brother alive and very nearly lost him. That, and he had been violated by a ghost.
Suddenly a shower sounded good.
He got up and looked in the mirror. He'd forgotten about the cut on his head. It was small and didn't need anything but some water to wash away the dried blood. He cleaned up the cloths and put away the remnants of the first aid kit. He pulled clean clothes out of his bag and showered. The hot water felt remarkable on his sore muscles and helped relax his nerves. He knew one would do Sam some good and he hoped to get him to eat something, but clearly the kid just needed rest right now, and whatever Sam needed right now, Dean was fine with.
He exited the bathroom and immediately checked on Sam. He was still out. Dean held his wrist for a moment, counting. Satisfied, he pulled back the covers on his bed, turned off the lamp and lay down, body wanting to succumb to the day's events. He turned his head to look over at Sam, who was the last thing he saw before he fell into welcoming slumber.
Something woke him. Something that wasn't right. Dean blinked his eyes open to the darkened room and they sought out his brother. Sam was twitching, head turning. He moaned. His breaths came out uneven and hitching.
Dean pulled off the covers and swung his feet out of bed, going over to him. He hovered over top. Sam's brows were drawn together and his head whipped from side to side. His chest began to heave.
Alright, enough. Dean wasn't going to let him be tormented any longer.
"Sam," he called shaking his shoulder. It didn't register.
"Sammy," he tried louder, but Sam kept thrashing, a whimper escaping him.
"Sam!"
Sam darted upright with a gasp, eyes wild. Dean caught him.
"Whoa! Easy!" Sam fought against him.
"Easy, Sammy," he said calmly, but Sam continued, breathing erratically. He was on the verge of hyperventilating.
Dean loosened his hold around him and ducked in front of him, once again gripping his shoulders.
"Sam!" He shook him. "Sam, look at me!"
Sam's panicked eyes found his.
"Look at me," he said again softly.
After a moment, Sam's eyes gained recognition, that frightened look dissipating. His breathing slowed to more even deep breaths.
Almost just as freaked out by the fear in his brother's eyes, Dean placed his hands on the sides of Sam's face for a third time that night, holding his eye contact.
"It's okay, Sammy. You're okay. You're out. You hear me? You're out."
Sam's brows furrowed. His eyes brimmed with tears.
Suddenly he threw his arms around Dean and buried his face in his shoulder.
Dean was initially caught off guard, but he wrapped his arms around Sam in return. He could feel him shaking and put a hand on the back of his head.
"It's okay," he repeated, but this time not just for Sam. His own eyes blurred and he blinked it back.
Sam shuddered and tightened his hold. Dean tightened his in response.
After a moment, Sam had calmed himself and slowly released his brother, who kept a hand on his arm.
His eyes were red and wet. He sniffed.
"You okay?" Dean asked.
Sam nodded once. "I'm sorry," he said looking down.
Dean squeezed his arm. "Sam, you have nothing to be sorry about. Do you hear me?"
He nodded again wiping at his face while being careful of his injured hand.
"I'm the one that should be saying sorry," Dean said somewhat shamefully not meeting his eyes.
Sam looked at him questioningly.
"Sam, I -"
"Dean, no. Don't do that. I know it wasn't you. I know," he informed him with conviction. Dean still looked unsure. "You found me, Dean. You saved me. That was you."
Dean bobbed his head. "Always will," he said quietly.
"I know," Sam replied in the same quiet voice. He was looking at Dean with that look again: Complete trust and gratitude. It still made Dean feel like fucking Superman. God he loved the kid.
Sam sat back against the headboard and drew his knees up, head downcast. It made him look like a kid. Dean studied him- His brother was freaked. Dean didn't blame him at all. He couldn't imagine going through that, and it had been bad enough on his end.
Sam wasn't going to be getting anymore sleep, not while his dreams still kept him in that casket. Dean thought of something from when Sam was a kid, something only done in extenuating circumstances, when things were really bad or scary.
It had been years, but tonight could definitely be counted as an extenuating circumstance. Dean got up and sat next to Sam on the bed and lifted his arm. Sam stared at him.
"Dean, I don't need-"
Dean raised his hand, silencing him.
"Shut up. One time offer," he said in a mock stern tone. Sam sighed and gave a subtle resigned yet thankful smile. He slid closer and got beneath his brother's arm as it settled around his shoulders.
