Sam heaved a sigh of relief as the lights of Las Vegas disappeared into the darkness behind them.
Two days – two long days - in Vegas, following Dean around from strip bar to poker bar to that stupid volcano – he'd been nearly sick with the stench of smoke, booze and desperation.
As Dean had pointed out a few times, he could've waited in the motel room, spent the time trying to figure out how to cancel out his brother's crossroads deal, but he couldn't do it, couldn't let Dean out loose on his own. Not with his new "What the hell, I'm dead anyway" credo.
Besides, truth be told, Sam was exhausted. Burnt out by the events of the last few months, he'd been getting precious little sleep even before they'd gotten to Vegas. He was in no shape to be doing any meaningful research. All he wanted now was to get far enough from Vegas that even Dean couldn't find his way back, and get some decent sleep.
Thinking longingly of sleep, Sam glanced at his brother, sleeping like a baby in the seat beside him. Dean hadn't gotten any more sleep the last few days than Sam had, plus he'd drunk enough booze to sink ten battleships. No way Sam was letting him behind the wheel.
Sleep, for Sam at least, would have to wait.
Fighting back a yawn, he settled in for a long night.
Four hours later he was still driving. He'd almost nodded off a few times and was at the point where he was thinking about pulling off the road and grabbing a couple hours of shut-eye when he caught sight of a motel off the highway just ahead.
With the way his luck was running, it was probably full, like the last three he'd passed, but maybe …
A garbled snore erupted from the passenger seat and Sam cast a cautious eye at his sleeping brother. Sam wanted to stop, needed to sleep, but if Dean woke, he would simply shake himself halfway sober and take over the wheel. That would result in the Impala careening off the road into the desert at some point and Sam picking cactus needles out of his ass.
If he didn't wake his brother up until after he'd paid for the room, Dean would shrug and bow to the inevitable. He wasn't one to waste money, even if it were in the form of a credit card bill he'd never pay.
Decision made, Sam turned into the exit and swung the Impala in a tight circle onto the dirt surface road.
The motel was about 500 yards off the highway and the vacancy sign was lit, albeit with a couple of broken bulbs. The manager's office was dark, with just a single outside light and a weather-beaten sign next to the door to distinguish it from the rest of the rooms.
A few minutes persistent knocking netted Sam an old man in threadbare boxer shorts and a sweat-stained t-shirt. He opened up just long enough to glare at Sam, run his credit card and give him a key to a unit down near the end.
After Sam opened up the room – nondescript but relatively clean - he took in both their bags, then went back out to the car to shake his brother awake.
True to form, once he was out of the car, Dean yawned widely and started to move over to the driver's side.
Sighing, Sam snagged his brother and steered him toward the room. "I've already got the room, Dean."
Dean blinked at Sam in confusion and around at the quiet night. With the predicted shrug, he followed Sam into the motel room and fell onto one of the beds, barely taking the time to toe off his boots before falling back asleep.
Sam wearily did what was needed to make the room safe, then dropped onto the other bed and settled in for a much-needed rest.
))))))))))
An hour later he was staring up at the ceiling, as far from sleep as he'd been when he first lay down.
He couldn't turn his damned brain off.
Dead. He'd been dead.
Jake had stuck a knife into his spine in Cold Oak and stolen his life. He'd sent Sam into an unimaginable darkness and, in the process, stolen Dean's life as well.
Where had Sam gone in that darkness? Had he seen Mom? Jess?
Had his demon blood sent him to Hell?
Or had the darkness led to a great nothing, and everything Sam had been lost until Dean's deal gathered him up and dragged him back?
These were questions he wasn't anywhere near comfortable with. But they were questions that, along with the torment of Dean's life running down, had kept him awake, night after night, until he'd almost forgotten what sleep was.
A wordless murmur from the other bed broke into his thoughts as Dean turned over, then settled down again, face pressed into his pillow.
Sam stared at his brother for a heart-wrenching minute, then rolled over and faced the wall, eyes closed tight against the pain threatening to escape.
