Previously appeared in Of Dreams & Schemes 23 (2008), from Of Dreams & Schemes Press
Unforsaken
K Hanna Korossy
Sam stared at the journal until the worn leather blurred. He finally opened it and flipped through the pages, skimming his father's cramped notes, turning the book to read scribbles in the margins, picking out names he knew. Then he took a deep breath and started dialing.
"Ian, this is Sam. I need some help—where are you? Oh. No, uh…no, you're right, that's important. Good luck finding the kids."
He hung up, dialed again.
"Hey, Marco, it's Sam. I need—oh. Yeah, I…I hadn't heard. Sorry. Well, could be worse than a broken leg, right? No, I'm, uh, I'm okay. Thanks."
Sam closed his eyes a moment, dialed another number.
"Mr. Winters, it's Sam Winchester. Yes, sir. I'm in Jonesboro and I need help. My brother—no, sir, Dad's off on…a different hunt. I need some…sir, please…"
The line went dead. Sam stared at it before quietly cursing and moving on.
"Tim? It's Sam. Winchester. Listen, I'm in Jonesboro and I need your help. How soon could you get here?… No, Dean's been…" He cleared his throat. "Dean's been taken." Sam rubbed his eyes. "Tomorrow morning? Yeah, that's great. Uh, call me when you hit town, okay?"
That was one. Sam put a star next to his name and allowed himself one relieved breath before continuing down the list.
"Caleb, it's… Oh. Yeah, okay, I understand. I'll tell him when I see him."
His head hurt, and Sam almost wished it was a vision. He kept dialing.
"Rooney, it's Sam. I need some help, I… No, I… Dude, would you just shut up a minute! Dean's gone…yeah…I can't…" Sam's jaw set, eyes narrowing. "I've got four words for you, Rooney: October twelve, two-thousand. Yeah. I'm in Jonesboro, Arkansas. Yeah, morning would be good. Thanks. Yeah, you too, man."
That made two. Three, including him. That should be enough. Sam turned the phone off, tossed it on the bed. He drew a careful star by Rooney's name, surveyed the few he still could have tried. There weren't that many. The hunting life was a solitary one.
Sam buried his head in his hands and tried to keep himself from falling apart before help arrived.
00000
Sometimes, they got in over their heads.
It had happened on occasion with their dad, too, especially toward the beginning when John was still learning. Mostly it led to beating hasty retreats and fleeing town, or the state. Once it had meant Dean in the hospital for two weeks and a sobering lesson for a seven-year-old Sam about how fragile big brothers were and how John wasn't as perfect as Sam had always thought.
Now, it had happened again, and there was no one to blame, no one's fallibility to expose but his own.
It had seemed a run-of-the-mill case: people disappearing, turning up a few weeks later insane. There were any number of candidates for causes, creatures that fed off sanity, spirits that showed people more than they could bear to see, ghosts that were seeking revenge, spells. All were within their realm of experience and, after four casualties, Sam and Dean were both anxious to get the thing, whatever it was.
And then they'd realized it was a demon. No motive but to create havoc—"death and destruction for its own sake," as Dean had once put it—and more powerful than the average haunt or cryptid. They'd still been trying to figure out what to do about it when they'd gotten too close, and one minute Dean was standing next to him, the next…
Sam could hear Dean's startled, truncated cry every time he dozed off for a few minutes.
It had taken him two days to realize he was out his league. Two days of Dean missing and in the hands of a demon that liked to drive its victims crazy. That was when Sam had finally called for help, going down their dad's and their own contact list because, of course, John Winchester himself wasn't reachable. But Sam was going to find Dean, even if he had to call in every favor, debt, and piece of blackmail he could.
And it still took them six more days to track down the thing.
They didn't park far, but advanced with caution, Sam and Rooney in the lead. It wasn't anywhere near the rhythm, the almost psychic connection Sam had with Dean, always knowing where his brother was. But they weren't all hunters for nothing. Sam and Rooney took turns covering the others as they traded point, silently communicating intent, Tim a mere shadow behind them. The stakes were too high to take chances.
They only stopped to catch their breath and reassess, until they reached the cliff face.
Sam wrapped a sweaty palm a little more tightly around his axe as he stared at the rocky terrain rising in front of him. Demons weren't limited by the physical world, but they couldn't just cross worlds with human prey. Dean would have to have been kept somewhere, and it had taken them six days, to find it with research, bribery, and some locator thing Rooney had done that Sam wasn't sure he wanted to know the details of. But what mattered now was that they were there. And that Dean had already been so for over a week.
"You ready, Sam?" That was Tim on his left. Just a little older than Dean, he'd always called Sam "kid," until now. Now, both the older men were deferring to Sam for his experience, but also because it was Dean. And there was nothing childlike about what they were about to do to get him back.
Sam glanced at Tim, the book in the man's hands, then over to his other side at Rooney, who held his own arsenal in comfortable readiness. "Let's go," Sam said, and moved forward.
