The First Time: Dean, 10, Sam, 6
"Shit, Dad is going to kill me!"
Sam didn't disagree with his brother, but he didn't say anything. He didn't have enough breath. He tried to glance over his shoulder, to see if the. . the. . .the icky thing was still following them, but the minute that he did his feet tangled together, and he could feel his shoelace slipping, tripping. . .
And then hands on his shoulder, pushing him upright and his feet evened out again.
"Run, Sammy!" Dean yelled, from just behind, his voice higher pitched than usual. Sam certainly didn't disagree with that. He pursed his lips, put his head down a little lower, and gave another burst of speed. The motel was just ahead. Didn't Dad say that these. . .uglies. . .couldn't cross a threshold?
Yeah, he was pretty sure. . .
Just five steps. . .three. . .and then, panting, hands dropping to his knees, he was inside, and a stupid smile was spreading over his face. They'd outrun it! All right!
He turned around to give his brother a high five, but there wasn't anyone there, just the open door. He stood up a little straighter, the smile slowing fading from his face.
"Dean? Dean?" he couldn't get his voice above a whisper. He could feel the tears welling up, the sobs in his thin frame. Don't cry, he tried to remind himself, using his DeanVoice. Only babies cry. You're a Winchester.
"Dean?" he tried again. He thought he heard a scream from outside, the sound of teeth tearing into flesh. He couldn't see, there was something wet and blurry in his eyes.
Shoot first, ask questions later. The DeanVoice kept running through his head, and Sam tried to listen, he really did, but they were just voices. He didn't want DeanVoice. He wanted Dean. Call Dad. Call Dad. Call Dad!
He ran to the motel phone, just between the two beds, pulled up the receiver, and punched in the nine digits. There was just a dial tone. Tears began falling down his face. What was he supposed to do?
It was then that he realized he'd never locked the door. Hadn't even shut it. His small body began shaking as he looked toward the night, located just over the threshold. Had he heard right? Did Dad really say they couldn't get in? He took a step toward the door, but had to stop. He didn't want to get too close. What if something grabbed him?
"Dean. . ." he whispered. "Dad. . .please. . .help. . ."
And then, abruptly, happening too fast for him to even react, a gunshot, a dark shape hurtling in, and the door slamming. Sam fell on his butt, his shoulders hitching and he couldn't see anything.
"Sam, Sammy," A comforting voice, his dad's, rough and worried, and then those big hands on his shoulder, shaking him at first, and then clutching him close. Sam sucked in a greedy breath, and clung to his father's shoulders, never so glad to smell the aftershave and cigarettes. "Are you okay?"
Sam nodded, his face still pushed into his father's chest. He was probably getting tears all over it, he knew, and snot. Abruptly his head was pulled back. He could see now, and sniffling he stared at his father's dark eyes.
"I'm okay," he said between gasps. His father nodded once, and then stood up. His back was very straight and he looked very angry. He kind of looked like he did when he was hunting, Sam thought. He was always a little scared of his father then.
"Dean," his dad said, his voice flat and dark.
"Yes sir." Sam peered around his father's tree trunk legs, saw his brother sagging against the door, his head down. What looked like fingerprints were up and down his arm, dark bruises.
"What the hell were you thinking?" The tree trunks moved. Sam stood up, not wanting to look around legs anymore. His dad's hand came up, flat, and in one smooth motion flew across the room and slapped Dean across the face. His legs crumpled, and he fell to the ground. A little whimper escaped his throat. John Winchester reached down, grabbed his son by the shirt, and yanked him to his feet.
"What were you thinking?" he said, gruffly. "What the hell were you thinking? You know what's out there! Why would you take Sammy out there? What the hell, Dean?" The hand came up again.
