A/N: I loved Season 4, but I had expected an even darker four months than implied (and isn't that saying a lot, my twisted mind). So... my evil self created this. Don't know how long this will be. If you like it, I'll post a lot more. If not, then I'll probably either leave it the way it is, or add one or two more chapters.
Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own SPN. Some dialogue was taken directly from the show, though.
Rated: T for swearing, dark themes.
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Family.
Pairings: None, but if you wish to see it that way...
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby (mentions of John).
Takes place in a slightly AU Season 4.
WARNINGS: MENTIONS OF SUICIDE/SELF HARM.
000
PROLOGUE
"Sam?"
It was dark...
"...Bobby, hurry up."
Had he fallen asleep again?
"Come on, man."
Dammit. He wasn't supposed to fall asleep. Hadn't he just closed his eyes for a second?
"You- ah, shit."
Something pattered against his cheek, gentle but demanding.
"You gotta wake up, buddy."
A weight pressed against his side and the blessed numbness of sleep vanished behind a cloak of fire and pain, consuming his torso and spreading to his arms, hot, burning, melting-
"Sam!"
His eyelids peeled open of their own accord, seeing only foggy gray veiling two pools of green... And red. Too much red. Spattered, soaking all over the slowly clearing shirt in front of him. All over the sleeves, the collar, the hands, the neck - oh God, the hellhouds - Dean, Dean, DeanDeanDeanDeanDean-
"Dean!" he tried to call, but the pitiful rasp that reached his ears sent another spike of panic through his burning chest.
"Shh, shh. Sam-" Dean started.
Sam lifted his hand - or tried to - towards the blood coating Dean's fingers and hands and forearms - oh God, not again.
"Y-you..." The word slipped from his mouth like syrup, thick and sticky as it left his tongue.
"Shut up, Sam, it's not mine. Not most of it, anyway."
Not. Friggin. Helping.
"I need you to stay away, okay? Keep those eyes open," he continued, the pressure on Sam's left side increasing with each sentence. Through the constant heat, he could feel something warm and thick dripping down his side, no doubt adding more layers to the blood that he was sure was underneath his shirt. He arched his neck back against the floor, lifting his upper back from the ground as he tried to squirm away from the pain.
"Hey, hey, hey! Hold still. You gotta hold still, okay?"
God, he was on fire. He was friggin burning alive.
"I know it hurts, but you gotta stop moving." The pressure subsided for a moment, followed by a muttered 'damn', then the pressure was back, adding more fuel to the flames that licked at his skin. White spread across his vision until he squeezed his eyes shut, biting his lip to keep from crying out. Behind the haze he could hear Dean talking, but it sounded no louder than whispers to his ringing ears.
"Castiel!" broke through the high pitched noise, cracking through what Sam realized was silence. He flinched and forced his eyes open once again. "Dammit, angels are supposed to heal people," Dean added under his breath.
Castiel? Who the hell-
"Sam... Eyes. Open."
He complied, wondering when he had closed them again.
God, he just wanted to sleep. Sleep took the pain away, the fire, the heat, the burning. Numbness tingled at his fingertips, coaxing his eyelids to slide down, down, down...
"Sam!"
000
CHAPTER ONE
The car was quiet, save the humming of the engine as it purred merrily down the stretch of road. Bobby occasionally tapped his fingers across the steering wheel to an imaginary tune, but forced them to still when the small tapping all but shattered the tense silence like a opera singer's wine glass.
Dean was alive, yes, but they weren't out of the woods yet.
The older brother watched the scenery as they drove past it, eyes far away and not really catching anything. Bobby had seen that hundred-yard-stare in John whenever Mary was brought up - which wasn't a lot - and he wished to God he'd never see it in his boys. Unfortunately, he figured that both of them would have that look in their eye a lot in the days - weeks - to come.
The boys didn't deserve everything they'd gone through. Hell, John didn't deserve everything he'd gone through. Nobody deserved it.
Bobby tapped his fingers over the wheel again, wincing as the sound reverberated in the interior of the vehicle, slicing through his eardrums and the silence surrounding him. This was going to be a long eight hours to Pontiac.
But it would be worth it, he told himself.
