Author's Note:
Hey... So I wrote this after I finished episode 6 of season 8. It got me so depressed that I started writing. And this was at two in the morning. On a Monday.
But anyways, if you're wondering why I haven't finished my other story, I'm working on it. The words just seemed to flow for this little thing (whatever you would call it) and I seem to be at a writers block with my other one. It will get done I promise. Also, I've been working five days a week and going to full time school, so I'm a little swamped.
The usual disclaimed that I don't own any of these characters and even some of the opening dialogue (It's straight from the show! I like doing that :] )
"I'm done with your crap Dean. I told you from the jump where I was coming from, why I didn't look for you. But you, you had secrets. You had Benny. You got on your high and mighty horse and have been kicking me ever since you got back. But that's over, so move on or I will."
Sam was completely serious; Dean could see in his eyes that he meant it, and Dean would rather die than have Sam leave him again. He felt like he should be gasping with that pain that he was containing. How was it possible for his heart to hurt so much? He kept his face as blank as possible, instead clenching his hands, trying to get physical pain to distract him from the turmoil inside.
"Okay. I hear you." Dean replied, doing to best he could to keep his voice even, although he was shattering inside. Sam had his mouth pressed in a tight line, and for a moment Dean thought he could see a glimmer of triumph. It made him want to throw up, this side of Sam that didn't need him, that wanted to leave him.
"Good. Just hear this too: I just might be that hunter that runs into Benny and ices him one day." His voice is cold and flat and horribly, horribly, serious. It lances through Dean and torments him, that right now, his brotherwants to hurt him. Wants to take away one of the only friends he has. And Sam is staring at him, daring him to contradict, daring him to try and defend himself.
"I guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it won't we?" Dean finally manages to get out. He's trying to think through the storm of emotions inside him.
"Yeah, you keep saying that. You keep telling yourself that it'll all work out in the end. You keep telling yourself that this'll be fine, because as you can see, it's working marvellously." Sam taunted, half angry and half sarcastic.
"Yeah? Well at least I'm trying! When you went to Hell, I looked for you. I tried everything to get you back! But you? Oh, oh no. You ran off with some girl!" Dean snarled the last part, the betrayal still tearing into him like a beast digging its fangs in deeper. When Sam opened his mouth to argue, Dean simply talked over him, yelling now, "I was going to tell you about Benny, but I knew you wouldn't understand. You would overreact just like you are now, because you weren't there in Purgatory. You don't know what it was like!"
"Well congratulations, Dean, you just won the award for being the most fucked up. You want to go for the biggest asshole award as well? If you're just going to whine about how difficult it was, you can shut up. My year wasn't exactly a walk in the park, either." Sam snarled out. He was shaking, he was so furious, "You are so selfish. You waltz back and demand everything back, every little beginning I had. You think I'll just follow you like how you followed Dad. Well you know what? I'm not a fucking soldier! I have my own plan, and this isn't part of it. If you don't stop treating me like crap because I moved on with my life, I will leave. So deal with all your fucking crap and problems without taking them out on me. I have a place to go to, if we fall out. You don't. Remember that Dean!" Sam spat as he turned on his heel and stalked away, unlocking their door and slamming it.
As much as Dean wanted to scream something biting and hurtful back, his mind was blank, just like a stopped heart. His mouth was dry and his palms were bleeding from the way his fingernails had gouged into them. Each insult of Sam's was a dagger, perfectly designed and honed to maul him in the worst way possible. Sam was the only person who knew his real flaws, his real issues, and now he was going to throw them back in his face? He swore and stalked off, needing to do something. He couldn't go inside that room and sit with Sam. He just couldn't. He stalked off towards the wooded area to the left. His breath panted out in harsh clouds and as soon as he reached the first tree, he began slamming his fists into it, welcoming the physical pain. The pain made him feel a little better as he stared at his bleeding knuckles, but it wasn't enough. Not enough to take back all the things Sam said, all the implications beneath them. Dean knew he was a broken man, he didn't need Sam to point it out to him, but now it seemed that Sam viewed him as too broken, too fucked up to fix. Why waste time on something that can't be fixed?
He just couldn't do it anymore. The pain was clawing at his chest and he was drowning in betrayal. His emotions were rioting inside him, trying to tear him apart. When Sam said that he might leave, all he could think was that Sam didn't need him anymore. Clearly not as much Dean need Sam. All he could think was Sam didn't love him more than he hated hunting, didn't love him more than this Amelia.
