The Hardest Part

By Mellaithwen

Rating: T

Genre: Angst/Tragedy

Disclaimer: I don't own them, and as a quick note, please no mentions of any spoilers: thanks.

Summary: Character death. You can't save everyone, Dean. Post Devil's Trap.

You don't remember childhood. You barely remember normalcy. You remember the day you were drafted, because really, that's what it was.

You remember the flames, and you remember the bundle in your arms, making sure your steps never faltered, never tripped. You couldn't be clumsy; your father was relying on you. Get Sam to safety, that's all that matters.

You remember her, you remember her curls, and you remember her teasing that as long as you were there to pull away the ties with disgust, letting her blonde curls roam free, and loose; fit for your small fingers to tangle themselves within, she'd never get any work done. You didn't understand why something as trivial as hair would stop anyone from doing something. But then, she had always cut your hair if ever it got too long, and you always remember her long fingers, so delicate, so unlike your own, as they brushed back locks behind ears that always listened.

Your father cut it after she went. His fingers fumbled, and you sat stoic on the stool, as each lock fell away, you remembered hers.

And how you would never touch them again.

John didn't understand why you watched each bang with such fascination, and he never asked why you looked so sad.

You remember pain, but you don't remember hurting until long after. You remember blinding white agony, and then, everything faded away when you saw him. The blood didn't matter, yours or his. The demon's carcass, still, and stinking, didn't matter as your hands made fresh cuts on the hard surface of the car, jutting out at all angles.

Nothing mattered, all was white noise, and you had never liked listening to EVP after dark. It left a chill down your spine, but this, this hurt more than anything, more than the wounds on your body, or the knowledge that all was most likely lost. Just seeing him, so still, and so quiet, and so different, made your heart freeze inside and you hurt, all the time.

He always fidgets. He always did. He had become better at researching out of habit, because your father had thought, if he made him sit down for long enough, appreciate silence, and hell, stillness if needs be, then maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't be so easily agitated in the car.

At least now they had a bookworm in the car, as well as a fidgeting child. You reign in the urge to hit him, when he flashes you a grin. There's no reason behind it, no logic, no purpose, other than to fill the time, fill up the empty space, between here, and the next place. A to B, or C depending on their father's last minute whim's at what hunts took priority.

"I'm surprised at you, Sammy. I thought we saw eye to eye on this. Killing this demon comes first; before me, before everything.

"No sir, not before anything."

You wonder if you should be flattered that he's echoing your own words from before, or that he says them after catching a glance at you still bleeding all over the back seat.

You hate camping, and so does Sam. You hated the friendly neighbours who invited you along with the other children for a night out into the woods, you hate them now, oh yes, but then, at that very moment, you felt like you belonged.

Your father had ulterior motives, knowing full well of the legends surrounding the tall trees, but at the same time, he had seen the look, the jealousy pass across your face as all other children played, and bettered your aim, and perfected your shot, always glancing behind you, through the back door, to make sure Sam is still watching cartoons.

So you went, your brother in tow, always careful to keep holding his hand, never letting go and never letting him out of your site. You joined in with singing, fumbled over forgotten lyrics from days of old when you attended a school long enough to learn. You encouraged Sam to clap along too, and felt stronger when he smiled.

You took no notice at the tiny campfire, not truly making the connection, not really caring, just looking out for him, and nibbling on your marshmallow before it melts onto the rest of the stick, and though, you don't actually like it, Sammy does, and Sammy would never eat it if his big brother didn't too.

You were so sure, that when you went to sleep, curled up inside of a sleeping bag, Sam by your side, that everything was okay. That you were safe, that there were grownups all around you, other children, some even older. You were protected, even if it was by novices, who hunted nothing more than the occasional deer, and stray bird in the right season.

And when you woke up, the first thing you did was reach out for your brother, who wasn't there. You blinked away the last of slumber, yawned and then snapped awake when you heard the dreaded sound that had woken you up in the first place. Screaming.

You rush for the doorway, and your legs are still stuck within the sleeping bag. You tug at the material folds, and when they seem to never give way, and push yourself out of it, ripping in your need to save him. Always save him.