Demons came in different strengths. There were the heavy-duty players like the one that'd killed their mom and Jess, although God knew their dad had given them little enough information on it before disappearing. And then there were the more common but lesser players, like Meg or the one they'd exorcised from the plane, that could be banished. Even they weren't easy, however. As Tim started reading the exorcism, his southern twang softening the edges of the Latin, the wind started to rise. Sam set his stance, felt Rooney do the same.
The wildcat came seemingly out of nowhere.
There was barely a chance to do more than yell, but Rooney was already on it, shooting the animal in the head before it could take a final leap at them.
It was quickly replaced by a bear. Apparently, they had the right place.
The wind picked up. The demon was throwing everything it had at them, and Sam winced as he slayed an opossum. Claws sliced his shirt, snapping jaws narrowly missed him, and Sam heard a grunt of pain from one of the other men. But he and Rooney forged ahead through the onslaught of possessed animals, flying debris, and the press of wind, Tim just behind them, still reading. They hadn't been able to pinpoint exactly where the lair was, but as the demon's power weakened…
There.
One sheer cliff face shimmered, reflecting rainbows of light like a sheen of oil. Sam determinedly climbed up toward it, not even feeling the gravel that rolled under his feet or sharp rock that bit his hands. He heard Rooney keep shooting behind him as he went. Alone, he wouldn't have stood a chance. Alone… God, he hoped not. Dean had to be there.
Tim's recitation was just a murmur now under the rising storm. Rooney cursed and fired again, an animal scream competing with the howling wind. Sam ignored them all, focused on his brother. Dean would love all this sound and fury being for him. Sam swallowed, eyes stinging from something other than the wind. He was terrified of what he might not find, and terrified of what he might. But he didn't stop scrambling up toward the doorway.
Sam pulled himself up the final few feet to the patch of unreality, and gulped in a lungful of air. Then he lifted a hand to tentatively press against the liquidy surface. It gave under pressure, bowing at his touch, hot and tingling and eliciting a furious screech on the wind. Twigs and pebbles pelted him impotently and his hair whipped around his face. Sam took another deep breath and plunged through.
Into utterly still silence and darkness.
It was a little too tomblike, and Sam quickly fumbled for his flashlight before he choked on his own panic. No, the cavern, carved out of rock and damp earth, was big enough, stretching at least a dozen feet in any direction the flashlight's beam fell.
And then it fell on Dean, and Sam forgot about breathing.
His brother sat slumped against the side wall of the cavern. He had no choice in the matter; as Sam's light trailed up, it revealed the—was that rock?—binding that held his wrists fast above his head.
But it was the only sign of injury done to him. Dean's face was lightly bearded and thin, carved with exhaustion, but there was no blood, no obvious broken bones, not even torn clothes. Dean's eyes blinked owlishly in the light, but they were open, looking at Sam.
"Dean," Sam whispered, even that word choking in his tight throat, and rushed forward.
It only took getting a few steps closer to realize Dean wasn't as okay as he looked.
There was no response to Sam's arrival or his own name, no impatient shifting, no relief or joy, no growled, "Get this off of me!" to express his gratitude Dean-style. As Sam faltered, closing that last distance between them with uncertain steps, he could see the red-rimmed eyes weren't just blank. They were hollow. They followed his movement, but there was no intelligence or recognition or Dean behind them.
Sam fell on his knees in front of his brother, and his vision grew watery as he reached for a stubbled cheek.
"Dean? It's me. It's Sammy. We're gonna get you out of here, okay?"
Nothing. Not to Sam's voice, not to the stroke of his skin. No flinching fear, but no relaxation, either. Dean was just…
"How is he?"
Rooney's voice yanked Sam back from the edge of dark despair, and he raised his head but didn't turn away. "I found him," he said softly, hearing the all kinds of untruths in that. "Is Tim—?"
"Almost done," Rooney said.
There was a sudden tremor in the ground beneath them. As if it had weakened the rock, the bindings over Dean's wrists crumbled at the same moment, held there only by the demon's dying power. Sam lurched forward to shield Dean from the shower of small chunks of rock, and felt his brother's arms fall free under him. Dean immediately toppled against Sam.
"Huh. Guess he's done," Rooney added cheerfully.
Sam wrapped his arms around his brother's limp body, smelling the stench of his clothes, feeling the slow heartbeat against his own chest. Dean made no motion to sit up, seemingly lifeless, and Sam gathered him a little closer.
"Sam?"
That was Tim's quiet voice from behind him, and Sam closed his eyes, wishing it were just him and Dean, or, if he was wishing anyway, him and Dean two weeks ago. Maybe in that hole-in-the-wall eatery they'd discovered with the classic video games built into all the tables, where Dean had beat him in Space Invaders while they ate cheeseburgers and chili fries and couldn't seem to stop laughing. Anywhere but here and now with this shell of his brother.