He stood outside the motel long after Sam had stormed inside. He couldn't help but think that Amelia meant more to Sam than his own freaking brother. Sure Dean was fucked up and had been to Hell and Purgatory and had tons of issues, but they were blood! Didn't that count for something? He stood beside his car and tried to re-think his life without Sam. He stared at the black sky and clenched his jaw, almost hating the stars for shining and looking so nice when he was in such pain. He didn't know if he could do it anymore. Sam just didn't get what he went through in Purgatory. How where they supposed to understand each other after such different years? It hurt more than Dean cared to admit that Sam didn't look for him. After Dean had sold his soul and gone to Hell for him?
Agony tore him apart; how could a girl he just met mean more than his own goddamn brother? Even after Dean had given everything he had for him? After Dean had given up his shot at a normal life? His girl? Lisa? He swallowed and rubbed his hand along his jaw, feeling the stubble there. Tears had welled up in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall.
He started laughing. Really? He was so pathetic. He needed Sam so much more than he ever would know. Fuck, he was even in love with him. Sad, pathetic fuck. Sam was obviously more normal than him and moved on from all the problems from their past but him? No, he was in love with his brother and still trying to work through issues that he faced in Hell. Fuck, sometimes he still got nightmares. He really was pathetic. Sometimes—make that most times—he loathed himself. He had hoped that Sam had somehow seen something of worth in him, but evidently not. Not enough to stay with him. Not enough to not despise him and want to hurt him, which, Sam did brilliantly.
Should he leave his brother? As much as Dean would hate that, obviously their relationship wasn't working, Sam hated hunting and wanted to go back to Amelia. It would be better for him if he just left, right? No more fucked up brother, trying to kill him, no more dangerous hunting. Only the girl he loved and the normal life he so craved. He wondered why he had never thought of it before. It was obvious: Dean had dragged Sammy into something he hadn't wanted to do in the first place, so the solution was to get him out, to free him from his messed up brother and let him do what he wanted. It was the closest thing he could do to repay him for years of hunting. Besides, Sam was well trained. If anything came after him or his wife (they even might have a family) he would be strong enough and have enough knowledge to defend themselves.
Could he really do it? Could he really leave Sam? It would kill him, but at least Sam would be happy. Sam had gotten on fine without Dean multiple times before, he should easily be able to do it again. Dean would just have to make sure that if he left, he stayed gone. There would have to be no half assing it; no sudden calls, no sudden arrivals. If he left, it would be for life. A part of his brain whispered that his life was not going to be long anyways. If he left, Sam would get what he wanted. Dean could take his anger, betrayal and love and focus on hunts. Isn't that what he did best, ignore his feelings? Besides, Sam had once said that he was a capable enough hunter to take on cases alone. Hell, even Garth hunted alone, and he wasn't the best hunter. Besides, when he died he wouldn't be leaving anyone behind: Sam would have forgotten him and moved on with his life, maybe even go back to university; Bobby was dead; Cas was stuck in Purgatory; Lisa didn't remember him. He had no where left to turn, just as Sam had oh so helpfully threw back in his face.
He didn't know how long he stayed outside for; he never checked his phone and Sam never opened the door. It was starting to get really cold and he just noticed. He shoved his hands in his pockets and composed himself, locking away his emotions until he was as blank as stone. He quickly wiped his unshed tears away before he turned to face the motel. He took a deep breath before he walked forward, still indecisive.
Sam was sitting at the small table on his laptop. He didn't even acknowledge Dean. The salt line was across the door and windows, so Dean figured they were pretty safe. He cast one glance at his brother's face highlighted by the blueish hue of the computer screen. His eyes were trained on the screen, but Dean knew that they were this amazing hazel colour that had a ring of green in the middle. His brow was furrowed, deepening grooves already on his face from his too-hard life. His lips were pressed together tightly, just a thin straight line— testament to their fight and his anger. His cheek bones were high and cast prominent shadows. His hair was the longest it had ever been, but Dean liked the style.
