Author's Note #1: I finished a story - Finally!
This story actually started out as two different stories; one for a Drabble when our WoW that week was 'Garden of Eden', and the other started after watching S8.14 "Trial and Error," that I melded into one big story. I had pretty much the entire story hand written, some of it already typed, with the premise of Sam completing the Trials and ultimately collapsing afterwards. Then real life interfered, topped by a nasty virus infecting and killing my computer. Luckily, I was able to rescue all my important files (my stories, of course).
By the time things calmed down, it was months later, the season was over, and I was second, third, and fourth guessing what I had written. So I put this aside as I tried to work on other stories (that I still have yet to finish). Then I saw the S9 promo...Dean sitting beside Sam as he lay unconscious in a hospital bed...well, it pretty much matched exactly what I had written and I just had to finish and post mine before the premiere.
And I made it...with two days to spare. TWO days and we get the new season! I can't wait!
Author's Note #2:
To Riathe Mai, for being the incredible and amazing friend that she is, giving me the slap upside the head I needed; encouraging and supporting me every step of the way, answering late night texts, question after question, and then totally reworking the story after we decided at midnight that it would be better written in an entirely different tense. Love you.
Author's Note #3: Spoiler's for Season 8 "Sacrifice", and considering I have Dean ending up in a Chapel, maybe minor spoilers for Season 9.1.
ooOOoo
Hold on, hold on! You seriously think that? Because none of it – none of it – is true. Listen, man, I know we've had our disagreements, okay? Hell, I know I've said some junk that set you back on your heels. But, Sammy...come on. I killed Benny to save you. I'm willing to let this bastard and all the sons of bitches that killed mom walk because of you. Don't you dare think that there is anything, past or present, that I would put in front of you! It has never been like that, ever! I need you to see that. I'm begging you.
- Dean to Sam, Season 8 finale, "Sacrifice"
ooOOoo
Bright sunshine filters through the partially opened window, multicolored hues of reds and golds painting long streaks across the stark white walls. The sweet smell of spring's first flowers scents the room, blown in on the warm breeze. Birds chirp in the nearby trees, announcing to everyone the dawn of a new day.
Outside, the world wakes from its slumber to start once again; to go about its daily hustle and bustle; to continue on as usual.
Safe.
Secure.
Blissfully unaware.
Ignorant of the reality around it, and the gut-wrenching sacrifices that had been made to protect it.
Again.
Always them.
Always at a horrible cost.
He knew—accepted—that it wasn't going to be easy, or the least bit simple. He thrives on the adrenaline rush of being on the razor's edge of danger.
But this time, this time he'd been foolish enough to believe. To believe in the light at the end of the tunnel, that this time would be different… that their task wouldn't come at such a high price.
Wouldn't cost them everything.
Wouldn't cost them each other.
Dean bites back the bitterness and anger that seethes just under the surface; at the innocents they've protected, so-called destinies that have ensnared them; at everybody and everything that had ever come in contact with them. It begs for an outlet, whispers and tempts him ever so closer towards the dark road his release craves.
It isn't supposed to end like this. It's never supposed to end like this. It's supposed to be him, supposed to be…
"Dammit." Dean blows out a ragged sigh as he runs his hands wearily down his face.
"At least we both stayed on the same plane of existence this time. That's gotta count for something I guess, huh, Sammy?"
Dean hooks the leg of the hard plastic chair with his foot, pulling it closer to where he stands guard beside the bed. The metal legs scrape against the tiled floor, the sound reverberating loudly off the sterile walls like nails being dragged down a chalk board. It dances across his already frayed nerves and sends a shiver down his spine.
He looks down quickly at Sam, hoping that the loud noise woke him, or at the very least startled him. Dean watches Sam's face for any sign of reaction; he will take any sort of response at this point—no matter how small—that will assure him that his brother still holds some sort of connection to the outside world.
There's nothing.
Not even the slightest twitch. He lays, silent and unmoving, in the same position he's been in since they'd arrived; and with every silent moment that's passed, a little bit more of Dean's hope fades.
Done all we can…
Deep coma…
Up to him…
The doctor's words echo in Dean's mind. He clenches his fists, the skin stretching tight over bone-white knuckles, his right knee bouncing in time to his rapidly beating heart as he fights to keep his anxiety and panic at bay.