"Sam."
But they weren't alone, and they still needed help. Sam nodded into Dean's dirty hair. "Yeah. He's, uh…I need a hand with him."
Sam did a quick triage while Tim told him about the dark shape they'd seen shatter and whirl away at the end of his recitation. The animals had stopped coming, and the barrier to the cavern had vanished. Sam hadn't even noticed the late afternoon sun streaming in behind him. The demon was as well and truly gone as mortals could make it, leaving them only to get Dean home.
There was nothing broken in the physical sense in the lean body Sam's fingers skimmed, no damage besides hands that hadn't held circulation for too long and scraped and scratched forearms and wrists. The back of Dean's head had some dried and crusted blood on it, but it didn't look like a serious injury, either.
But there were a lot of ways a man could be broken.
Under Tim's serious, compassionate gaze and Rooney's raised eyebrows, they got Dean settled in a two-person carry between Sam and Tim, Rooney going ahead to bring the car as close as possible. Vehicle-accessible trails wound almost to the base of the range, and Sam reflected bitterly how close yet how far Dean had been all that time. Sam leaned his brother's temple on his shoulder, resisting the urge to gently close those slow-blinking, blank eyes, and they headed back.
They'd come in Rooney's 4x4, and the grizzled hunter snapped out a blanket over the back seat before they settled Dean inside, propped against Sam. Silently, Rooney fished out a water bottle and a first-aid kit and handed it to Sam along with an extra blanket. Sam avoided both the other hunters' eyes as he wrapped Dean in layers and then settled his brother against him again, Dean's head resting against his sternum. Rooney climbed in front, while Tim hesitated in the open doorway by Dean's feet.
"Did he say anything, react at all to you, Sam?"
Sam shook his head blindly, nestled his cheek once more against greasy strands, feeling like perhaps if he just got close enough, Dean would feel him and respond.
"Sammy, maybe we should… I mean, if he's unresponsive…"
"Don't call me Sammy," Sam said in a low voice.
Tim hesitated, then shut the door and climbed in beside Rooney up front.
Sam remembered every minute of the trip home. Trickling water over Dean's lips until he opened them and drank, swallowing automatically. Rubbing his hands and arms to warmth and pinkness. Rooney flipping through channels as they moved from one broadcast area to another, looking for jazz in the heart of country-music territory. Tim sitting half-turned toward the back, quietly raising possibilities that made sense, but that Sam didn't want to think about: that the demon had done something to Dean's mind, that maybe this was something a real doctor could help with, that Sam couldn't do this alone. Sam just shook his head stubbornly at each suggestion. Sometimes Tim's voice softened in conference with Rooney, and Sam didn't try to overhear, letting the distant murmur wash over him as he hung on to his brother.
He examined Dean's damaged wrists again but decided to leave them for now. They weren't hurt too badly, as if he hadn't struggled much once he'd been caught. Sam tried not to think about what that meant. He pulled Dean away a little sometimes to look him in the face, but the dead hazel eyes that stared back at him quickly had Sam folding Dean close and pretending he hadn't seen. Could this be insanity? Had they been too late?
No. He refused to believe it. This wasn't craziness, it was absence.
Tim and Rooney had gotten other lodging in the same motel, never once mentioning Sam had a free bed in his room, but they'd used the Winchesters' room as a command post. Tim helped Sam lay Dean on the bed by the door as Rooney started gathering their stuff, tossing a sheathed knife and some books at Tim as he loaded up. Sam stood uncertainly at the end of Dean's bed, attention divided between the two packing hunters and his brother. Dean kept staring at him, eyes even tracking him as Sam moved, but that was all the awareness they showed. Sam wanted—needed—the two of them to be left alone so he could figure out how to fix this, to fix Dean, which meant getting the other men out of there. He finally went to help them pack, feeling Dean's eyes on his back.
Timothy Rishell was a hunter by night, tax accountant by day, with a family. Sam didn't ask what his wife thought when he disappeared for a week like this, just clasped the wiry arm in gratitude he couldn't put into words. Tim nodded at him, not unkindly. "Good luck to you both, kid." He left with the one bag he'd come with, tossing it into the back of his Honda before he drove off.
Sam didn't even know Rooney's full name, just that he was a full-time hunter like they were and he liked his work. A little too much sometimes, Sam thought on occasion, and he didn't have much in common with the middle-aged man, but he shook Rooney's hand firmly and staggered under the clap on his back. "We're square now for that little thing in two-thousand, right?" the older hunter asked.
"What little thing in two-thousand?" Sam said with a shadow of a smile.
Rooney grinned. "Good boy." He glanced at Dean, and his grin faded. "Tell Dean I got a girl for him next time he comes through Milwaukee."
"I will." Sam nodded, trying not to shift impatiently as the big man ambled out the door and climbed into his vehicle. He waved once to Sam and then was also gone.
