Disclaimer: Even though it was on my list, I didn't get ownership of any of the Supernatural characters for Christmas. They're all still property of the CW network. Please don't sue! Because, trust me, I'm not making money on this, and have nothing of real monetary value to give to you.
A/N: Special thanks to Jen and InfamousFaete for their awesome input and editing skillz! You guys rock my socks!
"All That Matters"
It happens on a dark November night. This isn't right. You'll think, once the scene starts to play out. This isn't how it's supposed to be. This isn't how things are supposed to happen.
It's late, and you've just gotten out of the shower. You're toweling yourself off, getting ready for bed as you wait for Sam to get back. You've left him a note, and some food on the counter, in case you fall asleep before he gets back. Hmm, you think, what to wear. What's left to wear? You go with the white undershirt. It's about the only thing you have left that is clean. Laundry time soon. You grimace. You change at a leisurely pace, and meander back to the bathroom to brush your teeth.
That being done, you throw your used towel on the floor to mop up the puddle the leaking shower has left. You sigh at your reflection, and run a hand through tousled hair. It's been a long day, a tough day. Then you turn off the faucet, leave the towel, and walk through the door to the bedroom, looking for the comfort of your bed.
What you aren't expecting to find is someone near it. Someone who is most definitely not Sam.
NotSam looks at you, and yellow eyes! And then you're up on the ceiling, fast as you please, arms and legs akimbo in a position both awkward and painful, before you can even reach for something to defend yourself with, or open your mouth to scream.
No. You think. No. This isn't happening. Thisisn'thappeningisn'thappeningisn'thappening. This can't happen. But it is. Unbelievable as it seems, you're stuck to the ceiling, with, with that thing beneath you. You're stuck fast too, and try as you might, despite your most valiant efforts, you aren't budging. Not even an inch. After a few exhausting moments, the frantic buzzing of thoughts in your mind slows to a background hum, and then the thing disappears from sight in a cloud of black smoke.
You blink, and there's a moment of calm, a sort of stillness before the storm, during which you reach for your strength and your thoughts run away from you. White. Friggin' white pajamas. What could you have been thinking? Everyone knows white clothes are bad news. Haven't you learned anything over the years? I swear, whatever happens, I'm never touching white again. I don't care if they are the only thing that's clean, or if the only thing wherever I'm going next has left is a box of white pajamas. I'm not takin' any. I'll go around buck-naked if I have to. Nope, you are most certainly never touching any white clothing ever again. You flinch and try not to coin the phrase "white pajamas of doom."
Then, the shower turns itself back on, breaking your internal and more-than-twisted monologue. What the- And then the door opens, and he walks in, acknowledging the shower while depositing a duffel on the floor.
Sam.
You're not sure whether to cry out in anguish or relief, but it turns out you don't actually have a choice to make, because it's keeping you from speaking. Sam! You want to cry out. Sam! Look out! Look up! You want to warn him it's here. He shouldn't walk in blind. You want to tell him it's waiting. It. The demon with the yellow eyes. You want to tell him to go and run and just get out of here now!
Instead you can only watch helplessly by, mouth moving but no sound coming out, as Sam glances around the room, and then flops down on the bed with a heavy sigh, dropping his face into a pillow and taking a deep breath. Then, eyes still closed, he rolls onto his back. Sam looks peaceful, a rare state for him. Some sick part of you acknowledges this and wants to chuckle at the irony.
But then you feel a sharp pain draw across your stomach, and your mouth falls open again in a silent scream that never quite makes it across your lips. You gasp for breath and then your blood starts to fall in droplets, and everything is slightly less focused through the thick haze of pain.
Drip. One hits the pillow. This isn't right. The thought muddles its way out. You have never been completely sure about much in your life. But one thing you are pretty damn sure of is that you don't deserve this. Something you are definitely sure that Sam has done nothing to deserve this.
Drip. One on the bed sheet. Your efforts to break free increase in urgency, but not effectiveness. Your desperation increases because you want to spare the both of you any agony yet to come.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Bullseye.
Sam's eyes open, and it's like a bad dream, his worst kind of nightmare. A horrifying reality not unlike so many of the dreams that Sam has suffered and denied over the years.
Terrors of the past, terrible dreams about Lawrence.
Nightmares about Palo Alto.