He inhales a long, slow, deep breath, and then blows it out just as slowly. Memories—long thought buried deep and locked down tight—of a soft voice and gentle caress whispering relaxation techniques while he shook with grief for his lost brother, come unbidden to the forefront of his mind and he goes with them.
In. Out.
Dean rotates his head in a slow circle, the popping and snapping of bones and joints sounding like an explosion in his head as tense, stiff muscles are stretched. He drops his head as he leans forward in the chair, his elbows resting on his knees that are still bouncing, hands still clasped in a grip that refuses to relax.
In. Out.
Dean closes his eyes, focusing past the fog and the pain and picturing himself in his Baby with the tunes cranked, not a care in the world as he cruises down the highway with Sammy—
He squeezes his eyes shut tightly as a shudder runs through him, belatedly remembering why this 'calming, go to your happy place' crap didn't work the last time; would never work.
Memory after memory of him and Sam—playing, hunting, teasing, laughing…being brothers—flash through his mind. Each happy, carefree memory being driven out as the horrifying and gut-wrenching images that have sunk their claws deep into him play out in vivid Technicolor.
He lets the assault wash over him, as powerless to stop the memories as he was to stop Sam's fate.
In the silence of that abandoned church, Dean felt a spark of hope flair deep within himself. He saw the disbelief and amazement—the relief—on his brother's face when Sam showed him his arms. The power of each Trial's spell—that eerie, orange glow that pulsed beneath Sam's arms with a life seemingly all its own—faded and disappeared.
He knew they weren't out of woods, not by a long shot. But it appeared that this time, they'd dodged a bullet; that this time, they'd be okay.
He should have known better.
The moment was brief, fleeting, gone before either of them had the chance to embrace or revel in it; torn apart by the anguished soul-deep cry of pain that ripped from his brother's mouth, and buckled his legs beneath him. Dean's arms shot out on instinct, catching him as he collapsed gasping and wheezing to the dirty and worn wooden floor.
The rain pounded down around them, turning the ground to thick, heavy mud that trapped and tripped their feet as they made their way to the safety of the Impala. Angels lit the night time sky in fiery plumes as they fell from their Heavenly home to crash into the Earth below.
Dean ignored all of it, gave it no more than a passing thought, his concern and attention on the only person that had ever mattered to him. His worry grew, became a vice-like grip on his heart as he too easily carried Sam; his giant of a little brother looking so very frail and small beside him. Sam's grip was startlingly strong as his trembling hand grasped Dean's wrist.
Sam's labored, gasping breaths wheezed harshly against Dean's ear as his head slumped against Dean's shoulder. Each inhalation was a desperate, total body-consuming effort. Each exhale stole what precious little air he was able to take in as his chest rattled with deep, wet coughs.
Dean whispered soothing nonsensical words of encouragement as he fought to balance the two of them while he opened the passenger side door, begging… pleading with Sammy to 'hold on,' 'stay with me,' 'it's gonna be okay, you hear me.'; a little more of Dean breaking at the clear effort and determination it took his younger brother to simply lift his head and nod.
Dean paused, both his hands on Sam's shoulders supporting his weight as he eased him to sit side-ways in the passenger seat. He crouched down in the mud to look Sam in the eyes, ready to administer any comfort, any help…any thing his brother asked of him.
Clear, lucid hazel eyes gazed back at him, shining bright with fondness and understanding. A thrill raced down Dean's spine. Maybe, just maybe, he was wrong. Maybe this time they'd actually caught that once in a lifetime break; and their light at the end of the tunnel was just a muddy, storm-ragged field. That was okay with him.
A shaky but genuine smile slowly turned Sam's too pale lips, his dimples showing in the waning moonlight.
"'s'okay, D'n," he uttered and Dean's mouth started to curve up at the ridiculousness of that statement. Long fingers fisted in the soft leather of Dean's jacket and grabbed his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. "I see it now… an'… m'glad y'r here."
Sudden clarity of his own hit him like a Mack truck, and his blood ran cold. Dean shook his head, the 'No!' tumbling out in a blind, panicked mantra of denial and shock as Sam's eyes rolled up into the back of his head and he went limp in Dean's arms.
"Sam?"
