She's All Yours, a supernatural fanfic

She's All Yours

He sees the note and his heart sinks.

It's so simple, neatly printed in Dean's script, with the keys strategically placed on top. "She's all yours," words which under normal circumstances may mean little: "I bought a new car, this one's yours now;" "can't afford the upkeep;" or even a simple "happy birthday, brother." But Sam knows that this car means everything to its owner. The slightest unusual noise and the hood would be popped open, Dean spending hours tinkering until she was running smoothly again. Oil changes, tire rotation, washing and polishing her finish until she shined; every little detail was always looked after by the hunter, the care one would bestow to a child.

And so for Dean to leave him his car, his pride and joy since their dad had given it to him all those years ago, meant that his brother was giving up. Accepting his fate like a condemned man taking those final steps to the gallows. For a moment, Sam stares at the words written before him, as if willing them to disappear, the Impala's keys still nestled warmly in the palm of his hand. This can't be happening. Not now. Not when we're so close.

But the truth was that Dean was, in fact, a quitter. Never about him, of course; he would square off against any fugly known to man (and some that were not) without fear, enjoying the adrenalin rush and the satisfaction of a job well done, another civilian safe. And when it came to those he loved, especially Sam, it was no contest: Dean would move heaven and earth, sacrifice his life and soul, for his younger brother. But when it came to his own wellbeing, Dean Winchester was more likely than not willing to through in the towel. Sam closed his eyes, remembering his sibling's infuriating refusal to let him save him from his demon deal. While it was true that any effort by him to save Dean would cost Sam his life, it was only when Lilith was about to collect that his older brother had made any attempts to save himself. Half hearted ones at that. And even now, Dean had given up on finding a cure for the Mark, insisting that trying to live with it would be the best approach. And Sam understood why; god knows he understood. Charlie's death would haunt him for the rest of his life; that was her blood on his hands, and no effort to fix this mess would ever wash that stain away. He'd been warned not to mess with the Book of the Damned and he'd ignored that warning, with dire consequences.

But Sam also knew damn well that if the tables were turned, Dean would have done the same. Hell, he had only one year earlier with his possession by Gadreel and Kevin's subsequent death. Because it would be for him, to save Sammy at all costs. Which made Dean's decision to give up even worse.

Snapping out of his reverie, Sam quickly pulls out his phone, dials his brother while cursing him inwardly for being such a fucking hypocrite. Already hundreds of scenarios play through his mind, none of them promising, all of them involving Dean lying dead, or worse still, once more a demon. Heart pounding, he taps the send button and listens as Dean's line rings, praying that his brother will pick up. For godssake Dean, you have to pick up the phone. Please, I need you to pick up your damn phone.

And to Sam's immense relief, Dean does. Only to hear the words which will shatter him to the very core with fear and grief: "Brother, I'm done. Grab a pen."

Brother, I'm done. Sam freezes for the second time in five minutes, barely breathing at the sound of his brother's voice: dejected, sorrowful…. exhausted. No. No. This can't be happening. Ohgod, please, this can't be happening. Moments later, Sam somehow regains his composure, rushes to the Impala, breaks a record driving to meet him, his brother, the one who had given up his life for him more times than he cares to remember, the one he had given up on only a few years earlier…

The one he sure as hell is not going to give up on now.

"I'm coming, Dean," he says, determined. "This time, I'm not giving up on you." He glances down briefly, at the dashboard which has never seen any accumulation of dust; feels the vibration in the steering wheel he grasps as if for dear life. Closes his eyes and can see that little army man vividly, jammed into the ashtray years earlier by his own chubby hands; can hear the rattle of those Lego blocks Dean had dropped in the heater as a boy as clearly as if it were turned on full blast. This is his brother's car, dammit, and there is no way in hell Sam is going to drive away without its owner. Not this time and not ever again.

"She's all yours, Dean," Sam murmurs.