Author:Mirrordance
Title: Steps Behind
Summary:56 seals down, 10 left to open. It's 2009, and Lucifer's standing on the welcome mat. At the eve of the final battle in a losing war, the Winchesters make their last goodbyes, and at this end of days, Dean is finally learning to let Sam go.
Author's Note:
First off, happy new year, everybody, and thanks to all who read and especially all who reviewed my last fic Underworld. Steps Behind is my new project, and was previewed at the afterword of Underworld. As I've mentioned before, this is going to be a tragedy, so you've been warned! From a story-telling perspective, I'd rather not warn people when I plan things like that, especially if it's an integral part of the story. But in , I guess it's only fair, haha. Besides, I got called out on it very severely once before, and I know a lot of people would rather know this before they commit to reading a story.
If you're not into tragedies, Chapter 1 doesn't go that far and is a stand-alone (it's such a stand-alone that i may or may not even continue this story, depending on my mood and how it's received, I guess), so you may want to give it a shot. But as the others chapters come in, haha, you may proceed at your own peril :) Without further ado, here's another experimental fic from me:
" " "
Steps Behind
1: Flight
" " "
2001
" " "
Dean couldn't help but be a little bit sad about it, the same way Sam couldn't help but be a lot happy about it. It was just one of those things.
"So free ride to Stanford, huh?" Dean said, tone flat and neutral, like he was still at that plane where he was trying to figure out whether he should fluctuate higher or lower, be happy or sad, be proud or pissed or... whatever.
"Sonofabitch," he said instead, shaking his head in amazement, "Wow, Sammy."
His kid brother was grinning from ear to ear, like the corners of his mouth could wrap all around to the back of his head or something.
"I know," Sam said, chest rising in a deep, proud breath. He was sucking all the damn air from inside the car, like a fricking giant. He was taking all the air, and Dean was getting dizzy from getting none of it. Sam was leaving, Dean was staying. Sam was happy, Dean was sad. Did it have to be a zero-sum game between them?
"I can't believe it either," Sam exhaled.
"Oh I believe it," Dean corrected him, "I've always known you were a smart kid. It's just... wow, Sammy."
Could that grin go wider?
Sam does the impossible again.
I guess it can, Dean thought.
Sam threw back his head in a booming laugh, and then stuck his head and torso out the window and howled at the wind and the sun and the wide open road. He could feel the air run through his hair like gentle fingers. He opened his arms up to the sky, feeling like the world was his.
Dean watched him, lips quirking. There was something bubbling inside of him, something that was a cross between a choke and a chuckle. Happy or sad? Proud or pissed?
But Sam looked like a kid again, for the first time in a long time. Anything that can make that happen was kind-of okay in Dean's book.
He chuckled too, and shook his head at his brother's uncharacteristically silly antics in endeared amusement. He kept his eyes on the road and a hand on the wheel, as he reached for Sam's jacket to reel him back in.
"Easy there," Dean said, "Wouldn't want you to fall out now that you're gonna be the meal ticket."
Sam settled back down in his seat, and beamed at Dean. His glistening eyes dimmed a little as he said, "There was a part of me that knew for sure you'd be pissed off at me instead."
Dean paused, and changed the subject altogether. "You know when I knew exactly how smart you were?"
Sam pursed his lips, but knew his brother long enough to understand to back off... at least, temporarily.
"I was always smart," Sam said, cheekily, "It just took you awhile to figure it out."
"Yeah and he's humble too," Dean said, sarcastically, "You know what, since you're being such a pompous ass about it, nevermind."
Nothing was going to dampen Sam's spirits, so he just smiled bemusedly and looked out the windshield, fully expecting his brother to break. Dean did, because Dean always did.
"Dad was trying to wake you up for something I can't remember what now," Dean said, not bothering with taking back his previous statement, "You were five years old. Dad said, 'Get up; the early bird catches the worm.' You said 'But dad, what if I'm the early worm?'"
Dean laughed in memory, "I still remember his face, Sam. Trying hard not to laugh, because by then he'd never have gotten you out of bed, wrapped him around your little finger. We had to learn to manage your hubris, little brother, even then."
"Dad," Sam murmured, eyes darkening a little, tone turning quiet.
"Yeah," Dean said, and they both knew what the other meant.
"Maybe he won't mind," Dean said after a long moment, though he himself sounded unconvinced, "I mean, he goes away a lot anyway. Or maybe I can carry around a lamp post, top it with a mop head, call it 'Sammy,' and dad wouldn't even notice."
Sam smiled wanly, appreciating his brother's effort to lighten the situation.
"Do you mind?" Sam asked, quietly.
"Does it matter?" Dean asked back; it was a genuine question with no venom. Your kid brother tells you he got into Stanford on a free ride, the same kid brother you taught to read and write and helped with homework, and you don't get mad. You just get a little bit... bent.
"Matter...?" Sam inquired.
"Can it change things?" Dean clarified, "And I don't think so."
"So you mind," Sam concluded.
"How can't I?" Dean asked. He couldn't help being sad about Sam leaving him, the same way Sam couldn't help being happy about the seeming-brilliance of the rest of his life.
Sam pursed his lips, and nodded in understanding.
"So it doesn't matter," Dean finished, "Don't let it rain on your parade, Samantha. I'm happy for you, seriously. Dad's gonna be pissed as hell at you and yelling up a storm, just you wait, but even he'd be proud, you know?"
"Right," Sam scoffed, "That's a feeling he'd have to excavate, Dean."
"He'll find it," Dean guaranteed dryly.
"But like you said, it doesn't matter," Sam said, beginning to smile again, "Nothing's gonna change my mind. This is the chance of a lifetime. I can't believe it. I feel like I can fly."
"Not too high, bro," Dean snorted, "I mean, try not to forget us little people."
"Well you are little--" Sam was saying, but his voice drifted off, and he turned around suddenly to look at the backseat of the car.
"I'm not little," Dean snapped, "It's just a visual illusion from standing next to a telephone pole all the time!"
Sam glanced back at Dean, and then at the backseat.
"What?" Dean asked him.
"Nothing," Sam said, shaking his head. He glanced at the rearview mirror, "Thought I heard something."
He turned his attention back to the present and the future, gazed back to the open and road stretching before the windshield and then back to Dean, and he beamed yet again. It was a huge damn grin, that's what it was, and there was something almost angelic about how Sam looked; the beatific smile, shining eyes, the glow of the sun on his skin, the gentle breeze ruffling his hair.
He really did look like he could fly.