You feel it then, like you did so long ago. You remember the fire, and you feel the heat. Others are waking up, but it's no surprise you're the first. He's your brother, and your far more tuned to his needs that the strangers in the community that tried so hard to welcome newcomers.

He's standing, not sleeping, not lying down like he should be. He's screaming, not snoring, not drooling onto his pillow like he should be.

He's screaming so loudly, and your name is heard within the boundaries of his fear. He's staring, when he should be running back into your open arms. He's frozen, he's tense, he's scared like everything they're family has ever faced is nothing more than Childs play.

You're a child, he's certainly one, and he's screaming for you. So you run.

A tent, empty, it's inhabitants unable to sleep, two parents, strolling around the campsite, veering off further then they'd thought, and not noticing the gathering blaze take on the green material, strung up like a tipi.

He's still screaming, he's terrified of the flames. So are you, but you'll never admit it, and you'll never show it. You run, you grab him by the shoulders, you yank at him, spin him, until he's facing you, his eyes wild, his skin sweating, and his breathing erratic as he tries to calm down, but fails miserably.

He stares, and his mouth is still open as though ready to scream, still scared, still terrified. You weren't even that close, but with that much heat, it doesn't take much. You're steered away by very nervous parents, and you're left on a log as they fight the fire.

You close your eyes, for a second; ponder over what might have been, so that you know never to let it happen again. You won't sleep for days if it means Sam will never see the flames. You slide off the log, onto the muddy grass. Your knees bent, kneeling in front of your brother, who still stares off into the distance. "Sammy?" You try, while he merely looks past you, still at the burning fire, his hands fidgeting with the sleeves of his night shirt. Never still, even when terrified.

"Oh Sammy." You pull him down with you, hugging him, holding him close, and cleverly shielding his eyes from the reds, oranges and yellows, with the black billowing upward, skyward, to the bright moon.

You panic the first time you wake up, because the spots dancing from the lights above make you see the nurse with black eyes, that are really a quite brilliant blue, but the dark is piercing, and it starves the air from your lungs as you desperately try to get away.

"Sir! Sir, you need to calm down."

Your face is pale, your lips fading lighter, cracked, and as much as your body still heaves and bucks, you know it's a losing battle. Until the needle is plunged deep into your arm, and the sedative calms you down, slows everything, more tears, feeble screams, and soon the Doctors intentions are met, and you begin to fall asleep. They are unaware of the Freudian Slips that would find you there. The last thing they hear before watching you fall back, unconscious, is the soft wheeze of air from your slightly parted lips.

You first saw them at school. No. That's not right.

The first time you saw them, you were sitting on the hood of the impala, with your father next to you holding on to your baby brother. You've even been inside of one, because they arrived first, and let you sit on the step going in, while you waited for the ambulance to arrive and they went away to fight the flames.

The second time you see one, it's at school. A red fire truck, as bright as the toy's in the corner of the classroom on the play-mat next to the bookcase, and drawers where you all put your little rucksacks for the day. They hadn't used the siren, and all of the children had groaned, moaned, and complained, until the big burly man had stepped down from the door, dressed in yellow, with great big boots, and a matching hat on the top of his head.

He had smiled at you all, and grinned even more so when the young teacher had escorted him to the assembly hall, all of you following like sheep, mesmerized by the special guest.

"Fire safety is all important," He had told you with his booming voice stretching and bouncing around the big building crammed full of wide eyes boys and girls, their chins resting on their hands, and their mouths slightly agape.

"If there's a fire, you have to get out very quickly." He told you carefully, never failing to gain your attention as he bent low somewhat and walked back and forth. "Don't try and take your things from your room, just get out and away from the fire. Don't touch it, don't go anywhere near it. Just get out."

Get out, get out, and get out. Take your brother outside as fast as you can, don't look back. Now Dean, go!

"Fires are very loud, very, very hot and they burn very fast and the smoke makes it harder to see, so you have to keep low to the ground, like this." And he bent down, lay on his stomach, and looked back at you all, still watching carefully as though you expected a quiz at the end. "Smoke rises, so the safest place to be is on the floor. Then you find your way to the door and you get outside where it's safe."

