Title: Before the Dawn
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.
Warning: Language. Could be considered a deathfic, but it would really depend.
Summary: You just have to let go. Let all this go. You don't have to be strong. Not anymore.
He wished it didn't have to hurt so much.
It doesn't have to.
His lips curled into a snarl of disgust at the sound of his brother's voice.
"Shut up."
He said it and wished that doing so didn't hurt so much.
You just have to let go. Let all this go. You don't have to be strong. Not anymore.
"I said shut up!"
You don't want me to. Not really. I mean, come on, Dean. You were begging me to say something fifteen minutes ago. Sobbing. Screaming. Pleading.
"Shut the fuck up!"
It wasn't him. That…thing…wasn't his brother. He knew it and he said it aloud. With a fury that just barely covered the devastation.
Yes I am. I'm everything your brother could've been. If he had only given me the chance.
"You're not him." He repeated in a way he almost thought could be taken as helplessly.
Then Not-Sam was gone. Again.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He knew he was covered in blood. Blood that was his, and blood that wasn't. He knew he was delusional and half-crazed. Hallucinating things that were almost too real to not be, and so damn not real to be anything close to it. He knew he was hurt. Probably mortally so. He knew that he—his long-rotten, earth-eaten, time-violated body, that is—would probably never be found.
He didn't give a damn.
Because he also knew he was alone. No matter how much his head told him otherwise, no matter how much his not-brother's voice filled his every thought and the memory of those bright green-brown eyes and impy smile flashed through his sight, he was alone.
Because his brother—his real brother, the bitchy, chick-flick guru, psychic boy-wonder, Kansas-Winchester-Haley-Joel, little brother who stole all the Lucky Charms—was lying in his arms.
Bruised.
Bloody.
Broken.
And already grey, cold, and stiff with death.
Those eyes were no longer bright. Those lips would never smile again. He would never bitch; there were no more chances for chick-flick moments. No more agonizing visions and gasp-aloud, echoing cries of nightmares that had never been just nightmares. There would be no more teasing, no more comfortable hang-outs over laptops and the latest freak of the night. No more Lucky Charms, no more stale coffee and staler hotdogs.
There would never be anything. Ever.
Because Sammy was dead. And not-Sammy wanted him to be too. And so did he.
Because Sammy was dead.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He'd lost his shotgun when…he couldn't remember when he'd lost his shotgun. Or his knife. Or the bag of rock salt, gasoline bottles, and that travel-pack of matches that had three sticks left.
It was supposed to be a standard hunt. A pissed off poltergeist—it's wouldn't be a poltergeist if it wasn't pissed off, Dean—decided to take its relatively passive temper tantrums to the next level by throwing a lamp at widowed Daddy Carpenter and making Baby Izzy scream her nine month old lungs out by shaking her little wooden antique crib.
But it wasn't a standard hunt. And it wasn't just a pissed off poltergeist. It was a pissed off poltergeist and its mind-controlling, 'use-the-force' twin brother. The poltergeist wasn't that hard to…dispatch. He snickered almost maniacally with just an undertone of something else entirely.
That was a word Sammy would use.
Anyway.
The poltergeist wasn't that hard to take care of. Salt and burn. That was it.
The bastard twin brother, on the other hand, was a little bit more difficult. Especially when he could make them think of things were there when they weren't really.
And the one thing they thought wasn't real, really was.
'We shouldn't do this, Dean.'
'We should wait, Dean.'
'Dean, this is a bad idea.'
He should've listened.
'Relax, Sammy. It'll be fine.'
'Get your panties out of its bunch, Sam.'
'Sam, shut up.'
It should've been him.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It had happened to so quickly. They hadn't had time for realization. It seemed like a bright explosion of something—Dean!—a flash of heat, Sam's pain-filled yell and the sound of a body crashing against something.
He hadn't even passed out.
He didn't know what it was. Could've been a bomb. Could've been something else entirely.
As he cradled his brother's burned body in his arms, he hoped Sam had only felt that split second of agony. Just that one bright second of torture before he…
He closed his eyes and choked down a lump that could've been blood or tears. He thought it was probably both.
He figured he should've cared about the agony that spread through his chest, that the blood that was pooling around them wasn't just Sam's. He figured he should've cared that breathing was getting to be just a little bit tougher with each breath that he took.
He didn't.
Nausea churned in his stomach and he swallowed down stinging and bitter bile.
Dean?
Oh God. Make it stop.
Dean, I'm sorry. It shouldn't have been this way.
Please, just make it stop. Please, please.
He begged and pleaded and would've wept if there was anything left in him.
I'm so sorry.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He didn't know how long he had been unconscious. He hadn't even noticed when everything fell away from him and into darkness. But when he came to, the pain was just a little bit worse even as numbness started to creep its way up his legs.
Through the numbness and through the painful cramps and twinges, he felt the heat.
He smiled.
Fire had taken his mother, his father, and his brother. Fire and flames of different origins, but still the same. It was only fitting it took him too.