" " "
2009
" " "
"Dean, you have a visitor."
He looked up at the nurse from... from whatever it was he was doing or thinking about, he's forgotten, lost track of the time, been losing track of a lot of things the last few days.
"Thanks," he told her with a wan smile. She was pretty and gracious and he saw her a lot, and yet he couldn't for the life of him even remember her name, or bring himself to care.
Castiel looked as calm as always, striding into his room after she ushered him in. He still looked like an accountant or a bank clerk, sure, but now he looked more grave, like he was predicting the Great Depression.
A year of working with humans and particularly Dean, still did nothing to improve on Castiel's recognition for a wider-berth of personal space; he sat by Dean's IV'd arm, thigh brushing it casually, maybe even obliviously. But at least now he was letting his entrance be announced, and Dean had even caught him knocking on a door once or twice. He remembered thinking, Holy crap. And had to physically restrain himself from saying, Knock knock knockin' on Heaven's door.
"You look well," Castiel said quietly, "I'm glad. They were not so optimistic when you first arrived, but I knew them to be wrong."
"You should have seen the other guys," Dean smirked at him, half-heartedly, out of sheer reflex. He had been sent out to guard an unopened seal against a very determined bunch of demons, along with a contingent of angels and fellow-hunters a week past. Enemies and allies all died there, and he was the only one who emerged more-or-less alive. His eyes darkened in memory. Colloquially, 'the other guys' usually meant just the enemy, not your allies, certainly not your friends. But the good, the bad, and the ugly, they were all similarly torn up and broken back there. Bodies littering the place, fucking mess. He laid on the field amongst the dead and bled and rode that Runway train ain't never coming back, and the only thing he could think about was that he was happy his brother, who had been injured on another mission just before his, was stuck cooling his heels in sick bay. Dean laid there dying, lying over the seal that decidedly did. not. break., until help arrived.
"You were not well enough for the briefing on this new mission," Castiel said, pausing before he added, "This last mission."
"Last?" Dean asked, brows furrowing.
"Fifty-six of the necessary sixty-six seals to set Lucifer walking the Earth have been broken," Castiel informed him, "We imagine this deployment of people would be the last in the campaign, one way or another."
"Damn it," Dean muttered, free hand already shakily reaching for his IV, wanting to rip it out. He shifted and grunted in pain, angling to shuffle to his feet.
Castiel put a warm, calming hand to his trembling, pained one. "I will not stop you Dean, but there is more to be said, and your medicine might as well stay where it is until I am done."
Dean met his resolved gaze and nodded shortly, lying back down, feeling dizzied.
"The last thing I heard," Dean huffed, "They were about twenty seals shy of the target. What the heck happened?"
"The last time you were fully aware before now was a week ago," Castiel pointed out, mildly, "These last few days... the demons have created a surge unlike any they have attempted before. The brutal assault upon your contingent was the first amongst many in the storm they unleashed last week. I believe they were thinking they could end it all in one fell sweep, but we held fast to our seals. It was brutal on both fronts, and now that they are regrouping, we too, have the opportunity to discuss and act upon our options."
"What options?" Dean asked, wearily, before masking it with a wicked grin, "But you know what they say, Cas. There's nothing more dangerous than a man who has lost everything. We can work with these odds, huh?"
"I am not Sam," Castiel told him, flatly.
"That's random," Dean smirked, even as his eyes begged the other to go no further--
"You need not pretend for me," Castiel said, and to Dean's relief, went on as if it was nothing, "Assignments have been set. I found it prudent to inform you that you will be separated from your brother."
"What?!" Dean exclaimed, "That's just a pile of-"
"Listen first," Castiel told him, eyes going earnest now, pinning Dean to silence, "The demons have a new spell that they have been using sporadically over the last few days. It affects just angels, to which mortal men are immune. You have your weaknesses, and we have ours. The contingents will have to be a mix of mortals and angels, Dean. There are too few of you in our fold, and so you and Sam have been assigned separate tasks."
"No way," Dean said, strategy be damned, because if this was the final show, and this was the toughest gig, Sam wasn't walking anywhere he wasn't steps behind. No way.
Castiel raised up a hand, "I am not finished."
"I don't care--"
"It might appease you to know," Castiel went on anyway, voice raised a little, the very human, subtly combative way he had learned to act around Dean, "It might appease you to know that the strategy remains two-fold. Contingents will be deployed to protect the unopened seals and are expected to fend off the demonic attacks upon them. But the search for Lilith and Alastair continues, because eliminating the leaders would cut off the head of this beast and derail the demons on a more decisive manner. You have been assigned to the protection of a seal. Sam has been assigned to search for Lilith and Alastair."
Dean's brows rose. That sounded bad, but in practice, it truly wasn't. People and angels assigned on the Lilith/Alastair-trail had a massive survival rate, precisely because encounters were few and far between since they were so hard to find. Sam running around after the elusive bitch and dick duo would be much better than Sam digging his heels into the defense of a seal, just waiting for an attack that was bound to happen and bound to be brutal because their numbers were spread thin across so many seals, while the demons just had to focus all their efforts in a few.
"I think I'm down with this," Dean murmured.
"Sam's... disposition," Castiel added, "Makes him our one true card left, Dean. I do not mean that our situation is desperate enough to require the use of his powers, but either way, Lilith and Alastair fear no one but him. We have to put him in the best position to defeat them. And similarly, we do not want him in a position where he can be captured and made to fight with them. Either way, he cannot be tied in the defense of an outpost."
"Not like the dregs like me, huh?" Dean chuckled, "As long as he lives, man."
"I would not sell you short," Castiel said, "You have not lost a seal since the very first one that was put in your protection."
"Samhain," Dean winced, "Yeah, that. You'll never let me forget it, huh?"
"You still own one of the best rates of success, Dean," Castiel told him, gently, "Amongst humans or angels."
"Not that it means anything now," Dean said, "Ten to go... God..."
"Dean, there's something else," said Castiel, "Between you and me... I believe you will be sent to the least defensible of outposts, by virtue of all that you have accomplished so far. You have a right to know."
Dean stared at him for a long, thoughtful moment.
"I might never get out of this," Dean said, quietly, wince-smiling, "I mean the Vegas money is on none of us getting out alive, but I don't even make the board, 's what you're saying."
"Your brother," Castiel murmured, "He is a very smart man. He understands all of this, and all that it could mean. He also understands that it is strategically sound, and must be attempted. What he does not understand, is why all of this is happening. Why it is your family that must sacrifice again. Answers I cannot give."