He mechanically stripped down to just his boxers before he climbed into bed. Normally, he would go out to a bar and lose himself if he was this depressed or hurt, but if he wanted to pull off the plan (he still hadn't decided) then he needed to be sober and preferably not hung over. He pulled the covers aside and slid underneath them and curled up on his side facing away from his brother. He pulled the covers up to his ears as if he was trying to get buried in them or hide from Sam.
It took him a long time to fall asleep because of the pain eating his heart but the tap of keys lulled him to sleep. His dreams were restless and painful, full of Sammy, dark figures and vampires.
He awoke gasping in the middle of the night. He couldn't remember the nightmare he had been having—for surely it couldn't have been a happy dream with the way his heart was racing—and sat up and looked at the clock. It said four in the morning in its obnoxious, orange numbers. All of a sudden, he was wide awake, and he knew that he must leave. It would simply be best for Sam. Fuck, he almost killed him yesterday! Who knows how dangerous he could be? He was practically a walking time bomb with all this pain and love he was harboring.
He silently reached over and turned the far lamp on, away from Sam. When Sam didn't wake up, he went about his business, quietly packing his belongings and relieving himself. He slipped out the door and sorted through the trunk's contents in the dark morning, creating a pile of anything that was Sam's. Once he'd done that, he looked at the stuff in the passenger side of the car and in the glove box, removing every trace of Sam. He scooped up all the things that were Sam's and quietly carried them into the motel room. He left them on his wrinkled bed and stood by the small table. On it was the motel stationary and a cheap pen. He should probably write Sam a note.
His first attempt explained everything: why he was leaving, why it was best, how he loved Sam (he left out the being in love) and to take care. It ended up in Dean's pocket crumpled up. His second attempt was better, but still too mushy, so that one was jammed in his pocket as well. His third and final attempt was short and concise, and left out all the pain he was feeling:
Sam,
I'm sorry. I think it is best this way. Forget about me and have a normal life.
Dean
He was going to write 'Love Dean' but he chickened out at the last moment. He left it on the table, along with almost all his money, and took one last glance at Sam as he paused at the still lit lamp.
He was lying on his side facing Dean, with the covers pulled up to his chest. His face was blank; all the stress and worry lines gone from his skin. His pink lips were parted as he breathed evenly. His eyelashes seemed longer now that he had time to study them without fear of being caught. His hair was messed up and a few longer pieces of his bangs trailed across his forehead and cheeks. He wasn't wearing a shirt and the edge of his pentagram tattoo peeked over the edge of the blanket. It made Dean feel extremely sad and depressed. That was the one thing they shared physically—they had even gotten them together—and now Dean was leaving that behind. Of course that had been during better years, but still. It reminded him of the days that he thought maybe, just maybe, they could have their happily ever after, or even just be happy for a while, and that perhaps Sam might love him back the way he did. How foolish and stupid he was. Just once, Dean wished he could have tasted his brother, and felt his soft lips. He could steal a kiss now, and the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to. Just once. Sam would never know.
He silently padded closer and stood beside his brother's bed. All of a sudden he was kind of nervous; what if Sam woke up? He took a deep breath and licked his lips before he slowly leaned forward. Oh how wrong this was, but Dean couldn't seem to stop this, this taboo act. He stopped an inch away, feeling Sam's breath puff against his lips before he leaned in all the way. The touch of lips was gentle, barely there. It was a slow, soft press of lips against lips, and yet it sent a thrill through Dean. He was kissing his brother. Kissing. He licked his brother's lip slowly, relishing in the slide and taste. He pulled back as stared at Sam's sleeping face. Oh how he wanted to do more, to kiss harder with more passion, and other acts that would have rational people screaming because of their brotherhood. He forced himself to walk away, to be satisfied with stealing a chaste kiss from Sam when he would never yet, Dean felt slightly nauseous; he was pretty much giving Sam permission to run to Amelia, to take her in his arms, kiss her, love her, like he would never love Dean. Soon enough, Sam was going to have somebody else to love, when Dean had nobody else. Sam was going to give himself to Amelia just as much she to him, and Dean was going to lose out. Lose out on owning Sam, even just as brothers.
As Dean turned away, on impulse, he pulled out his phone and took one picture of his sleeping brother. It would be the last time he saw him.