Dean had been in hell for four damn months; the least Bobby could do was drive a couple of hours to Dean's little brother who was doing God knew what. Kid hadn't been the same since... Well, neither had Bobby. Nobody who met Dean Winchester could forget him. Whether it be on good terms or bad. The latter you could bet would never forget the hunter.
Bobby could only guess how many impressions Sam had made on the monsters in the closets since Dean had... Bobby hadn't heard much of the younger Winchester, but he did and didn't like what he had heard. Started hunting - hell, he embraced it - and word of the lone huntsman went around quickly. The young man was always quick, determined, focused. Apparently, he'd even cleaned out a vampire nest single-handedly. He was unfaltering with his job, from what others' had seen of it. He worked solo, though, and that's what worried Bobby the most.
He wished he could have talked some sense into the boy, but Winchesters were the most stubborn people Bobby knew and when one was without the other, it only worsened.
"Bobby?"
The old hunter flinched at the sudden word, but glanced at the source and hummed a response.
"How long did Sam stick around after..."
He was unsure if Dean dropped the sentence off on purpose or not, but it wasn't hard to guess what he was asking about.
"Not long. Not even a week. Barely said a word the whole time," he muttered, gaze pinned ahead. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean nodded and straightened in his seat, letting silence once more fall over the two men. The silence wasn't even awkward, just... stiff. Tense. Heavy.
"You okay?" Bobby chanced, gripping the steering wheel tighter with calloused hands.
"I will be."
Bobby nodded in unvoiced agreement. Both of them would be.
000
Once the 'Welcome to Pontiac' sign came into view, both hunters tensed, but continued on in silence. When they'd checked Sam's phone's GPS, it had been pinpointed on a motel at the edge of town and that was where they were going.
It wasn't hard to deny which hotel Sam was at anyway when they caught sight of the black beauty settled in one of the parking spaces out front, all gleaming and sparkling in the streetlight. Bobby thought Dean would jump out of the car then and there, but luckily, he stayed seated until they parked. As soon as the car lurched to a stop, Dean catapulted out of his seat and bolted over to his baby, laying his hand on the trunk and caressing it all the way to the hood. Bobby resisted a chuckle and climbed out of his seat, lower back and knees popping with the effort.
"You two gonna need a room?" he asked as he approached them.
Dean ignored him and continued to hover over his car. "Aw, baby, it's good to see you."
Bobby just shook his head and grabbed one of the lobby doors, holding it open.
"You comin'?" he asked, but Dean was already hurrying over, shouldering past him and up to the sign-in desk. A young man with wiry glasses and over-gelled hair slouched in a chair, a magazine in his hands as he flipped through it. He shot to his feet, obviously flustered, when he noticed them approaching.
"Uh, how - how can I help you?" he asked quickly, rubbing his fingers under his nose.
"We're looking for a guy who's staying here; dark hair, puppy eyes, freakishly tall?" Dean stood rigid in front of Bobby, curling and un-curling his hands as he awaited a response.
"Um, I'm not sure if... Who's asking?" he eyed them warily and Bobby thought he'd have to hold Dean back to keep from decking the guy.
"His brother," Dean spat and Bobby could only imagine the wild look in his eyes. The young man blinked a few times before his shoulders relaxed a fraction and he took a step forward to reach for a piece of paper. His eyes raked down the length of it and then flickered up.
"Room two-o-seven."
Dean turned away and marched towards the elevator, Bobby on his heels, struggling to stay in stride.
Who knew what the older brother was thinking? Four months of hell and the first thing he did was start looking for his brother. But it wasn't like Bobby expected anything else. Dean had always put Sam before himself; not even in choice, just instinct. But hell couldn't just be forgotten. Dean hadn't brought up what happened downstairs and it's not like Bobby was going to push. Hell, no. That would be... a catastrophe. Bobby didn't even know if he wanted to know. He would listen if that's what Dean wanted - though he doubted it - but he didn't exactly look forward to that conversation.
He hoped Sam could help. Dean sure as hell - no pun intended - wasn't okay, even if he appeared so, and it would come up eventually. He just prayed that Sam was there to help put his brother back together again.
The elevator was too slow.
The hallway was too long.
But then it was there, the numbers two-o-seven encased in a red heart on the door. Bobby could hear Dean swallow next to him as he extended his arm to knock, knuckles white from being fisted so tight. The sound was surprisingly quiet, but Dean knocked a couple extra times, each rap louder than the last.