Dean wasn't touching him. He hadn't touched him since that last hug on Resurrection Day.
Casual shoves and pushes, yes. The occasional hand up from the ground. But nothing that counted. Nothing to show that Dean thought of him as anything more than a brother. It hurt, a lot.
Sam had teased Dean after seeing him cavort with the twins in the first days after his cross roads deal. He'd told Dean he deserved it, that he wanted him to have some fun. He'd said it didn't bother him.
He'd lied.
After leaving the room, seeing what he'd seen, he'd barely made it to the strip of grass behind their motel before puking his guts out.
Sam wasn't mad about it. He got it, he did.
Dean was shit-scared and trying to get through it by pretending he wasn't scared, pretending that it wasn't happening.
But, damn it, this manic stranger wasn't the person Sam was fighting to save.
Sam was fighting to save the boy who'd fed him when there wasn't enough food for both of them. The boy who made sure he was warm in the winter and that he got to school. The champion who stood between him and his father when things got bad, as they always did.
His brother. His friend. His protector, always.
And so much more than that.
The transition in their teens from brothers to lovers had been effortless. No faltering, no guilt, no worries about the right and wrong of it. Just a slow glide into pleasure and comfort and the knowledge that they would never be alone.
That Dean had been his whole world.
Stanford – Sam - had destroyed that.
School had been good, he'd loved Jess, but none of it had made up for what he'd given up. He didn't think anything ever would.
Then the fire happened. And Jess . . .
Sam had been in a fog of grief and pain and guilt. Dean had stuck close, had taken care of him. He'd made him eat, snuck sleeping pills into his booze – he'd kept him alive. And when the fog had cleared, they were together again, just as seamlessly as when they were teens.
No questions, no recriminations, no guilt.
Just - together. As inevitable as the sun's rise and fall.
But after Cold Oak, Dean. . . he was just gone.
Exhausted, Sam sighed. He was never going to fall asleep lying here like this. His thoughts would keep him awake all night; not that there was much left of it.
Maybe if he took a walk he could tire his body out enough to put him under.
One eye on Dean, Sam heaved himself up and shoved his feet back into his shoes. With only a slight squeak from the door, he slipped outside and stood for a moment, staring up at the cloudless sky.
Summer in Nevada. The night had brought some relief, but it was still stiflingly hot. Sam stepped off the walkway onto the parking lot and walked slowly toward the motel boundary and the open desert beyond.
At the separation between motel parking lot and hard-packed dirt and cactus, he saw a shimmering light reflected from out behind the motel. Curious, he followed a stone walk around back and found a swimming pool, its water reflecting the glow from the moon.
Sam stared longingly into the cool water. He'd been too tired to take a shower earlier and he was acutely aware of the dirt and sweat coating his body. A midnight swim would feel pretty damned good.
Why not?
Taking a quick look around, he stripped off his clothes and slid into the pool. He lay on his back in the water for a few minutes, face raised to the moon, then started a slow crawl.
He hadn't swum since that last summer with Jess, but it came back quickly. Long arms moving cleanly, strong legs propelling him, he cut slowly back and forth through the water; with each stroke, the tension and anxiety of the last few weeks draining away.
When at last he pulled himself out of the water, he was exhausted but it was a clean exhaustion, that of the body, not the soul. Pulling on his jeans, he grabbed his t-shirt and shoes and padded barefoot back to their room, water dripping down his neck. He'd been out a good hour or so and could see the first signs of dawn on the horizon, but the motel was still quiet.
Unlocking the door to their room, Sam slipped inside. Dean's bed was empty.
"Dean?"
The bathroom door opened and light spilled out into the room.
"Where the hell have you been?" Dean asked, yawning. He looked at Sam. "You're all wet," he observed. "You get lucky?"
"Couldn't sleep. I took a swim in the pool out back."
Dean chuckled. "Only you, Sammy." He plopped onto his bed and opened his duffel, digging through it.
Sam slipped out of his jeans and sat down on his bed. "Man, I'm beat."