"Answers I've never been able to give either," Dean said, "What? You want me to talk to him? He hasn't really been listening to me lately." He wrinkled his nose in endeared dismay, "He's bossy."
"Everyone here is fighting of their own free will," Castiel said, "Both of you can defy the assignments and band together. Both of you can even walk out that door, live a little bit longer, change your allegiances, even... and that is your choice to make. But I pray that you do not abandon us now."
"Sam's not afraid of losing or dying," Dean said, "He won't run. Neither will I."
"He doesn't want to run," Castiel corrected him, "He wants to take you away, and though there is a monumental difference the result will be the same. You are both needed wherever you are put, Dean, and that is all. No one else can impress this upon him but you."
"I'll talk to him," Dean promised.
"Thank you."
Dean bit his lip thoughtfully, and looked up at Castiel, "So uh... this deployment. When's it gonna be?"
"We cannot expect it to be longer than twenty-four hours from now," Castiel said.
"Where are you gonna be?" Dean asked.
"I have the lethal honor of standing beside you," Castiel said, his expression unreadable.
" " "
Dean always knew the Church had a lot of money floating around, but a high-rise in Manhattan as the headquarters for God's Army had exceeded even his wildest dreams. The penthouse was devoted to a large hall for worship, lined all around by glass windows touching the skies, as close to heaven as the living could get. Dean wondered if they ever held parties there, 'cos that would be awesome.
A number of floors were devoted to small, spartan dormitories, where he and Sam and other mortals drafted into this secret war – fellow-hunters, religious scholars, nuns, priests, lay people, medical personnel, etc. - crashed while they were in town and in the service of the cause. There were a few floors devoted to sick bay, which he and Sam and many others who have gotten hurt along the course of the campaign have become all-too-familiar with.
There too, was floor after floor of the most comprehensive library and inventory of supernatural references and paraphernalia he had ever seen in his life. When they brought Bobby Singer there, they didn't see the old man for days it seemed, and he came out looking like he won the New York lotto, or slept with a supermodel.
The most impressive thing he had seen, however, was a jaw-dropping command center, just sheer technology keeping track of demonic activity and coordinating with similar headquarters all around the world. They were being manned by nuns and priests and stern-looking young people who looked like they were drafted out of the fricking choir from MIT.
The first time Castiel brought them there a few months ago, Dean had a profound feeling of being small, and that was a mind-blowing relief. He suddenly felt that they were not alone in this, that they had a chance to win. When Castiel talked about the armies of God, of brothers in arms and allies and war, he wasn't kidding around. There were tangible, material aspects to the war. If it was being held on earthly ground, and they perforce had to use earthly means too, alongside their other skills. And because the numbers of the angels weren't infinite, they also drafted the services of men like Dean and his brother. Granted, the brothers Winchester and their hunter-allies were a bit off the mold; most of the others looked like choir-singing, nice, clean religious people who were incidentally bad-assed fighters with guns. He learned early to stop cursing when in the premises.
Fifty-six torn-open seals and a lot of blood and sweat later, the chance they had to win had shrank from slim to slimmer-to-none, thinned out along with his reasonable hopes. Now, every single unopened seal had to be defended. Their already too-thin army had to spread out. Brothers had to be parted...
Parting was always inevitable, they all knew that. But bare knowledge certainly could never constrain its brutality, or make the pain any less.
The recognition of this inevitability dusted the hours that preceded it with a kind of magic: time moved differently, faster, fleeting. And yet even the slightest, once-negligible moments within it were suddenly more meaningful, more memorable, amplified. Every little thing suddenly meant more, invoking the past, shaping the future, time turned and twisted like a pretzel. The contradictory nature of those days – less time, more worth – and the misshapen unfolding of time, was tearing on the soul.
Schizophrenic, Sam would say.
It was not the first time they separated ways, nor was it the first time they thought that a goodbye was the last time they would ever see each other. But this one had an air of finality about it, and Dean knew in his gut that he can no longer rely on the false hopes conferred by past precedent. They can say goodbye now, and truly never see each other again, this time.
The first time they said goodbye was when Sam left for California.
Sons and kid brothers left their families for college all the time, but certainly none of them were ever told to never come back. Maybe some, but ideally, none. And more importantly, none of them left behind older brothers who had jobs that rendered estimations of life expectancies both bothersome and depressing. I could be dead tomorrow was not a battle-cry, it was a credible forecast based on empirical data. Because very easily, Sam standing determined on a bus stop with nothing but a battered rucksack, a few hundred dollars of Dean's hustling money and all-too-few real jewelry to pawn and a lot of guts, could have been the last time the brothers would ever seen each other, if Dean had died on the job while Sam was away.
The second time they said goodbye was when Dean left his brother in California.
Their dad was missing. And even though – in strict accordance with the Standard Operating Procedures of Younger Brothers - they had to go through the motions of arguing about why it was important to look for him this time, it did not surprise Dean that Sam went with him anyway. For awhile, at any rate. And then it was goodbye again, but not as hard. Dean thought he was leaving Sam his peace and his future and his gorgeous girlfriend and consequently the rest of his life. It was not hard to walk away knowing that. He had been too quickly proven wrong, but when he left, when they said goodbye... it was quick, and casual, and it was not hard to walk away knowing that it was the best for Sam, no, not hard at all.
The third time they said goodbye was in Maryland. Sam had dared his older brother to leave him behind and Dean had called it.
Cold midnight road and a solitary figure in the rearview mirror. Dean stared at it, more than he looked ahead at the road. Rearview – regret, hindsight – and the road stretched forward and he alone along it, echoes of the argument they just had overwhelming the oppressive silence in his car, and he thought that the rest of his life was going to be just like this. He made his peace with his brother by phone. And yet the silence lingered, and again, he thought about the rest of his life. Days later, tied up and at the mercy of a ravenous god, he realized the the rest of his life was not going to be very long. But it was Sam's turn to come back. It was Sam's turn to save his life.
By then - because third time's a charm, and it always copied better anyway - there was a sense of futility about goodbye's. Their track record sucked, which was probably why they started avoiding it like the plague. Sam, going off on his own, silent and wordless, and Dean with his alternately humorous and open aversion and defiance, thinking death and defeat to be unacceptable. No more goodbyes. No more.
Parting numbers four and five were a bitch because they had been less of goodbyes, but more of forcible wrenching. Sam had cried "Dean!" in relief, as if his brother had saved him already, and it was the last thing he ever said, before his back was stabbed and he died in his older brother's arms, which was, for a time, the extent to which Dean could save him. Dean took a turn on the shit-end of that deal too, had told Sam to remember the things he's been taught, before Dean was mercilessly and gracelessly dragged into hell.