Dean drove for days. He had no destination, no purpose. His phone rang about once every ten minutes. It was most likely Sam. Eventually he turned off his cell, after getting too tempted to answer. No doubt, just the sound of Sam's voice would convince him to come back. He had to remember that this was for Sam's benefit. The end of the second day, Dean finally stopped in a motel to sleep, his first sleep break since he started driving. He crashed in the room, not waking or even stirring for a long time.
The next day he went to the bar and get wasted and banged some bar chick. This became routine for him. For the next month he wandered to different towns in different states forgetting his miseries and agony at night—at least, when he was not sober. Some nights he would sit and sit and just think as he stared into the distance. The dreams were the worst. Some nights, he would wake up sobbing, searching for someone who wasn't there after just having witnessed him dying or Sam rejecting him even harsher than their last fight, and other nights he would wake up achingly hard, feeling guilty as he jerked off to thoughts of his younger brother. Countless days had passed before a hunt practically threw itself at his doorstep. Dean threw himself into solving it. Anything to distract him from the agony that was festering and rotting inside him. Eventually his cell stopped ringing, until one day, the calls stopped altogether. Thus started his career as a solo hunter. He had hunted for a while by himself when Sam was in university, but that was different. He had the option to go to Sammy then; he still had a brother that cared.
The fight had gone badly. That was hardly a surprise to Dean, seeing as he was taking on a whole nest of vampires—admittedly a small nest—by himself.
The past two years had been brutal. He hunted ruthlessly with no regard for his life. He had almost lost an eye, and now a jagged scar ran across his right eye and down his cheek. New, horrendous scars marred his body. In these past two years, he had gotten the worst scars he had ever received. He had almost died on numerous occasions, but each time he pulled through. He stitched himself up, but he had also gotten used to driving himself to the hospital for, say, a broken bone or a wound that was just too enormous. Now, his left arm hung slightly crooked because of a nasty break and the bridge of his nose showed evidence of being broken on several occasions.
He had almost broken many times and called Sam, but each time, somehow he managed to put down the phone and tell himself it was for the best. He had deleted the many voice mails Sam had left him; he knew if he listened to even one, his resolve would crumble; his brother was the world to him and it killed him every day that he had to do this. He contented himself with looking at the only picture on his phone: Sam. He was probably with Amelia and he distantly wondered if they had kids. He never stopped loving Sam though. He only ever fucked girls, never loved them. And sometimes, if he was feeling especially depressed, he would talk to Sam, tell him about his life and how much he missed and loved him. He really was pathetic, talking to someone who wasn't even there, someone who had already moved on.
And now, he was facing the last two vampires of the nest. He had his back against a wall to keep them from getting behind him; they had spread out and were going to come at him at the same time, he just knew it. The machete he was gripping so tightly was coated with blood, as was Dean's worn leather jacket. The floor was covered in blood puddles and heads rolled around on the floor near their old bodies. The vampires were hissing at him, baring their fangs as they advanced. Frankly, Dean was surprised he made it this far. His left arm had a nasty gash, but it was nothing he couldn't fix.
Without warning, they both leapt at him, attacking at the same time just as he predicted. He slid to the side, hoping to avoid one as he jabbed at the one on his right. His blade sunk in and had the vampire pulling back, hissing. It gave him enough time to spin around and lope off the other vampire's hand as it reached for him. It screeched and he once again had to turn back to the other vampire that he had wounded. He could feel its claws digging in to his arm and he quickly brought up his shoulder in time to protect his neck; the vampire got a mouthful of shoulder. Dean quickly swung the machete around and beheaded it while it was biting him. The dead weight of the corpse slowed him down, which is why he could not turn fast enough to protect himself from the final vampire. He was just bringing the machete around when pain exploded in his stomach. It sent his arm off course a little as he screamed and hunched over. The blade still met its mark though, slicing off three-quarters of the head.
The vampire fell back and writhed, taking a while to finally die. Dean didn't pay it any attention though since he was doubled up, trying to breathe. His body was on fire with agony. From the corner of his eye, Dean could see a red glint in the dimly lit barn; it was a bloodied dagger. So the vampire had a hidden weapon. Dean was gasping, and when he chanced a look down his breath hitched. No wonder he hurt like hell, the vampire had slashed his stomach open. He could see glistening entrails through the gaps of his fingers and jacket. Oh god, oh god, oh god. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He was so screwed. Cloth. He had to find something to stop the bleeding. By now, the crimson liquid had stained the whole front of his shirt and part of his jeans. His hands were slippery with it as he stumbled off to find something to stop it.
