My muses finally returned for a story after I rewatched "Skin". Please leave reviews-I love them!
All Sam can see is Dean's face and three seemingly small red dots on his t-shirt, the one Sam had thrown in the wash just a few days ago. Dean had picked up dinner, Sam had located the tiny washer and drier next to the motel office. Mixed in with the McDonalds' hamburgers and fries had been jokes from Dean about "Sammy Homemaker", which Sam had countered with the usual little brother response of "Well, you smelled."
Now Becky cradles Sam's head, but he fights her off, flipping nauseatingly to his hands and knees. Dean is looking straight at him, but the eyes are glazed, and Sam gags at the sight of the tiny rivulets of blood now pooling on the floor. Becky's words come as a background noise swarming around Sam's broken heart, and all he hears is "Dean, Dean, Dean. Dead, dead, dead."
There is another voice too, one that is so close to getting through, but then suddenly the sirens sound outside, and the other voice vanishes out the door along with the soft footsteps. Sam hears them freeze at the door, but the sirens are right outside now, and then the voice is gone out the back.
Sam crawls forward, shrugging off Becky's hand, stumbling even though he is already almost flat on the ground. Sam's hand stretches so slowly towards Dean, the tip of Sam's pinky lightly brushing Dean's already icy face. Ripping his hand away as though stabbed, Sam retches, over and over, curling into a tiny ball on the bloodstained floor as he sobs.
Becky's hand is on his back, but it feels too much like Dean's. Dean used to rub Sam's back when he was young and sick. Small circles, small comforting circles, big brother will make everything ok, and now big brother is shot and killed by the thing that possessed his skin, and where is big brother now to make everything ok? Never again, he can never fix this, he is this.
Pushing away, Sam buries his tears in his shaking hands, ignoring the physical pain streaming through his body from the hits and the chokes and the bookshelf collision, ignores it because he cannot escape the shattering heartbreak pulsing through his body unrelentingly.
Sam literally cannot breathe. He is gasping for air, dizziness overtaking him as the world without Dean spins around him in circles of anguish. Policemen come in and move towards the body, but Sam cannot let them take Dean away from him. With a piercing guttural scream, Sam throws himself over Dean's body, clutching the still form to him as he rocks back and forth, yelling at the officers not to touch his brother.
Becky is still trying to talk, but Sam cannot understand words. He understands one thing only-that Dean is dead, and Sam will never see him again. They will never ride in the Impala. Sam will never scrunch his legs up to fit the seat. He will never again be able to listen to a cassette tape, hear Zepplin, or heavy metal, or music. No more road trip, no more banter, no more silly pranks, or midnight conversations, no more steady hands on arms when the nightmarish visions come. No one will love him unconditionally, he will never have the chance to say "I love you" to the person he loved the most.
The policemen are too strong, even though they try to be gentle, and as Dean's body leaves Sam's arms, Sam desperately rips Dean's jacket off, wrapping it around his own shaky body and breathing in deeply. Clutching the worn familiarity around his bleeding skin, Sam reaches out and retains the bloodstained necklace as well. He hears something about evidence, and emits a feral snarl at the policeman who attempts to take the pieces away.
Only when the policemen's hands pull away does Sam allow another officer to help him up. Knees buckling immediately, Sam crouches heavily on the floor. "Do you need an ambulance?" one of the officers asks kindly, but Sam shakes his dizzying head no.
"I need my brother," Sam answers in a tearstained whisper, and the policeman nods knowingly, offering an arm to Sam again. Becky turns to Sam, secret words peeking at the corners of her lips, but she glances around at the policemen and begins to cry, silent tears leaking slowly as she stares at the bags already forming around Sam's eyes. As if she can see the years already, the halted eating, the lack of sleep, the endless crying, the unspoken wish to just let himself go so he can go be with Dean
The ride goes by in pain, Sam curled into a corner of the police car, his face buried in the leather seat. He does not wish to see the outside world ever again and so he shoves his eyes so tightly closed he sees stars, and even that is too much to bear because he can remember when Dean taught him how to find the Big Dipper. Sam does not click his seatbelt in, praying the car crashes and he flies through the windshield straight to where Dean is now.
At the station, Sam and Becky are separated, and Becky casts a desperate glance back at Sam, only able to say in the strongest voice she can muster "It'll be ok, Sam. Trust me." Sam collapses into the chair he is given, burying his face in his knees. He doesn't even realize he is sobbing still, has never stopped, his entire body numb. The jacket is still clutched tightly around his body, the necklace now dangling around his neck. No one has tried to take them again.