Parting number six... god, did it have to be that number? Dean was beginning to honestly and truly hate that number. Sixty-six seals to bring up hell, about six hundred to choose from, sixth goodbye to Sammy, the diameter in inches of a too-small personal-sized pizza and half a footlong sub (because everyone knows both of these are never enough). Six sucks. The only things good about the number were six bullets in a Colt, a six-pack, half a dozen donuts and cookies, and the fact that it sounded a lot like the word 'sex.'
" " "
Winchesters Say Goodbye, take six. Action! Dean thought, macabrely, as he brooded into his mostly-untouched beer.
Sam was sitting in front of him, silent. He's been so quiet, lately. Defeat was hovering over all of them like a thick fog, but Sam could have had rain clouds on as a hat. Sam was a good drinker now, and with good reason.
Dean looked up at him, and then beyond him. They were in a snazzy cafeteria, all minimalist white walls and abstract, incomprehensible paintings. Angels had divine taste in décor too, he supposed. No seedy bars and crappy motel rooms housing, feeding and healing the Army of God, that's for sure.
"So we're both assigned on the Lilith/Alastair detail," Sam lied, boldly.
Dean actually found it in himself to give his blushing brother an honest-to-god jovial laugh, and went on shamelessly until karma bitched and got his healing body complaining. He groaned and settled down.
"You're not good to go anywhere like this, Dean," Sam sighed, realizing Dean had been briefed about the situation after all, "Much less playing cannon fodder defending a damn seal."
"We're put wherever we're needed, Sammy."
"If this was the other way around," Sam pointed out, "You won't give a shit about strategy, and what other people need. You'll just be as pissed as hell as I am. More."
"True," Dean admitted with a shrug, because there was no use hiding, they didn't have the damn time.
"So go along with me on this," Sam urged, "I need you. Go with me. Or I can just go with you."
"Sam," Dean said, frowning, "You can't do what I'm doing, all right? If they nab you, or kill you, we lose the best chance we have – the only chance we have by now, I think - of beating this thing. And I can't go where you're headed either."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because one way or another," Dean replied, crudely, hoping the blow would cut through Sam's illusions that there was anything else to be done about this, "Someone's gonna be sent doing what I'm supposed to, and I can't stomach putting someone else on a bag that has my name on it."
"So you're telling me," Sam said, and damn but his face was turning red in rage now, "You're telling me you're going out there, we both know there's a chance you're gonna get killed, and I'm supposed to just sit back and take it? What the hell do you think kind of a brother I am?"
"We all might die," Dean said, quietly, and he really didn't want to have to talk about this again, but Sam needed to hear it, "All of us, and that's just simple truth. I can't... I can't not do what I think is right anymore, Sammy, 'cos there's just no more time to make up for it. That's just how it is. Besides, the idea... the idea of putting someone else in the frontline just so I can live?" Dean asked, his voice shaking now, "It's like... it's like getting off the rack and putting someone else on."
" " "
Sam stared at his older brother for a long moment.
Dean looked half-dead and there was no two ways about it. He had lost weight, lost some muscle in the few days he'd been laid up in the hospital with everyone saying at the start that he wasn't gonna make it. And yet he was sitting with Sam, AMA no doubt, but very much awake, alert, alive... more than a little bit drugged, probably, because he was being brutally honest too.
The idea of putting someone else in the frontline just so I can live? It's like getting off the rack and putting someone else on...
If anything can break Sam's resolve it was that one. Dean had never, ever been in a pain deeper than when he had disappointed himself by succumbing to hell, and imagined that he had no face to show his kid brother and their father anymore. Hell was hell, everyone breaks, that's just why it is. And Sam asked around; Dean had held on longer than most people would have.
So did dad break too? was a question for the ages, one that he couldn't bother with yet, so he left it at that. Either way, it wasn't Dean's fault, but there was no explaining that to him. Ever. And so Dean went on with the guilt and redemption and the frayed sanity in the desperate mission to work against the rising of hell 'til he won or 'til he died, and Sam just let him.
I can't not do what I think is right anymore, Sammy, 'cos there's just no more time to make up for it...
For a long moment, Sam debated telling Dean to do this for me. That always worked, didn't it? Do it for me. For me. Live for me...
However, like Dean, he too was beginning to see that life had become too short not to do the right thing. Of course... morality could always be bypassed by desperation and love, and his brother he loved blind. But he held his tongue because more than that, far more than that, Sam couldn't for the life of him push his older brother into actions that would ultimately make Dean loathe himself.
"How I feel?" Dean had asked, and he had said it with such self-loathing, "Inside me? I wish I couldn't feel anything anymore Sammy. I wish I couldn't feel a damn thing."
Sam couldn't ask that of him, just couldn't.
"Let's just stick to the angelic fricking plan, Sam," Dean implored him, "All right man? I mean I don't ask you for anything, right? And I wish it could be different, but this is just the way it is. Please. I seldom ask you for anything..."
That kind of sounded like a 'For me,' didn't it? Damn, Sam thought, wishing he had used that card and said it first after all.
"So what am I supposed to do?" Sam murmured.
"We gotta win this time, Sammy," Dean said, fervent but quiet, "We just gotta. What I'm doing... what you're doing... that's the best chance we got to ace this thing. I know what it's like down there. We can't afford to lose. So I guess we just have to be wherever we need to be."
" " "
2001
" " "
"Come with me," Sam said, head turned down, back to his brother, wiry hands busy with shoving clothes into his bag, mixed with the tears that fell on them.
"You can't mean that," Dean replied quietly, as he worked the other end of the room, gathering his younger brother's things, and scoping out any of his own that Sam might find useful in college.
"I do," Sam said, lifting up his head and turning to face Dean, as he angrily and impatiently swiped at his tear-streaked face, "Come with me."
"I can't," Dean said, walking over and handing him a couple of t-shirts. He slipped in his favorite hoodie, the warmest one he owned and one of the few pieces of clothing they could share, somewhere in between Sam's t-shirts. Sam swiped at the pile angrily, and shoved it into his bag without looking at what was there.
"'Cos you're taking his side again," Sam snapped, shaking his head in disappointed dismay, "Typical. Goddamn perfect soldier--"
"You're just saying this because you're angry--" Dean began.