It took him awhile and he left a trail of splattered ruby, but he found a small cupboard that had a few extra shirts and sheets of some sort. He grabbed a handful of the shirts and pressed them to his stomach. He continued his search, looking for a needle and thread. If he was going to survive this, then he was going to need to stitch himself up as soon as possible. As he trudged on, he found it harder to walk. The ground seemed to sway and he felt light-headed. Each footfall sent pain shooting through him and he found it hard to concentrate on what he was doing.
Unfortunately, he didn't find any needles of any sort. If he could make it to his car he would be fine; he had a first aid kit in the back. Problem was, his car was parked a half mile away so as not to alert the vampires. He started lumbering out of the barn; it took a lot more effort than he thought it would to make it that far. He weakly shoved the door open before he started the long trek down the dirt road. Outside was considerably colder than inside and Dean started shivering almost immediately as his breath created clouds in front of him. He must have left his flashlight in the barn behind him, so Dean tripped along in the dark. He was panting and putting all his effort into making it to the car. The journey seemed to take forever and he lost track of time. Was he close? He felt as if he were getting nowhere. Maybe he wasn't.
The longer he staggered on, the more it seemed that cold took root in his bones. He was shaking by now and pressing the shirts harder against his wound. One foot in front of the other. That's all Dean could manage now. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right.
Then, without any warning, his left foot sank down farther than he expected and he lurched forward. He could feel his ankle twist as he fell, but that pain hardly made a scratch against the overwhelming agony he felt from his torso. He fell hard, hardly having the energy to catch himself. When he hit the solid packed dirt, he could only lie still and whimper as blinding white pain engulfed him. When the blackness danced away from his vision, he rolled over gasping. His whole body felt like lead as he weakly trembled and he knew he couldn't make it back on his feet. He stared at the lovely stars above him—so ice cold—and the outlines of trees.
He vaguely remembered his phone and spent an eternity fumbling it from his pocket with numb and shaking fingers. He smeared blood on it, but he didn't care. With trembling fingers he opened the pictures folder and stared at the picture of Sam, trying to memorize his face, his everything. If only. So many regrets swirled inside his mind, ranging from brotherly to more like lovers. His arm was getting extremely tired so he let it fall and turned his head instead.
He desperately wanted to call Sam. After all these years... But would that be cruel? Dragging him back to his brother after he had just gotten over him? Especially when he was dying! A shudder racked his frame and he decided, fuck it, he would call. He just hoped Sam would forgive him one day.
He hit the 'home' button before pausing over the button with the one on it; he had Sammy on speed dial. He really shouldn't. He made the decision years ago to stay out of Sam's life. He should honour that favour to him, but he found his finger didn't listen to him. It pressed the button anyways.
He could hear a phone ringing and Dean was highly aware of how laboured his breathing was. Finally, after three rings, Sam picked up.
"Hello?"
Even after all these years, he still sounded the same. His voice brought so many emotions to the surface in Dean: his love, his regret, his memories, but surprisingly no pain. Dean could feel tears fill his eyes and he thought that this was a bad idea. A very bad idea. He didn't say anything. He couldn't. He should hang up. Right now. Only then could Dean hear crying in the background. A baby crying. Oh shit. Hang up, hang up, hang up. Shit shit shit. He reached for the 'end call' button but Sam stopped him.
"Dean?" he said in a very soft manner.
It occurred to Dean that all Sammy could hear was panting. He had planned to terminate this call, but just hearing his brother say his name destroyed all his resolve, all his barriers.
"Yeah," Dean said, his voice sandpaper rough. Not knowing what else to say, he said, "So, what's new?"
Sam coughed slightly and replied, "Uh, nothing too much." He sounded very awkward. "Uh. So. It's been a long time since you called. I'm guessing it's not to say hi?"
"Um, well no reason," Dean lied. He found his mind wandering and found it hard to focus when he felt as if he should be a block of ice by now. He could heard Sammy snort across the line.
"Right. So what's the real reason you called?"
The wailing quieted on the line, so Dean guess that either Sam had moved to a different room or his girl—Amelia was it?—had quieted the child.
"Dean? Why are you calling?"