Sam knew why they'd gone out. They'd been stuck in the motel for a week. Sam didn't mind. He'd done all of his homework, and then done some of Dean's. He'd read all of the books he'd brought along, but that was okay. He'd watched some tv. It wasn't so bad. Dean hated it, though. Sam knew that his brother always hated when they got left behind. He would pace around, and stare out the windows, even though they weren't supposed to lift the shades. He got 'stir crazy" he'd told Sam once. So they'd gone out.
Sam didn't tell his father that. He just watched the fist go up, and he knew that he would hit Dean again. It had happened before, whenever there was a mistake, whenever somebody got hurt. And Dean would just stand there, take it, and then put ice on his face and go to bed.
"Dad," Sam said, because he didn't like how white Dean was. Shut up! The DeanVoice said in his head. Sam decided to ignore it. He'd started ignoring the DadVoice a long time ago, but he'd never ignored DeanVoice. It gave him a little thrill. "Dad, it was my fault."
The hand trembled a little, and John turned around to stare at his youngest son, disbelief writ huge in his face. "What?" he said. Dean kept staring at the ground.
"I wanted ice cream," Sam said. That was true. "Dean told me not to, but I went out. He just followed me."
His dad walked over to him, knelt down, grabbed his shoulders between his two, huge hands. "Sam," he said, and his voice was very, very low now. But his eyes were back to normal, they were back to the Dad eyes, and Sam wasn't scared at all. "You know that it's very dangerous. You need to listen to your brother, Sammy. You need to stay safe. I need you two to stay safe."
"I'm sorry, Dad," Sam mumbled, but he really wasn't sorry. He was actually glad. The thrill ran through him again, of not listening to the DadVoice or the DeanVoice. Over his dad's shoulder he could see his brother, still slouched against the wall. "It won't happen again."
The Second Time: Dean, 15, Sam, 11
"What are you doing?" Sam screamed, and he knew that if it were any other time his brother would make fun of him for sounding like a girl. "You don't know how to drive!"
"Of course I know how to drive," Dean said, slamming the driver's door shut. He'd just finished throwing their duffels in the back of the Impala. Sam was already seated inside, though he didn't know why. Maybe he'd gone as crazy as his dad and brother. "Dad's let me drive before." He turned the ignition, and the car came awake with an angry groaning. Sam couldn't help it. His hands grabbed the dashboard, white-knuckled.
"What if the cops catch us?" he asked, his voice high and trembling. Dean ignored him for a moment, focused on backing the car out. He went too fast, and the turn was too fast, and the tires screamed in protest, burnt rubber.
"Sammy," he said, and his voice was low, not cracking at all for once. "What's chasing us is a whole lot worse than cops. Dad told me to keep you safe."
Sam whimpered, tested his seatbelt again. Dean was going really fast. "I don't think it's safe with you driving," he said.
Dean kept checking the rear view mirror, over and over again. Sam tried to breathe, in and out, nice and slow, like in gym class that one time with the crazy yoga subsitute teacher. He didn't turn to look at his brother. He didn't want to see how pale his face was, or the dark circles under his eyes.
They didn't know what Dad was hunting, but it was something big. He told them they were only allowed to sleep one at a time, that somebody always had to be awake. Three shifts a night. Dean always took two.
"How do you even know they're coming?" Sam asked. He was calming down a little. They'd been driving for almost five minutes and they hadn't crashed. And his brother played a lot of video games, some of them driving games. Maybe everything would be okay.
"Dad called," Dean said, and now Sam really wasn't going to look at his brother. He stared out the window, at the skeletal trees as they flashed by. He wished he were back in that yoga class. He wished he were back at school, he wished he was learning things instead of being chased by something. Life sucked.
"Dean. . ." he said slowly. One of the trees wasn't right. It wasn't flashing by like the other ones. It was keeping pace with their car. His brother wasn't paying attention, so Sam said it again. "Dean. . ."
Then it hit them, on the roof. The car screamed and bucked, and Dean lost the steering wheel for the fraction of a second before he grabbed it again. Sam lurched forward, his hands slipping off the dashboard. His seatbelt caught him a fraction of a second before his head hit.
