ONE
Sam woke with a start, a half-remembered awful feeling in the pit of his stomach. It made him sit up quickly and look round the motel room.
Everything was normal, everything was quiet.
He spotted Dean, already dressed and ready for the day, perched on the end of his bed, ostensibly looking out the window.
Sam opened his mouth but then paused, instead watching. There was something disquieting about the way his brother didn't move. He simply stared at the window, his back to his younger brother.
A cold fear gripped Sam and he remembered why he should not have listened to his brother and simply gone to sleep last night.
His last night.
He pulled back the blankets slowly and put his feet to the cold floorboards. He pushed himself out of bed and walked round to stand at the foot of his brother's bed.
He was relieved to see his brother was alive and watching something. Yet the knowledge that Sam was standing just four feet away did nothing to draw his gaze from the window. He watched it like it was the only thing that existed. His face was immobile, and suddenly Sam feared there was nothing inside the shell of a man.
"Dean. What?" he asked firmly. He tore his gaze from his brother's face, casting his eyes over him to realise he hadn't even been to bed. He looked over at the window himself, saw nothing important, and looked back at him.
Dean blinked. But he didn't look away from the window.
"Just watching the sunrise, Sammy," he said faintly. "My last one."
"Don't say that," he said hastily. "You don't know–"
"I heard them," he said quietly, and Sam stopped short.
"What?"
"The hounds. I heard them. They're not banging the door down yet. But I heard them. They're waiting," he breathed, as if to himself.
Sam swallowed.
"Waiting for midnight. Or perhaps later today. Who knows?" Dean asked himself, his eyes still on the view through the window.
"Look, Dean, we can still–"
"You tried, Sammy," he said with a weary smile, turning his head to look at his younger brother slowly. Sam met his eyes and wished he hadn't. "You really, really tried. I know you did."
Sam had nothing to say.
"You know what scares me the most?" Dean managed, his eyes turning red. Sam shook his head, unable to speak. He felt his throat closing over. "That ah… tomorrow morning, when you wake up, I won't be here to get you coffee. And… and there's going to be no-one here to look out for you."
Sam blinked, but he felt water in his eyes. He refused to breathe and give in to the tears.
"And you need someone, Sam. You are such a dumbass without me," he smiled, trying to make it work. But it was weak, the bravado not quite strong enough. "I was sat here, just thinking. How many times have I had to dust you off from tripping over your own feet, or fix your toys, or lift you up cos you couldn't reach the cookie jar… or cut you loose from ropes, or… or… untie you from duct tape, or shoot some thing in the head for trying to kill you?"
"Too many," Sam whispered.
"Not enough," Dean interrupted. "Who's going to do that tomorrow?" he pressed, but his voice gave just a little.
"This is the worst day of my life," Sam admitted. Dean looked at him for a long second.
"No. The worst day of your life was me turning up, telling you to help me find Dad," he said firmly. "If I could take it back, Sammy, if I could change it – I'd never have come for you. I never would have got you into this." He let his head fall, knowing an eye had spilled water. He felt it on his face, ridiculing him. "God, if I could just go back there. If I could just change what I did–"
"You'd be dead by now," Sam pointed out. "Who got you fixed when you electrocuted yourself? Who's stitched you up and doused you in antiseptic and anti-biotics every time something scratched you, or bit you, or mauled you?" he whispered.
Dean raised his head and they stared at each other.
"I'm sorry," Dean offered weakly. "I never should have come back to see you."
"But you did," Sam said firmly. "And I'm glad you did. There's only one good thing that's come out of all of this. And that one thing almost makes the rest of it alright."
"Nothing could make it alright, Sammy," he breathed, looking away to the window to avoid his younger brother's hopeful stare.
"These past coupla years… I got my brother back. You don't know… you don't know what that means, Dean," he managed, feeling water escape from an eye. "You don't know how hard it was to leave you and Dad. Dad was easy not to miss at first – he was the person I was trying to hate. He was the idea that I had to stand up to," he said with a strong voice. Then his eyebrows went up and his mouth twitched dangerously. "But you?" he sniffed.
Dean looked round at him.
"Don't," he whispered.
"But you," Sam continued, more clearly. "I really missed you, man. I was starting a new life at college, and I'd see all these strange new things like people having lives and little things that made me laugh, and I thought… I thought every time that I'd turn around and you'd be there to share the joke with, cos you were the only one who always got my sense of humour. You were the one thing that was ever constant in my life – Dad was round, or he wasn't. But you were always there, Dean. Always. And then you just weren't. And the more time that passed, the more it felt like I could never call you and tell you. It got worse and worse, and I knew I'd never talk to you again. Cos you were angry with me for leaving Dad to it, you were angry with me, and I'd never seen you so–"
"Sam," he interrupted softly, and Sam gulped in a breath, clamping his mouth shut. "It doesn't matter. Not any more."
