Sam never slept very well these days.
He never really had been a good sleeper. His childhood had been plagued by nightmares and – after Jess – they had just gotten worse. Combined with the visions and the addiction to demon blood which had taken him almost ten years to get over, sleep was not nor ever had been Sam's friend – but at least – now – his insomnia was some use to him.
He could hear the scratching on the window and he knew what it meant, what it would mean. He sighed and heaved his body out of bed, muscles protesting as he swung his feet over and let them rest on the cold linoleum, his back aching, his knees sore.
He got up slowly – switching on the lamp. In the soft orange light he could see his reflection in the mirror and he stared at himself, wondering, forever wondering, where the years had gone.
His hair was almost completely grey now, streaks of chestnut amongst the silver threads. He still wore it long, bangs covering his forehead, curls at the base of his neck. He still wore it long because Dean – Dean had always liked it like that – and he never tried to change – he didn't like making Dean angry – an angry Dean was not a pleasant Dean.
His face was thinner, lines bracketing his eyes and his mouth. His stubble was as silver as his hair and his eyes were blurry unless he was wearing his glasses. He had rheumatism in his back and knees and his left ankle was so swollen that he could barely get his boots on. Decades of being slammed into walls, thrown against things, stabbed, shot, generally injured, were telling on him now and he felt every single one of his forty-nine years.
The drapes were closed and he pulled them back quickly. He would never quite get over the shock of seeing his brother crouched on the windowsill, hand pressed to the glass but he took a deep breath and opened the catch.
"Come on in," his voice was pitched low – a whisper. He had lived safe here for almost fifteen years and had no compulsion to move again.
"Hey Sammy," Dean's green eyes glinted yellow for a moment and he swung his legs over the sill and moved, cat-like, inside. He cocked his head to one side and stared at his brother, face unreadable, "you look tired."
"Not sleeping," Sam turned to the fridge and got out a bottle. He flipped off the cap and handed it to Dean, "it is all that is left for now," he said, "I have to – I have to find another source – don't want people getting too suspicious."
Dean looked at him with some sympathy and took the bottle, tipping it to his mouth and gulping it down. Red stained his mouth, dribbled down his chin and he wiped at it with the back of his hand.
"I prefer it fresh," he said, with a wink.
"Can't always get fresh," Sam slumped down onto the sofa and rubbed at his face. God he was tired.
"I know Sammy," Dean sat beside him, running a red stained finger through his hair, "I know."
"I – there have been cops here – asking questions – I'm getting too old to be stealthy Dean – I – I can't keep doing this."
"If you didn't do it – who would?" Dean rubbed a fingertip across Sam's jugular, "I would – I would die Sammy."
"You aren't alive," Sam felt his throat close and he looked at his brother, at his round, youthful face, the smattering of freckles across his perfect nose, his lips so soft and tempting, "you haven't been alive since that fucking thing bit you over twenty years ago – Dean – maybe – maybe we could both get some rest."
Dean's eyes flashed yellow and Sam saw his face darken, anger clear.
"I could always go and get my own food Sam," he said, coldly.
Sam swallowed; he had watched his brother slowly lose his humanity these past few years and it hurt. He loved Dean – he had always loved Dean – loved him in a way that was both right and wrong, loved him without question, without limits. Years ago he thought that Dean loved him too – but now – now he was pretty sure Dean no longer loved anything, that Dean was no longer capable of love.
"Take me," he had asked so many times, millions maybe, over the last twenty years, "take me Dean."
"You know I can't," Dean stroked his hair, tucked it behind his ear, "your blood is still so special Sammy – tainted but special – it wouldn't – it wouldn't be right."
"I'm getting old Dean – in ten – maybe twenty years – I – I won't be able to do this anymore – hell – I might not be here anymore."
"You can't die Sammy," Dean's bloodstained lips were cold against his neck and he leant into the touch, wanting, "I can't let you die."
"Then turn me," Sam's voice was weak but defiant, "turn me and let me come with you – let – we could be together again – like we used to be."