"Dean. . ." he said again, and he was really trying not to whimper, really trying to be brave like his dad and big brother, but it was really hard. They could hear something scratching on top of the car.
"Sam," Dean was rifling through the glove compartment, eyes fixed on the road, his fingers scrambling for something. Sam thought he should help, but he was just trying to stay calm, to breathe. A moment passed, a terrifying moment as the thing kept skreetching, and the car kept swerving, and Dean kept looking for something. Then the moment passed, and Sam's hands curled around something cold, metallic. He didn't need to look to see it was a gun. Dean sat up again, both hands back on the wheel. "Sammy," he said again, his eyes focused forward. "I need you to shoot the ceiling."
"Shoot the car?" Sam asked, his voice a squeak, but he turned the gun so that it faced the roof, squinted one eye. He paused a moment, his finger hovering over the trigger. He'd never shot anything before. Dad had, lots, and Dean had sometimes, but he'd never have to. What if he killed it? He didn't want to kill something. . .
Glass breaking. Dean screamed, and Sam saw red out the side of his vision. The car swerved, rocking a little now, like a boat. We aren't in water, Sam thought.
"Shoot, Sammy!" Dean screamed. "Shoot!"
The command cut through everything, and Sam punched the trigger. Something rocked against his shoulder, and this time his head did make contact, with a thud. The window, he realized dazedly. Everything should have been over. Wasn't that how it worked? You shot the bad thing and then everything got better? But the car kept swerving, and Dean kept screaming, and there kept being more and more glass.
So Sam shot again. And again. And again. And then, abruptly, the skreetching sound ended. It was over, he thought, almost happily. He'd helped. But then he realized with a jolt that even though the sounds were gone, the car was still ricocheting through the night. There was something funny in the bottom of his belly. Like little rats running around. He took a deep breath and turned to look at his brother.
Dean's teeth were gritted, hard, his Adam's apple jumping up and down. Something was moving in his cheek. And there was blood. A lot of blood. Sam swallowed, hard, resisted letting his belly move anymore. He'd seen blood before. This was no big deal.
"Shit," Dean said, low sound whistling through teeth.
"Are you okay?" Sam asked, and his voice wasn't low at all, it was high and squeaky. Like a girl.
"Bastard blew out our tires," Dean said, and he sounded like he was talking to himself. Sam grabbed the dashboard again. The car was veering toward the metal barricade on the side. Sam didn't get the chance to say anything before they hit it, and his head swang forward, and then everything was black.
He woke up somewhere white and clean. He could hear before he could see anything, a voice he didn't know, and then his dad's.
"Just joyriding, I guess," his dad said "I know. I'll talk to them."
"Well, I doubt they'll be driving any time soon," the strange voice said. Sam opened his eyes. As if it were a summons, his father was there in a moment, unshaven, huge, solid, and warm.
"Hey, Sammy," he said, and then his warm hand was on Sam's head, brushing back bangs. "How you doing?"
"Kay," Sam said. "Dad, they found us. And Dean crashed the car."
"I know," his dad said, a little smile quirking at the side of his mouth. "You were both so brave."
It took Sam a moment before he noticed the absence. Dad was there, but no Dean. Dean had been driving the car. Dean was always there when Sam was hurt, or sick. He turned his neck, back and forth, looking for his brother, but it was just the weird, white room, and his dad's face.
"Where's Dean?" he asked. His dad smiled a little more.
"Dean's just a room down," his dad said. "He'll be fine. He got a little more banged up then you. Broke his arm. They're setting it right now."
"Oh," Sam said. A broken arm. That wasn't so bad. He wiggled the fingers on both hands experimentally. Everything moved. That was good.
"He told me what you did," his dad said. "Said that you shot those things on the roof. He said you saved his life."