Dean's heart jolted to a sudden halt. His breath stole from him and his blood roared furiously in his ears. A different time and place flashed like lightening in his mind; memory and reality wavering and blurring before him as they overlapped in chilling similarity.
The silence was deafening in his ears as the world faded around them, tunneling down to just the two of them.
The mud soaked through his jeans as he fell to his knees, catching Sam as he tumbled—lifeless—out of the car. His chest was still against Dean's own as he grasped his younger brother's body fiercely and tightly against him.
The rain drenched his hair and ran down his face in rivulets, clumping his eyelashes and mixing with the tears that ran freely down his face.
"NO! Nonononono…. Sammy, no, damn it!" Sam's head bobbed feebly back and forth on his neck as Dean shook him, all gentleness forgotten in a frantic, desperate attempt to wake him.
"You don't get to do this! You hear me! Sam? SAMMY!"
As if hearing his older brother's emotional plea, Sam suddenly gasped in a huge breath. His entire body went rigid, the muscles in his neck cording tightly as he threw his head back. Only Dean's quick action prevented a split skull and concussion as he managed to slide his hand between Sam's head and the steel frame of the Impala. Sam's long legs skittered stiffly in the mud and nearly took them both down before he was once again boneless in Dean's arms.
"Hey! Hey…hey…whoa…I gotcha'…I gotcha" Dean's heart slammed into motion, again, and the sensation was no less painful; sharp and stabbing. "That's it, Sammy…come on …ya gotta breathe out," Dean coached. "You've never done anything half-assed in your life, kid….you are not about to start now."
Dean leaned Sam back so he was once again sitting sideways in the passenger seat, and cradled his neck in his hand. He grasped Sam's hand in his and brought it up to his own chest, resting it there.
He'd been told—by many, both human and supernatural—that he and Sam had the most unhealthy, tangled up, co-dependent relationship that they'd ever seen. And Dean was loath to disagree…he knew they did. But it worked for them, kept them both sane, kept them both human, kept them both alive.
That's why Dean had no doubts that even though Sam was unconscious, he could still hear him and would respond.
"Come on, little brother…just like me, huh…everything's gonna be fine" He sucked in a deep breath of his own, forcing his heart to stop racing and his breaths to become even. "You always wanted to be just like your awesome big brother, right? Come on, Sammy"
Sam's breath hitched once on an exhale, and stopped again.
"Uh uh…none of that" Dean ground out as he tapped the side of Sam's neck, anger lacing his voice because the alternative was unthinkable. Dean squeezed Sam's hand and pressed it tighter against his own chest as he took another deep breath. "Just like me, Sammy, follow me.
"In. Out.
"One at a time. Baby steps, right?"
Sam inhaled jerkily, the exhale just as shaky as it wheezed out, sounding thick and wet. "That's it, Sammy, just like that…knew you could do it, college boy."
Dean squeezed Sam's neck affectionately, his thumb sliding over Sam's dry, cracked lips and wiping away the blood that stained his mouth. Dean swallowed down the fear that clawed at him, knowing that the words that stumbled from his mouth were outright lies, but wanting nothing more than to believe them. "We're good, see…you just keep it up…I'll fix this, we'll be fine."
Dean rested his forehead against Sam's for a moment, feeling the heat of fever increasing as it radiated off Sam's sweat-soaked brow. He matched his breaths to his brother's, every inhale and exhale punching through him like a fist; the reality of just how much trouble they were in wrapping around him like an ice cold blanket.
Deft fingers easily found his brother's pulse point and pressed into clammy skin. Eyes closed…waiting… The beat was weak, erratic; but it was there; the thrum of life pulsed beneath his fingers, living, tangible proof that Sam was still alive…still with him. Dean clung to it for the lifeline it was.
He tucked Sam securely against his side on the bench seat of his baby and wrapped his arm around his broad shoulders. He splayed his hand on Sam's chest; the shallow rise and fall keeping the dread and terror away… the ever increasing space between each breathes spurring him on faster.
The Impala kept her boys safely ensconced while Heaven fell and the storm raged; sleek black metal eating up the miles at it tore down the winding dirt roads. The ride to the hospital was a dizzying blur, one that even now Dean can't recall making. The emergency room was a distorted, mist-covered nightmare of desperate questions and easy lies, screaming monitors, and loud voices, blending together in a crescendo of 'he's crashing, and 'Stat' and 'clear' as the emergency personnel fought to bring Sam back; his little brother having gone lifeless at his side too many long moments before he screeched to a halt outside the ER doors.
