Hi to all! Okay, maybe it's a little late for a season 3 story, but it just so wanted out of my head... And here it is.
Sam talks to Dean about the 4 months he had been alone, but never about the first hours after Dean's death. The story is just my version of what Sam might have done... :-)
Well, the disclaimer is the usual: I don't own any of the boys... they're all Kripke's! Thanks for giving them to us, Eric! ;-)
So, thanks to you, Mouse95, for beta-reading it! And of course it's for irshyva, my crazy muse... Love ya, babe! ;-)
Oh, yes, and to all of you who have lost a beloved one...
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Pictures run constantly through his mind, pictures of people being tortured in hell. Classic pictures, drawings of artists from the sixteenth to the eighteenth century, pictures he has seen as a kid in books that Pastor Jim had forbidden to look at.
Dean.
Dean is dead.
Dean is there now.
Dean is being tortured this very moment, and Sam wonders for a short second if hell looks like it did in the pictures.
He still sits, his brother's dead body limp in his arms, bloody all over. Lilith and the hell hound are gone and Dean with them.
Sam lowers his eyes and feels tears well up once more. But they don't break free of his eyes, although he wills them to. They just don't fall.
The door is smashed open, but Sam doesn't react. Nothing matters anymore, does it? Everything is futile – Dean is dead now.
Devil may care about what will happen to him.
***
"Oh, no!"
Bobby crashes into the room. The demons surrounding the house – and him – had left so fast, so quickly that the old man fears for the worst.
He comes to an abrupt stop when his brain registers the horrible sight before him.
The room is splattered with blood like in a bad B movie. Next to the entrance lays the dead body of Ruby's host – Bobby doesn't even know her real name, and, actually, he doesn't give a fucking damn about it now.
Because it's the boys that make his heart stop. He could swear, it literally stopped for a second.
Sam is crouching on the floor, cradling his brother's body in his arms, rocking him. His eyes are full of tears, but he is strangely, disturbingly silent. Bobby can see his knuckles are white; he is holding Dean so tightly.
Dean.
'Oh, no.'
The smell of sulfur, blood and torn bowels now hit Bobby with the accurate punch of a prize boxer, and he feels his knees buckle. He stumbles forward, three, four steps, finally reaching Sam he places a hand on the younger man's shoulder before allowing his knees to give way. Sam doesn't react, just grips his brother even tighter.
Bobby stares at Dean's shredded and bloodied body. He knows the image will haunt his dreams for a long time.
His legs, and chest are clawed open; he sees the white of bone through his torn pants. His chest gapes at Bobby like a warning, splintered bone and pieces of flesh mingled in the big holes the hell hound has carved. Bobby has to swallow hard when he realizes that some of what he thought were pieces of flesh are really bits of shredded internal organs.
Dean's face is untouched, miraculously, and Bobby is thankful for that. It is splattered with blood, and his eyes are wide open.
It's not the torn and shredded body that tears at Bobby's heart as much as the cold empty stare. Dean's green eyes always shined with a love for life and just a hint of mischief.
Dean is dead.
Really dead.
Bobby keeps his hand on Sam's shoulder, unable to form words.
***
Bobby places a plastic cover on the backseat of the Impala, and they gently put Dean onto it. But when Bobby wants to pull the cover over Dean's face, Sam's bone-breaking grip on his arm stops him.
"No. Please." His voice is raw and husky, although he still hasn't shed a tear.
Bobby just nods and gets in his car. He follows Sam, who is driving the Impala, and has to force him several times to take breaks when the boy just wants to drive straight through.
He forces some food into the boy, some coffee, too, and Sam chews obediently but without enthusiasm. His eyes stare right through Bobby.
When they arrive at the yard, Sam carefully lifts his brother's body out of the car, pulling away protectively from Bobby when the older man comes over to lend a hand.
Sam carries Dean upstairs, into the guest room, places him on one of the beds. He shoves the second bed against the wall and the bed with Dean into the middle of the room. He goes downstairs, doesn't look at Bobby who stares at the boy with mournful eyes, wishing Sam would talk, cry, do anything that shows him that he's not gone insane over his brother's death.
Sam stays silent and walks past Bobby right into the kitchen. He searches through the drawers and takes out salt and some candles. He stomps upstairs again, and this time Bobby follows him.
Sam places the candles around the bed, creating a circle around it. He spreads the salt on the floor, connecting the candles with each other to form a protective line.
Bobby just shakes his head. "Boy, he's there already. There's no more need for a protection. "
Sam glowers at him. "He deserves his deathwatch. And I will give it to him. I promised him."
He lights the candles and leaves the room again.
Bobby follows. "But, Sam, there's nothing left to watch. "
He hates himself for saying the words, but Sam has to acknowledge the truth.
"We better salt and burn his body now, before-"
Sam whirls around and grabs Bobby by the collar, pins him against the wall.
"Don't you dare say that! Just – don't!" He stares at Bobby with bloodshot, bleary eyes.
"I won't burn my brother! I just – can't..." He crumbles a bit and let's go of Bobby, turns away from him.