Sam shut the door and leaned against it wearily, watching his brother, who watched him back.
"Where are you, Dean?" he asked softly.
Dean's unnerving stare didn't waver.
Sam's throat tightened, and he crossed to the bag of weapons and supplies on his bed and dug out a plastic bottle. He probably should have done this first, back at the cave, but he couldn't stand the thought of Tim and Rooney seeing the result. Face crumpled with the pain of even having to try it, Sam dribbled some holy water onto his fingers and, after a moment's hesitation, made the sign of the cross on the back of Dean's hand.
Dean blinked heavily, unaffected.
The tightness loosened a little in Sam's chest. "Okay," he said, straightening and pulling himself together. "Okay, it's just us then. We can do this. We make a good team, right? We can figure this out."
God, he would have given up any hope of Stanford in a heartbeat to hear Dean answer him.
Sam licked his lips, nodded. "Right. So, let's get you cleaned up, huh?"
He unwound Dean from the blanket and sat, then stood him up, surprised when Dean stayed more or less on his feet. Maybe he wouldn't have to carry him? Sam pulled his brother's arm over his shoulders, grabbed the waistband of his jeans, and tugged him toward the bathroom. In unsteady, wooden steps, Dean went.
"Maybe you're still in there somewhere, huh?" Sam asked in gentle, coaxing tones. "Dean? It's safe to come out now—the demon's gone."
Dean just stared him. Yeah, Sam hadn't really thought it would be that easy.
He almost wished his brother was unconscious for the next part, matter-of-fact though it was. They'd cleaned up, even bathed each other before, but Dean wasn't usually staring at him when he did it. Sam considered the small bathroom, and finally just turned the shower on and kicked off his and Dean's shoes, then climbed in fully clothed.
"You should've asked for the suite," he mock chided. "Nice bathroom, a tub. 'Cause, man, you stink." He pulled off Dean's soggy clothes under the stream of hot water, tossing them carelessly out on the floor. Then Sam ran soap over the lean body, still looking for injuries, something he could understand that might have caused…this. But there was nothing besides the usual scars and faded bruises. Sam talked through the bathing, just in case some part of Dean was in there and dying of mortification, but there was no shame in the eyes that blankly watched him. Sam couldn't keep their gaze, the sight of that emptiness hurting too much. He washed Dean down as efficiently as possible, then dragged him out of the shower, his own clothes dripping puddles on the tile, and sat him down on the closed toilet seat.
A towel wrapped around his brother, Sam leaned over him to dry him off. He found himself pausing to stare into Dean's eyes, one hand grasping the bearded chin. "Dean, can you hear me? It's Sam. Please, say something."
Dean's eyes burned right through him. How could something so unanimated be so intense?
Sam felt his own eyes tear, and rubbed at them impatiently. "Fine. Then I'm just talking until you tell me to shut up, all right?"
He dried Dean off, dressed him in clean boxers and a t-shirt, then carefully shaved him while keeping up a running monologue of how they'd figured out where Dean was and what had him captive. There were patches of fuzziness in those eight days from fatigue or simply being overwhelmed, but Sam could recite most of the steps, the detail of the process, the lengths the three hunters had gone to get back one of their own. It was the story of how much he needed Dean, and Sam hoped it would reach somewhere his platitudes didn't.
With the scruff of beard gone, Dean almost looked normal, sitting and watching his little brother put things away. Sam left the room for a minute to put some water on in the coffeemaker and quickly change into dry clothes, and returned to find Dean staring at the floor, but the hazel gaze—more a muddy brown now—slid back up to him as soon as he walked in. That had to be a sign there was something behind those flat eyes, didn't it? But as Sam swallowed and squeezed Dean's shoulder, there was no reaction.
"Okay. Take your time. No hurry, right?"
He treated the abraded arms while he waited for the water to heat, Dean never flinching at the bite of alcohol or the soothing antibiotic gel. Sam pulled him to his feet and back out into the room, and Dean went, sitting on the edge of the bed that Sam lightly pushed him down onto. He watched without reaction as Sam slipped a warmer long-sleeve shirt onto him, then crossed the room to fix some instant soup. When Sam touched his mouth with a spoonful, he swallowed willingly.
"That's good, Dean," Sam encouraged, and his mouth twitched at the thought of Dean's indignation whenever he felt patronized. Sam waited for the huffed rebuff in vain, though, Dean continuing to eat without reaction.
He was listing a little by the time he finished the soup, and Sam stood and laid him down on his side. He tucked the covers around his brother's body and then just sat next to him. So close and so far.
"God," Sam whispered with a helpless shake of the head. "Dean, I miss you."
Dean blinked, eyes clearly growing heavier.