"So the deceased was your brother?" the officer asks softly. She seems unsure how to proceed, never having encountered this level of grief before. At the word deceased, Sam flinches, then retches, and the officer grabs her garbage can quickly and holds it under his head.
Wiping his mouth with the tissues she hands him next, Sam speaks so softly she can barely hear him. "Thanks, and yes. My brother. My big brother. Dean."
"I'm…I'm really sorry," the officer offers up sincerely. "I know those words are so inadequate, I mean I can tell how much he meant to you…I just…Mary. My name's Mary."
"Mary?" Sam looks up quickly, meeting her eyes for the first time, and she is shocked to find a tear trickling from her eye, his anguish that immediate and powerful. "That is…was…our mother's name. I'm Sam."
"Sam. Nice to meet you." Mary finds herself pulling her chair closer, until they are on the same side of the table. "Can you tell me what happened? You…you are aware your brother was…a wanted man, right? That sounds awful, I know, I'm sorry, I…" She trails off, the words lost as Sam seems to grow younger and younger by the minute, looking now like the most lost five year old she has ever seen.
"That was all a mistake," Sam says firmly, but softly. "Tonight, Dean…he…god…" Sam rubs the heels of his hands over his closed eyes, as if trying to erase the picture frozen on an eternity of repeat. "I was in trouble…I'd been…kidnapped…and Dean came to find me. He always comes to find me. I was being beat up, and Dean was protecting me when…"
Sam slides off the chair, and Mary finds herself quickly crouching on the floor next to him. In the corner, Sam curls up on himself, his arms around his knees as he rocks back and forth. "He was shot. Three times. He died. Right in front of me."
"Is there anyone I can call for you, Sam?" Mary somehow knows not to reach out and touch Sam. Instead, she leans against the wall, giving him a small distance as he continues to rock.
"No," Sam answers. "I…I'll need to tell our dad. But I can't now. I can't."
"Ok, its ok, Sam." Mary steps towards the door, and opens it slowly, looking back at him sympathetically. "Now is not the time for me to be asking you these questions, Sam. I'll get in touch with you later, ok?"
Nodding, Sam uncurls himself, moving towards the door as though through waves of water, stumbling and slowing and all the while creating puddles of tears at his feet. He staggers past everyone in the station, refusing to hear anyone who may be telling him to leave the jacket and necklace, to leave the evidence so his brother's killer can be found. Because all Sam has to hold onto now is that jacket and that necklace, and so he clutches them to him like he clutches the knowledge that he will find that fucking shapeshifter and slit his throat after he shoots him and stabs him and makes him bleed for Dean.
Becky isn't outside. Sam figures she must have been detained longer as a still- functioning human being. There's no car in sight, and Sam knows he can never face the Impala again anyway, so he starts walking. It takes everything in him just to put one foot in front of the other, and so Sam focuses on counting his steps. If he just walks forever, putting one number after another, he doesn't have to ever deal with the fact that his Dean is never walking beside him again.
But Sam can't walk forever, and without realizing it his steps take him back to the hotel room he shared with Dean just a few hours ago. Sam knows what will face him when he opens that door. Dean's clothes where he always throws them on the foot of the bed, Dean's duffel bag with his favorite gun poking out, Dean's toothbrush in the bathroom with the cap back on the toothpaste since Sam always has…had…to put it back. And Sam would give his life to have to put that cap back on the toothpaste for Dean just one more time.
Sam cannot open the door. He stretches out his pinky and expects to find the doorknob as icy cold as Dean's dead skin, but instead the metal is warm with recent touch. The thought that the maid might have cleaned Dean's things away is like another stab to the heart, and Sam throws the door open, staggering with the effort.
The sight in front of him causes him to grab the nearest gun, cocking it and pointing it directly at the figure who has halted his pacing around the room. "I can't believe you'd come here," Sam growls, his strength and focus returning as the adrenaline and hate surges through his battered body. "It wasn't enough for you to kill my brother, you come back here to get me too? Or did you just come here to gloat cause you took him away from me?"
Sam sees the figure step out of the shadows, hands at his sides, face still in darkness. "Sammy, it's me, its Dean. Let me expla-"
But Sam cuts him off, raising the gun higher. "Don't call me that!" he screams, the gun shaking wildly as he puts one hand on the nearby wooden chair to steady himself. "Come and get me, come and get me you fucker! I've got nothing left to lose! You took him away from me, and I've got nothing left to lose."