The hallway filled with silence and they waited. Bobby shifted his weight to his other leg, swearing that minutes had already passed.
"Sammy?" Dean spoke into the wood, voice muffled.
No response.
He chanced another knock and pressed his ear to the door.
"Sam?"
Nothing.
Dean looked back at Bobby, brows furrowed in a 'what the hell' expression. Bobby shrugged and gestured to the knob.
"You got a lock-pick?" Dean asked and Bobby fished the object out of his pocket, handing it over with a quick swipe of his arm. Dean dropped to the floor and started working at the lock, small clicks and ticks reaching the oldest hunter's ears. The loudest click, however, snagged his attention and he took a step forward. Dean tossed the pick back to Bobby and eased the door open.
Darkness cloaked the room, the only source of light drifting through the thin curtains along the far wall from the streetlamps to cast shadows across the walls. Dean hovered in the doorway with his hand splayed over the door, gently opening it wider until it hit the wall.
Still nothing. Still no Sam.
Bobby fought against the pooling dread in his stomach that made his limbs feel heavy, provoking sweat to drip down his forehead until it landed in his eye. He blinked it away and pulled out his silver knife, unable to fight off voice that kept screaming 'danger' in his head until his ears rang.
Dean jerked his head in the direction of the room. If Sam was inside, then it'd be best if he saw his father figure first, rather than his supposedly-burning-in-hell brother.
With heavy caution, Bobby proceeded into the room, blade held out in front of himself. The room was large; a room built for more than a single inhabitant, if the two queen beds were any indication. A twinge of emotion twisted in Bobby's chest. Sam still camped in a room big enough for him and his dead brother, despite the extra cost.
But now both beds were empty.
The bathroom door stood open, revealing the same conclusion the rest of the motel room told: Sam wasn't there. Unless -
Someone grunted behind him, then the sound of the door slamming shut sounded. He spun around as fast as his old body would allow.
A tall man with shaggy dark hair, muscles rippling beneath thin skin, had Dean pinned against the wall, knife held against his throat. The blade reflected what little light it could, its handle grasped in almost bony fingers. Even spotting the man's profile, recognition sparked in Bobby.
"Sam!" he shouted and lunged forward to grab him, surprised and dazed when a sharp elbow jabbed into his chest. Dean's Adam's apple bobbed, sliding against the blade enough to draw a sliver of red. "Sam, it's him - it's Dean!"
"Like hell!" came the strained reply, laced with stoney determination that bled through to his locked position.
"Sammy."
Dean's quiet voice caught both of them off guard and Bobby swore he saw Sam flinch.
"Don't call me that," he hissed, pressing the knife a little harder.
"Sam! It's Dean. It's really him; I already tested everything - It's him." He made sure his voice was hard; a statement. "Let him go, Sam."
Sam's shoulders quivered.
"Let me go, Sammy," Dean tried, snaking a slow hand to grip the wrist that kept him against the wall. When he gently tugged, Sam's limb followed obediently until Dean could take the knife from his fingers. He moved slow, as if trying not to spoke a wild animal.
Sam suddenly tensed, pulling his arm out of his brother's grasp to stride over to the bed where a duffle sat. He rifled through it and pulled out a flask.
"Drink," he said, voice still hard as he held the object out. Dean stared at it a moment before complying. Without waiting for the next request - command - Dean grabbed the silver knife from Bobby and sliced his palm open.
The muscles in Sam's jaw jumped.
"See?" Dean took a step forward, hands open in a sign of surrender, not threatening. "It's me."
Sam angled his body to face Dean, eyes still shaded.
Bobby didn't like how he looked. He appeared to have more muscle than last seen, but also less fat. Too little fat; too angular. His face looked gaunt and the rest of his body looked bigger and smaller at the same time, but the shadows of weariness remained on his face. The kid looked as if he hadn't had a good night's sleep in weeks - months, even.
He probably hadn't.
Sam's somewhat neutral scowled twisted into a grimace as he looked Dean up and down, appearing to finally see his brother and not whatever he thought he was before.
"It's me," Dean repeated, taking another hesitant step forward.