"Now, what do you do when you have to get out through a door?" He asked, and a few shy hands shot up slowly, while others were more desperate to be picked. The fireman pointed to a boy, with a smug smirk on his face, you can't remember his name, but your sure you never liked him, and he told the man, "You open the door!" Followed by a giggle from him and a few of his friends. The Fireman shook his head, and looked around. "Does anyone know what you have to do first?"

You know. Your father had told you after the stove had made the kitchen smoke alarm screech and your mother had panicked that a fire might start. And John had told you time and time again since-since...

But, you didn't put your hand up, you didn't need to. The Fireman's finger was pointed in your direction. "What about you, son?" you felt your cheeks go red, but grinned all the same. "You have to feel the door to see if it's hot." You said simply, having complete confidence in what your father had told you. The Fireman beamed.

"Very good! What's your name?"

"Dean."

"Well Dean, do you know why you have to feel the door?"

You nodded. "If it's hot, the fire might be on the other side, so you have to find another way."

"Exactly right."

When the Fireman had gotten back into his big red truck, waved goodbye to the children, smiling all the way, he had given you all a little magazine. The cover was dark blue, with a bug on the front and a very big pack of matches to the side of him, and that night, you had asked his father to read it to you before bed time.

Looking back, you're surprised John did, but now you know you hate the book.

It was about a fly, jealous of the glow-worms; who had found a pack of matches and decided to light one, so he could be a glow-worm too. But he was too little, and you're not supposed to play with matches, and the fly had gotten very, very hurt, and his parents were very, very sad.

And you had never even considered touching a pack of matches ever again. But that was before you needed them to set alight the salt-covered bones in a broken coffin. That was before the fire followed you everywhere you went, and you knew the only way to win, was to fight fire, with fire. That was before, and this was after.

Metal protests, shrieks and moans, the air is pressing, thick and choking, and your lungs burn, and your head aches, and the blood in your mouth is making you gag. Sleep is so inviting, the blanket of darkness wrapping itself around you so soft, so harmless...

Your focus is on your brother. You can do nothing more. When you asked for your father, the other man in the car, they explained that he had left prior to your waking up. Had to go, had to hunt, left with his apologies, when really you know he just doesn't want to be here when-

"I can't watch my children die too. I won't."

Sammy's too tall for a bed like this, you deduce, as you stay in the doorway, confined to the wheelchair you've been forced into. Sam is too tall, too gangly, too young...He doesn't fit against the stark white sheets, and tubing that scares you. It isn't right. His hair is so long, and when you run a hand through your own, you notice that you too have grown quite a mop, and it just shows how long you've been there, in this hospital. Too long.

The night nurse had caved and it hadn't taken much. You threatened to kick up a fuss of course, until your stitches ripped out, and she retaliated by threatening to sedate you if you tried. You flashed a smile, somewhat lacking of its usual charm but still quite catching. It broke her down somewhat, but noticing the lingering resolve of a stubborn young nurse within, you begged, simply begged, and she had succumbed. She had helped you into the wheelchair, tsk-ing at every wince, hiding her concern with annoyance while you do the same with your pain hidden by a mask of impatience that isn't completely false.

You have never liked hospitals, but in truth, who does? There's too much death in these buildings, and it isn't right. Nothing about this was right. It wasn't right that the only way you could see his brother was after having to get into a wheelchair because walking was too much stress on your abdomen, after...after...

Sam doesn't belong there, and that was that.

"He's in a coma," The doctor said quietly.

"Will he wake up?" You ask, never taking your eyes off of your little brother's face, not even at the long silence that followed from the doctor's reluctance to tell of the inevitable.

"It's unlikely," He tells you, before leaving with a bowed head a hasty, but heartfelt, "I'm sorry."

"Dean, I want to thank you."

"For what?" You ask, taking your eyes off of the house, straying to Sam who looks a little too uncomfortable for this conversation to be going anywhere good.

"For everything, you've always had my back, man, even when I couldn't count on anyone, I could always count on you, and uh, I don't know, I just wanted to let you know, just in case."

You stop him in his stride, cease any goodbye he might still say.