Dean had received a throat injury once, before Sam had left for school. He couldn't even remember what they'd been hunting, but something had knocked his brother against the edge of a cabinet, and his throat had taken the brunt of the blow. Dean had nearly suffocated on the way to the hospital, then hadn't been able to talk for a good week after. Sam had learned more about his brother in that week than the whole year before. Without the distraction of Dean's mouth, Sam had watched carefully every emotion that had flitted through his eyes: fear, determination, chagrin, gratitude, pain, affection. More than he ever would have said aloud, but by the end of the week, they could hold a whole conversation in silence. Sam had actually felt limited when Dean's recovery was over and words came between them again. But there had always been so much there when he'd looked for it. The nothingness in the hazel now was almost ungraspable.
Sam rested a hand over Dean's forehead and eyes. "It's okay, you can sleep now. I'll be right here." When he pulled away a minute later, Dean's eyes were closed.
Sam tried to take a deep breath, but the pressure in his chest was too great. He gasped in some air instead, and crushed the heels of his hands into his eyes to keep the waiting flood back. He could do this. He could. Dean was back and it would be okay now. Everything would be all right.
But the tears he'd been furtively denying while Tim and Rooney had been witnesses, then while Dean couldn't take his eyes off him, won anyway. They dripped off Sam's nose and chin even though he kept rubbing his face. It all felt like a nightmare, like any minute now Dean would wake up and give Sam grief about sitting there crying like a girl on his bed and, personal space, dude, and, geez, who'd died and taken Sam's puppy with them? When Sam had felt so broken, after Jess died, after he'd kissed Laurie, after seeing Mom again, Dean had kept him going, and he'd made Sam believe he was fixable. What happened when they were both broken?
Sam shook his head, scrubbed his face dry with rough hands. He'd be the glue this time. God knew Dean had given him enough to spare over those last months. Sam would fix him.
But he hated being the older brother.
It would all have to wait for now, though. Sam's energy had ebbed to the point that his own bed seemed miles away. Tomorrow they would…he would…figure something out. Right now, they both needed sleep. Sam forced himself to his feet and staggered over to his bed, dropping down on top of the covers facing Dean. He curled up there, tugging the bedspread over his shoulder and his legs.
The last thing he saw before sleep drew him down was his brother, and no matter what else, there was comfort in that.
00000
The clock said seven-twelve when Sam drifted awake, and he didn't know if it was evening or morning.
Dean slept on in the bed beside him, and watching him with sleep-weighted eyes, Sam could almost forget anything was wrong. He knew that silhouette by heart, more comforting than anyone's, even Jess's or Dad's, had ever been, and Sam clung to one moment of being the little brother again.
But dreams didn't last.
He sighed and climbed out of bed, turning on the coffeepot again to heat more water. Sam was still sleepy, and the sky outside was getting darker. Evening, then. Well, fine; Dean probably needed the sleep. But he needed sustenance and water just as much, and Sam would feed him before they both got some more rest.
Dean opened his eyes when Sam touched him, and Sam's insides twisted as what he thought was a moment of confusion became the same blankness as before. He'd hoped…
He cleared his throat. "Hey, Dean," Sam said softly. "You hungry again? I made some more soup."
He sat his brother up to eat, helped him drain the mug, then swallow some water. Dean wouldn't be dehydrated much longer, and then they'd have to worry about things like bathroom detail. But for now, Dean's needs were simple: rest and nourishment. And maybe Sam.
God knew, he needed Dean.
Sam sat again on the edge of the bed as Dean faded back to sleep. Again, for a half-second it almost looked like his brother's eyes focused on him, brow furrowing ever so slightly. But even as Sam said a hopeful "Dean?", it was gone, most likely just wishful thinking. The same absent look drenched the hazel in dirt-brown before his eyelids mercifully shut it all away.
Sam dropped back into his own bed, feeling old and tired, and stared at Dean a long time before he also gave in to sleep.
00000
He jerked awake, and nearly cut himself on the knife pressed against his throat.
"What—?"
"I'm going to kill you."
It was matter-of-fact hatred, leaving no doubt of the sincerity of the words.
Sam stared at his brother in the meager light that streamed in past the edges of the drawn blinds. "Dean!"
"No more games, no more fun. I'm not playing anymore."
The rush of emotion was dizzying: Dean was back. He wasn't gone for good…but this wasn't exactly Dean. Or rather, it was, but only the pure violence part, Dean's eyes crystal green and just as hard. There was no give there, no softer emotion, only the dead-eyed killer Sam knew his brother could be but had never seen face-to-face before. This Dean could slice his throat and not even flinch.
Sam swallowed gingerly, Adam's apple pressing against the blade, and felt a thrill of fear he'd never, ever felt with Dean before. For himself, because he knew he was looking death in the face, but for Dean, too. Neither of them could survive Dean turning on him. Sam balled his fists in the sheets to try to keep still and met his brother's eyes over the knife, idly wondering if he didn't prefer the blankness to the loathing soullessness that filled them now. He could barely get words out, the syllables rasping against the knife-edge. "Dean, it's me—it's Sam."
