A/N: Okay, so I had a plan. Have the one year anniversary of getting into writing on this great site coming up at the end of August. I wanted to make it to 40 stories and then have one that's completely different to celebrate. Have it finished, don't worry it will go up. I just got hit with this little one shot first. Based on some vague season 4 spoiler that I made the mistake of looking at. Anyway, the plan for 40 is out the window as I've decided to just do the stories as they come to me. There's another one coming your way as soon as I can figure it all out. So I'll have this one, a possible wee-chester, a crack, and the weird but much loved story to celebrate. Look for them all before August 26th. Anyway, this is my take on the time Dean's in hell and how Sam copes. Alcohol warning. It's short. Hope you like.
Not Alone
Three Days
Chipped veneer and the peeling label of a bottle. That's all he's seen for three days. It's been a long three days. He can't take it anymore; having this for his constant companion.
His vision tunnels, zeroes in on the blackness at the end. No light, not for him. A hand fists the bottle, bloody knuckles cracking to ooze again. The smudges that grace the peeling label and mar the words written in white on black aren't all his. He knows that as he watches through his narrow tunnel as the dry red dust filters down to gather in the scratches on the table top.
The bottle tips to cracked, dry lips, moistening them with a burn that while welcomed it's not really felt. Not anymore. Nothing is. The bottle greets the table top again, with a slosh that's made by less and less liquid each time and the chink of glass against wood. Fingers move stiffly from the bottle, slowly, not wanting to relinquish their grasp. They fall to the table to lie near the red dust. He killed a demon with those bloody hands. His bare hands. Maybe with a little help from a mind that saw nothing but red in splatters, smears and pools.
The alcohol burning his throat is not what finally brings tears to his eyes as they drift from the red eddies of dust on the table to the smears on his knuckles. He senses his friend in the room, the one who hasn't spoken in a long while. The man walks up to the table with the chipped veneer and lays something known with the soft clink of metal to wood. He's been gone a while and tears track single file, like silent marchers, down two sets of pale cheeks. They carry a burn that has nothing to do with alcohol for either of them. The man stands still behind his friend. One bloody hand moves to grip the bottle and the other to pick up the little chunk of bronze. A fist clenches on glass, another around metal and leather. The bottle is raised to his lips and lowered as the other watches on. The metal and leather are settled around his throat as the burn settles in his stomach. Another hand lands on his shoulder, and squeezes once before pulling away.
"Just remember, you're not alone." A voice says, sounding gravelly from a little over two days with no use and too much emotion. The man walks silently away, the soft snick of a door closing the only sound. The bottle tips one last time, the last mouth full no more tasted than the first. The tunnel narrows further blackness greeting him as he lays his head on the table and closes his bloody hands over it to shut out the last of the light.
"I am alone." He says. "Without Dean, I am alone."
Four Months
His hands are still bloody, not all of it his. The chunk of bronze still rests at his throat, his strength to keep going, the only thing keeping him from being totally lost, all rests on that tiny piece of metal. He's battled; fought and won alone, the burn of fury- not alcohol- is his constant companion now. He's killed demons unflinchingly, fighting to hold the darkness at the end of the tunnel. It wants to get closer, to snake up the tunnel from the end and ensnare him, make him the worst of what he hunts. His strength comes from his loss, what was taken. As the darkness creeps closer he fights harder, tearing into another demon with his hands, his mind, rending it in two and sending it to the deepest dark, where it can never threaten. He's gotten closer; he sees what he's come for, what he fights for. Battles here are won, ground gained against those who try to stop him. Battles within are lost or at the worst tied, darkness matching each desperate step to stay in the light. Finally, finally he sees the last line of defense against him. He powers through with his hands, his mind, broken and bloody but stronger than ever as his goal is within reach. Demons scatter, scream and die and at last he's through. He reaches for his goal, tearing through the chains as he tore through the demons. Arms reach out and he catches a body to him, holding tight, crying out in pain and joy.
He falls to his knees as he holds the body close, bloody hands clenching and holding tight. Demons back away, fearful of the light that blinds them as forces are reunited against them. "I've gotcha, it's alright. Dean, you're not alone. You're not alone."
He lifts his brother, the light around them causing demons to cower. Weak arms fist his shirt and clench tight, one closing over the chunk of bronze that was a lifeline for both of them. Strength to carry on ebbing from one to the other as he walks out of hell, his brother returned to him.
Four months for him to return. The chunk of bronze is settled back around the throat where it rightfully belongs. Green eyes wearily meet hazel ones, darkness disappears from the depths as a voice, gravelly with too much emotion and too many screams rings out, "Sammy, you're not alone."
"I know now. I'm not alone."
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