The younger straightened his back and squared his shoulders, rubbing his fingers together while his breath grew shallow, as if a single exhale would shatter the precious image before him, turning out to be an illusion. His gaze suddenly shot to Bobby, the questions swimming in them catching the old man off guard.
But he nodded. Yes. Yes, it's your brother.
The muddy green eyes flicked back to Dean.
Bobby knew Dean; he wasn't much for 'chick-flick moments', but the older brother now looked like he was just waiting to pounce on his brother, wrap his arms around the fragile man before them and hide him from the world, protect him. He just needed an okay.
As if on cue, Sam strode the last few steps to his brother, arms snaking around in an almost-desperate embrace.
Dean returned the gesture without hesitation.
The tension slipped from Bobby's limbs, leaving him swaying on his feet with relief. Yes, he thought. That was how the brothers were supposed to look. Safe. Not always 'okay', but they had each other and that was 'okay'. Not 'fine', but together. The thought, the image, of a lone brother was not one Bobby enjoyed to witness. One was never the same without the other.
Sam's fingers tightened around the fabric of his brother's dull-colored jacket, Dean's flexing around Sam's shoulder in response.
Then they pulled apart, the action drying Bobby's startlingly wet eyes.
He was suddenly thankful he'd gotten Dean a new pair of clothes. He didn't want to think about the brothers' reunion with the lingering smell of grave dirt floating in the air. They didn't need that extra sucker punch.
He didn't know if they could take another hit.
000
Dean rubbed his hand over his forehead and down to his chin, wiping the signs of sleep in attempt to stay awake. Despite the fact that his body had technically been 'asleep' for four months, his eyelids insisted they needed to close.
A dull thunk sounded the water shutting off in the bathroom and Dean looked back to the task at hand: invading privacy.
He heard Bobby sigh somewhere to his right as he groped around in a duffel, fingering through clothes, books and weapons.
"Come on, Bobby, aren't you lightheaded yet?" Dean huffed, shooting a glance up at the older man who was now scowling at him.
"Just sayin'. Sam's not gonna be happy if he finds you're going through his stuff."
Dean grimaced past the musty smell of old clothes and promised himself that he'd have to go shopping for Sam later.
"Why do you think I waited until he was in the shower?" he pointed out, fingertips brushing against the hard fabric bottom of the bag. A curious frown creased his forehead when something sharp poked his hand. "What..." He felt around further and closed his fingers around the small plastic object, pulling it out of the bag. "The hell...?"
Bobby perked up from his spot on the other bed.
"The hell is this?" Dean asked, incredulous, as he held up the empty, but coated with something, syringe for observation. The older hunter rose to his feet and stepped next to Dean, eyes running up and down the object. As Bobby took it, Dean went back to searching, pulling out one, two, three more syringes.
"What the hell are these for?" he questioned, becoming more desperate for an answer with each glance at the needles.
"I... I don't..."
The bathroom door opened.
Both men's heads shot up, meeting the gaze of the youngest Winchester and most likely looking the spitting image of 'deer in the headlights'.
Sam blinked, gaze fluttering between their faces and the things they were holding.
"What..?" he started, but Dean flexed his fingers and tilted his head, stepping in before Sam's undeniable anger could show.
"We need to talk."
Sam's eyes narrowed. He marched forward, tearing the syringes from both hunters' grasps and shoving them deep into his bag.
"Yean, no shit," he said, voice low. "Like, how the hell did you get out of... hell?"
"Cut the crap, Sam. What'd it cost, huh?" Dean leaned against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms.
"What?"
"Was it just your soul, or was it something worse?"
Sam shook his head and peeked up at his brother through wet hair. "I didn't make a deal."
"Don't lie to me-"
"I'm not lying." Sam straightened when Dean started to advance, arms rigid.
"So what now, I'm off the hook and you're on, is that it? You're some demon's bitch-boy? I didn't want to be saved like this." Hot anger coursed through Dean's veins, fueling his movements and giving his mind one focus: an answer. The right answer. The honest answer.
"I didn't sell anything! I tried! Hell, I tried everything, but nothing would work; no demon would deal! You were rotting in hell for months, Dean - for months - and I couldn't stop it. So I'm sorry it wasn't me! I'm sorry." The last sentence was emphasized with the sudden droop in Sam's shoulders as he eased onto the edge of the mattress, gaze on the carpet.