"Yeah, it's always Sam. One more reason to put you out of my misery."
He frowned. "I don't…don't understand."
A sharp rise of the eyebrows. "Oh, really? Poking around in my head no longer doing it for ya? Let me make it simple then: it's over. You lost." The knife bit deeper. Another millimeter and it would slice flesh. "And I am gonna cut your freakin' head off."
Sam tried to shake his head, giving it up when the knife didn't budge. Poking around in his head? But it was the anticipatory threat that drained the blood from his face. The words tumbled over each other, desperate. "No…Dean, please, man, it's me. It's Sammy. Don't do this."
Dean's mouth turned up into a chilling parody of his usual grin. "It's Sam. And you really don't know him, do you. He never begged."
The words hit Sam like an electric shock and the pieces tumbled into place. Third person. Past tense. It suddenly made sense. His eyes locked with Dean's, unflinching now. "Yes, he has. For you."
Dean winced, the pressure of the knife momentarily easing.
Sam dared push himself up a little, the razor edge and Dean retreating correspondingly. "Dean," he said earnestly, "I'm not dead. I'm right here. We got you out, remember? The demon's gone—you're safe."
"Right." Dean's voice was so cold. "Tell me another one. Oh, wait. You already have. A couple dozen times, isn't that right? But I'm not listening anymore."
Sam cringed, hurting for his brother. It was even worse than he'd imagined. How real had the demon made its lies for Dean not to accept the truth? "Dean, please," Sam whispered. "I don't know what it did to you, but—"
Dean's face, chiseled into hard planes by days of what was now obviously torture, was inches from his. Sam could smell soup and hatred and a hint of sulfur on his breath. "Shut. Up."
Sam did, nose wrinkling and throat working as he tried to swallow his fear. He didn't say a word, just stared his message into the unyielding eyes in front of him.
That close, he could see the sudden spark of uncertainty in the green irises. It disappeared just as quickly, but in the next moment the knife—and yeah, Sam probably should have taken that out from under Dean's pillow, but he hadn't exactly expected his catatonic brother to attack him—withdrew completely from Sam's throat, held in Dean's loose grip now as he towered above the bed. The hunter had come out of hiding, replacing the victim of the night before.
Sam didn't like either.
Dean's face suddenly relaxed, almost friendly. All but his eyes. "You know, it might've worked. If you'd picked Dad instead of Sam, I might have bought it. I mean, Dad, he's always running to the rescue kind of late. Heh, sometimes he doesn't show up at all. But Sam—" The word was unnaturally cut off, like he'd meant to say Sammy and caught himself. And Sam swore he could see the flicker in his eyes that time. "…Sam would've come if he could have. Maybe he took off for a few years, checked out that normal white-picket life, but he's been there when it counted. So, congratulations, you convinced me: Sam's… gone." His expression turned lethal without warning, and this time it was the tip of his knife that pressed into the soft skin under Sam's chin. "So who in Hell are you?"
Sam was getting a little tired of having sharp objects at his throat, but if this was the cost of a conversation with his brother, so be it. He didn't struggle, didn't try any of a dozen moves—most of them taught to him by Dean—to get free. Fighting would only cement Dean's misbelief, and Sam needed him to listen. "It's me. It is me, Dean. I would've come sooner, I swear, but I couldn't find you. I tried. I wouldn't've even made it now without Tim and Rooney. I'm sorry you had to wait and go through that. But, Dean, if this has gone too far, if…if it's got too much of you already, I just want you to know, I know it's not you, man, all right? There's nothing to forgive." He reached up without thinking.
"Don't touch me," Dean spat instantly, jerking away. His eyes, wide while Sam talked, abruptly grew dark with rage. "Damn you," he spat, and spun away, striding to the middle of the room.
Okay…not exactly the reaction Sam had been hoping for. But his throat was still intact, and that was something.
The hunter moved around the room. Prowling, Sam's mind provided without bidding, as he watched even this thinner, tired version of his brother check out his environment, never fully turning his back to Sam, knife at ready. His skills were probably the only thing he could count on that moment as he assessed the room, looking for the flaw in the illusion. Because Sam knew too clearly now where Dean had really been those last eight days and why he hadn't struggled to get loose. You couldn't free yourself if you were trapped inside your mind.
Dean's voice when he spoke sent a shiver down Sam's back.
"Not bad. I didn't know I remembered this crappy little motel room so well." A hard glance back at Sam. "It's not gonna work, but points for trying."
Sam sat up, which earned him a sharp glance. But Dean soon moved on, examining the pictures on the wall, fingering a pile of research on one chair. He abruptly shoved it to the floor and turned back.
"So, what's it going to be this time? Burning to death? Maybe pin 'Sam' to the ceiling first for that extra stab in the gut? Or, hey, how about a nice possession? Glowing eyes to match the décor?" He glanced around the room. "Death by bad interior design?"