"Shoulda stayed in bed, then," Dean sniped, then grinned in triumph as he pulled a half-full bag of peanut M&Ms out of his duffel. He stuffed a handful into his mouth, watching as Sam pulled a pair of worn sweats up over his still damp thighs.
Feeling his brother's eyes on him, Sam looked up and met his gaze.
Dean's jaw dropped. With a curse, he dropped the M&Ms, candy spilling everywhere, and dug into his duffel again. This time when his hand came out, it was holding the Colt and he pointed it directly at Sam.
"Dean!" Sam blanched. "What the hell?"
"You get outta my fuckin' brother," Dean growled, getting to his feet.
"Dean, what's wrong – " Sam started to rise, then fell back as Dean swiftly crossed the space between them and stuck the gun into his face.
The sound of the Colt's hammer being drawn back was almost lost under the sound of Dean's growl. "You're not taking my brother," he gritted out, fury in his eyes. "You're not."
Heart pounding, Sam whispered, "Dean, it's me."
With a snarl, Dean brought the Colt up and slammed it on the side of Sam's head, knocking him off the bed and into unconsciousness.
))))))))))
A hissing noise nearby that after a time resolved itself into a voice choked with fear and rage.
"I tried that, damn it! Nothing happened. But nothing happened when he was in Dad, either. He's too strong for holy water to hurt him."
With difficulty, Sam raised his head.
Through pain-hazed eyes he saw that he was bound to a chair in the middle of the room. A devil's trap was drawn on the worn carpet around the chair and his brother was across the room, talking frantically into his cell phone.
"Hell, I don't know, Bobby! I've got him in a devil's trap, but I don't know if it's gonna hold him!"
There was a faint blather of sound from Dean's cell.
"All right. All right." Dean scrubbed an arm across his forehead and took a shaky breath. "Just – just hurry."
He closed his cell. Hearing Sam shift slightly in the chair, he spun to face him.
"Dean," Sam said dazedly. The pain in his head racheted up a notch and he gave a faint groan.
Dean took an automatic step forward, then stopped, flustered and confused.
"Dean, what – "
Dean's fists clenched and his eyes narrowed into angry slits. "Stop talking."
Sam blinked at him. Something wet ran down the side of his face, something warm and coppery, something unpleasantly familiar and Dean's face paled.
Sam let his eyes drift away from his brother.
Bobby's coming. Everything's gonna be okay. Bobby . . ."
Another wave of dizziness rolled over him. Sam sank into dark water.
))))))))))
Gentle hands cradled the side of his face, accompanied by the smell of whiskey and Old Spice.
Struggling up out of the darkness, Sam cracked open his eyes. Bobby stood before him, inside the devil's trap, an assessing look on his face. Dean hovered just behind him, face tight with anxiety as he watched.
Without a word, Bobby stepped back out of the trap. He withdrew a small black book from an inner pocket and thumbed through it, then, with a quick look at Sam, started to read.
"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion."
Sam's eyes widened and fear tightened his belly.
Bobby read on, eyes flicking up occasionally to check for a reaction."Infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica. Ergo draco maledicte -"
What - did they think he was possessed?
Was he possessed?
". . . et omnis legio diabolica adjuramus te. Cessa decipere humanas creaturas,
eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare."
Dean's face darkened as the ritual continued and nothing happened. When Bobby finished, the two men stared at Sam expectantly, then looked at each other.
"What the hell, Bobby?" Dean said, finally. "What's wrong?"
"He ain't possessed," Bobby said flatly, stowing the book away.
"But Bobby, his eyes!" Dean protested.
"They're normal now," Bobby pointed out.
"He could be hiding that," Dean said, staring at Sam suspiciously.
Bobby shook his head. "This is the strongest exorcism I know. It's strong enough to kick anydemon out, or at least give him a hell of a case of indigestion, I don't care how strong it is. Sam's not possessed."
Dean started to protest as Bobby cut through the ropes binding Sam to the chair, then subsided, watching as Sam collapsed against the older man.
