Found
It was the sixth shitty basement in the sixth shitty abandoned farmhouse he'd searched in almost as many days. With each one, his hope dwindled and his fear increased.
It smelled. It was the same as the others: The dark damp odor of dirt floor and stone and mildew, unique to basements, but this one felt different. He wasn't sure why, but his heart thudded hard against his ribs. His nerves felt ready to snap. It could be the nature of a desperate search, or it could be something else. He was afraid to let any hope fill him. Yet it was the one thing that kept him going. It kept wanting to flare in him now. He pushed such thoughts aside. He had to focus.
He rounded the corner and saw a distinct silhouette against the far wall in the dimness.
Distinct and familiar.
His breath caught as he stepped closer. The arms were outstretched above the slack body. They were shackled, chains protruding from the stone wall. Long legs were bent underneath. The head hung low, a mop of shaggy brown hair was all he could see.
For an instant he froze. That dangerous flicker of hope in chest threatened to go out altogether, stilling his heart mid-beat.
His brother looked... he looked dead.
He hadn't looked all over the county for his brother to not know. Everything in him wanted him to be okay, but fear of the unknown seeds itself deep. He knelt down in front of the bowed head, heart hammering. He reached out, very much in need of the contact, took the face in his hands and lifted the head.
"Sam?"
The tips of his fingers sat snuggly against the side of his brother's neck. He could gratefully feel the thump beneath them.
The first most important question answered, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his lock pick and unlocked each shackle.
He gently lowered his brother's arms one at a time, supporting his now unrestrained weight as it wanted to pitch him forward. He took the wrists in his hands, examining them. They were heavily bruised with some minimal lacerations on them. No doubt from Sam struggling in them. Sam's arms were cold as his upper body was clad in just his t-shirt.
He rubbed his upper arms, willing his own warmth into them and sure they were going to be sore. He settled his brother's back against the wall so he wouldn't topple forward and replaced his hands on either side of Sam's face.
"Sam." Several beats. "C'mon, Sam."
Still no response. Anxiety crept upon him. "Sam!" he tried sternly, purposefully but carefully jarring the head held between his hands. The younger man began to stir.
"That's it. C'mon, Sammy," he coaxed.
It took several tries but Sam slowly blinked his eyes open. They were dull and unfocused. After a few agonizing seconds, they found and settled on the older man's face.
"Dean?" he said in almost a whisper. And Dean could breathe again.
"Right here, Sammy."
Something sparked behind Sam's eyes then died just as quickly.
"No," he said, closing his eyes and hanging his head. "No. Not Again." Sam's voice was exhausted, hopeless despair.
"Sam, what-"
Dean's relief was short-lived upon hearing his brother's voice and seeing his deflated posture. His dismay intensified when Sam suddenly began to cry. He made no sound but tears started rolling down his face, leaving tracks down his dirt smeared face.
Willing himself out of his stupor, Dean readjusted his hands on his brother's face, trying to regain his attention.
"Hey, hey. Look at me."
Sam weakly shook his head, fresh tears squeezing out through tightly shut eyes.
"Look at me, Sam."
Reluctantly, Sam raised his head. Welling eyes met Dean's.
"You're not here. You're gone. He told me," Sam said breathlessly.
It only took Dean a second to process. The spirit that had taken Sam fed off of peoples' life force, wearing them down. It was apparent that it had done more than drain Sam's physical energy. Sam's body wasn't the only thing that was depleted.
Dean felt a flicker of fury ignite inside. He wanted this thing dead. But Sam came first.
"I'm not gone, Sam. I'm right here alright," he tried to assure him, brushing his hair back with his palm. But Sam's head dropped again.
"Please..." Sam's voice was small, still barely above a whisper. It was utterly defeated as he pleaded brokenly. "Dean's gone and I can't... I can't."
Dean felt something akin to panic now. Sam was strong, physically and willfully. To see him like this was… wrong. Sam was beyond vulnerable. He was broken.
"No, Sam. You need to snap out of it. I'm here. I'm right here." Dean made himself sound stern, but Sam didn't move, only continued to cry softly.
"Dean." Sam called his name, but it was longing, needing, like he didn't know he was right in front of him. It made Dean's heart ache.
Slapping Sam had crossed his mind but Dean couldn't bear to hurt him anymore. Doing the only thing he could think of, he grabbed Sam's hand, placed the palm of it over his heart and laid his own hand over top.
"You feel that, Sam? You feel that? I'm right here. I've got you." He placed his other hand behind Sam's neck. "You hear me? I've got you."