"Oh you know... No real reason," Dean lied again. This was a terrible idea. Sam had a fucking kid! That hurt a lot, almost worse than the knife wound in his stomach. Fuck! Oh god, why had he even thought this was a good idea? Sam was, fuck, Dean was going to mess up his whole life again if he did this. Sam had moved on with his life when Dean never could. Fuck, a part of Dean had hoped that Sam was as broken about their separation as he was. Fuck. He was the one left pathetic and wanting.
"Bullshit. You ignored my calls for two years and never contacted me and now you call me? What happened Dean?" Sam demanded.
Dean hesitated before saying almost casually, if it weren't for the heavy breathing marring the sentence, "Oh nothing much. Just you know..."
"No, I don't know..." Sam started out demanding before trailing off, "Dean! Where are you? Tell me where you are!" He was frantic. He must have finally clued in. Was it really that obvious that something happened to him? Maybe. Dean didn't really care right now, though he knew he should. He should be protecting his brother, not dragging him into something that would fuck his life up again.
"Shhh Sammy. It's alright. I'm in..." why was it so hard to remember? It didn't really matter anyways, right? Dean felt strangely calm. Where had all his frantic motions gone? If they had been for the best, then why did lying on the ground feel so much better? This was easier than stumbling towards his car, why had he ever tried? This was so much better. Points of light shimmered down at him, congratulating him and reassuring him. The stars were so pretty though, so much better than the ruby staining his body.
"Sammy, the stars are so pretty. Have you seen them? What are they for?"
"Dean. Dean, where are you?" Sam asked more quietly, trying to stay calm.
"In Zoar, Indiana I think. It was a nest of 'em Sam. Why is it so cold? Do the stars flourish in the cold? Can you go outside and look at them for me Sammy? Could you step out and look? They're really beautiful right now, so comforting. I know why people stay up all night and look at the stars now. Can you look Sam? Can you?" Dean's sentences ran together and he could almost push the pain to the back of his mind. After all, the stars made it better, almost made everything better. To his own ears, his panting didn't sound too bad; that was a good sign right?
Sam swallowed before he replied with a thick voice, "Yeah I can do that Dean."
"They're so beautiful. Why have I never noticed them before?"
Dean could hear the slam of a door and finally silence.
"They are nice. Listen Dean, I'm going to come and get you. You hold on alright, you hold on."
Dean could only hum a response. He could feel his fingers or legs anymore. Was that bad? It only lessened the agony, so that should be good, right?
"And Dean, I'm sorr-"
"Sammy, shhh. It's just us and the stars okay? Just us."
A flurry of sounds could be heard before the loud start of a car.
"Dean? I'm on my way. Don't you die on me okay? Don't you dare."
"Who says I'm dying?" Dean said roughly, but he noticed it was getting harder to breathe. Where was the elephant that was sitting on his chest? Surely just breathing couldn't be this difficult. His hands were shaking nonstop and his teeth were almost chattering.
"Sammy? I just... Just wanted to say that I love you and will always love you, no matter what, okay? No matter what."
"Dean..." Sammy's voice cracked in the middle. He sniffed before saying, "I love you too Dean. No matter what I said or, or" Sam's voice was breaking again, and Dean could tell he was crying. "Or what I did. I love you and always have."
"And Sammy? I'm sorry... For everything," and Dean meant it. For loving him in a way no brother should, for the words he never should have said, for all the things he did that hurt his brother. When people said that their lives flashed before their eyes when they died, they were lying. It was the regrets that made themselves present. All the times Dean never told Sam how much he meant to him, all the times they avoided physical contact. He never even got a proper kiss.
An extended pause filled the line before Dean filled it.
"Hey Sammy... remember that one time Dad bought you that girly shampoo... and you smelled fruity for weeks?" Dean coughed weakly as he tried to laugh, "You were so pissed. It was me though... I told Dad... Buy it... Said it was your favourite. "
Dean was full on shaking now, and he could barely hold the phone. The last of his energy was being spent on trying to think and talk. It took a ridiculous amount of energy just to make coherent sentences and comprehend the responses. The shirt he had pressed to his wound was completely drenched, and it had been for a long while now. Could it freeze? Was that possible? Was it cold enough? Certainly felt like it though he was starting to feel pleasantly warm now. A part of him was screaming that that was a bad thing, but mostly it was nice. He wheezed as he continued talking.