"Always taking his side," Sam went on, "Buck stops with dad, huh, footsoldier? The damn dregs, no mind of--"
"Picking a fight with me is not going to make you leaving any easier on anyone, okay?" Dean said, tone rising because it was hard not to hurt about the things his brother was saying, "So cut it out!"
Sam glared at him with nose flaring, but gave him a short nod. Guilt and apology flared in his eyes but vanished quickly; the night was going along badly enough, and one more emotion was going to leave him bone-dry.
Dean took a long, calming breath. "What did you expect, right? Of course he was going to be angry. We knew that--"
"Angry?" Sam snorted, "Try murderous, Dean. I think I just got disowned, and we don't even own anything!"
"Listen to me, Sammy," Dean said, mind whirring with busy thought and also potentially busy delusion, "This is what I think you should do. Dad'll be back in a couple of hours, he'll be calmer by then--"
"He said I'd better be gone by the time he gets back," Sam said darkly, "Gone and gone forever. Door closed, locked, shut. I'm thinking calm is a little too much to hope for, Dean. I'm thinking 'drunk' will cut it better."
"You can't leave like this," Dean implored, "You just can't, Sammy. You can't... can't let that be the last thing you hear from him. He doesn't mean it, it's just his ass talking, you know how he gets when he's mad. Try to understand. You leave like this, you'll just hate him, and he'll just hate himself."
"He should have thought about that before he said it," Sam said decisively, that tone Dean knew only too well when he's absolutely made up his mind, "I'm done trying to understand him. He's our father, Dean. That's his job. Everyone here is doing their job but him. I'm done. And he wanted me out, I'm out."
"He doesn't want--"
"Stop defending him," Sam seethed, "Stop lying for him, stop covering for him, stop fucking translating for him. Just... stop. I got a right to be angry about this, Dean. You have an even bigger right to be mad. Come with me."
"I can't," Dean said, plainly, "I can't, Sammy. I'm nothing where you're going. I'm not gonna be any use to anybody. You don't need me getting in your way. And dad needs me here."
"He doesn't need either of us," Sam scoffed, "Figure it out, Dean. He doesn't need anybody. You're nothing here too."
Dean's eyes watered, and his throat tightened. His face could have physically closed. He gulped, and looked Sam dead in the eye.
"You need to get away," he said softly, "Dad needs to do what he needs to do. I need to know you're both safe. You'll be fine where you're going, and I can never know what trouble the old man'll get into next. I gotta watch his back, 'cos you're right, he never thinks he needs anybody, but I know I'm right when I say that he does. I guess we all just have to be wherever we need to be."
" " "
2009
" " "
Sam still listened to him after all, some of the time.
The two brothers stood by their respective beds, quietly gathering their meager belongings from the dorm room that they have been occupying at the New York office on and off for the last few months since Castiel introduced them to the place.
"So you got your marching orders yet?" Dean asked him.
"Yeah," Sam said, "They got some traces of Lilith having some sort of a tea party over in the English countryside, so we gotta take a look."
"I heard Ruby's on your team," Dean said, "Have you ever been told that fraternizing at the office doesn't work?"
Sam just smirked at him, as he folded his shirts, "How about you?"
"I can fraternize with anybody anywhere."
Sam laughed, "Where are you headed now, you jackass."
"I can trump your trans-Atlantic office-romance," Dean said sarcastically, "I am headed to butt-crack-middle-of-nowhere, y'all. Road tripping with Castiel and the crew. Beat that, bitch."
"I can't see how," Sam chuckled.
Dean smiled and paused, looked at Sam thoughtfully. "Hey, Sammy?"
"Hm?" Sam asked, looking up at him curiously.
"Thanks for uh..." Dean hesitated, "For not giving me too much grief about this, huh? I'd have... I'd have raised hell, if it was the other way around, we both know that."
"Are we making our last few minutes together 'socially awkward?'" Sam chided.
"I had to put up with it," Dean said, embarrassed now, looking down at his bag and pretending to be busy, "So now it's your turn."
"Ha."
"Maybe I'm just surprised you still listen to me after all," Dean joked.
"I listen," Sam argued.
" " "
2008
" " "
Dean didn't realize until later that he had just stood there useless, frozen and wide-open, defenseless, vulnerable to attack.
Monsters he had stopped fearing for a good long while now. Credible apocalyptic prognoses, demons walking the earth, that sort of thing... they were more... more... actionable things, really, rather than the kinds of scary things that rendered a guy deaf and dumb and frozen, useless, scared-shitless, standing apart from the action and just staring, unable to move, barely able to breathe.
Things like a kid brother going dark side, for one. Things like that.
Samhain didn't exist to him at all which was really bordering on suicidal, much less the demon's freshly-raised bit-players, these ghosts and zombies that were supposed to jump him from the dark and drag him dead with them. Instead, the world shrank around Sammy again, the way it was wont to.
His younger brother knew he was there, though the force by which he had fought one of the most powerful, most dark demons that have ever walked the Earth barely showed a break in his concentration. Must have been a gift he acquired all those years trying to study while Dean was singing aloud in the car. Or bugging him in the motel. Whatever. Sammy-fricking-King-of-multi-tasking. Their dad said Dean was a distraction. Dean sure showed him; it was training.
The demon fell to the ground. Dean didn't doubt that it was properly dispatched. Sam tended to be thorough like that. Sam looked up at his brother gradually, in weird breaks, like his eyes were working their way up a short flight of stairs. Gaze on Dean's necklace, up his parted, awed lips, finally up to his eyes, looking for condemnation by the expression on his face and finding... finding... Dean wasn't sure. His face felt funny, god knows what Sam spotted there.
Dean was afraid, for one, and though this was a condition he's been massively reacquainted with lately after his sojourn in hell, it still felt strange as a helpless, uncontrolled expression on his face. He was also disappointed in his brother, which was something that was still very, very hurtfully new. Fresh. Like a fucking gunshot wound someone just keeps digging and digging into--
Sam's nose bled freely, and he pressed his palms to his head, clutching it and breathing hard. He crumbles to his knees, and Dean doesn't hesitate to move forward. He dumps his things on the floor - they too would vanish from his world as surely as Samhain had. He reached to put his hands over Sam's shaking ones, and his rings tangled with the waves of his kid brother's unruly hair as he clutched at Sam's head too, supporting it from what was unquestionably a massive headache, and at the same time, clutching hard as if he could keep whatever was trying to burst from in there from getting out.
Sam leaned into his touch, rocking himself as he rode the headache, letting Dean hold his head as he freed one of his hands and swiped at the blood streaming from his nose. From the corner of Dean's eye, he spotted the light but unrelenting hemorrhage make droplets on the floor.
