Title: Jugate
Characters: Sam, Dean
Warning: Angst, implied wincest (?)
Rating: T
Spoilers: 3x16
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.
Summary: Spoilers for 3x16. Dean's gone, and all Sam can do is cry.
A/N: After the season final, I feel emotionally toyed with. I just had to write something to make myself feel better. Oh, hell, now I need a tissue again.
Jugate
He sees Dean's ethereal face in the wind and in the rain. He sees Dean's sad smile plastered on misty windows and in the lonely folds of his bedsheets. Nothing is the same anymore – and it's only been seventy-three hours and thirteen minutes. Sam tries not to count, but the permeating stench of death, and blood, and Dean has seeped into his skin.
Dean's body is cold and stiff, and there's anguish in the air Sam breathes. Sam has to cover his ears to block out Dean's soundless screams and desperate cries for help. But Sam's caught in the Technicolor replay, in the foul melodic memory, and his soul aches to the beat. Every moment passes like a wild storm; a cacophony of sorrow and misery that suffocates and presses down on Sam's chest. It's asphyxiation, this sadness, and all Sam wants to do is cry. His eyes are bloodshot and wet with tears as he lies beside Dean, gently clasping Dean's cold, bloodied hand – praying that his brother's wounds will heal over and the nightmare will end.
Sam whispers promises and tries to soothe away the pain – but there's no response. There's nothing but a horrid, haunting silence, and the dripping of a rusted faucet.
"In a perfect world," Sam assures, "we die together." Sam sniffles, too stifled to continue, but the rest drones on in his mind. He prays, that in a perfect world they're happy, and it's the Impala's busted tire that fucks them up. It's spontaneous. It happens when Black Sabbath's blaring from the radio, and they're laughing. They don't even scream – and it's simple. No deal haunting their every move; no hounds tearing them apart. Just them, and some good music.
But here, Sam can see his morose reflection in Dean's hollow, graying eyes. No matter how close Sam presses his body against Dean's, his brother doesn't move or flinch or make some cocky reference to chick flick moments. No, here with nothingness and Dean's stiff body, Sam can feel the vengeance and anger pool at his ankles – he can feel the bile threatening to spill from his lips.
Sam clutches Dean tighter, and ghosts his lips over Dean's blood-encrusted ear. "I'm going to save you, Dean." He murmurs that, lovingly, through the night, and in the morning he gently throws a white blanket, doused in holy water, over Dean's body and tenderly kisses his forehead.
"I'm coming to you," Sam solemnly vows as he caresses Dean's cheek, "I'm going to get you out."
END
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