Oh, but the irony, he couldn't help but think. Fire was their life. It was the reason for their life. And it was all coming full circle now.
He gripped Sam closer to him and waited.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It hadn't come in an explosion. Or a big boom. Not this time.
This time, it crept up slowly. Leeching oxygen and life.
The flames didn't roar and the air didn't shriek. Time didn't speed up and he didn't feel the heat.
Ten feet from him, those tendrils of flames came to a standstill. Climbing and licking at the cave's walls, staring at him. Enticing. Tempting.
When you're delirious and dying, staring into that beautiful, deadly brightness wasn't such a bad thing. When you're numb and convulsing with shock, that oh-so-warm wall didn't feel so painful.
He still held Sam, and he still waited.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The flames had kept away for a while. And through, an oxygen deprived brain, he managed to wonder why.
"Dean?"
He opened dry and blurry eyes. "Hello, Sammy."
Sam looked at him then at the fire and back again. "How are you?"
He laughed softly and ignored the heaviness in his heart at the sound of that voice again, "I'm good. You?"
"Pretty good."
Sam stepped away from his brother and his own body—God, that is really freaky—and towards the wall of flames. He stretched his hands out and made a sound in his throat when fingers passed through with no sense of the burning heat.
"You're not real."
Sam turned around to see devastated jade eyes shining wetly from a grey face. "I'm as real as I have to be."
This time, the laugh was bitter and harsh. "Oh Dear God, kill me already."
Sam walked back to his brother and crouched down before him. "Actually, that's why I'm here." He tried to ignore the fact he was charred and bloody and embraced in Dean's arms.
He wondered if his brother's arms knew how to let go.
God knows, the rest of him didn't.
"You're here to kill me?"
Sam couldn't help the grin. Dean had said it so…surprised. "In a manner of speaking."
Dean just stared.
"It's time, Dean."
"Time for what?"
"Time to let go."
"Yeah…about that…I've been waiting a hell of a long time."
Then he just looked away. Turned from Sam.
And missed the shattering emotion in the eyes of the boy he had sworn to protect forever.
Seemed forever had come and gone.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"You're still here?"
Sam sighed. "Still here."
"Not all that great at killing me, Sammy boy."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Stop joking around, Dean. This is serious."
"Still uptight even when you're dead."
This type of banter of was twisted. And demented. And crazy. And all of types of just plain wrong. But it was okay.
Because it was Sammy. Who still wasn't the real Sammy, but was a lot better than the other Not-Sammy. This Not-Sammy was close enough, and that made it all right with him.
"What do you want?"
Sam looked up from his folded hands in his lap and to Dean. "It's not what I want, bro. It's what you do."
Dean looked down and once again felt that incredible grief. "I don't want this." His voice, just barely there and raspy, broke. "I never wanted this." He swallowed thickly and coughed. He tasted the bitterness that was blood on a tongue that felt too dry and swollen. If he'd had the strength anymore, he would've hoisted the stiff body in his arms higher to bury his head in burnt hair. Instead, he just settled for letting his head fall back to thump weakly on the ground. Tears might've filled gritty eyes to trail down pale cheeks once…but not anymore.
Sam fought past the tightness in his chest. Through the anguish that was his and Dean's. He reached out and cursed when, once again, insubstantial hands passed through a solid and dirty head.
"I should've listened, Sammy." His fingers fought to grip at the torn material of Sam's shirt. "God, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."
"Dean, please. Let me go," Sam begged. "Let that," he gestured to his body, "go. I'm not there. I'm right here and I'm real."
Time was running out. He could feel it. For both of them. That wall of fire was creeping closer and there was no way in hell he would let it have his brother.
There was no way hell would have his brother. Or him. Not after they'd given everything. Not after they'd lost everything.
"Mom's waiting, Dean," he wept and pled because his big brother couldn't anymore. Because Dean had done so much of it over him. "Dad's waiting."
Dean opened eyes that were too tired and forced himself to…he didn't know what, but he just did it. "What about you, Sammy? Are you waiting?"
Sam smiled tremulously and hoped. "I'd say I'd wait forever, big brother, but I really don't want to. Come on, we've got some major people to piss off. Just come with me."
Dean closed his eyes again. God, he had no strength. He didn't want to fight. He didn't want to try. He didn't want to hold on. "I'm so sorry, Sammy," he whispered. "I love you, man." He lifted his head just enough to kiss his baby brother's hair.
Sam felt that hope explode in an incredible torrent of terror, "No. Dean, please. Don't."
The flames inched closer and Sam felt like he was being pulled away.
"NO!" He yelled in overwhelming panic when he felt a dark and twisted triumph and a tongue of fire licked at his brother. "Dean, please." Tears blurred and fell and he reached out just…one…last…time.
And sobbed aloud when trembling fingers brushed too cold skin.
There seemed to be a wail of fury and the wall of fire disappeared.
"Sammy?" Dean's voice whispered. That one word rose with the wind then fell. Grasping fingers tightened once then went limp. The blond head fell that little way to the side and golden jade eyes went unfocused.