"Yeah," Sam said. He hadn't done anything, though, he thought. Dean had gotten them in the car. Dean had driven it. Dean had told him to shoot. "Did you get those things?"
"Didn't have to," John Winchester said. "This time, you boys did my job for me."
The Third Time: Dean, 19, Sam, 15
It was only the second time Dad had taken Dean on a hunting trip. Only the second time Sam was stuck in the motel room, completely alone. Oh well, he thought, absently turning a page in the biology book. It was better than when Dean had been left behind. Then he'd just walk around and grouse about how he was stuck baby-sitting. . .how he'd been left in a motel room alone at the age of seven. That didn't do a lot for Sam's self-esteem.
He looked at the clock between the beds. 9:51. They'd only left two hours ago. He sighed, pushed hair out of his eyes. They probably wouldn't be back until after he'd left for school.
His dad had gone looking for houses a day ago. That was good. Maybe they'd actually be able to stay somewhere for a while. Dean wouldn't like it. Dean liked to be on the move, liked to be doing something, but Sam was happy to just sit around. It was better this way. He could make friends, and study, and maybe he would get into a good college, get away from the mess. It was better than waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of something trying to get at them, better than having to sleep with a gun under his pillow. That almost made sleeping uncomfortable. And it was way, way better than having his dad come pounding in the door with blood seeping from his head. Or worse yet, having to pick him up at the hospital.
And now, he realized with annoyance, putting his pen down and walking to the fridge to get a soda. Now it would be worse. Because now it wouldn't be just Dad bleeding, it would be Dad and Dean. And that really sucked. 'Cuz Dad was okay when he was wounded, but Dean just got really, really annoying.
He flicked the tab on the soda can back and forth until it flew off before he lifted it to his lips and drank. It was a little flat. Figured. He finished the can, finished his homework, and then slipped under the covers. He stared at the ceiling. He definitely wouldn't be falling asleep any time soon.
But he must have, because the next thing he knew there was a pounding at the door. He gripped the Colt under his bed, swung his feet off, and tiptoed to the door. It probably wasn't a demon or anything. Demons usually didn't knock. He put his eye to the peephole, and a minute later flung the door open.
His dad and brother staggered in, Dean's arm flung over their father's shoulders. They were the same height now, or maybe Dean was still a little shorter. Maybe that was because he was leaning to the side.
"I'm fine," Dean was huffing out, and he glared at Sam. What did I do? Sam wondered. "Dad, I'm fine! Go get the bastard!"
"You are not fine," John Winchester insisted. He ran to the sideboard, began hauling out all of the first aid supplies. Dean was still glaring at Sam, who raised his hands in mock surrender.
"What did I do?" he asked.
"You're supposed to ask the questions," his brother said gruffly. "To makes sure it's really us."
"Where are you hurt?" John was back at his son's side. Dean batted him off.
"Dad, stop!" he said. "I told you, I'm fine. Just got the wind knocked out of me."
They heard a crash from outside, all of them froze. Another crash. A scream.
"Dad, go!" Dean said, half-standing and shoving their father. John Winchester didn't look behind as they heard another scream. He just bolted out the door. Sam followed after him, as far as the door. He wasn't crazy. He shut the door, locked it, hurried back to his brother. He was way more worried about Dean than any crazy beast outside.
"Where are you hurt?" he asked, and it was a sign of how tired Dean was that he let his baby brother peel the windbreaker off his shoulders. Sam drew in a deep breath at the wet, red stain that covered his brother's side.
"Why didn't you tell Dad?" he asked, pulling out the scissors. He wasn't going to risk pulling the shirt off. Besides, it was stained and smelled a little. He doubted Dean ever bothered to wash it. Dean winced a little as his brother tore away the wet cloth.
"He'd never take me hunting again," he said morosely. "He'd think I slowed him down."
Sam wet a rag, brushed away the blood. It wasn't as bad as he'd thought at first. Dean looked down hopefully.