It occurs to you after that maybe Sammy knew a little more than he was letting on.

You stay by his side every day. You shout at anyone who tries to force you to do otherwise and after nearly a week, the staff have resorted to simply wheeling you away from your brother's side. Yes, you make the fuss you always promised, and the first few times, the doctor's sedate you, for your own protection. You can't help think it's all a bit too much. But soon, you learn to stop. After all, if the drugs weren't involved you could wake up earlier, and be by Sam's side in no time.

You never tell anyone that the drugs mess up your dreams, and you certainly never explain why you wake up screaming. Sometimes you'd be roaming the halls at three AM, on your way to your brother's room, the action of which making your doctors livid in the morning, doctors who reprimand you for being so reckless with your injuries and setting back your recovery status. You only go back to your own room, when cajoled by Gemma, the night nurse, you now know by name, and she tells you that she'll take you back there as soon as her shift ends in the morning.

The hospital adapts around you. The staff get used to your temper, your attitude, your fear. Your meals are brought to your brother's room, though all you do is pick at it while it gets cold and is left forgotten on the trey next to the warming water. They know when to hide their sympathy, unwanted as it is, and they even hold back somewhat on the patronising-gits-o-meter. Sometimes, they tell him it's fruitless, hopeless, but you never give up. Not on your brother, never on Sammy.

"Just let me stay tonight," You beg her once more, making her sigh. Until once again, she caves at the tone.

"Fine, but if you need to sleep, just press the buzzer and I'll come get you, okay?"

You nod, hiding your exasperation at being treated like a child with a polite smile. You know she's only trying to help, and getting pissed, or angry is no way to thank her. You know you'll never press that button. Even though you're desperate for a moment's rest, and you can't help but let your head rest by your brother's arm, knowing of the pain your neck will feel come morning.

You hadn't meant to fall asleep, not really, maybe doze, but the next thing you know there's something on your head, and you look up to see fingers twitching slowly, trying to get your attention. Your brother's hand is pulling at your thicker, longer, hair, and he's awake, and his eyes hold a surprising amount of clarity and understanding. You take his hand in your own, clasping it hard, squeezing the knuckles and smiling like an idiot.

You take in the face, the expression, relish in every second of it all, and swallow the lump in your throat at the acknowledgement, of how close they all came to unravelling completely. You wish you had your mobile on you, you wish they were allowed to be used if only you could hear your father's relief when you tell him it's all alright.

You wonder what the doctor's will say, the one's so intent on telling you that Sam's condition was neither worsening nor improving. It simply was, but that in itself might not be good. But here Sam was, defying orders as usual, and awake for Dean to see.

You lean forward, manoeuvring stiffly against the sharp pain on your abdomen as you grab your brother's chest and hold on, unable to stop yourself. You're shaking, but you won't let tears fall, not now, you can't, not yet, not until you're alone, but when you look up, Sam's eyes are so soft, and concerned. His hands still stroke your hair in comfort, and you almost laugh at how much it doesn't bother you.

"I thought I'd lost you," You whisper brokenly, trying to smile, but Sam doesn't, not really, not one that reaches his eyes. Not the smile you yearn for, the one you saw before Jessica's death. The one you remember before fights in your childhood.

Instead, he speaks, his throat not hoarse as it should be, and his words like a cold slap, jerking your heart, and pulling at your pain.

"You did."

You wake up to the screeching of the heart monitor as the line goes straight, dead, and the beeping has stopped. When the doctors are done, having ran, having tried, when they look back, behind them, to the frozen brother, your eyes so red, you match the machine's sound perfectly, with your own high pitched wail.

"You and Dad are a lot more alike than I thought, you know that? You both can't wait to sacrifice yourself for this thing, but you know what? I'm gonna be the one to bury you! You're selfish you know that? You don't care about anything but revenge."

"That's not true Dean."

And you scoff.

You're shaking. That's the only word for it. You can't feel, but you feel everything and it's all buzzing around in your head and pushing down on you, but making you feel weightless because everything's so wrong and nothing, nothing's all right, nothing's okay,.