Dean shudders. He knows that as long as he lived, those images will be burned into his psyche.
"Anytime now, kiddo," Dean says, his voice rough with emotions that are building ever so closer to the surface, "Ya know, you keep up with your sleeping princess routine and I'm gonna get bored,"—and desperate, he thinks to himself—"and we both know how that usually ends."
He runs his hand through Sam's hair, pushing it back and tucking it behind his ear. At some point, in some no-name little Podunk town that they happened to stop in, he'd gotten it trimmed.
"Ya still look like a friggin' girl," Dean says fondly. "Think this may just be my opportunity to fix that for ya, Sammy. Whadaya say? Speak now, or when you do wake up you're gonna look like a Justin Beiber wannabe."
Dean holds his breath; crossing his fingers and anything else he can think of that Sam will pick this moment to open his eyes. Will wake up and give him his patented bitch-face and threaten to paint his Baby neon pink for even thinking such a thing. But Sam doesn't move; the distant hum of highway traffic and the murmur of people talking in the halls the only sounds that break the oppressive quiet.
"No?" Dean shakes his head a bit, seemingly agreeing to his brother's unspoken, silent request for more time; holding up both sides of the conversation as he's done since this nightmare started. "Nothing to say to that, huh? Well, you've been through a lot, so I'll give ya a little more time, cuz I'm awesome like that.
"But not too much time," Dean whispers brokenly in Sam's ear, "You understand me, little brother?"
The deep, bone rattling cough that shook his body and tinged his lips with blood is gone, and Dean watches the rise and fall of his brother's chest, deep, steady and regular now after the harrowing first few hours—days, he doesn't know anymore—of one life-stopping crisis after another.
The full face mask that supplied life sustaining oxygen to his brother is gone, replaced now with a small nasal cannula, and Dean tries to take what comfort he can in the fact that whatever horrific damage the Trials inflicted on Sam's lungs must be healed.
The gauze that wrapped the knife cut on his hand stands out glaringly white on skin that is still too pale, sunken eyes and hollowed cheeks highlighting the alarming amount of weight he lost; something that Dean will remedy with the help of the spacious and well-stocked kitchen of the Bunker as soon as they are free of this hated place. He still looks like dea—
No.
Dean shakes his head vehemently, not daring to even risk—even through a seemingly innocent analogy—the use of that word.
Because Sam isn't…won't be… not if Dean has any say in the matter. And big brother always has the last say in everything. Sam is simply resting, recharging. If anybody needs a rest—deserves a rest—it is his little brother.
Dean blows out a ragged breath and leans forward. He gently moves the attached IV line out of the way and grasps Sam's hand—limp and heavy, and still way too hot—in his own.
"I know this ain't no Garden of Eden we have out here, man…and who knows, maybe you got some hot librarian fantasy going on where ever you are. I mean, stranger things have happened, right?" Dean's cocky grin falls far short from its mark, the humor as lost and broken as its intended target. His laugh emerges on a choked breath, and he squeezes his eyes shut, silent tears overflowing wet eyes to run down his cheeks unheeded; no longer able to be held at bay.
"We chose each other this time, little brother, that's gotta count for something, right? All those demons, all those angels, every single one of those evil sons of bitches….the whole friggin' world can burn for all I care… I'm not lettin' you go.
"I need you out here, man; beside me. I can't… won't do this without you. You promised you'd survive this, Sammy. Promised that we'd survive the damn insanity; together. Not just one of us this time, but both of us. I'm holdin' you to that, you hearin' me?"
The only answer that greets him is deafening silence.
Dean stands beside the hospital bed, his hand still resting on Sam's chest. He can feel his little brother's heart beating under his hand, working so hard to keep life sustaining blood pumping throughout a body that is so badly damaged.
Dean squeezes his eyes shut, over-powering anguish and desperation shuddering through him, screaming at him what he has tried so long to deny: Sam is slipping away right before his eyes, and suddenly he doesn't know what else to do.
Dean pats Sam gently on the chest; he pulls his blanket up a bit higher, smoothing out the wrinkles as he tucks it tighter around him. The act is second nature, done infinite times on countless nights over the years, and the nostalgia is suffocating.