"S'not so bad," Sam said. He clenched his teeth, grabbed the needle and thread from the box. He paused, the needle an inch from his brother's side. Looked up hopefully. "Wanna go to the hospital?"
Dean stared at him in disbelief. "Hell no! Dad would definitely know, then. He'd never take me."
Sam debated for a minute. Maybe that wasn't a bad idea. They'd go to the hospital, John would freak out, he'd take off and leave. Dean was legally an adult now. He'd have custody. He'd stop running, get a job. . .Sam could graduate high school from just one place. Life would be almost normal. . .
"Sam, hurry up, before he gets back," Dean hissed, glancing at the door. Sam sighed, pushed the needle through flesh. He was way too used to this. A hand on his shoulder, just as he was tying the last stitch. He looked up. Dean was grinning down at him, white teeth too bright in a dirt and sweat-stained face.
"Sammy," he said cheerfully. "Thanks. I owe you one."
The Fourth Time – Dean, 25, Sam, 21
Sam glanced at the calender. Glanced at his phone. Calender. Phone. Calender. Phone.
"Seriously, Sam, what is wrong with you?" Jess asked, laughter in her tone. Sam looked up at his girlfriend. He still couldn't believe she was going out with him. She was tall, blond, beautiful and he. . .well, he was just Sam. Plain old, way too tall, big-nosed, sloppy-haired Sam.
"Nothing," he said, shaking his head.
"Who do you want to call?" she asked, and he was amazed, yet again, at how insightful she was. Beautiful and smart.
"Just. . .my brother," he said with a sigh. He'd picked up the phone, now, was fiddling with it. Jess nodded. She didn't say anything more, and Sam was glad. He usually didn't talk about his family. Correction, he never talked about his family. But what was there to talk about, really? His mom was dead, he'd never even met her. His father was pissed off at him – hadn't even spoken to him in three years, not since he'd left for college. And Dean. . .well, it still gave Sam nightmares, sometimes, the look in Dean's eyes when he'd driven away from campus.
None of his friends had met his family. After he'd moved in freshman year Dean had driven away, not even a backwards glance. He hadn't gone home for holidays. But then again, what was home? Some new motel room, with bad paintings and weird stuffed animals? He didn't have a home. And if home was where the heart was, well. . .that was with Jess, now.
Still. There had been those cards. Only two a year, not saying much, but then again this was Dean, so maybe it was saying everything. One on Christmas, and one on his birthday. The ones for Christmas never said much . . .usually just, "Hope you're getting your ho-hos, Sammy. Dad and I wasted a vampire nest. It was awesome. Then we got wasted. That was more awesome. Keep it real. Check in your closet. Merry Xmas."
That was about it. Sometimes it was signed, sometimes it seemed like Dean had forgotten even to sign it.
The birthday cards, though. Those got to him. Just three lines, every year, even less than Christmas. "Hey, Sammy, happy birthday. Another year wiser. Miss you, Dean."
He would have sent them letters, but there was no address. He would have sent e-mails, but that hadn't been a big thing when he'd headed to college, and now he didn't know where to send one. So that left the phone.
He was terrified to call. His fingers hovered over the keys. He'd always been terrified to call. What if nobody answered? It was one thing to say you were disowned by your family, but it was another thing to actually face that reality. As long as college had been his choice, as long as he'd left, it was one thing.
But it was Dean's birthday. 25. Kind of a big deal. Twenty years hunting monsters. Somehow Sam didn't think that he dad would remember the cake.
He excused himself for a moment, walked outside, still holding onto the phone. Even if nobody answered, what was the big deal? He'd leave a voicemail. Nothing would change.
He didn't let himself think, just typed in the speed dial – and wasn't that a joke, having his brother on speed dial, somebody he had literally never called since high school – and put the phone to his ear. It only rang twice before it was picked up.
"Yeah." Sam had to smile a little. Not a question, not a greeting, just yeah.