"Sammy, Sammy, please, its me, don't you know me?" The voice is so soft, pleading and familiar, and suddenly the face is in the light, and its those eyes, those eyes full of tears and love. A cry catches in Sam's throat, and the gun drops from his hands to the carpet as he takes a hesitant step forward, his pinky lightly brushing against Dean's cheek. The cheek is warm and wet with tears, and the arms are reaching around Sam, and Sam is sobbing as he jolts the breath from Dean's lungs with the tightest hug he has ever given.
"Dean," is all Sam can choke out right now, but Dean nods with understanding.
"It's ok Sammy, its all ok now, I'm here," Dean whispers, rubbing Sam's back in those slow, comforting circles, and as Sam sags Dean is there to catch him.
Sam wakes later to a hamburger and fries on his bedside table, covers tucked in snug around him, Dean's jacket and necklace still on him. Shooting up, Sam looks around frantically, his breathing ragged and raw, but within a second his eyes alight on Dean lying on the bed next to him, stirred from what must have been a fitful sleep at best.
"Hey," Dean says softly, sitting up too, propping his back against the headboard. "I…um…got the guy behind the desk to send his son for some McDonalds. I figured you hadn't eaten in a while."
"Yeah," Sam answers noncommittally, knowing full well Dean can tell what kind of shape Sam is in. "Thanks." Reaching a hand over to the hamburger, Sam finds it has already been prepared the way he likes it, a little mayo, no mustard, and a lot of ketchup. The discarded packets lie in the trash can next to the bed. "You did this," Sam whispers, and the knowledge that Dean is alive slams into him so forcefully he starts to cry, openly weeping right there in front of Dean.
"Hey, I totally didn't put any mustard on it," Dean attempts to joke, but one look at Sam's face and the walls Dean has spent so much time building drop with an earth-shattering force. Dean rests a hand on Sam's shoulder, and then suddenly Dean wraps his arms around his baby brother, hugging him for the second time in a day, more than he has in years, and this and his Sammy and them both being alive is enough to bring tears to Dean's eyes as well.
"Sammy….I tried to tell you," Dean says so softly, his hand clutching at the back of Sam's head. "I tried to tell you I was ok, that I'd killed the shapeshifter, but you were…you weren't responding…you were…"
"Broken," Sam finishes for him, his face nestled in Dean's shoulder. "Just so fucking broken." The words bring Dean's arms even tighter around Sam, and his hand on Sam's head moves to his back, rubbing small comforting circles at a slow and steady and familiar pace.
"God, Sammy, I wanted to stay, and make you look at me, and then the cops came and I had to go, I had to leave, because if they caught me there they would have arrested me and we would have been separated again, we actually would have, and so I had to let you think…" Dean cannot bring himself to finish, settling instead for pulling back slightly to cup Sam's face gently in his hands. "I'm sorry, Sammy."
"Not your fault," Sam answers, so sincerely Dean has to smile, and then Sam laughs. "Dean, you do realize you're totally cupping my face here, right? In like five seconds, they're gonna be calling Reese Witherspoon and Anne Hathaway to play us in this major chick flick extravaganza."
"Man, that would be fine with me, those two are smoking hot." Laughing in return, Dean pulls back, moving to his duffel bag. "Let me take a look at those cuts of yours, Sammy my boy."
"I'm fine Dean," Sam insists, settling back against the headboard and involuntarily wincing as the wood connects with a particularly large back bruise.
"Mm hm yeah, not listening." Grabbing the first aid supplies, Dean settles back onto Sam's bed. "Shirt off, Sam. Don't fight me here."
"Is that how you get all the girls?" Rolling his eyes, Sam moves to take his shirt off, but his hands hesitate at the base of the cotton as he realizes he is still wearing Dean's jacket and necklace.
"They didn't want those for evidence?" Dean asks casually, laying gauze and antiseptic out on the bed.
"No, they definitely did." Sam finds his cheeks tinting red as he dips his head in embarrassment, sliding one arm gently out of the jacket. "I…I think I like growled at them or something. I wouldn't let them take them."
"Well, I'm glad you didn't, otherwise I would have had to bust them out from the evidence locker or something," Dean says lightly, unable to meet Sam's eyes. Hearing a moan of pain from Sam though, Dean quickly looks up. "Sam, how badly are you hurt?"
"I'm a little sore," Sam admits, but Dean shakes his head, resting a hand on the jacket and helping Sam slide his arm out of the sleeve. Guiding the cotton t-shirt over Sam's head, Dean cannot help the soft hiss that escapes his lips, and the regret and anger that fill his eyes.