Sam's mouth was dry and opened and closed without sound. Oh, God, was this how Dean had spent the last eight days? Variations on Sam's death?
A humorless laugh. "Now, see, you're messing it up already. Sammy's never speechless. The kid could talk you into…" Again, something flashed through Dean's face and, jaw clenching, he turned away.
Sam melted a little more. He opened his mouth to say something, when Dean suddenly froze. Sam did, too, watching with held breath as Dean reached out one hand to run over the leather-bound journal that sat on the table. Oh. Figured their dad could convince Dean when Sam couldn't. He smiled bitterly.
Dean opened the book and flipped through a few pages, fingertips trailing almost reverently over their dad's words. His voice, low and hard and lifeless, killed Sam's smile. "You bastard. You pulled out all the stops, didn't you."
The demon had convinced Dean his brother was dead, had made him retreat so far into himself that Sam hadn't been able to coax him back out. Even Dad wasn't fixing that. It was up to him, and Sam's heart was thumping hard in his chest as he climbed out of bed, balancing on the balls of his feet for a hesitant moment when Dean turned back to glare at him. His brother's face was wiped clean of emotion, but his eyes…
He had nothing left, Sam realized with weary shock. That was what the demon had done: taken away even the little Dean had. And Dean alone had nothing to lose, not even himself.
"Dean," Sam said with every little bit of himself he could put into his words. He had to choose each one carefully because both their lives were staked on this, on him getting through. "I know you're confused and you can't trust anything. I don't know what that demon did to you, but maybe you've been tricked before and can't risk that happening again." He spread his arms a little, and his voice dropped even lower, talking to his big brother instead of the hunter. "But Tim, Rooney, me—we're all real. We got you out of there, and we sent the demon back to Hell. So just…take one more chance on me, Dean. I promise you won't be sorry. Just trust me. Please. Don't give up now."
Dean stared at him, turmoil clouding his eyes like silt stirred up from the bottom of a river. He was trying so hard to fight Sam, to keep the little bit of control he had left, and Sam had to take it away from him in order to save him. He tried to soften the choice, to invite instead of push, but he was still asking Dean to risk losing himself and he knew it.
Dean's gaze darted around the room again, more hunted than hunter now, staring hard at the wallpaper, their dad's journal, the two rumpled beds. He crouched down slowly to pick up a few of the sheets of paper strewn across the floor and stared at them, dropping them as he stood up again. Then back to Sam, raking him from head to toe and back again, lingering on Sam's eyes.
Sam offered him a shadow of a smile, and himself.
Dean shrank before his eyes. Confusion and a hesitant wariness openly crept in to replace the lethal rage as he glanced around him once more. "This isn't real," he finally said, but it came out almost a question.
Sam's muscles were quivering from the strain of holding still. He was barely breathing, not wanting to do anything that would break this spell. Dean was actually listening to him, so close, Sam could almost touch him. "Dean, it's me. It's over—the demon's gone. Whatever you want me to do to prove it, I will. If sitting here all week is what it takes to show you I'm not going anywhere, I'll do it. Anything, just say the word," he said earnestly.
Dean's eyes were opaque, but he was drinking in every word, Sam could feel it.
Sam's mouth ran on with his desperation, but maybe that would help convince Dean, too. "Look, did any of the…did it ever last this long? Look around you—this place is real, Dean. Who'd make up something like this, right? The shower spits just like you said it does, and I swear Ralph S. Mouse is living under the beds just like you used to tell me when we were kids, and I'm pretty sure the guy at the front desk is a peeping tom." His momentary smile faded. "And every time you wake up, it's still here and I'm still here and I'm not going away, and that's gotta mean something, right? I'm not dying, Dean. I'm real. See?" He held out a hand, saw Dean's eyes briefly dart to it. "Just let me help you."
Dean shuddered, like the words hurt. "Damn you," he whispered finally, but there was no heat to it now, just resignation. Demons played dirty, and Sam could only imagine how many pleas like this Dean had already resisted. But Sam couldn't do anything more than share his earnesty and love, meeting Dean's gaze steadfastly and hoping his brother saw something in him he hadn't in those dark deceptions.
He did.
The hazel eyes, mirrors of Sam's own, suddenly filled. The clatter of the knife on the tabletop was almost lost in the despair Sam had glimpsed before Dean turned away from him. The older Winchester stumbled to the wall and sagged against it, facing the corner, shoulders silently beginning to shake.
Capitulation, not belief.
"Dean," Sam murmured. He hadn't wanted to break Dean, just the lies; this defeated surrender was as painful to see as the nothing-to-lose rage of before. Sam unstuck himself from the floor to move forward and lay a hand, haltingly, on his brother's shoulder. The muscles tightened under his hand. "You're okay. I'm here, Dean. We'll work it out."