A broken heart beat once, faltered and skipped, fought to beat again, then finally ceased. A last murmur of breath sailed freely—for the first time in hours with no hitch—and disappeared.
Sam's fingers caressed the face that was slack in death, trying to ignore cool and blue skin, and lingered a final touch on lips whose grins always made everything all right.
A little sob made its way past his and he made the last effort to shut dim eyes.
"Damn, Francis. A little touchy-feely there, aren'tcha?"
Sam smiled, and turned away to face the transparent figure just behind him. "Hello Dean."
Dean stared down at their bodies and shuddered. "We look like shit."
Sam laughed loudly and watched as his brother's eyes blurred and shifted with what Dean would never say were tears. "Not anymore."
"You're real."
Dean sounded so relieved and so…alive.
Sam smiled, "And so are you."
Dean stepped toward him and reached out almost hesitantly, before Sam felt the wisp of a touch. "You're real."
Sam didn't have the chance to respond when he hauled forward and into a tight, tight embrace. A hand moved up to bury to itself in his hair before trailing down and squeezing his neck.
It was a few minutes before Dean moved back and gripped both sides of Sam's face, "If you die on me again, I'm going to kill you."
The dire threat was belied by the shimmering of green eyes. And was answered in kind by another set just a few shades darker.
Dean pulled his head closer and rested their foreheads against each other for a few seconds. Sam reached up to mirror his brother's hands and they just stayed that way.
They separated a while later, clearing constricted throats and blinking away any traces of wetness.
"What do we do now?" Dean deliberately turned away from the bodies in front of them. He couldn't take that sight. Not now. Not ever.
Sam shrugged, "I don't know. But we won this one."
They were both still standing…after a fashion. Evil wouldn't have a Winchester.
"So the demons lied? Dad's okay? He's really waiting for us?"
Sam blinked and wondered if he said it aloud. He couldn't remember. "Yeah. He is. And mom."
Dean nodded and allowed himself to smile, "So where do we go from here?"
Sam returned it and stretched out a hand, "Now we go home."
Dean snorted, "So I'm not imagining that bright light?"
His little brother snickered, "Let me just tell you something, seventy two virgins are overrated and Gate Elysium gets classic rock. Oh, and Michael likes Metallica."
"Dude, what about my car?"
Sam rolled his eyes and waited for Dean to grasp his fingers. "Would you shut up the hell up and take my freaking hand?"
Dean's eyes narrowed suspiciously and Sam felt his exasperation and humor fade.
Oh God, please. Not when we're so close. Not when he's so close. "Dean?"
"Are angels allowed to swear?"
"Oh for crying…" The exasperation came back full blown and then some but he still couldn't help the relieved chuckle. "Dean!"
"Oh, come on," Dean needed this. This banter, this teasing. This life. Anything that wasn't what was behind him. Everything that he had been so terrified he would never have again. "We have to be angels. At least."
Then Dean grabbed his little brother's hand and pulled him toward…everything.
"You're such a jerk."
"And you're such a bitch."
They grinned at each other one last time. And then they faded with the wind, with laughter the only trace they left behind.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She thought they might have been brothers. Taunts and teasing would seem to filter through the trees. There was sadness and anger, grief would sometimes wail with the wind. But most often, there was love.
The park ranger stared at the space around her. She believed in spirits. Of those who moved on but were still present. She thought she saw flashes of a blonde man wearing a leather jacket wrestling playfully with a darker haired man in a flannel shirt. She thought she heard boots moving through the soft grass of the forest. Sometimes, she felt an overwhelming sense of affection and protection wash over her as a warm wind blew through her hair gently.
She thought she heard she heard loving name-calling through the silence. Jerk, bitch, Francis. Maybe even a man singing ACDC and laughing while another would yell for Dad or Mom or Jess. For salvation.
She thought she saw a man and a woman—so obviously married. He would be tall and scruffy, shadows of a beard and a deep, whiskey voice. She would be light and blonde, green eyes like ACDC man, his mother? She was beautiful. They were beautiful.
She thought she saw another couple. Yet again again a dark-haired man and a pretty blonde. He would be younger, a thinner, lankier version of the man who could have only been his father. Shaggy haired and huge-smiled. Embracing the little t-shirt with-a-Smurf-on-it-wearing blonde.
Most of the time, it was ACDC and the younger one. She thought they might have been brothers. They couldn't have been anything else. Maybe not twins. But still, so much closer.
Legend has it that two men—brothers—had died in the mountains a while before. Their bodies had never been found and they had never been laid to rest.
These mountains had cried with pain and blood and death before.
Legend also says that since those two men supposedly died together, nobody else has. Legend says that there are guardians in the woods.
A family of protectors that helps lead the lost.
She thought they might have brothers. And a husband and his wife. A young man so in love with what could only be his fiancé.
She smiled and offered up a song for the band of warrior spirits that protected her land.
And felt it when two brothers gave their own salute to her.
Finis…
Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. And please, don't forget to review.