Sam went still and quiet. His chest moved more deeply and a little faster. Dean could see the struggle in those hazy hazel eyes.
Sam looked in front of him. He saw the hand over his, felt the steady thump beneath the warm solid flesh underneath, felt the warmth of the hand touching the back of his neck. He knew that rhythm, knew that touch.
"Dean?" he said shakily meeting his brother's eyes. The horrifying broken despair Dean had seen in them previously was replaced with recognition and hopefulness.
"Yeah, Sammy. That's what I've been trying to tell you." He couldn't help the smile that crept across his face despite Sam's expression of confused surprise.
Sam reached his free hand up and gripped Dean's forearm. It was as if he was trying to confirm the reality of Dean's presence. His grip was tight, tight enough that Dean absently wondered if he's have a bruise in the shape of his brother's hand later. It didn't matter.
Dean watched the war with reality in his brother's face with alleviation. Realization was dawning there.
"Dean," Sam said more strongly, more aware. "He told me you were dead, that you wouldn't come for me."
"Not hardly, little brother," Dean told him assuredly. Mentally he cursed the thing that took Sam.
Sam sighed breathlessly. Relief. He pulled Dean's arm with unsteady urgency. Dean got it. He pulled Sam against him, sliding his hand out from between them and encircling his back, Sam's cheek rest against the side of his throat. A beat later, Sam's arms came up around him.
Dean knew the longer they were here, the greater the chance the spirit would figure out what they were up to, but Sam needed this, and Dean would give him a moment. Then, maybe it wasn't just for Sam. He hadn't exactly known if his brother was alive either. The touch was needed. Grounding.
"Can you walk?" Dean asked, reluctantly pulling away.
Sam sighed. "I don't know."
"Okay, come on." Dean put one of Sam's arms around his shoulders, grasping his hand to avoid his bruised wrist. He put his other arm around Sam's back, hauling him up with him. It elicited a pained grunt from his brother. He waited a moment for Sam to get his feet under him.
"You good?"
"Yeah," Sam replied. They started walking. Dean wasn't fully prepared for as much of Sam's weight he needed to support and had to readjust his hold slightly. He knew Sam was trying the best he could, but he was utterly drained.
"Next time no splitting up to look for the crazy homicidal ghost," Dean said good humoredly, but he wasn't joking.
Sam huffed. "S'okay by me."
Sam would be lucky if Dean let him cross the street by himself for a while after this, but maybe that was okay too. When you spend days thinking you're alone in the world and the only person you care about is dead, it kind of changes your immediate desire for space and independence.
They were nearing the rickety wood staircase that would carry them up and out of this hell hole when Sam was suddenly ripped from Dean's grasp.
"Sam!"
His brother was thrown into the stone wall across the large room, back hitting it with a thud. He slid back down to the dirt floor. Dean started over to him but was thrown in the opposite direction. He rolled, the room going end-over-end before colliding with something solid. He looked up, eyes immediately searching for the threat as well as his brother.
Something flickered in front of Sam at the other side of the room. Dean fought to get to his feet. Sam screamed. Panic flared in Dean's chest and he looked to his brother. The spirit's right arm was submerged into Sam's chest. It twisted it deliberately as Sam writhed against it.
Dean drew his handgun from the small of his back and side-stepped to avoid hitting Sam. He fired three times, each round hitting the form until it was gone.
Dean reached Sam in a couple of strides and put hands on his shoulders.
"Sam?"
Sam was breathing heavily, face wincing. He couldn't catch his breath so he nodded instead.
"He's here isn't he?" Dean asked. The iron rounds wouldn't hold it off for long.
Sam nodded again.
"Where?"
Sam raised his arm and pointed to an alcove in the corner across the room.
Dean patted his shoulder. "Hang tight," he said.
Dean rounded the divider wall and found the partially exhumed skeletal remains in the basement floor. Sam had gotten close to finishing the son of a bitch off before it grabbed him. Now Dean would gladly finish it. He took up the shovel lying beside the makeshift grave and started digging when Sam cried out again.
Instantaneously Dean stopped, rounded the wall and saw the spirit attacking Sam. He repeated his actions, firing two more rounds. He visually assessed his brother who he saw was still breathing, albeit harder and more unevenly.
"Almost there, Sammy," he called and went back to uncovering the remains.
Sam yelled.
"Son of a bitch!" Dean shouted. He knew what it was trying to do. The only way to get this done was to keep digging, so he did. His brother's sounds of agony resonated through him, every fiber in him wanting to go to him. Instead he worked faster, dirt flying over his shoulder. He was almost there.