Dean didn't turn back, but he didn't shake Sam off, either. Sam held on, waiting, hardly breathing. And Dean's shoulder, hard as ice, melted by degrees under the warmth of Sam's touch. After a tense minute, he reached across to grab Sam's hand and hold on tight. Wanting to believe but needing help.
Glue. Was that all it was, Sam marveled? Love?
Dean gripped even harder, and, chest also tightening, Sam squeezed back.
They stood there until his hand fell asleep and long after, clinging to each other and letting the world settle around them where it may.
00000
"They're not gonna like this," Sam said solemnly.
"What?" Slightly unfocused eyes peered at him. "Anything we do's only gonna help this place."
"I don't think holes in the wall will fix anything, Dean." But Sam gamely stepped up to the plate, took aim, and let the throwing knife fly.
It missed the bull's-eye Dean had drawn on the wall, and hit a good foot or so below, sinking solidly into the plaster wall. Sam winced.
Dean whooped cheerfully next to him. "Not bad, li'l brother. How many beers have you had, anyway? I think you're a better shot when you're drunk."
"Bite me," Sam said sweetly. "And I've had about a third of what you've had, so shut up." Not that that hadn't been enough; he was actually a pretty decent shot when everything wasn't blurry.
"Yeah, but," Dean leaned in, "I hold it a lot better than you, Sammy."
"Whatever. You gonna go?"
Dean patted him on the shoulder and got into position. Concentration replaced lax inebriation, and Sam's own senses sharpened as he watched Dean aim and throw. The knife hit dead center. Sam looked back at his brother to see Dean's mouth curl into a lazy smile that didn't make it to his eyes.
Yeah, even though he'd been limiting himself to one beer to every three of Dean's, Sam had figured his brother wasn't that drunk. But the two six-packs Sam had picked up with dinner had had at least some of the desired effect. It was the first time he'd heard Dean laugh in too long.
Dean had slept most of the last two days, but he always woke with a gasp, face so bleak for a moment that Sam ached for him. Dean believed now—almost completely, anyway—that this was reality, that he was free and safe and so was Sam. But you didn't forget Hell or your doubts overnight. Sam still saw the dark that lingered in his eyes; the way his brother stared at him, reminding Sam of when they'd first rescued him; the fists that clenched even in sleep. Sam had woken that morning to find Dean on the floor beside him, propped between the nightstand and Sam's bed, fast asleep with his knife in hand. Guard duty.
That was when Sam had resolved to buy the beer.
"Beat that, geek," Dean crowed, leaning against him and drawing a real smile from Sam. His brother returned it automatically for a second before he caught himself. "What?" he asked instead.
Sam shook his head. "Nothing. I was never as good with knife-throwing, Dean, you know that. Now, if you want to go out and try crossbow…"
"Can't. Bad wrists, remember?" Dean waved a bandaged appendage in front of Sam's nose and gave him a grin.
Sam rolled his eyes. "You're such a faker, dude."
"And you're a wimp, Sammy."
That seemed to kill the good vibe. Another time it would have just been meaningless banter, but Sam hadn't saved him from a demon other times. The could-have-beens hung heavy in the room, sobering them both. Sam cleared his throat. "Dean, are you ever going to tell—"
"No." Flat, not-up-for-debate refusal. Sam's burdens were to be dissected and shared, but Dean's were never open to scrutiny. It apparently broke some sort of big brother code. Or maybe it was just Dean.
Sam only looked at him, not pushing but not letting himself be pushed away, either. Too much had happened in the last week—the last months—for that.
Dean broke the gaze first, fingering a knife. Almost carelessly, he flung it at the target, and Sam didn't need to look to see it had hit center. "But thanks," Dean added quietly. "For everything."
That was no small counter-offer. Sam gave him a small smile. "Forget it, man."
"Oh yeah, in about two seconds. But…I mean it, Sam. If you hadn't…"
"You're my brother."
Dean's jaw shifted, and he nodded. That was an explanation he could understand.
"Although, I think Rooney's looking for a partner," Sam added thoughtfully.
Dean laughed. "Yeah, right. You two would kill each other before the month was out. He'd never put up with a whiny—" Dean's cell phone rang, and he reached for it without breaking stride, "—sidekick who gets blood on his favorite t-shirt and eats…" His voice trailed off as he saw who was calling.
Sam frowned as Dean gave him an unreadable look and flipped the phone open.
"Dad?" he said in a small voice.
Sam sat across from him, trying not to grin, until Dean blinked hard and turned his face embarrassedly away, which was Sam's cue to give him a little privacy. He stood, wobbling only a little, and brushed Dean's shoulder on his way to the bathroom. Apparently Rooney, or Tim, or one of the others Sam had called had passed the news about Dean on, and their dad always paid more attention to other players than to his sons. But Sam didn't care as long as he was there now for Dean.
It was a lonely life, hunting. But Sam wouldn't let them go it alone, not him, definitely not Dean.
Not again.
The End