Phoenix
Summary: Some things can rise from the ashes.
Rating: R for language, violence, dramatic themes.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the 1st Season DVD set.
A/N #1: I am currently looking for a beta. If you have any interest, please send me a message or leave a comment expressing such. Thank you.
A/N #2: This is a multi-chapter story, and while this first part may seem as though it is a deathfic, it is really more of a lossfic, in that some (but not all) that is lost is gained back. If that piques your interest, continue. However, if Winchester!death of any sort bothers you, it may be best to look elsewhere.
Chapter One
"You ready for this, Sammy?", Dean asked excitedly as he pried open the coffin, exposing a skeleton beneath.
It had taken three days of intense research, in which Sam had searched and Dean had complained, before by a stroke of luck Sam had discovered the grave number of the poltergeist. The young woman had been raped and murdered in her home in Chicago back in the early 1920's, and ever since then had been preying on young men in the city, looking for her killer. Unfortunately, the family of the girl could only afford a small wooden cross to show where she was buried, a marker that had rotted away long before Sam and Dean came along to stop the spirit's murderous rampage. But, as usual, Sam figured it out (though it took much longer than Dean could ever remember grave searching taking, something he had teased Sam about endlessly at the library until the info was uncovered), and now the brothers stood in grave plot #4717, the coffin below them, the starry sky twinkling above.
"No, Dean, I'm not ready to be done digging, finish this salt and burn and get back to the motel", Sam answered sarcastically, hauling himself out of the grave. "Man, we haven't eaten in nearly eight hours. I'm starving. And it's Sam, jerk."
Effortlessly catching the shovels Dean tossed at him, Sam dropped them by the salt bag, then held out a hand to help Dean out.
"It's either Sammy or Bitch, dude, and I know which one you'd prefer", Dean quipped, a slight groan escaping his lips as he landed on the grass and rose to his feet. "Though, I'd love to see the look on the motel owner's faces if you answered to both."
"I answer to neither", Sam remarked as he checked his pockets. "Dude, you got the lighter?"
"First things first, Sammy."
Dean grabbed the salt bag and canister of gasoline and walked back to the grave. As he lifted the salt, Sam came around and lifted the canister. Facing across from each other, each dropped the contents of their containers over the young girl's body, the familiar actions engrained in their memory. Dean finished chucking the salt across the grave first, and dropping the bag, watched as Sam poured the gasoline. Though Sam's body looked tired, as though it ached with years of pain and sleeplessness, Dean couldn't help but notice the glint in his eyes, a look of Let's Do This, a look purely Sam, or maybe something Sam had borrowed from Dean years ago that he morphed into his own version. Whatever it was, Dean appreciated it, and couldn't help thinking, Maybe he's finally on his way back.
He must have stared for just a little too long, though, because suddenly Sam was chuckling and saying softly, "Dude, I got something in my teeth or are you just jealous?" And Dean snapped out of it, but still caught in thought, could only mutter in response, "Dude, you're... jealous."
At that, Sam openly laughed, a wide Sammy grin spreading from one ear to the other, looking at Dean with something between skeptical and awed, and Dean could only raise his eyebrows and smirk back in satisfaction – two expressions only brothers could share.
Later, Dean would think of this moment as The Last, but The Last What he would never figure out. The Last Glance, maybe? The Last Connection? The Last Time? Dean would never know.
Dean plucked the lighter out of his back pocket, but after that everything became a blur. A cacophony of light and sound emerged from the dug hole, and Dean felt the familiar punch of cold slam into him, so sudden he lost his balance and landed on his back ten feet away from where he had been standing. Stunned, Dean lay there for half a minute or so, before he was back on his feet, the lighter in his hands and a smile on his lips. In his peripheral, he could see Sam motioning to get up, his eyes closed and his face confused, but otherwise all right.
"You good, Sammy?", Dean called as he rushed back towards the grave. When Sam didn't answer right away, Dean turned back towards him, his mouth open to ask again. The question died on his lips, however, when he noticed that Sam was still on his back but now he was panting and gasping, and that his body was wet. Simultaneously, Dean noticed the container of gasoline a few feet from Sam, the canister open and turned on its side, what was left of the liquid slowly leaking out.
"Oh shit, Sammy", Dean whispered. He was torn between finishing off the Casper Bitch first, or checking on Sammy. After a split second of indecision, Dean decided to end the ghost first, knowing that Sammy would need more time and attention than the spirit would allow.
The lighter's flame flickering in his grip, Dean tossed it into the coffin, a fire exploding from the grave's depths as, simultaneously, a screech cut into the silence of the cemetery. Dean gaped as the formerly invisible ghost of a young girl who had been violently murdered, only to become in her afterlife a murderer herself, began to flicker in and out beside the now unconscious (but breathing, still breathing) form of Sammy.
The look on the girl's face was colder than any spirit Dean had seen before, and his breath caught in his throat. The girl raised one corner of her lip, an insane smile creeping into her features as she glared at Dean. Here eyes strayed to Sam, then back to Dean.
You may be ending me, but I can take everything away from you too, the look said.
Dean heard The Scream even before his brother was thrust into the air and thrown towards the blazing grave.
"Sammy!", The Scream cried, and Dean couldn't help but think to himself that whoever screamed his brother's name sounded like the most lost, desperate, hopeless person alive.
"No!" The Scream yelled as Sam disappeared out of view and into the flames.
"Oh god, oh god ohgod..." The Scream echoed over and over as Dean scrambled to the edge of the grave, his face a torrent of emotions, terror and disbelief reigning above all.
"Sammy?"
Dean waited for The Scream to be answered, for Sammy to pop back up over the grave, to say, Haha, Dean, you should see your face, don't look so concerned man, I'm fine.
But all Dean heard was a high-pitched wailing of The Scream. All Dean saw was the dance of the flames as they reached towards the blackness and the stars. All Dean smelled was the sour gasoline as the smoke pitched it forth in waves across the cemetery. And, though heat surrounded him, scorching his hair and clothes, all Dean felt was an indescribable cold, a block of ice that encased his soul, never to be melted and patched over, stitched and healed, a small scar on his memory that would come across later only as, Watch Sammy closer this time Dean, you nearly lost him when...
But this would never be a scar. It would be a gaping wound, and Dean would never be able to patch it up. He'd bleed out before he had a chance.
"Nonononono", The Scream wailed, and all Dean knew was darkness.