Something quivered in front of him. He could just see it from his peripheral. He ignored it, focusing on the work at hand. One last shovelful of earth thrown aside and he had it- the remains were exposed well enough.
A force slammed into him, sending him falling backwards on his ass. The spirit materialized before him.
"Mine," its inhuman voice teased.
Dean was filled with fury. Another shudder of movement and it was gone and Sam was grunting in pain once more. Dean's rage enveloped him. He dug the small container of salt and flask of accelerant from his pocket along with a matchbook.
The spirit turned, Sam sitting against the wall in a slumped heap behind it.
"Mine!"
"No," Dean said striking a match, "Mine." He tossed it into the pile of bones.
There was a piercing unearthly shriek, burst of bright orange flame and something that sounded like thunder, resonate in the ground upon which Dean stood. Then it was quiet. The spirit was gone, leaving Sam alone where it had been. Alone and unmoving.
Dean once again crossed the room and dropped in front of his brother, heart skipping. He'd just gotten him back. His hands brushed over Sam's stomach and chest, assessing. Everything seemed intact and he curled his fingers around his younger brother's biceps.
"Sammy?"
To Dean's relief, Sam took in a deep breath and opened his eyes, trying to sit up more. Dean caught him. "Easy," he said.
Sam looked around. "You get him?"
"Yeah. Bastard's gone."
Sam exhaled a relieved breath and nodded in approval. He started to push himself to his feet, allowing Dean to help him.
"Let's get the hell outta here," he said.
"I'm with you, man," Dean replied.
...
Dean had gotten Sam established as comfortably as he could in the Impala's passenger seat. He had draped his own jacket over him. By then Sam was bordering on unconsciousness. Dean rummaged their cooler and decided he was grateful for Sam's liking of girly fruity drinks. Sam hadn't eaten or drank much in the days he'd been held captive, of that Dean was sure. He managed to get some water and some liquid calories and sugar into his brother before he passed out completely, coaxing him to stay awake until he did. The rest he could handle back at the motel room.
Dean started the engine and glanced over at his unconscious sibling.
Close. It had been close. Again.
Throughout his life Dean had moments where he questioned the rightness of pulling Sam back into the hunting life he so desperately hadn't wanted to be a part of. Sam had assured him it wasn't because of Dean, that after Jessica he would have found his way back anyhow.
But it was more than that; neither would do it without the other; neither would leave the other because it just wasn't something they could do anymore. Still, there were times Dean wished Sam wasn't in this life, that he could be safe.
Times not unlike this one.
Dean reached over and put his hand carefully around Sam's bruised wrist. He was only slightly surprised when he felt a hand around his own.
...
Shapes began coming into focus in the dark that Sam awoke to. He wasn't hanging from his arms against the hard wall and sitting on the cold damp ground, but lying down on his side on something soft and warm. He was back in their motel room. He shifted his arms and felt a tug in his inner elbow. He held his arm in front of him and ran his hand over the tape and tube protruding from there.
"Leave it alone," came Dean's voice from beside him. He looked up and saw Dean sitting in one of the motel chairs he must have pulled over next to his bed. Even in the dark, Sam could see the worry in his features. He'd probably been dwelling on it for hours.
"You were pretty dehydrated," Dean told him.
"I been out long?"
"Eleven hours," Dean replied. And nineteen minutes and about 32 seconds, but who was counting, right?
Geez. "What time is it?"
"Almost midnight. How are you feeling?"
Sam looked at his brother and thought about that a moment. Even in the shadows Sam could see that Dean probably hadn't gotten much-if any- sleep the last few days. His brother looked worse than he felt. He could tell him he was fine, but that wasn't what Dean needed.
"Drained. I feel like I've slept for a month, but I'm still tired," he answered earnestly.
Dean nodded, features seemingly becoming softer. He leaned forward. "Get some more rest for now. We'll see about getting some solid food into you in the morning."
Sam's stomach churned slightly at the mention of food. "Okay," he said. His eyelids were already getting heavier, but he wasn't ready to surrender to them yet.
"It's okay, Sam. Go to sleep," Dean assured him softly.
Not yet. There was something pressing. "Dean?" he asked as sleep pulled harder at him.
"Yeah?"
"Don't go anywhere, okay?"
He could feel Dean's smile and gratification, maybe even ironic amusement that Sam would be the one telling him not to go anywhere.
Sam uncurled his hand, palm upright. He felt a warm calloused hand settle around his own.
"I'm not going anywhere, Sammy."
"Thanks," Sam breathed as he finally let sleep reclaim him. Just before he did, he felt the hand in his tighten in response.