"Has this ever happened before?" Dean asked him, gruffly, "The bleeding?"
"Yes," Sam gasped, "Not this bad, but I know I just gotta ride it."
"No hospital?" Dean asked, even if he already knew the answer.
"Can't," Sam struggled, "Can't care to explain all this. And they can't do anything."
Dean nodded in understanding, and set his jaw determinedly. Okay. So this was on him, right? What was so new about that?
"Think you can stand?" Dean asked.
"I," Sam hesitated, and he stopped rocking himself, lowered his hands to his sides, where they hung limply, because his shoulders were stooped. On his knees with his shoulders stooped and his head bowed, he looked uncharacteristically defeated.
Dean fell to his knees in front of Sam, lowered his own head, wanting to be looked at. "Hey, hey--" he was saying, calling to his brother gently, before his body physically jerked with the sudden, icy remembrance of one other time the two of them knelt before each other like this.
"Can you stand?" Dean asked again, voice strained. He was starting to feel dizzy, dizzy with his responsibilities, dizzy with the damned crazy night, dizzy with the stupid memories of Cold Oak.
"I got it," Sam drawled, but he already sounded half-drunk, an image he reinforced when he tried to lurch to his feet only to tilt against Dean, who was ill-prepared for his effort, or to catch him. They both floundered a little for a more proper balance, before Dean, grunting, took the reins.
"I'm done swimming, Sammy," he said, grabbing one of his younger brother's arms and slinging it over his shoulder, "We're doin' this my way. If you're ever gonna listen to me about anything ever again, it's gonna be this."
"Yeah, yeah," Sam sighed, and Dean buckled a little at the sudden addition of weight, as Sam fell against him more freely, made him feel like a big brother again.
"I gotcha," Dean said determinedly, "I gotcha."
" " "
2009
" " "
"See?" Dean pointed out triumphantly, "Some lawyer you make, objection with no proof! You know, before I went to the Pit, you used to call me bossy. You don't anymore, 'cos you know as well as I do that the regime has ended."
"You are bossy," Sam insisted.
"Used to be," Dean corrected, thinking back. Because it had once been Get the kids out of the basement, Sam, or I'll lure the monster truck away, Sam, or Keep the crossroad-dealing pathetic guy alive, Sam, or I'll draw the fire of the hunters who want to kill you, Sam, and so on. Sam's been doing a lot of the commanding lately. Since when had it been deal with the zombie dregs, Dean, I'll get Samhain the head honcho? Since when had it been You're going into the creepy log factory? Or even, Quit picking on that?
When'd you grow up, Sammy?
The thought would have terrified him, Sam breaking out of baby-brother mode like this. Stanford terrified him, didn't it, when Sam left? Hell, even the way Sam's voice started to escalate in arguments with their father, symbolizing his growth and rise once terrified him too. And there was the day he realized Sam was gonna be taller than him and that scared the shit out of him the most.
Today, though... the idea of Sam's strength was giving him a sense of peace. The year before he went to hell, he hadn't been sure. The year after he got back from hell, he hadn't been sure either. But now... he knew it in his bones. Sam really was stronger than him. Sam really could be okay without him. It was an assuring, strengthening thought, now that they were parting ways again.
"You uh," Dean hesitated, "You know how strong I think you are, bro?"
"Where's this going?" Sam asked, a little bit shaken.
"I'm just saying this 'cos it needs saying," Dean said, averting his eyes, "When you were a baby, mom died right in front of you. You couldn't have known what it all meant, but still. And then Jess died. And you're the one who found dad dead, and I got chewed up while you were watching."
Sam's eyes, god, those eyes that have seen too much, darkened in memory, "What are you saying, Dean?"
"I'd have lost it," Dean told him, "If you think about it, I did, when dad was gone. And again, when you were. But you'll be fine. I know it for real, now, and I'm glad. Take care of yourself, Sammy. 'Cos... 'cos I can't be around for you this time."
"I lost it when you were gone," Sam pointed out, "I trod that line. I still can."
"I don't think it's gonna happen this time," Dean soothed.
"Well you're not gonna die," Sam told him, slowly and surely, "So it doesn't matter."
Dean's lips quirked. And there went grown-up Sam again, with his assurances. It wasn't always like this, but Dean was surprisingly fine with that. Sam was going to be just fine without him, now.
" " "
2003
" " "
The world looked slightly different, every time Sam opened his eyes.
It started out with blurry black, the indistinct, dream-like quality of swirly ink the only indication that his eyes were even open at all. He floated in that dully-dark space for awhile, until the blackness sharpened and fully exerted itself, and he was blindly under again.
Dull gray, after. Also a blur. Sick, pale purple, like the cusp of night and daybreak on a defiantly moonlit, barren field. The dull gray touched plain, unadorned walls, and the evening light from the window – oh, a window! - cast everything in a coldly resonant glow. Life fades to black.
And then there was light, in offensive, unabashed white. White from the window, bouncing against the white from the curtains, the white from the walls, the white from the sheets. It looked like an ad for a detergent. The blackness ate it up, greedily, like ink spilling on crisp paper.
And then warm amber bathed the room in an unearthly light; it embraced, it seduced, and suddenly, the ravenous blackness beckoned not at all, and his vision sharpened slightly, enough for him to realize that he wasn't alone.
The other figure in the room is slightly hunched, carefully drawn into a posture of self-containment. He is a shadow, standing against the window and its featured sunset. He was all heavy clothes over a powerfully-compact bulk, swagger distinct and familiar and homely as he turned toward Sam.
"Dad?" Sam whispered, licking his lips, "Is that you?"
The figure stepped forward, lowered his head enough such that the angle of the light changed, and the face that neared his own was perfectly recognizable now. Unmistakable. And he wondered how he had even gotten it wrong.
Dark blond head was haloed by the sunset, and his skin was golden where his freckles didn't share the color of fall leaves, and his weary, glassy eyes looked see-through silver-gray in this perfect light.
"Dean," Sam breathed, recognizing his brother, and his heart beat a little faster; it was pure, instinctive joy. He breathed harder, and reached out blindly.
"Sammy," Dean said in a low voice, reaching for his hand with no reservation or hesitation, and held on tight, "Thank god."
The blackness was creeping again, but Sam did not mind. He could skip the sights of the sunset glow; his cold hand was engulfed and warm in his older brother's, and that touch trumped everything else.
" " "
The world was different again, the next time he woke.