Within a few minutes, Sam's weight against Dean relaxed and his breathing fell into a familiar rhythm. Dean knew Sam felt embarrassed. He wouldn't hold it against him this time.
Truthfully, Dean was content to have his brother asleep under his arm at the moment.
They both needed this. Eventually Dean fell asleep too. Both slept through the rest of the night.
The next morning while Sam was sleeping, Dean left him a note and went out to get breakfast- a lot of it- and more supplies to restock the first aid kit. Sam was in the shower when he got back. He set the bags of food on the table and went over to the bathroom door.
"You fall in?" Dean teased, waiting for a response. The water shut off.
"Bite me," came Sam's reply from behind the door. Dean smirked and started laying the food out. Sam emerged a couple of minutes later in clean jeans and a blue flannel button up, eyes red and still a little pale, but overall looking like he felt better. Dean would take it over a blue brother any day.
"Doin' your hair in there?"
Sam huffed. "You try showering with both your hands messed up."
"Touché," Dean said and winced.
Sam was re-wrapping the bigger wounds on his hands, the previous bandages already soiled from their oozing. His hands were sore and felt stiff and swollen and he could feel his pulse throbbing achingly where his nails had been, the cool air hitting them like ice on painfully sensitive teeth. Dean watched him a few seconds before walking over to him and holding his hand out.
"I got it, Dean," Sam said with not a hint of annoyance. Dean only continued to hold out his hand. Sam relented, handing him the roll of gauze. One at a time, Dean silently took each of his brother's hands in his own and dressed the wounds, occasionally sparing a glance at him.
"Got us a pretty good spread. I'm starving. You?" he ventured afterwards, hoping his brother would get some food in him.
Sam seemed to consider this. "I could eat." He sat down across from his brother.
"So the ones who got possessed were all involved in the sale of the property?" Dean asked through a bite of breakfast sausage.
"Yeah. Each one had been on the property recently, but for different reasons, which is why we didn't see the connection right away," Sam explained. He ate slowly, maneuvering his utensils gingerly.
"Well, good riddance to the place," Dean gestured a toast with his cup of coffee and took a sip.
"I did some more research after you left," Sam said after a moment.
Dean looked at him, waiting, worrying because of the look on Sam's face and the sound of his voice.
"There were others: eight other disappearances going back nearly five decades. Loved ones not remembering the last time they had seen them," he told him quietly. "They were never found."
Dean thought about that. Those buried alive having to endure that, thinking that it really was their loved ones that had done that to them before they died; the ones possessed never knowing what happened to them.
'Your brother's dead. Dead by your hand.'
His sausage and eggs didn't look so good anymore.
"Well no one will have to go through that ever again," he said. There was nothing they could do for the ones already gone, but at least there was that. He could see Sam's empathy for those lost, but the understanding that at least now it was over.
"Sam?" Dean asked, really asking, 'Are you okay?'
Sam met his gaze. "I'm good, Dean. Thanks to you." Dean saw the raw affection in Sam's eyes.
"Yeah well, don't go getting all mushy on me. Now eat your breakfast," he said light heartedly. Sam smiled appreciatively and did.
Dean watched him. He thought of that cold sinking feeling he had when he'd lost Sam. Sam's belief in him made him feel like he could do anything. He wouldn't admit it, but it also scared the hell out of him because he was scared of letting Sam down, and even more scared of losing him... He almost hadn't gotten there in time last night.
He started to wonder how the hell everything had worked out for them, but decided he didn't want to dwell on it. He didn't care how it worked out, because Sam was alright. That was the bottom line. It was always the bottom line. Sam was right here in front of him, and as long as he was, everything was right.
END
A/N: Holy crap I actually published another fic! Lol. I'm finally starting to get somewhere with the ones I've wanted to post for a long time now. Thanks for being patient folks!
I'm fairly happy with how this turned out. As usual, I just wanted some hurt Sam and big brother Dean. Those are the scenes I wrote first then tried to expand on them with the hunt- That aspect of the story is one I'm not entirely thrilled with, as I felt I was scrambling for a story (because I essentially was,) but I think it works in okay. I also ended up expanding the parts with the brothers, which I thought made them better. I hope you think so too.