"Bobby . . ." Sam said weakly. "What . . . "
"Don't worry about it right now, Sam." Bobby looked at Dean. "Gimme a hand."
After a slight hesitation, Dean came forward and the two of them got Sam to his feet and over to the bed.
"Get me a wet washcloth, gotta get some of this blood off him," Bobby said. Pulling up one of Sam's eyelids, he checked first one pupil, then the other.
Trying not to think of the solid thud his gun had made on Sam's head, Dean hurried to the bathroom and got a washcloth. Handing it to Bobby, he said, "I know what I saw. If he's not possessed, what the hell is going on?"
Ignoring Dean for the moment, Bobby washed the blood from Sam's face, grimacing at the sizable lump on the side of his head and the gash on his forehead. He smiled at Sam. "No concussion. But I bet it hurts like a son of a bitch."
Sam breathed a soft affirmative, closing his eyes against the overhead light. He breathed a soft thanks when Bobby understood and turned off the overhead, leaving on just the bedside lamp. "Don't think you need any stitches, but I'm gonna throw a butterfly band-aid on your forehead." He looked over his shoulder at Dean. "You got your kit in here?"
"It's in the car. I'll get it." Dean turned toward the door, relieved to be getting out of the room.
"Dean, hold on!" Bobby said sharply. With a comforting pat to Sam's arm, he rose. "I'll get it."
"Bobby, no –" Uneasy, Dean followed him to the door. "I don't think – "
"You stay with your brother and make things right," Bobby said in a low voice.
"Make things right! Bobby, I didn't imagine it," Dean protested, matching Bobby's low tone. "His eyes were yellow!"
Bobby took a long hard look at Dean. He'd smelled the liquor on him when he'd arrived. He knew damned well how hard Dean been knocking the booze back; not just in Vegas, but in the weeks since he'd sold his soul. It wasn't good.
Dean was no stranger to alcohol, but the amount of booze he'd been drowning in lately was enough to knock anyone on their ass and it could damn sure make a man see things that weren't there.
He'd had some experience along that line himself.
Not that he blamed the boy, of course. If he had an eternity of hellfire waiting for him, he'd be doing a hell of a lot more than drinking hard
Thing was, there was no way in hell Dean would ever hurt Sam. He'd spent his whole life looking after his little brother. It would take something pretty extreme to go against all those years of protecting him.
Something like thinking his brother was possessed.
"Listen, Dean," Bobby said gruffly. "Whatever's going on, we'll figure it out. But in the meantime, you need to remember something. That's your brother over there and he ain't got no idea what the hell is going on."
Dean's shoulders slumped and he looked guiltily over at Sam. "I never forgot. It's just – when I saw those eyes . . ."
"I know. But whatever's going on with Sam, Azazel's dead, and he ain't coming back." He gave Dean a stern look. "I'm gonna give you two a minute."
The younger man nodded reluctantly.
Sam had heard them talking but had not been able to distinguish the words. Hearing the door open, he raised his throbbing head and croaked out a weak protest.
"I'll be back in a minute," Bobby said reassuringly. "I need to get something outta the car." With a final speaking look at Dean he left the room.
Sam's eyes moved apprehensively to Dean, who came to stand beside the bed.
Eyeing the gash on Sam's forehead, Dean picked up the washcloth and went to the bathroom to rinse it out, then went back to the bed and started gently working on the blood that had run down Sam's face to his neck.
Once the majority of the blood was gone, Dean dropped the cloth to the bedside table and at last met Sam's eyes. Make it right.What the hell? How was he supposed to make this right?
"Why did you think I was possessed?" Sam said fearfully.
Dean looked toward the door and sighed. Damned old man. Bobby was right. Whatever was going on, this was his brother. He had a right to know and it was Dean's responsibility to tell him.
Besides, maybe if John had told them the truth years ago, just one damned time, about what he suspected, they could have avoided all this shit. Maybe they could have found a way around it, maybe Cold Oak would never have happened.