Gone was the glorious afternoon sunset and the warmth of reunion. It was replaced by a pitch black night broken only by the light of the overly-sanitized industrial white street-lamps that leaked from between the blinds on his window, and the glowering scowl that was carved into his brother's face as he looked at Sam from across the room.
He had wondered how he might have mistaken Dean for their father, and now he knew. The clothes were dad's. The posture was dad's. The scowl was damned his too. While there was nothing new in Dean's John Winchester 'interpretation ('impersonation' didn't quite cut it, as he added his own wacky flair),' the hunched posture of barely restrained frustration and the seemingly steaming anger beneath the frigid exterior was all John's, and seemed strange, befalling Dean's aura like this.
In short... he had never seen Dean this mad before. Ever.
It was the kind of expression that made a guy think about all his sins, and call out for a priest for some extreme unction action.
"What the hell were you thinking?" Dean asked him, voice low and dark. He made no move forward; he looked like a watchful predator in the shade, only parts of him visible, streaked by the light that seeped from the blinds.
Sam cleared his throat. His older brother wasn't going to be pulling punches, apparently, even for the severely injured. Sam licked his lips, trying to buy time.
"You lucid or what?" Dean snapped, pushing off the wall and making his way to Sam's side. Almost spitefully, he swipes at a plastic cup on the night table, fills it with water, and, just when Sam thought it was either going to get shoved down his throat or tossed on his face, Dean's grip was unmistakably gentle as he helped his younger brother drink, even as his eyes turned colder.
"You here?" Dean asked him, gruffly, putting the cup back down.
Sam had a feeling he was going to regret it but he nodded.
"The moment you get outta here, I'm gonna kick your ass," Dean swore, "Mark my word. And if you ever pull a stunt like that again, I'm kicking you so hard my boot's coming from up your ass and out yer pie-hole, you hear me?"
Why's he so mad? Sam wondered, bringing a shaky hand up to the side of his head, which was just-now beginning a dull throb. His fingers brushed a bandage, and he figured that ought to explain a lot.
The throb escalated to blinding, engulfing pain.
He dove back under, cowardly into the dark, hoping the world would look different again when he woke up next.
" " "
It did.
Dean was asleep on the chair next to his bed, gracelessly sprawled and just wide open, including his mouth. Still disoriented, Sam's gaze drifted to the floor, inanely looking for the strings that have been cut off from his brother-the-puppet. Dean looked that exhausted, even without the sunken eyes, or by the very fact that he was asleep watching Sam in the first place.
Waitaminute, Sam thought, heart beating a little faster, and there was a machine to his left that echoed it. Dean stirred at the sound.
Tell-tale heart...
He closed his eyes, wanting the dark to take him, calling unto it now actively.
Take me, take me, I don't wanna deal with this.
You're not supposed to be here, he thought of Dean, just as the man in question gasped himself awake.
"Sammy, you awake?" Dean asked, sounding very much alert now. Sam heard the scraping of the chair, and the subtle sound his brother's feet made as he rose and leaned over him.
"Sammy?"
"Um," Sam mumbled, opening one eye, and then the other. Vaguely, he remembered golden halos and a warm hand on his, interspersed with the memory of glinting eyes and a cold, low threat, all coming from the same, apparently wildly-contradictory man.
"Hey, you with me?" Dean asked, eyes earnest, searching, "You all here, bro?"
He muttered the first thing that came to mind.
"What?" Dean asked patiently, lowering his head toward Sam's mouth.
"You're schizophrenic," Sam muttered.
Dean backed away, stung and quite angry. And, as if to illustrate Sam's observation, his earnest eyes hardened and widened like they were a breath away from popping out.
"I'm schizophrenic?" Dean asked, indignantly, voice rising, "I'm schizophrenic? Well excuse me, Professor. I've been out of my mind worrying about my stupid, stupid brother, and yeah, if I'm torn between mothering you and smothering you with those damn pillows it couldn't possibly be my fault, all right? You're the schizoid. When you go off to college, you're supposed to be safe. When you're Joe College, you're supposed to study. You don't go on hunts, even if it's nearby. You pick up the phone and call me, or dad, or any of our contacts around here. You don't get your head bashed in 'cos you're out-of-practice and fucking alone, you hear me? You picked college, you were supposed to be safe. You left hunting, you were supposed to stay gone. If I had known you were gonna go off and hunt on your own anyway, I'd never have let you leave."
Oh, Sam realized, the details starting to come back to him now, although its magnitude... not so much. That's why Dean was pissed. Oh.
"Oh."
Could those eyes go any larger? Oh yes.
"Oh?!"
"I'm sorry?" Sam tried.
"Goddamn--"
"Thank you for being here," Sam said, quietly. And meant it, from the very, very bottom of his heart.
Of course that would get Dean.
Dean took a deep breath, and sighed it out, along with all of his rage. He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I'm supposed to be here," Dean muttered, "I was supposed to be... there. I haven't... haven't told dad what happened yet. Not sure if it was because I suspected you weren't up to seeing him, or if it was because I couldn't figure out how to tell him I almost got you killed."
"I almost got me killed," Sam murmured, in correction.
Same thing, Dean didn't bother saying.
"How'd you know?" Sam asked him, "How'd you know where I was? How'd you find me?"
Dean ignored him and just sat back down warily, his eyes holding Sam's gaze. He scratched the back of his neck uneasily. Sam caught the flash of white on his wrist when his sleeve rode up with the movement. Bandages, and not thin and lightly done either. Thick, and once he caught sight of it, traced it from wrist to forearm, and then up to the arm itself. He narrowed his eyes in thought, not bothering to hide his discovery.
"You okay?" Sam asked.
"Someone had to clean up your mess," Dean said, eyes cold, eyes cruel. Sam winced.
"I don't even remember," he admitted, fingers drifting up to the bandage on his head again. His brows furrowed, as he struggled to remember the apparently self-imposed Stanford hunt that brought him here. His mind was a frustrating, achy blank.
"I'm not surprised," Dean said.
"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam murmured, feeling tired and unhappy now. Feeling inadequate. And he couldn't quite remember anything about it. All he knew was that he went on a hunt, got into a tight spot, needed his older brother to save him, older brother somehow did, and consequently got hurt. College and Stanford or no, whenever Sam finds trouble, well...somehow, Dean always finds Sam, apparently.
"I'm sorry," he said again, "How'd you find me, Dean? How'd you know?"
"No more loner hunt shit, Sammy," Dean told him instead of answering, "No hunting without me or dad. I mean it." Dean demanded, before his look and voice softened to imploring, "Please."