"Sammy…" Dean's eyes sweep over the bruises, blood, and open wounds covering Sam's chest and face, and he reacts the only way he can, the only way that will keep him from going back to that fucking shapeshifter's useless corpse and blasting it full of more bullets as some form of retribution. He opens the tube of antiseptic, unrolls the ball of gauze, and gets to work.
"It's not as bad as it looks." Wincing, Sam settles into the pillows Dean places around him. Sighing, Dean finishes wrapping Sam's chest, and gently moves to cleaning the wounds on Sam's face.
"Does this bother you?" Dean asks softly, his eyes focused on the cut on Sam's left cheek.
"Getting the crap kicked out of me?" Sam asks in confusion. "Well, yeah, I mean, I don't enjoy it or anything."
"No, I mean…" Turning back to the first aid kit, Dean's hands rummage aimlessly through the spools of thread and bandages, his eyes seemingly fixated on the non-task at hand. "Me touching you, being all close to you. Doesn't that make you think about the shapeshifter? I pretty much expected you to push me away…I mean, some asshole with my face beat you up." Having said more than he meant to, Dean intensifies his focus on a spool of white thread, picking a piece apart into tiny strands.
"He wasn't you," Sam says simply, and when that isn't enough to make Dean face him, Sam sighs, reaching a hand out to snatch the spool away from Dean. "Dean, look at me and stop murdering the thread."
With a soft shaky laugh, Dean complies, finally bringing his face up to look into his brother's eyes. "He wasn't you," Sam repeats, resting his hands on his bandaged stomach.
"But he looked just like me…and what he said to you…" Dean hesitates, trying to find the words, his hands clenching into involuntary fists. "I heard some of what he said to you in his lair, and Sammy, you have to believe me, I don't resent you, I never-"
Sam cuts him off, knowing how hard it is for Dean, and nods. "I know. It's ok. And yeah, he looked like you, but not completely. You have…Dean eyes."
"Thank you for that enlightening comment, Sam." Dean laughs, reaching up to gently clean out a gash on Sam's cheek.
"No, I mean…" Sam sighs, but with a smile. "Ok, so call Reese and Anne back. When he looked at me, there was just a lot of anger and hate. When you look at me…there's the big brother Dean look. I can't describe it, its just…a look you only use for me."
"Aw, Sammy…you are so damn sappy." Laughing harder, Dean bandages the gash, then closes up the first aid kit.
"Well Dean, I'm sorry, but what do you expect? I thought you died." Sam means his words to come out lighthearted, but instead he hears the pitch change of remembered earth-shattering grief, and Dean's eyes fly up to meet Sam's.
"Sammy…" Sighing, Dean slides back up on the bed, resting his back against the headboard next to Sam, their shoulders touching. Then Dean continues his streak of unexpectedness, suddenly placing his arm around Sam's shoulders and holding him close.
Sam leans his head on Dean's shoulder, and Dean tips his head to rest on top of Sam's. "I'm alive, Sammy, and I'm not going anywhere," Dean says softly.
"I know," Sam whispers, feeling a tear slide down his cheek and onto Dean's jacket. "I just had no idea how I was going to live when I thought you were dead. All those years without you in them, Dean, and I couldn't breathe."
"Well, I'm here now, I'm here and I'm staying here. No shapeshifter or poltergeist or anything is ever going to take me away from you." And even though Dean knows he can't really promise this, its what he wants for him and his Sammy.
"Ok." Sam smiles softer, then wider, slowly sliding down under the covers to rest his head on the pillow, but never breaking the contact between him and Dean. "Cause if you go, I wanna go too," Sam adds with a yawn, his eyes already slipping closed as the exhaustion of the day pounds into him again.
"I know, Sammy, I feel the same way." Dean slides down himself, placing his head on the second pillow and turning on his side to face Sam. "Now get some sleep. It's been a long day, and I'll be right here."
"Good." Sam smiles as he moves under the comforter. Dean watches him for a second, a smile playing across his face as a tear slips down to hit his jacket. He thinks Sam is asleep until Sam speaks one more time. "Hey Dean…I love you. Ok, goodnight."
Dean laughs softly, and slings his arm over Sam, adjusting the covers around him. "I love you too Sammy. Sleep well." Sam snuggles into Dean's arm, and he finally doesn't feel like his overwhelming joy is going to slip away, and Dean smiles as he watches Sam's breathing finally become normal and Sam finally slip into a peaceful sleep, and only then can Dean sleep too. And they both dream about tomorrow, and it is them, in the Impala, together for another day.