This feels like déjà-vu to Bobby. It's simply the other brother he is facing now, desperate not knowing how to handle the sorrow.
Sam turns to him again, and Bobby winces at the determined look in the hazel eyes.
"I won't burn him. He will need his body when I bring him back."
Bobby's heart breaks for the second time in two days.
"Boy..." he starts, but Sam is already gone, heading towards the bathroom.
***
Sam undresses his brother's body gently, dropping the torn pieces of clothing carelessly to the floor. He dips the towel into the warm, soapy water and starts cleaning the clotted blood away. He has to rub carefully, since the skin tends to tear even more where it is already torn.
Sam feels tears burn in his eyes, but they still don't want to fall. He wonders for a brief moment if the lump in his throat will ever go away, and can almost hear Dean's mocking voice: 'Hey, kiddo, don't start crying like a chick!'
He smiles through the tears and washes on. The chest is almost impossible to clean, and he decides to put in some stitches to keep it closed.
He dips a fresh towel into the now bloody water and lowers it down on Dean's face and hesitates. He stares at the red drops that fall from the towel on his brother's forehead and throws it away. Sam staggers to his feet, taking the bowl of water with him, emptying it in the bathtub, rubbing it feverishly, until the water is clear again.
Sam walks back, and starts cleaning Dean's face. He gently rubs at the blood specks until they are gone. He has to hold Dean's head with one hand, because he lolls with every move Sam makes on the face. The sting of tears is almost unbearable now, and Sam has to break away, to get up. He flees to the window, tears it open, takes in one, two deep breaths.
The sun is going down and bathes the wrecked cars in Bobby's yard in a strange orange-red shimmer. Sam rubs his forehead; feeling tired for the first time in about 72 hours. He takes in one more lung-deep breath and turns back to Dean. He takes the towel and finishes his face, cleaning the lips.
He searches through Dean's duffel bag that Bobby must have brought in earlier – Sam doesn't remember the older man intruding when he washed his brother's body, but that is the only logical explanation. He pulls out fresh underwear, a dark T-shirt, Dean's favorite, as he remembers, pants, and a pair of socks.
Sam starts dressing Dean, which is not so easy, since the body is limp and unresponsive, and Sam fights to get the pants over Dean's hips.
"Need a hand there, boy?"
Sam jumps at Bobby's voice. He has been concentrating so hard that he now wonders how long the older man has been standing in the doorway. He presses his lips together and doesn't look at Bobby when he answers.
"No. Nobody touches him."
He doesn't see the hurt expression in Bobby's eyes and doesn't react when the older man now huffs and stomps down the stairs.
He finally succeeds with the pants and sits Dean up, leans him against his own upper body to pull the shirt over his head.
Dean's skin feels cool, dead under his hands, and Sam feels a dry sob break free from his chest. He forces himself to keep working.
Sam gently lays Dean back when he's finished dressing him, and rummages through Dean's bag again. When he doesn't find what he is looking for, he looks hesitantly towards the stairs, where Bobby has gone. He looks back at Dean who now rests so peacefully, and since there is no more blood or wounds to be seen, it seems to Sam that Dean is merely asleep. His heart clenches, and he flees down the stairs.
***
Bobby is sitting in the kitchen, staring out of the window. An almost empty bottle of whisky stands before him, and he holds an empty glass in his hands. He doesn't turn when he hears the steps come to a stop behind him, just waits for Sam to begin.
"I-I'm almost finished, Bobby." Sam's voice sounds small, trembles, and Bobby longs to turn around and take the boy into a tight embrace. He forces his body to remain still.
"I- uh... I've dressed him, but I-d-"
Bobby now turns when Sam's voice breaks. The boy stands behind him, his tall body slouched under the weight of the grief. He is holding Dean's torn and bloody shirt in his big hands, kneading it nervously.
"I- I wanted to put on a shirt, too, because it'll get cold in the night, but I – I can't – I just..."
Bobby is up and at Sam's side when the boy finally crumbles completely and catches him when he starts to fall. Both crash to the floor, and Bobby pulls the boy's head to his chest and rubs soothing circles on his back when finally the levee breaks and Sam's tears start to fall.
"I- I just c-can't find another shirt", he sobs wildly and clenches his big fist into Bobby's shirt, twisting it so hard that Bobby can hear the threads in the wool tear.
He mumbles soothing nonsense into Sam's now damp hair and feels how his own tears run into his beard. Sam's sobs rattle through both men, and it seems he will never stop crying.
But finally, finally no more tears come from Sam's eyes, his sobs subside, and he falls silent. He stays in Bobby's embrace for another five minutes, completely exhausted and frightened to leave the protecting and comforting arms.
Sam's swollen and now burning eyes fall on Dean's shirt he has dropped when he broke down, and he sighs deeply. Carefully he frees himself from Bobby's bear hug and stares sheepishly at the shirt.
Bobby understands and stumbles to his feet. His back is aching from the uncomfortable position on the cold kitchen floor, but he doesn't complain. It's a sign he's still alive, right? More than the poor boy on the upper floor can say. He stiffly walks up the stairs and goes to his own bedroom.
