Can The Truth Be A Lie?
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"I lied."
Two words, five letters, but with the weight of an entire existence pressing down on them; of demons, of hell, of heaven, of incomprehension, of betrayal, of pain, of madness, of everything a man could suffer through and still survive, yet in the end it all condensed into another two simple words, "I love" and as Sam held his dying brother in his arms, his body draped over Dean's, that was the only emotion that thrummed through his mind, through his soul, through every molecule that was Sam Winchester.
x
It was Broward County all over again, it was Dean being clawed to death by Lilith's hell-hounds.
This was the third time he'd held his big brother's body in his arms, the third time his tears had unceasingly streamed down his face onto the lifeless corpse of the being that was his entire world, his reason to fight, to exist.
x
Sam had no filters now, no walls to crouch behind and pretend he was good with being partners not brothers.
He'd tried in his own awkward way to distance himself from this thing that held him and Dean prisoner, so tied up in each other.
Sam was an intelligent man, he understood the bond he shared with Dean was as much a liability as a strength and he'd tried to pull back, construct a cushion zone between them, defuse the powder-keg that exploded when one or the other of them died.
The words he'd spoken to Dean had been harsh but he'd thought them necessary; he'd acted under the push of the logical part of his brain, softly whispering to him what he'd always known, that their tangled-up exclusive relationship would continue to be their downfall in the future as it had been in the past,
He was an adult, a few days from his 31st birthday; death had been a constant in his life since he was a child, Hell..., he'd killed more than his fair share of beings, supernatural or not. Yet this, holding his brother's corpse in his arms, an empty vessel with the soul that made it so human wandering in the veil or perhaps, Sam's heart rallied a little, perhaps Dean 's ghost was right there beside him watching his little brother crying like a baby.
"Dean," he snuffled brokenly into the still warm familiarity of his brother's neck, his brother's scent, feeling none of the Sam Winchester logic but only that of a forlorn child who had lost the one person who'd loved and cherished him since before he had any memory of that love.
He pulled Dean closer as if willing his own body to transfer part of his life essence to his dead brother, but knowing the impossibility.
It was then a tendril of fear began to invade his heart.
He could feel the coldness emerging, the emptiness of the man he'd turned into the other times Dean had died; the very thing he'd tried to avoid by dumbing down their emotionalism and viewing their relationship as a mere hunting partnership. Yet there it was, creeping up on him, that impelling illogical, dangerous need to get Dean back, to make a deal, to vanquish the death of the other half of his soul by any means.
x
Sam gently and effortlessly lifted his brother, walked to the Impala and laid him out carefully on the back-seat.
He slipped into the driver's seat, his mind cataloguing all the avenues he could explore to get his brother back. So what if he had been caught up in the eternal circle of death and resurrection. Sam no longer cared.
Obsession was a Winchester attribute and Sam Winchester could feel it washing over him like a powerful tsunami. This time he would save his brother!
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