"Dean!" Sam calls out when he finally sees you there, voice stricken with anguish and face frozen in horror, "No! Dean!!! NO!!!"
No. Sam reaches for you as fire erupts. No. Don't. Get out. This isn't how it's supposed to be. I'm supposed to keep you safe, not get you killed. You're supposed to take care of Sammy, you've been taking care of him since your Dad placed him in your arms all those years ago, and you promised to keep taking care of him, when your Dad no longer could.
But the smell of flesh starting to burn reaches your nose, and you know you've failed. Sammy won't survive this. Idiot! Run! Hide! You want to tell him. It's ok for you to leave me this time, I want you to go. Please. But he won't leave you now, not now that you're all he has left. And he can't get to you and get out in time to save you both, and you know it. There's just no way. The fire is all around you now, on you, engulfing you. So close it feels like it's fucking in you.
Then you see it appear in the corner. Son of a bitch The thing that took your mom. Took so many children's mothers. Took Sam's Jessica. Sam sees it too, even as he tries to pull you down with hands slick with blood and already slightly burnt.
You've never wanted to scream as much as you do right now.
You've never actually cried this much in your entire life.
This isn't how it's supposed to happen. You're supposed to go first. You've always known that. You've accepted that, wanted it. But you're supposed to go by yourself. Not with Sammy. Not here and not now. Not on some filthy motel room ceiling in Podunk, Indiana.
Not by the hand that killed everyone you and Sammy ever loved.
And most importantly not until Sam will be ok to keep going without you.
Sam looks at The Demon. Then he looks at you. He realizes he's not going to get you down, not like this, and then something just happens.
ScreamingFurnitureLightningBlowingAirBrightSam and holyhell, it seems like that spoon-bending, "shining" thing is going to be of some good after all because now there's wind and it's blowing the fire is away from you, away from Sam.Kudos to the Samster for pulling that trick out of the hat.
Sammy stops glowing or whatever the fuck he was doing seconds ago. Then he screams – a sound unlike any he has ever made before. A sound unlike anything you have ever heard before. It resounds on a more-than-auditory level and is accompanied by a concussion-like blast unlike anything you have ever felt before. There is more absolute chaos for a moment, but the loud noises and frantic activity are dimmed and jumbled by renewed waves of pain. And then you fall, half on the bed and half off, and Sammy is dragging you away, away from the bed, away from the flames, and away from what you had pegged as certain death for you both.
Sam lays you gently on the pavement outside. He's sobbing now too, lips moving but you can't. quite. make… out…
"I'm sorry." You say, while you still can. The salty taste in your mouth is being overcome by copper and it is quickly becoming harder to focus and harder to breathe.
"Sorry? Dean, why?" He asks. Though what you actually hear is something slurred like "Sordhy?"
You think, I'm sorry that I couldn't take care of you. Sorry I couldn't protect you. Sorry you had to live in nightmares. Sorry you had to fight it all by yourself.
I'm sorry I failed you.
I'm sorry I'm about to leave you alone.
"I'm supposed to carry you out." Is what you say. Or you think you do. You aren't sure if all or any of your answer actually gets out, but Sam understands anyway. He always does, eventually.
"It's gonna be ok, Dean." He says, voice muffled, holding you close and stroking your hair as you both watch the motel burn to the ground, the scent of scorched demon in the air, and the sounds of far-off sirens fading in and out. "This time it was just my turn to take care of you." You stir, in part from pain and partly because it's not supposed to be a turn thing, goddamit. "Fine." You hear Sam's laughing sob. "I get it, we'll straighten out the rules later, ok? I swear. But for now just lie still and hang on a little longer. Help is coming."
You want to speak again, to say sorry and thank you and love you all at once but Sam shushes you. And besides, now it all just hurts too much. "We'll be fine." You hear him murmur, "You're going to be fine. It's gonna be ok, Dean." And for once, you decide it would be ok just to shut the hell up and believe him, because Sam's ok. It didn't get him. And if Sam's ok, you're going to be fine. You have faith in Sam, and Sam has faith in you. Loud sirens descend and now you are moving but Sam's still there, holding tight to your hand, and you hold tight back, because that hand means you are still together. Still SamandDean, not one or the other, and together you can't, and you won't, give up. And in the end, you think, that's all that really matters.