The Ballad of Brotherhood
Author's Note; So, this story is fairly morbid. Lots of tortured!angsty!limp!sam and protective!dean. I am really enjoying writing this and I'm proud of what I've written so far. Reviews are love. Thank you.
Sam has been gone for 2 days.
It wouldn't seem like a huge freak out fest to anyone else, but to Dean, it is well beyond that stage.
He paces the floor and calls Sam's cell phone for the 200th time. Since Thursday, it is all he has been doing. Calling, getting no answer, hanging up, and trying again.
The too-familiar voicemail message goes on and he decides that there is no point in leaving a message. For the record, he has already left 34 of them.
He rubs a hand over his tired face and inhales deeply, the smell of stale motel room sheets and lack of sleep filling his nostrils like smoke from a fire. He eases himself down onto the crusty bed sheets and lets out a choking noise between a sob and a sigh. He feels defeated, and wonders subconciously what his little baby brother has gotten himself into.
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"Please." Sam utters the word like a plea. It is barely audible, no more than a whisper. And his captor does nothing of it, but hits him in the chest again. Harder, if that's even possible.
Immediately, Sam feels his already cracked ribs crack some more. His breath comes out in pained wheezes. He has been hit like this for two days. Two days that simply feel like a lifetime. He is sure that Dean is on his way, that he will find him. But, then again, he thought these same thoughts yesterday. Still...
His captor stands over him and grins, his plastered-on lips upturning almost in slow motion. Sam lowers his head and squeezes his eyes shut. He cannot look at this man.
"You are special, Sam Winchester." The man draws these words out in a deep, throaty voice. He has not spoken until now, and Sam wonders why it has taken him so long to do so.
Sam shakes his head defiantly. He tries desperately to get it through the man's head that he does not have any more visions. He is just an ordinary guy. But, the man does not listen. And for the upteenth time, Sam is hit with a dead hand.
Sam sucks in the humid, stale air. His breathing is becoming labored and he does not know how much more of this his body can take. Slowly, ever so slowly, his mind shuts down on him. There is no longer a thought process, and each hit to his body takes a lifetime for his brain to comprehend. His body is quicker to realize the pain, though.
He wonders when Dean will be here. Even though he is stuck in this hellhole, where he knows he is dying, he is sure that Dean will come. In fact, it is the only thing he is sure of, anymore.
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Dean sighs lightly as the Impala's purring grows louder in the silence of the night. He has been driving for hours, making stops here and there. He has a vague idea of where his brother is. But, at this point, he cannot be sure.
About a week ago, the Winchesters encountered a group of demons. They beat the living daylights out of them, but everyone is entitled to their revenge. Dean is sure that this is theirs.
Everyone who knows of the Winchesters knows that their only weakness is each other. Whenever Sam is hurt, Dean is hurt. And Dean feels like the living dead.
His eyes rest on the road ahead of him. He has not slept, and his body is quick to realize that he needs it. He cannot sleep, though. Because the time he spends sleeping is time wasted. And not a second can be wasted as far as Sam Winchester's life goes. He turns the radio off and concentrates on his journey. His mind reels into his overprotective state. Where the hell is he?
The barely there, barely noticeable glimmer of a flashlight catches in the corner of his peripheral vision. He eases the car to a halt, not paying attention to his surroundings. He does not even care where he is. He only cares if Sam is here.
He is quiet. He carries a gun in the back pocket of his jeans, a knife tucked behind his belt, and a rifle full of rock salt at his side. This, he does not worry about, because he often scares those into telling him what he needs to know. He hopes it will work this time, too.
He does not know if it is a sign, or just eager anticipation, but his stomach drops as he inches closer to the sight of the flashlight. He crosses through underbrush and weeds and finds that behind an old willow tree, a small shed is visible. He did not notice it before, because there is no light coming from it and it is hidden by the umbrage of the tree.
The flash of light obscures his vision as it is forced into his eyes. They adjust quickly, though he instinctively thrusts a hand over them.
"What are you doing here?" A low growl and the clicking of a gun is heard. Dean clicks his rifle, ready in case this man proves to be a problem.
"Looking for my brother. Seen him around?" Dean maintains his composure.
"I haven't seen anybody around these parts for years. I'm sure you're in the wrong place." He steps into the light from his own flashlight, and Dean catches a whiff of him. He smells like old cologne covering up body odor.
But, there it is. The faint, coppery smell of blood.
Dean shakes his head and his heart falters with each step. "Nope. I think I'm in the right place." Dean pauses to moisten his lips, his fingers trembling. "It'd be smart to just lead me to Sam, now."
The man charges full force at Dean and before he is thrown to the ground, he catches his face. The demon from a week ago. The demon that Dean swears he killed.
The impact of the larger man against Dean's unready form startles him and catches him off-guard. But he is quick to recover and he fires the rock salt at him.
The demon hisses and moans, wisps of black smoke trails into the sky, leaving nothing on the ground but the man's clothes. And even so, Dean swears he'll burn them if he finds he had anything to do with Sam.
Sam.
He still has not found him.
He pushes open the door to the shed and squints. He pulls his own flashlight out from his coat pocket and shines it into the eerie darkness.
The light lingers on a man's face-bloodied and bruised and battered. It is almost unrecognizable.
Sam.
"D-Dean?" Sam's scratchy voice stabs through his heart. His tough exterior diminishes quickly.
"Damnit, Sammy." Dean rushes forward to help his brother, quickly untying ropes that bound trembling wrists and ankles. Sam falls forward slowly. He would not be falling if he had the strength to hold himself up, and the fact that he doesn't worries Dean to the core.
Dean steadies his brother's head in his hands, the touch causes Sam to flinch. It doesn't surprise Dean. God only knows what the sick bastard did to his brother.
"I-I'm sorry, Dean." Sam cries out suddenly, like a child. Dean shakes his head and pats Sam's cheek to keep him awake.
"There's nothing to be sorry about, Sam. I need you to stay with me, okay?" Dean tries desperately to soothe his brother, to let him know that everything is going to be okay. But he cannot assure himself of this, even.
"I'm sorry...for not...answering your calls." Sam croaks and smiles painfully at his brother.
Dean smiles back. It is so like Sam to apologize for the smallest things.
They have bigger things to face, though, and they both know it.
Dean gently lifts his brother and eases him to the car, responsible for most of his weight. He is eager to get back to the Impala because being in the car gives him a sense of safety.
It is the only safety they know right now.
TBC...