Even with a shower, Sam still looked worn. A shadow of age darkened his eyes, too old for his young face, and Dean hated it. He wanted to take it away. Where was that light that used to be there?
It left when you did.
Dean flinched at the voice in his head.
"It's okay, Sammy. You don't have to apologize... I believe you." He lowered himself to sit next to Sam, but not too close. He hated that too.
"Don't get me wrong, I'm glad that Sam's soul remains intact, but it does raise a sticky question." Bobby tore Dean from his thoughts, voice ringing through his ears to rattle his brain. He glanced up at his father figure and pressed his lips together. He nodded his head and glanced to his left, at his definitely-off brother. Or maybe he was acting normal. It's not like Dean had anything recent to compare the behavior to.
If Sam didn't pull him out of hell, then what did?
But Dean still wanted an answer to a different question.
He cleared his throat and stared at his still dirty knuckles.
"What are the syringes for, Sammy?" His voice was stiff and hoarse, grating against his eardrums, most likely doing the same for Sam's.
Sam stiffened.
Were they for him? Or someone else? Some monster cure or something?
Dean chanced a look at Sam's forearms. The air left his lungs and his mouth went dry, leaving his head feeling heavy and vision swimming. From his vantage point, only the inside of Sam's left arm was visible, the right angled away. But the left arm could be seen. The skin was still damp from the shower. But Dean couldn't take his eyes off of the vein, or more importantly, the puckered scar that trailed along it, signs of old stitches marking the already abused surface. It started below his wrist, trailing up the length of the limb until ending almost two inches below the elbow. Two or three lighter and fresher cuts, in the opposite direction of the first, lined the last few inches of smooth skin, almost too shallow to be noticed.
But Dean noticed.
He heard a sharp intake of breath - Bobby - and forced his gaze towards the noise. Bobby must've followed Dean's lead; his eyes were now glued to a probably-similar scar on Sam's right arm, if the size of his eyeballs said anything.
Dean's stomach twisted into knots and for the first time he hoped a ghoul or even a vampire had sliced his brother open.
"Sam?" he muttered, reaching carefully to grab the right wrist while standing. In case Sam would pull away, he angled the limb a little to examine it, catching a glimpse of the scar he had hoped wasn't there.
With a quick but small motion, Sam jerked his arm out of Dean's grip and held both of them against his stomach. Dean lifted his eyes to meet Sam's, only to see the top of his eyelids. His face drained of color until it almost looked gray and Dean let out a shaky breath.
"Sammy, what are those from?" And Dean was surprised at how quiet - small - his own voice sounded and hoped it was non-threatening enough. Sam inhaled, trembling, and swallowed three times. Nauseous, then, and that only served to add another pound to the lump of fear in Dean's gut. "Sammy?" Sam's eyes fluttered open.
God, please let it be a monster. A ghoul. A vampire. Hell, a friggin' human.
Slowly, slowly, slowly, Sam's gaze drifted up until they locked with Dean's, all the answers screaming within the muddy green irises.
No. No, no, no, no, no -
And Dean couldn't breathe.
He nodded in understanding, numb, as he stepped away from his brother.
He needed air.
But he couldn't leave his brother.
On unconscious movements, he fled to the bathroom, closing the door with a soft click and locking it. He turned on the water, then the shower, with unfeeling hands, lungs stiff as they held air and refused to let it out. Then his knees were buckling and he jack-knifed to lean over the toilet, stomach muscles spazzing as he emptied the contents of his stomach into the porcelain bowl.
It must have been hours. It felt like it to Dean when he lifted a shaky hand to flush.
God, no.
Not his little brother. Not Sam. Not Sammy.
He felt the tears hitch in his chest, welling in the bottom of his throat. It was the perfect time and place; the running showerhead muted almost any noise he dared to make.
But they wouldn't come. Even when he wanted - needed - them to come, the dam refused to break.
With a curse, he leaned back against the wall and covered his face with his hands.
000
A/N: Yes, I am evil. I'm hoping not to make this too much of an AU, so if I continue this, you can bet that Cas will probably come in, and other characters that were in Season 4 as well.
Please, if you see any typos or think they were out of character, notify me? Oh, and leave a review, my lovelies, if you want some pie!