You don't know what to do, and you don't know if you're was standing, or sitting, or falling ever down. You can't breathe and you can't stop remembering, can't stop the little thoughts from getting through the cracks, from invading your mind, and telling you that it can't be true because you'd know. There's some mistake, you're sure, you say as you laugh a little, letting it fade into sobs when you see the doctor's solemn face. Eyes showing sympathy and pity you do not care for but don't have the heart to turn away.

You don't know what the feeling is. It can't be sadness, because sadness have followed you around since you were four years old, and this, this feeling, is something new, something vaguely familiar but so fresh that you can't pinpoint it, understand it, or embrace it.

You'll look back on these days, stubble growing into beard, jaw forever set, and eyes dark and sunken under your rough hard skin. You'll look back, and you won't cry, you won't let yourself shed tears until it's dark and you're alone, and you're rocking yourself to sleep in the corner of the room, running a hand through hair you need to cut and telling yourself that you'll get revenge, and it'll make it all better, because that's what he wanted, and that's what you'll do.

"I'm proud of you. Sam and I, we can get pretty obsessed, but you? You- you watch out for this family, you always have."

And for what?

To be left alone in the end. That's what.

Last man standing – left leaning on the wall for support.

Last in your family, the one left to carry on. Hunting? Living? The lines separating the two are few and far between, and you're still pissed that your brother refuses to haunt you, when Sam knows he's the only ghost Dean wants to see.

You sit, because standing means moving, and moving means pain. Pain means remembering, and some things are better left forgotten. But you remember when you're still, and when your face, so sad, so miserable and defeated is set in stone, along with your jaw, and determination. While your soul held together by such a thin thread, is crumbling away into ash.

You stray toward the duffle bag, opening it up carefully, and you take the first clean shirt from within and press it to your face. Sweet scents of sugar coated happiness reach you, envelope you, and hold you. You don't know what the smell is, you don't care, it's him, and it's all him, and you close your eyes…

But it's still just a smell, and eventually, even if it is long after the scent has dissipated into the crumbling walls of tonight's rest stop, you'll have to stop breathing it in. Eventually, you'll have to put down the shirt, never to be worn again. Eventually you'll have to let it go. Like he wanted you to.

For a moment, as you fold it so carefully, in just the way he and his control-freak vibes would have loved, you wonder why it's damp, why the clean shirt found buried in a duffle bag, was now wet.

Your cheeks flush with an onslaught of embarrassment. You hate the moments that make you human, and you wipe away the tiny droplets burning your skin as soon as you realise they're there. You hate crying, and you hate chick-flick moments, and you hate being left alone.

"You and me, and Dad, I want us to be together again. I want us to be a family again."

You realise you haven't even left a voicemail yet. You can't pick up your phone without feeling like it's judging you. Opening it up and letting the neon light guide you to the phonebook. You flick past his name so many times, wondering what will happen if you dare ring it, and hear the dial tone click itself off. You wonder if it will give you closure. You're grasping at straws and you'll take anything at this point. You press okay, let it ring, ring, ring, and then you freeze.

This is Sam, can't get to the phone right but leave a message and I'll get back to you.

You hear him, judging you, and you know he's not the one you need to call now. It's not the voicemail you need to hear. It's been over a year, he might be dead as well, but there's no point dragging it out any further.

An underlining message that says Dean will pick up the slack, Dean will save the day. Dean will do as he's told, and will help the innocent.

But Dean is a failure, and Dean will never be the same again.

You wait for the beep, for the tone, you wait and you wait, and there it is, and now you're stuck. You fumble, and hiss to yourself, filling the space with uh...and I... and you can't do it. There's another beep and you've missed your window. You take a moment, a single moment, breathing, though it seems foreign now, but you can't dial, you just can't.

He won't phone back.

He never does.

You don't have the energy to care anymore.

"Look, we're not gonna save everybody," The first thing Sam's dared say to you since yesterday, since arriving back at the motel and toweling dry. You're blaming yourself, you should have done more, you should have saved everybody, because that's your job. There's no such thing as collateral damage. It's what you failed to do when the time came.

"I know," You mumble. But it won't stop you from trying. You're the world's self appointment saviour. Their champion. Their gladiator. They just don't know it yet.

-Fin.