He squeezes his brother's shoulder affectionately. 'I'll be…," Dean clears his throat, his voice coming out rough and quiet. "I'll be right back, ok? I just have to go and…do something, alright? Don't worry, everything's gonna be fine, Sammy. If you wake while I'm gone, there's plenty of hot nurses to keep ya company. Obviously, they have no taste, cuz they've been checking you out and not me…but hey, take advantage…smokin' nurse…sponge bath…"
Dean's smile wavers, raw and painful. "Everything's gonna be fine, you'll see, little brother."
He gives Sam's arm one last reassuring squeeze, then turns and walks determinedly out of the room.
ooOOoo
The room is just four walls and a ceiling, the same as any of thousands of other rooms and places that Dean has been in over the years. But this one holds a reverence that even he can feel. He isn't one to believe in the power of prayer. He knows better, knows how things really work; but this isn't about him. It's about Sam, and Dean will always do anything for him.
He sits down wearily, the old, worn wood of the bench creaking loudly in the silence of the space. A rainbow of color streaks the room as it shines through the stain-glass windows around him. He slides forward a bit and grasps his hands together, skin stretched tight from the force of trying to keep them steady. His knees sink into the padded leather that lines the bottom edge of the bench in front of him.
Dean's eyes sweep the small room, part Hunter on guard, part unease at not knowing where to look, what to do. His eyes finally come to rest on the simple, wooden carved crucifix hanging on the wall above the cloth covered alter.
He's never been spiritual. He gave no worth to the lessons that Pastor Jim would make him sit through—after he'd found him, of course—that was always Sammy's gig. A small smile tugs Dean's lip. He could remember many a night as kids when they'd stayed in Blue Earth, of listening to his little brother ask question after question till the wee hours of the morning as he and their old friend pondered life's greatest mysteries. So considering the miracle he knows his heart is asking, he figures the cross is as good a place as any to set his gaze.
He's prayed to Castiel, on many occasions, for any number of events and crisis' that he's deemed important' and 'urgent'.
And maybe they were. Right now he couldn't care less, because in the grand scheme of things nothing matters except the person who's lying unconscious upstairs.
He hates this feeling, this loss of control that has swallowed him up and pushed him against a wall; has left him anxious and terrified as he's forced to sit on the sidelines, watching helplessly as his brother fights a battle he can't see, engages a foe Dean can't kill.
A battle Dean knows in his heart his little brother is quickly loosing.
So he does what he's always done, will always do.
Protect Sammy; mindless of the danger to himself.
"It's… ah…well…," Dean clears his throat, the sound overly loud in the silence of the chamber. "It's been a long time." He laughs at that, but it comes out as more of the scoff he feels it should be.
"It's Dean. Winchester," he adds. Uselessly, he thinks. After all the trouble and noise he's made over the years, he's sure the Man that's not upstairs anymore knows exactly who he is.
"I know I'm not one of your favorite people…and I'm not even going to insult the two of us by denying that feeling isn't mutual. You can send me back to Hell, or back to Purgatory, or do whatever it is you want to me in the Afterlife. I don't care, this isn't about me. This is about Sammy. He's lying upstairs—"
Dean's voice quavers and breaks, and he makes no effort to push down the pain that has been slowly suffocating him.
"The kid's upstairs, and I don't think he's gonna make it. There's not another person I know that's stronger than my little brother, but this…" He shakes his head. His eyes harden and his words are laced with anger and venom. "For the second time, he was willingly going to sacrifice his life to save everyone on this rock, to save your people."
Dean's heart stutters. He knows now, without a doubt, that his smarter-than-Einstein little brother knew that he wasn't going to make it. Not that he would willingly go, not give it his all and put up one hell of a fight. That he would willingly break the promise he'd made to him, but Dean knows his little brother better than he knows himself.
"After everything he's been through, everything he has willingly sacrificed… after everything Heaven and Hell has put him through—demon blood, torture, Soullessness, insanity—after everything… he has always managed to fight his way back. To pick up all the damn shattered pieces, to keep on fighting; to keep doing the right thing.