"Sammy... When you were... Grade five... Those boys that picked on you... The reason they stopped... Was because I... I beat them up... I didn't want them... Hurting my Sammy."
The stars. The stars. His Sammy. He was so nice and warm. And pleasantly buzzed. His Sammy was coming. Had to hold on. Sammy. His little brother. Lovely. Lovely. Sammy.
"Love... You."
The stars wheeled over head, filling his vision, and he wished he could see Sam one last time. Sammy was coming. Sammy.
"Dean? Dean. Dean!"
The darkness was beginning to creep in, and Dean could hear Sammy's voice, though unable to comprehend what he was saying. It sounded nice and comforting though. Sam's voice was the last thing he heard before the darkness swept him away.
Something was happening. Dean could feel it, in a strange way, yet he was unable to do anything, unable to respond. The strange sensation continued and grew stronger as it persisted. Finally, he could hear what sounded like a voice, far away and underwater. Slowly, the voice became recognizable and he could almost understand what it was saying. His name. It was saying his name!
"Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean!"
He knew that voice. He did. But who was it? He knew he knew it, he just couldn't place a name to it. Sam. It was Sam! Sammy! Gradually, the black melted away until shadows could be seen. It was barely noticeable at first until he could see the outline of someone above him. Sam. Dean could vaguely feels hands on him, firm and insistent. The pain also trickled back with his consciousness, gnawing at his stomach.
Dean's eyes slowly fluttered open, but it took him awhile to blink away the blurriness. Finally, Sam came into focus. He was sobbing, his hazel eyes despairing as he held Dean tight against his chest.
"Dean, Dean, Dean," Sammy sobbed, one hand clutching at Dean's back, holding him up while the other pressed against the wound on his torso. He gently lowered Dean, not stopping his mantra of Dean's name while he fumbled behind him for the first aid kit.
"Sam...my" Dean managed to get out of numb lips.
"I'm here Dean. I'm going to stitch you back up, okay? You're going to be fine okay? I love you Dean. Don't you dare close your eyes. I'm here now."
Sam pulled out the needle and thread, taking multiple times to get the thread through the eye of the needle, because his normally steady hands were shaking. Once he had threaded it, he removed the soaked and stiffened shirts that were against Dean's injury and pushed his jacket and shirts aside. Sam make a choking noise as he saw the gaping gash while Dean stared lazily at the sky, trying to figure out why Sammy was so sad. Why was he crying? He wanted to tell him to look at the stars, but he couldn't find the energy. His eyelids slid shut again, and all he wanted to do was sleep because he was so tired, but Sam kept shaking him and calling his name and stopping him from resting. The stars were so pretty behind Sam's head, just pinpoints of light, though not nearly as beautiful as Sammy's eyes, even in their devastated state. He tried to tell him this, to tell him that he was beautiful, that he never wanted to leave, that he loved Sam in the best way possible, but all that came out was a strange gurgling sound. His breath was painful now and he let his head loll sideways, because the effort of keeping it straight was hard, but then he couldn't see Sam and he wished he could so he mustered the energy to turn his head back. Sammy seemed to be speaking softer now and Dean couldn't really understand what he was saying, just the soft, reassuring sound of Sammy. Even the pain was dulled again and Dean felt better than ever with his brother back beside him just like they were meant to be.
Sam looked up and met Dean's eyes and he tried to smile, failing miserably. The pain had long ago disappeared, and he closed his eyes again, feeling safe with Sammy to watch him while he slept. Distantly, he realized Sam was shaking him, so he forced his eyes open, thinking maybe Sammy wanted to tell him something but he couldn't hear anything, only saw Sam's lips moving frantically as his eyes over flowed again. Dean wanted to comfort him, ask him why he was crying, everything was better now that Sam was here and Dean would only take a nap. Dean's eyes drifted shut again and he smiled, for real this time, because Sammy was finally at his side after two years and he loved the feel of his warmth beside him, of knowing Sammy cared, and knowing he was in good hands. The darkness swirled around him gently like a cloak and he knew that he would see his Sammy when he opened his eyes again; it was his last smile and it stayed upon his face even as his heart stopped.
Author's note:
Soo... reviewing would be really nice. It helps me get by and inspire me to write. Any feedback will be devoured and savored. :D