He wasn't going to make the same mistake his father had.
Dean straightened his shoulders and faced his brother. "Your eyes were yellow, Sam," he said baldly. "Yellow like his."
Sam stared at him for a long time, trying to absorb the information. Then, setting his teeth, he slowly levered himself into a sitting position, swung his legs over the side of the bed and got to his feet.
"They aren't yellow anymore," Dean said. "I don't know what it was, but – they're normal now."
The door opened. Bobby came in, carrying a black bag. He said nothing, just watched as Sam walked shakily into the bathroom and shut the door firmly behind him.
))))))))))))
It took Sam a good five minutes to get the nerve up to look into the mirror.
Unable to think, almost unable to breath, he held onto the sink and tried not to give in to the intense fear building inside him.
"I'm fine." The words were barely a whisper. "I'm fine."
He raised his eyes to the mirror.
His eyes were normal, just as Dean had said, the same clear hazel they'd always been. Apart from the vivid bruise across his cheekbone and the traces of blood at the hairline, it was the same face he saw in the mirror every morning.
Sam leaned in close to the mirror, searching for whatever Dean had seen. If it had been there earlier, it had to be in there still, somewhere, waiting for him to drop his guard so it could come out again.
There was nothing.
Nothing but the look on Dean's face right before he'd clocked him with that pistol.
Sam turned away from the mirror, mind racing feverishly.
It might not be there now, but it had been there before. He had no doubt about that. Dean would never have pulled a gun on him if there hadn't been something seriously wrong. When he'd died and that crossroads bitch had dragged him back, she'd added something demonic to the mix; something that made Sam a little more, or a little less, than he'd been before he died.
Sam raised a shaking hand to his mouth. Dean had sold his soul to bring him back from the dead. Dean was going to Hell and for what? To save a brother who was going to end up there anyway?
His legs went out from under him and he was suddenly on the floor, too stunned to even wonder how he'd got there.
The door opened and Dean stuck his head in. Seeing Sam on the floor, he shot a quick look back at Bobby, then came into the bathroom and shut the door. After a moment's hesitation, he lowered himself to the floor next to his brother.
They didn't talk. The two just sat on the floor, the only sound the occasional drip in the shower and, as dawn arrived and passed into morning, the hum and thud of the motel's departing guests.
Bobby looked in after a while. He looked at the boys, a mixture of sadness and resignation on his weathered face. "I'm heading back home. I'll call when I find something."
Grateful, Dean nodded. "Thanks, Bobby."
Bobby looked once more at Sam and then quietly left.
The boys were alone again.
For now.
They sat a while longer.
"Getting' a little stiff down here, Sammy," Dean said presently. "You must be pretty tired. How about we go get some sleep?"
Lips tight, Sam gave a small shake of his head. "No."
"Sam," Dean said earnestly, "we'll fig– "
"We're not going to figure it out, we're not - " Sam broke off, trying to calm down. "Dean. Mom – did she know? Is that – is that why she said she was sorry, that night in Lawrence?"
Dean thought back to that night, to the pain and grief in his mother's gentle eyes. "Sammy, no . . ."
"What did she know? She died. Mom died." Sam's eyes were wet, filled with horror and guilt. "And Jess. Dad. Because of me. And now you –"
"Sam, damn it, don't you do that! I don't know why all this shit is happening, but I know it's not your fault!"
"It all just keeps getting worse," Sam muttered. "No matter what we do, it just keeps getting worse."
"Sam – this shit is not on you," Dean repeated.
After a tension-fraught moment, Sam reached out and groped for Dean's hand.
Dean told hold and gripped it tight.
After a time Sam's agitation lessened and he leaned against Dean with a sigh.
"How's the head, Sammy?"
"It's okay."
Sighing, Dean slipped an arm around his brother's shoulders. "It's gonna be okay. I – we will figure it out."
"Dean – "
Dean placed a gentle finger under Sam's chin, raised it until his brother was, reluctantly, looking back at him. "We'll figure it out and we will fix it."