"Every time. And, miraculously, somehow," Dean's voice softens and moisture wells in his eyes, the fondness is evident in his words and expression as he thinks of the man the boy he raised has become, "he's never lost his ability to care. He's still that big-hearted, sympathetic, compassionate kid who puts the needs of others before his own. Who still manages to find wonder in everyday things… still—somehow, after everything that's been done to him, everything you know he's endured—he still has faith and prays to a God he knows for a fact isn't in Heaven.
"So I need you…" Dean blows out a shaky breath, "I need you to step in. He doesn't deserve this… not after everything. Just…I'm begging you…I'll do anything…I just…we can't lose each other, not again. Not now.
"Whatever it takes, I'll do it."
Dean didn't know what he was expecting, hoping for; something, anything, any minute sign that he'd been heard. That the sacrifices the Winchesters willingly give of themselves, the good that Dean knows they accomplish, the difference they made—meant something—to the One who was supposed to be watching over them all.
But silence screams back, mocks him. A ragged breath escapes as Dean drops his head into his hands. Despair crashes over him, suffocating, smothering his soul in a thick blanket of anguish.
Just as quickly, anger wells up within him. Determination, red-hot and ferocious, shatters the bonds that threaten to pull him under. He is a legacy of the Men of Letters, holds the key to where every object, scroll, and spell ever collected for a thousand years is housed. He'll find his own answers, his own miracles. Like they always do, he tells himself. They've pulled off more with less, survived the worst of the worst that had been thrown at them time and again.
Not as bad as this. There's no coming back from this one, and you know it. He pushes the dark whispered words back into the furthest recesses of his mind, refusing to listen, refusing to believe; his little brother isn't the only stubborn and obstinate one in the family.
Dean straightens up on the bench; renewed fortitude and resolve coursing through him.
The hairs rise on the back of his neck, his senses tingling, and years of training and instinct take over without thought.
He shoots to his feet and spins around, the Colt gripped tightly in his hand before the whisper quiet sound even finishes fully registering.
"Ah, ah, chuckles, that's far enough," Dean grinds out, waving the gun at the figure that's suddenly standing behind him.
As tall as he is with an athletic build, the dark haired figure stops where he is, casually crossing his arms in front of his chest as he leans a hip against the wooden pew beside him.
Dean knows without a doubt that the 'man' standing in front of him is an Angel. If him being able to get a mere few feet away from him without Dean being aware beforehand didn't tell him that, then the air of arrogance pouring off the guy certainly does.
"Alright, first things first, who are you?" Dean asks, talking a cautious step forward, gun still pointed center mass. He knows the Colt can't kill an Angel, would only—maybe—buy him a few precious seconds if things go suddenly sideways.
With Heaven's Golden Arches apparently closed for business, Hell's front door still open, and Crowley… Dean shakes his head; he isn't even sure what the King of Hell is now. Is he still a demon or has he been cleansed and is human now even though the last Trial was incomplete? He'd left him bloody and cuffed to the chair in the church, the Limey bastard the last thing on the elder Winchester's mind in his mad dash to save his brother. He highly doubts that the King of Hell is still there; and it doesn't really matter.
Dean knows that big trouble is heading down the pike, and he knows that the Winchesters are going to be suspect number one on everybody's hit list, and he's not taking any chances, especially with Sam's very life on the line.
But his usual 'shoot first, ask questions later' way of doing business isn't going to cut it this time, isn't going to get him the answers or the help he so desperately needs.
That little spark of hope that found light all too briefly way back in that dilapidated church starts to flicker to life again; guarded optimism that perhaps the Big Man does pay attention, does give a damn about what happens to his people, to him and Sammy; that this time, his prayers were answered.
His eyes narrow as Dean glares at the Angel standing in front him, a silent stand-off as they size each other up, as Dean try's to figure out which team the Angel is playing for.
"I'm answer to your prayers, Dean Winchester," the man says easily.
There are no doubts or second thoughts that run through his mind as Dean lowers his gun and takes a step forward, no deliberation or consideration as to what this might entail or the price it will cost him upon completion and in the future.
He knows there will be a price to pay, there always is, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't care, because it's Sam.
'Take care of Sammy' aren't just words or a left-over mandate from a long dead father.
It's who he is, defines his soul, completes his existence.
"Lay it on me," Dean say quietly.
Two fingers are gently pressed against Dean's forehead; the last thing he sees before his world goes black is the slow smile that curves the Angels lips.