They looked at each other for a long moment.
"So," Dean said more loudly, wiping the water from his face quickly, "you want one last coffee? I ain't here to pay for it tomorrow," he sniffed recklessly, getting to his feet. "Take advantage while you can," he added, but his attempt at humour struck Sam in the chest. Dean wiped his face again, scrubbing at it as if to remove all evidence of the tears. He let his hands drop and looked at his younger brother.
"Sure," Sam whispered. "Hurry back."
Dean sniffed, then put a hand out on his shoulder, patting once.
"You get a shower. You stink," he smiled, patting again and walking past him.
Sam didn't turn, just listened to the sound of his brother's boots on the boards. He waited until the door had swung open. Panic seized him.
"Dean!" he said quickly, turning round swiftly.
His brother paused, half in and half out of the door.
"What?" he asked edgily.
Sam's mouth worked for a moment but nothing came out. He took a deep breath, then smiled brightly. "And doughnuts," he said bravely.
"Okie-dokie," Dean smiled, tipping his head slightly in acknowledgement. "Make yourself busy, little brother," he added, disappearing out of the door. He stood out in the cool morning, closing the door behind him firmly. He surveyed the parking lot, letting out a long, steady breath. "Because I may be some time," he managed to himself.
He put his hands in his pockets and began walking. At first he thought he was heading in the direction of the coffee shop two blocks down, but as he turned left at the intersection and kept going, he realised he had never had any intention of going there.
He walked down the road, watching his boots on the pavement, listening to the cars and traffic. His mind went blank, save the burning realisation that he hadn't helped his brother at all. It came to him with sudden amazing clarity and he stopped in the street, overwhelmed.
"So I kept him alive for another year. But if I'm not here to keep doing that…"
He turned and looked around. He had never felt more useless than at that moment.
He turned back in his original direction, walking on with more purpose this time. Suddenly he knew where he wanted to go.
Sam got out of the shower and by the time he'd shaved and dressed there was an SMS waiting for his perusal. He heard the slight beeping sound and crossed to his bed, picking up his phone and pressing the button.
'Look after the car. Dad gave her me, and I'm giving her to you. You two are the only proof that I lived at all.'
He read it again, and again. He realised in a moment of horrific transparency that his brother was not bringing him coffee this morning.
Or in fact, ever again.
Dean found himself out by an old back-road. He heard the rush of water and followed it to a narrow river. He stood by the bank, watching it sweep past him and under a rickety wooden bridge before disappearing somewhere on the other side. A lone car turned through the trees behind him and came closer, trundling over the bridge. He watched it leave the bridge and slide into the mist on the other side, caused by the cold river first thing in the morning.
He noticed a figure on the bridge and shivered into his leather jacket abruptly.
"Well, come on then," he sighed to himself, putting his hands deep in his jeans pockets and walking toward the bridge.
He walked on over it, and was surprised to find it was a boy. He looked to be about twelve years old, standing with his hands on the wooden railings, looking over into the river.
"Didn't expect this," Dean admitted. Silence. "Thought you'd be taller," he added with an attempt at levity. He stopped next to him, refusing to lean on the wooden side.
"Everyone says that," the boy said petulantly. Dean frowned at him.
"So… no dogs today?"
"I don't like dogs. That's why I'm here," he replied in a small voice.
"Riiiight. Come to do it yourself, have you?" Dean asked with a covering smile.
"Yeah," the boy sighed, still not looking at him.
Dean studied him, wondering just how it was all going to work. The more he looked at the boy's raven black hair and pale skin, the more he knew with utter uncertainty that the slight looking lad was about to turn on him and start spitting insults. Perhaps there'd be pain involved. That didn't worry him. Physical pain was nothing, in the end. Perhaps he'd try emotional torture.
There's nothing he could say that could hurt me any more, Dean thought wearily.
The boy turned and looked at him suddenly, and he almost jumped. He was struck by his eyes.
Green. Clear, bright green.
"Are you going to go?" the boy asked.
"I thought that was up to you," Dean replied, making himself shrug casually to cover his raging fear. The boy blinked, then looked back at the river.
"So… you're saying I can do anything I want?"
"Hey, you're the one with the choices. I'm the one without any options left," he said facetiously. "So are we going to do this, or what? Cos just between you and me, I don't think I can face my brother one more time."
"Me neither," the boy whispered.
And he clutched at the railings, lifted himself up, and squirmed over the top. In the moment it took Dean to realise what he was doing and put his hands out to grab at him, the boy had already leapt from the wood.
Dean leaned over the side, reaching for him. But it was way, way too late. He watched helplessly as the young lad plummeted twenty feet into the ice cold water.
"Goddamn it! If this is some demon game," he hissed, pulling off his jacket quickly, "I am seriously gonna kick up when I get down there!"
He put his hands to the wood and threw himself over after the boy.