"I promise," Sam vowed.
" " "
2009
" " "
Of all other times his older brother could have picked to let Sam go, of all other times, it was up against the end of the world. How screwed up was that?
"So you're finally letting me go, huh?" Sam asked.
"Never," Dean said with a cocky grin, but that was just semantics. Figurative, you know. Of all the good that ever did them.
"Well you got a problem," Sam said.
"I got lots of problems," Dean joked.
"Neither of us are going anywhere," Sam said. But they were just words again. Figurative. "You're not dying, Dean. Neither am I. I'll see you, when this is over."
"I know," Dean said, quietly, averting his eyes, "I'm just saying if we don't, it's kind-of okay. You'll be fine."
"And if I was the one who died, will you be?"
"I won't be," Dean said, obtusely, "So it's a good thing that's not gonna happen."
Sam zipped his duffel closed, rubbed hands over his weary face. He sat on his neat bed, checked his watch.
"When are you leaving?" Dean asked.
"In five," Sam said.
Dean pursed his lips, and nodded. He wasn't done packing, but he shoved everything in gracelessly and zipped up his bag too, and then sat beside his brother. Their sleeves touched, comfortably.
"I wonder what dad's thinking, watching us now," Sam said, "Like we're a bunch of marines, huh? Being sent off to the war."
"Yeah," Dean agreed, quietly. He wondered what life would have been like if they had lived in a different time. If he and Sam were being sent to Germany or Korea or Vietnam instead. Or, if one were to be more current, if he was headed to Iraq or Afghanistan instead.
"So five minutes," Dean breathed, "Now that's awkward."
"And no radio too," Sam joked, "How are we gonna do this?"
"Can we talk about chicks?" Dean asked, optimistically.
"You haven't seen ass in months, dude," Sam laughed, "So no, I'm not in the mood for science fiction right now."
"You're always in the mood for sci-fi, geekboy," Dean said.
"You didn't correct me," Sam said, enlightened, "How tragic, bro."
"Shut up."
"So you're all set for this, right?" Sam asked, worriedly, "I mean, you were just in the hospital and everything."
"Lying there won't do me any good if we lose anyway," Dean said, "So I might as well give this a shot."
"Castiel's gonna be with you?"
"Yeah," Dean said, "I'm kinda relieved about that."
"He's okay," Sam said.
"He's kinda like us," Dean added, "I think he's just finding that out, and I think he hates that, it mucks up his daddy-knows-everything world-view. But I think it makes him the best of 'em. He actually wants to save this god-forsaken place, not just out of obeying a command. He actually wants to."
"Yeah," Sam nodded, thinking back to the first time he had met the angel. It took him forever, but Castiel had found it in himself to shake Sam's hand. He was a fair player, and had sympathy for the plight of humanity. The only thing Sam couldn't ever like about him though, was this... this inalienable feeling of jealousy. Or... jealousy was too simple, too petty. He felt like Castiel was trespassing on his territory. Sam was the only one who was supposed to understand Dean. Sam was the only one who was supposed to know him inside-out. Sam was the one who was supposed to have saved him. Sam was the one who was supposed to stand beside Dean at the end of everything...
"He'll take care of you," Sam said, pursing his lips thoughtfully, "That's good."
"You know where Bobby's gonna be?" Dean asked.
"They're picking his brain here," Sam said, "It's the right thing to do. Few people know their stuff like Bobby Singer. Most of the places we're all headed is from his analysis. He's also tapping into some more hunter networks who can maybe help us out. You know all the other baddies, ghosts and monsters in the world don't necessarily rest just because the demons have an agenda. We're stretched so thin."
"I wish dad was here," Dean said, "He'd be running around like a fricking general."
"I really hate war," Sam sighed, "Why can't we all just get along?"
"Yeah, like you and Ruby, huh?" Dean snorted, "No thanks."
Sam just smiled and shook his head at Dean in amused dismay. And then his look turned wistful, because it was hard to ignore that five minutes was over. He patted Dean's arm, as he rose to his feet. He patted it again, and then couldn't seem to find it in himself to lift his hand away from there. He clutched at the fabric of Dean's clothes, and knew he was in trouble.
Uh-oh...
"Let's hug it out, bitch," Dean said to his relief, breaking his panic, recognizing that Sam was in trouble. Dean rose and embraced his younger brother like both their lives depended on it, because it was probably true. Sam hugged back, just as fiercely.
" " "
Dean held on to his brother, and he didn't think either of them could breathe, but what the heck, he was dying soon anyway. Now, later, what's the difference?
He closed his eyes and gripped Sam tight. He wanted to bawl like a girl, because holding Sam now, he wondered what the hell he was thinking, allowing them to be assigned apart anyway? Can he still back out? Can he still back out?
But the thought was futile, and impotent, and he just held on.
The embrace felt like a fucked-up time-loop because they were parting, and yet it felt like he just found Sam again. Because the last time they hugged it out like this was when Dean just got back from hell. Surreal, how the embrace of parting felt just like the embrace of reunion, and they interspersed confusingly, bits of memory one on top of the other, mixed up and indiscriminate. A parting that felt like a reunion... dual purpose hugging, like getting drunk because you're celebrating and getting drunk because your life has gone to shit, and both hangovers equally shitty. But this was okay, Dean thought. Because if reunions can feel like partings and partings can feel like reunions, maybe they'll see each other again after all.
"Be careful out there, big brother," Sam said, leaning into the space by Dean's neck and shoulder. Damned Sasquatch fit like the space was made just for him, and Sam was arrogant enough to think so too.
"Be good, Sammy," Dean said, gulping. Was that it? Was that the last word? But it was so anti-climactic. The world was ending, can't he think of a better line? Remember what I taught you had been fricking great. But he hasn't taught Sam anything in awhile, has he? And he couldn't pretend that this wasn't a big deal, no, he couldn't.
What does Sam need to hear most, Dean wondered, What's Sam most afraid of?
"Remember," Dean said, "You're a nice guy, all right? All that demon blood shit aside, that's just logistics. When people die, they leave the shell and the blood behind, right? That means they don't matter. You don't need to make up for anything. You don't need anyone to save you, Sammy."
What Sam said to that made Dean's eyes sting, because he realized Sam must have been wondering about what his older brother needed to hear the most too, what he was most afraid of.
"That's only 'cos you already have, Dean."
To be continued (I think)...
Thanks for reading. Comments and constructive criticism as welcome as always!