"Hey, Dean," he said. A pause, and Sam wondered for a moment if maybe his brother didn't have caller id, if maybe he didn't know who was calling, and now that he knew he was going to hang up. Sam wouldn't blame him if he did. It would hurt, but he wouldn't blame him.
"Sammy. . .hey. Long time."
"Yeah, um. . .how are you doing?"
"I'm all right," the voice came back, but there was something wrong. Sam frowned.
"Dean, seriously, how are you? Where are you?"
"Little town on the beach, lots of girls in swimsuits," the voice came back, a little stronger now. Sam sighed.
"Dean. . ."
"All right, fine, I'm in the hospital, but I'm fine," Dean insisted. "We just. . .we were hunting some werewolves, one got through. I'll be back to normal in a few days."
Sam's stomach felt like lead.
"But wait. . .one got through. . .Jesus, Dean, did it bite you?"
"What? No! Of course not!" He could almost imagine his brother's outrage at the very thought. "Come on, I'm not that sloppy!"
"Okay, sorry," Sam said. He sat down on the stoop. "Did you get them all?"
"Dad's chasing down the last few now," Dean said. Sam froze.
"He's not there with you?" he asked, mentally berating himself afterwards. Of course he wasn't. John Winchester wasn't the type to sit in a hospital waiting room, twiddling his thumbs. Even if it was his own son.
"No, but he was here for the surgery, and after," Dean said. "Look, don't start on Dad. He's doing what he needs to do."
"Yeah, whatever," Sam said, and had to remind himself to calm down. He hadn't called to start a fight.
"So, um. . ." Dean's voice was uncomfortable, stalling, never comfortable with small talk. "How are you getting by? You like school?"
"Yeah," Sam said. "Yeah. And there's a girl, and I've got friends. It's good, Dean. It's normal."
"Good," Dean said. A pause. "I'm really happy for you, Sam."
Another long pause. They'd never been good at this. Sam sighed. There wasn't anything more to say. His brother and father were still hunters, and he was still. . .not.
"Well, I just wanted to call to say happy birthday."
"What?"
"Happy birthday," Sam said again. "The big two five."
"Oh, yeah," Dean said, and his voice was an epiphany. "That's right. My birthday."
"You forgot?" Sam asked in disbelief. There was no answer. And then, gruffly. . .
"Sam, thanks for calling."
"Yeah, well," Sam shrugged, uncomfortable. Another pause.
"Seriously. It meant a lot."
And then out it came, plaintive, needy, and Sam would have sucked it back in if he could have. "I miss you, Dean."
"I know, little brother," and the other voice sounded just as plaintive, just as thick and low and choked. "I miss you, too. But you know. . .you gotta do what you gotta do."
"You could visit, you know," Sam said.
"No," the response was firm, final. "Not without dragging you back into this. I won't do that to you Sammy."
"Yeah," Sam said, and he was a little disgusted, because there were tears on his face. "Thanks."
"Well, uh. . .I gotta go. . .they're wheeling in the jello, you know," Dean said, and his voice was uncomfortable again. "Thanks again, for calling."
"Yeah," Sam said, and then he figured, hell, it had been three years, go for it. "Love you, Dean."
Dial tone. But there was still a smile on Sam's mouth as he hung up the phone and headed back to the library.
The Fifth Time – Dean, 76, Sam, 72
"So this is how it ends, huh?" Dean said. Sam shook his head, lowered his body into the chair beside his brother. No, he thought. No, this wasn't how it ended, couldn't be. Not for his brother, how had spent more than fifty years battling evil – who had given up literally everything. Not for him, who had lost everything. Dean laughed a little, coughed. Sam closed his eyes.
"I don't get it, Dean," he said, ignoring the fact that the pained, wheezing in the room came not from his deathly ill brother but from his own, healthy chest. "Our whole lives. . .I thought it would get better, after Lucifer. I thought we'd won."