"I don't know, Dean." Sam tried to laugh. "You might want to find a crossroads and get your money back, 'cause you sure got the shitty end of this deal."
"Don't be a jackass, Sam. Listen, I don't know what's gonna happen to me, if we're gonna figure a way to get me out of this deal or not."
Sam made an unhappy sound of protest.
"But one thing I know for sure, yellow eyes or not, you are not going dark side."
Sam stared into his face, searching for something that would make him believe. "How do you know?"
"Because no matter what that bastard did to you, you don't have that in you."
"Max did. And Jake. And Ava." Sam shook his head in puzzled grief. "I still can't believe she did that."
"You got something they didn't have, Sammy. You got me."
"You said that before," Sam said bleakly. "I don't know. Maybe it's fate."
"The hell with that," Dean snapped. "Screw fate. Since when do we believe in that crap?"
"If I had died," Sam went on, "whatever they had planned would have died with me. But if you die –" his voice shook – "how long do you think I'm going to last? I'll probably end up downstairs right beside you."
"I'm not gonna let that happen."
Sam started to shake. "I'm cold, Dean."
Dean could see that Sam was at the end of his strength. Putting aside the fate crap for now, Dean helped him up and guided him back into the other room. He put him back into his bed and then climbed under the covers and wrapped himself around his shivering brother.
Sam's trembling stopped after a while and he slept. Dean stayed awake for a long time. He had a lot to think about.
))))))))))
When Sam woke, Dean was sleeping soundly beside him.
By the diffused light leaking through the curtain, it was probably fairly late in the day. Sam knew he should wake Dean, get them on the road again, but this felt good, so good. They could take a break, just a little one, get just a little more sleep. He started to close his eyes.
Which was, of course, when Dean opened sleepy green eyes. "Sammy . . ." He yawned. "You okay?"
"I'm fine." Sam shifted to lie on his side facing his brother. "You?"
Dean stretched. "I feel great." He reached over and picked up his watch from the bedside table. "Guess we should get going, huh?"
Sam nodded, but made no move to get up.
Dean studied Sam and decided that while his brother looked better, a little more rested, he was nowhere near ready to get back on the road. With a crooked grin, he tossed the watch back down. "I vote we stay for a while. I'm in the mood for some pancakes. And bacon."
Surprised, relieved, Sam smiled. "Sounds good."
"And beer." There was a glint of mischief in Dean's eyes.
Sam played along and made a gagging sound. "No more beer."
They grinned at each other then, eyes focusing on the bruise on Sam's cheekbone, thinking back to last night, and this morning, Dean sobered. "I'm sorry, Sam."
"It's okay." Sam gave a slight shrug. "If your eyes had turned yellow, I'd have done the same."
"Not that," Dean said. He gathered his courage, went on. "That is, yeah, I'm sorry about that, but – Shit, Sam, it's just - I'm sorry for the way I've been acting the last couple of months."
"Dean -" Sam said, surprised.
"No, let me finish." Dean took a deep breath and jumped in feet first. "I'm sorry for pulling back from you. I'm sorry for pretending that I'm not afraid of Hell. And I'm sorry for treating you like a stranger."
"Dean - "
Dean pressed a finger against Sam's lips. "I'm sorry for forgetting you're the most important thing in the world to me."
Sam's hazel eyes were wide, stunned. "Dean -"
"Damn it, Sammy, let me finish!"
Sam hushed, staring at his brother with wide, startled eyes.
"There ain't no me without you, Sammy." Dean's voice was rough with emotion. "I'm so damned sorry I forgot that."
Sam smiled. In this moment, he felt he could conquer anything – demon blood, his own weakness, the devil himself – anything that tried to stop him staying with his brother forever. With an inarticulate sound, yellow eyes be damned, he lunged forward and covered his brother's mouth with his own.
The kiss lasted forever. All the bullshit, the rage, the fear of the last two months receded. Nothing mattered except this moment, this happiness.
Everything else could wait.