Dean cocked his head to one side and grinned; it wasn't pleasant and Sam felt something inside of him break.
They had trapped Lucifer, saved the world, gained peace only – only to have his brother taken down by a fucking vampire.
Years of roaming, decades of it, moving from place to place; Sam using his hunting skills to – to fucking kill human beings, drain their blood, keep it in a fridge for Dean's use. Sam only did it when he had to, only one or two bodies at a time but he hated it, he couldn't live with it and he knew he should put his brother out of his misery.
Except – except Dean wasn't miserable…in fact, Dean was as happy as Sam had ever seen him. No longer an angel 'condom', freed from his responsibilities, forever young, forever attractive, the ability to make women (and men) bend to his will.
It was like heaven on earth for his brother but for Sam it was a living hell.
****
At first Dean had been eaten up with guilt and had begged Sam to kill him; Sam hadn't wanted to lose his brother again and refused. He would rob blood banks, rent them rooms with heavy drapes, keep his brother safe and sound.
They moved frequently at first, Dean seemingly content enough to feed on cattle blood or the blood that Sam stole for him. However as time passed and Dean developed, things changed and suddenly Dean had become the sort of thing they had once hunted and Sam was trapped with his brother forever.
If only he didn't love his brother so much; if only he could face life on his own but he couldn't. He was tired of being strong, tired of being noble, he had helped people all his life, he had let the fucking devil inhabit his body to save the world and his reward – he had become a modern day Renfield – serving Dean, taking care of Dean, feeding Dean. Suddenly he was the older brother, the protector, the father figure and he was exhausted, unable to carry on, unable to face another winter of hiding in the sparse copses of the town and killing innocent people.
Surely, after all these years, he was entitled to some peace.
****
The next night he sat by the window and stared out at the full moon. He remembered Madison, remembered her arms around him, her body clenching against his. He let his mind wander, thought of Jess, of Ruby, women he had loved and lost, women he had – literally – killed.
He bit his lip and wondered if he had the courage to do this, if he had the courage to let go. He had loved his brother his entire life, he still did and he always would – but Dean had been dead almost twenty years and the thing that appeared at his window was just a shade, an imposter, not his hero big brother but another monster to hunt and kill.
****
Vampires had to be invited in or they would not be able to enter. He knew the lore and he had always opened the window and asked his brother inside. He had always got fresh blood ready but was he a willing host?
A stupidly loved up fool?
Or just a man who was too tired to care anymore?
He heard the insistent tapping and he saw the white face, the sharp flash of teeth, the bright green eyes. He shook his head and turned away, pulling down the blind and lying down on his bed, face turned to the pillow. The tapping went on and on and he could hear his brother's voice, pleading, gentle and then angry, his own name on repeat over and over and over.
****
The sunlight would kill Dean just as sure as a stake or a decapitation. Sam knew that his brother would sit there all night, that Dean would go on believing in Sam's eventual capitulation. Sam knew that this was the end and he buried his face further into the stiff, white cotton.
Afternoon came and he – finally – opened the window. There was nothing on the sill but grey ash and the hideous smell of burning flesh. He leant out and vomited, his throat tight. He could see the sky, clear and blue, and – finally – he smiled.
****
The Impala was older than he was, older than most people. Sam climbed inside and turned on the engine, the sound of loud rock music echoing through the car. Sam put his foot to the pedal and pressed down hard. The Impala roared into life and surged forward, the open road in front of her, the run down building long behind.
****
Sam wound down the window and watched the scenery fly by. He had ACDC blasting out on the tape deck and his hair was blowing in the wind. He could feel his brother's presence all around him and he had to believe his brother was grateful and – as he aimed the car towards Kansas – he knew he wouldn't have to wait very long to find out.
He caught sight of the spirit just outside of Lawrence; white face, bright eyes, a smile that would light up the room. He smiled happily, feeling young and free again.
He wound down the window further, lifted his foot from the brake, and let his brother in one final time….
The End