"It's all about faith, little brother," Dean said, with a laugh, and even Sam smiled at that. What an utter turn-around. To have to listen to his brother, his atheist, angry, destiny-be-damned brother spout platitudes for fifty years. "Sometimes there has to be a sacrifice."
Sam shook his head, unashamed of the tears welling in his eyes. "It's too much," he said grimly. "Too much. Mom. . .Jess. . .Dad. . .Bobby. . .Jo and the roadhouse. Your own wife, Dean. My baby girls. It's too much."
"But think of everyone we saved," Dean whispered. "Angie wouldn't have changed anything. She knew what she was getting into. Your family. . .there was nothing to be done."
"No," Sam said, and now his fists were clenched. "You made a choice, Dean. You chose this. You sacrificed. I never made a choice. I never had a choice."
A dry, withered hand on his own, forcing him to open his eyes. He stared at his brother, even more saddened to see the bright green so dulled. Even Dean's eyelashes seemed pale, dried out, husks.
"There's always a choice," Dean said, resolutely.
"I can't lose you, too," Sam said, desperate now. He grippd his brother's hand, dropped tears onto withered skin. "I can't, Dean, I can't. And I'm too tired to chase you, now, too tired to find whatever demon or miracle cure, or hells spawn can bring you back. But I can't lose you."
This seemed to bring something back into his brother, woke something up. Dean sat up, just the tiniest movement, the tiniest shift, but more than he'd done in days. He gripped Sam's hands more tightly, stared into his eyes.
"I can give you a choice, Sam," he said, and reached under his pillow, pulling out a familiar, worn leather book. Their dad's journal, which had eventually become their journal, recording everything they'd found. Without looking in the book, Dean flipped to a page, near the end, a page Sam had never seen. He took it into his hands, stared down at the scrawled handwriting. Some kind of a spell. He looked at his brother again.
"What is it?"
Dean stared at him, locked gazes, wouldn't let Sam look away, not even to look at the spell again.
"It can let you go back," Dean said. "It can let you go back to that day I came to your house in the middle of the night. You can choose again, to come help me find Dad or stay behind. You can save Jess. You can never get involved."
Sam shook his head, but he couldn't tear his eyes away. "But that doesn't. . .I have to. . .Lucifer, and the seals. . ."
Dean shook his head. "That doesn't matter," he said, and there was something very urgent in his voice. "That will all still happen. It's still my destiny. That doesn't change. But you don't have to be there, Sam. Maybe it would be Ava, who helped, or Jo, or hell, even just Bobby. You don't have to be involved."
The speech seemed to take the last of the life out of Sam's brother, and he fell back against the pillows once more. Sam reached down, trembling, picked up the book. To do it all over again. . .or rather, to never do it. He could have graduated school, gone to law school, married Jess. He still could have had Mary and Susie, could have kept them, never had to bury those little coffins. He could have grown old, had grandchildren, like a normal person. He could have been happy.
He looked back at his brother, whose eyes were still closed. Sam kept considering. The apocalypse would still have happened. Dean would have still stopped it. Nothing, in the grand scheme of things, would change. Except that he could have had what he'd always wanted – a normal life.
He leaned over his brother, searched his eyes. "Why didn't you cast this?" he asked. "You could have walked away, too."
Dean smiled again, still as winsome as when he'd been young. "No I couldn't, he said. "Hunting was my life. It always was. There wasn't anything to walk away from."
Sam sat back in his chair. Considered. Lifted the book up, read through the words. Dean didn't say anything, just lay there, barely breathing. Sam sighed.
"Okay," he said finally. Dean turned to look at him, sighed.
"Okay," he said.
Sam closed the book, placed it on the table beside his brother, and took Dean's hand again.
"Dean," he said, and his voice broke. His brother smiled, closed hi eyes.
"Why won't you cast it?"
"Like I said," Sam said, and he really wished there were a damn tissue in the room. "I can't lose you."