He rummages through his closet and finally pulls a shirt out that he hasn't worn in years. To be honest, he hasn't worn it since Dean did, when he was 14, maybe 15 years old and had "lost" his last shirt. Bobby considered that shirt to be Dean's shirt since then, and left it in the closet. Just in case.
He nods to himself now and heads back downstairs. When he passes the guest room, he stops. Sam is back in the room, standing uneasily in front of Dean's bed.
Bobby knocks quietly and enters when Sam looks at him. "Here, take this."
Sam's eyes grow wide for a moment, and Bobby knows that he recognizes the shirt, too. New tears well up in Sam's eyes, and this time they roll down his cheeks, although he doesn't make a sound. He presses his lips together and takes the shirt.
Bobby comes over and helps him sit Dean up. Sam puts the shirt on and gently lowers Dean back to the pillows. He crosses his brother's hands on his stomach and sighs.
Bobby places a hand on Sam's shoulder. "You're tired, boy. Go to bed. I'll take tonight's watch."
Sam straightens his tall body and shakes his head. "No, Bobby. That is my job, mine alone. He is – was – my brother."
Bobby fights the urge to punch him. 'He was my son, too! Perhaps not in blood, but in the heart!'
But no words come, he just stands there, and finally Sam looks at him.
"I'm sorry, Bobby... But that is what he would do for me."
Bobby acknowledges that with a curt nod.
"I'm going downstairs and look for a good place for a grave."
He sees how Sam winces at the word grave, but, hell, the boy has to get used to the thought of Dean being six feet under if he doesn't want to salt and burn his brother.
***
Sam sits next to Dean's bed on the floor, leaning against the frame, one hand on the bed keeping contact with Dean's still arm. He stares out of the window and wonders when the world has lost it's color.
His fingers on the bed twitch, and he looks at Dean.
Dean is gone.
The thought creeps up in his mind, and he pushes it back. 'I'll find a way to get you back', he silently promises.
Dean is gone.
The thought clings to his mind, comes sneaking around the corner again.
He won't wake up in the morning.
He won't ramble around how huuuuuuuungryyy he is and that he'd die for a decent burger.
Die.
Dean is dead.
Sam rubs his forehead. He has the pictures before his eyes again, of tortured souls over Hellfire.
His brother is there, now, too, suffering for him.
Suffering for him.
Dean has done the noblest thing a person can do, and given up his life for his brother's. And still he is punished for that.
Sam feels new tears well up.
He lays his head close to Dean's arm, sniffs in deep the familiar scent of Dean's clothing, the shaving cream he must have gotten on his shirt. Sam remembers he never got the chance to clean it before they made the trip to New Harmony.
'He will never wash his clothes again.'
Sam closes his eyes and sniffs again, tries to imprint his brother's scent in his memory. How did his voice sound? He desperately searches through his mind for a memory, and when he can't find one, he tears his eyes open and drinks in his brother's looks, his straight nose with the slight crook in the middle of it, where he broke it so many years ago when he fought a boy twice his size for picking on Sam.
He tries to count the freckles that now stand out against the pale skin, but quickly gives up when his eyes won't stop blearing with tears. He notices the small, almost invisible scar on Dean's chin, where he had been hit by a ghost that had thought Sam was her son.
Sam sobs dryly. It had always been Dean that had stood up for him, unquestioningly, whenever there was the need to. It had made Sam angry some times, made him lash out at his brother, and still Dean was there the next time Sam needed him.
'And I just stood there and watched you die.'
Sam knows that he couldn't have done a thing to save Dean, since he had been pinned against the wall by Lilith, but he kept torturing himself. It was his fault that his brother was dead now, wasn't it? If he had been tougher and killed Jake in that abandoned old town, then Jake wouldn't have had the chance to come after him and plunge the knife into his spine. And Dean wouldn't have made the deal that cost his life.
So. It was all his fault.
He had gotten his mother killed when she tried to protect him of Azazel; he had gotten his father killed when John had traded his life for Dean's after that horrible accident with the semi truck – if he had shot his father when he told him to, none of this would have happened.
And now Dean.
Dean.
His brother.
His protector.
The only person he could ever rely on.
The only person who had loved him with all his heart, no matter how many faults he had and no matter how often Sam, had pushed him away.
His brother. The one person that stood closer to him than anybody else.
He lifts his head and tries to make Dean out in the dim candle light. He reaches out and caresses his hair, his cheek, which is now so cold, and stops when his fingers touch something hard, metallic. It's the pendant he gave Dean years ago for Christmas. Sam pulls the pendant over his head and tucks it into his shirt. As soon as it touches his skin, it begins to warm up again. And that feels like a promise.
"I'll bring you back, brother. No matter what it will cost. No matter how long it might take. I won't let you rot in hell for me. I'll bring you back. I swear, I'll bring you back even if I have to go after Lilith herself."
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A/N: Well... that's it... Hope you like it! Please review on your way out... ;-)