DISCLAIMER: 'Supernatural' and its characters belong to Eric Kripke and The CW/WB – I'm just playing in their proverbial sandbox for a bit – I'll clean up when I'm done.
It starts slowly, with small, seemingly insignificant moments, things that only a brother would notice.
Like the way Sam never smiles with his eyes anymore, just tugs up the corners of his mouth. It's enough to fool a stranger, but not Dean.
Or the way Sam never rises to Dean's witticisms anymore, just lets them hang in dead silence – impassive and indifferent.
Or the dark rings that encircle Sam's eyes, evidence of his nightmare-plagued sleep. Those dark circles that give Sam a haunted intensity – something that scares Dean more than anything they've encountered on a hunt.
It's these little things, these moments, when Dean knows his little brother is slipping.
New cases are always emerging, and they're on the road constantly, never in the same place for more than two weeks at a time. The miles fly by, punctuated by endless hotel rooms and crappy food. In the fleeting moments when Dean has the time and the energy to think, it's always about Sam.
I'm going to save you, little brother.
In the aftermath of their latest hunt, Dean sports a deep gash along his shoulder blade. He ignores the pain, checks instinctively on Sam instead.
Sam is folding himself awkwardly into the Impala, blood running thickly down the side of his face from a cut above his eye. What troubles Dean the most isn't the injuries themselves, he knows how to handle those – it's the removed manner in which Sam wipes the blood away. Sam doesn't even flinch at the sight of his own bloodstained palm, merely places it carefully in his lap, palm face up, blood shining thickly in the dusk light. Before Sam manages to pull the door of the Impala closed, Dean is there, unable to hide concern for his little brother and secretly powerless to quell the fear that dwells within him.
Don't you dare quit on me, Sam.
"You're getting slack, kiddo."
The forced cockiness in his voice belies the concern, the fear.
It's meant to provoke Sam, though. It's meant to get a rise out of him, meant to make his little brother playfully punch him in the arm, call him a jerk and smirk knowingly at his older brothers' stupid wit.
It doesn't work.
Sam just gazes out the windshield of the Impala, eyes devoid of anything that resembles emotion. He's just gone, no spark, no energy, nothing.
Dean reaches a hand to the cut above Sam's eye, but Sam retreats from his touch as though burned. Dean pretends he doesn't care, snorts half-heartedly, and moves to the drivers' side, slipping carefully behind the wheel, hoping his busted shoulder will allow him to keep his car on the road.
Minutes of silence pass as Dean drives them back to their hotel room, more silence as he unloads the trunk. Moving inside their small room, Dean dumps the duffel of weapons beside the doorframe and scrubs a hand wearily over his face, feeling three days worth of stubble and the beginnings of a headache.
He turns to his brother, ignoring the ache in his head and the steady throb of his shoulder. Sam is sitting on one of the two double beds crammed into their tiny room. The blood on Sam's face has dried now, leaving a dark brown stain in its wake. Sam doesn't seem to care, just sits.
"You hungry?"
Dean's voice sounds abnormally loud in the silence that seems to follow them everywhere these days.
There's no response. Dean expects this, but it still twists his insides when Sam's like this – so empty, so devoid of everything that makes him Sam. It makes him want to punch his little brother, anything to reach him, anything to get a reaction.
The unexplained absences begin four months after Sam dropped that coffee cup in the hospital. After Sam held the still-warm body that once housed his father.
Every time Dean finds Sam, he's been missing for longer, and it's taken Dean a few more days to find him. Dean knows that each time he finds Sam alive; it's one more time that could be the last. One more time that could be the one when he'll find Sam but it'll be too late anyway.
This time, he's lucky, he's made it in time – barely. In four long strides, Dean crosses the small hotel room and moves gingerly yet determinedly towards the huddled frame of his brother. Sam is on the floor and has wedged himself into the corner of the room, his back forced into the angle where the walls meet, his knees drawn into his chest. It's as if he's trying to make his large frame as small as possible. Dean can't ignore the way Sam is rocking himself, back and forth to some erratic rhythm that only he can hear. He reaches a hand to Sam's shoulder and inhales sharply when his brother retreats even further into the corner, into himself. With both hands this time, Dean reaches for Sam's shoulders and ignores the resistance, fights Sam's desperate struggles and squeezes his brother's shoulders gently, reassuringly.
It's me, Sammy.
Sam hasn't looked Dean in the eyes the whole time, instead keeping his head tucked into his chest, his unruly mop of hair hiding his face. But Sam lifts his head now.
And it hits Dean like a round of rock-salt to the chest.
Tears fall freely down Sam's face, and all Dean can see is pain and guilt, guilt that is eating away at his brother. Sam's eyes, no longer luminous green, are a muted shade of their former glory, red from the tears, from hours of crying. The black circles around his eyes seem darker, but it's because his skin is so pale, every mark stands out like a tattoo.
"I killed them, Dean."
It's so soft that Dean nearly misses it. Sam's voice is broken, defeated.
"Sam…"
Dean had found the bodies the day before. A young family, the father had been a hunter, someone else who dedicated their life to eliminating the evil that plagued the underbelly of the world. Someone who not only knew what lurked in the darkness, but who actively sought it out. Killed it.
The corpses were unrecognizable. It wasn't until Dean had burned the bodies and uttered a few solemn words that he let the fear grip him.
Fuck, Sam.
But Sam wouldn't do this. Not Sammy. And that was Dean's coping mechanism, he knew that deep down, his brother could never end a human life like that. He just couldn't.
"It was my fault, Dean!"
Sam is trying for conviction, but Dean hears the broken tone of Sam's words, undercut by Sam's complete and utter resentment of himself. He watches as Sam tries to stop the tears, tries to be brave for his big brother.
"No, Sam. You can't do this to yourself. You need to – "
"Dean, listen to me!"
Sam is crying freely now, his words a mixture of anguished noises amongst the sobs that wrack his body.
"I did it! There's no one else to blame but me!"
Dean still had his hands on Sam's shoulders, and he saw, as much as felt every one of Sam's sobs tear through him, felt the hurt coursing through his brother. He watched as Sam's head dipped again, watched the tears pooling on the front of Sam's shirt and it made him hurt, deep within himself. It made him ache for Sam, for the destiny Sam couldn't know, and the uncertainty that surrounded it. He cursed their father for showing them the darkness. He cursed himself for dragging Sam back into it, and he cursed the yellow-eyed demon for everything else.
Suddenly Sam is looking straight at him.
"You can't stop this, Dean. You can't save me from this; this is who I am now. I'm a killer. That's all I'll ever be."
Dean feels the tears thick behind his eyes, and it's like Sam is dying right in front of him.
"No, Sam!"
He knows the grip on Sam's shoulders must be painful, but it's as if this contact is reassuring him that his words are true. That if he feels Sam's heartbeat beneath his hands, his words are being heard, his words are penetrating Sam's defenses.
"You're not a killer, Sam. You're my brother. I've seen you at your worst, when no one else in the world could understand you, I did. When you and Dad had some fucking ridiculous fight over god-knows-what, I was there. I've seen every part of you, Sam. And as much as you try to convince yourself otherwise, your destiny isn't darkness. It isn't in the hands of some yellow-eyed son of a bitch; it isn't beyond your control. And it sure as hell isn't going to change the person you are. And I know who you are, Sammy."
Dean's voice broke as he spoke the last words, his secret desperation to find his Sammy again leaking to the surface, betraying the exterior he worked so hard to keep up. The tears were falling freely now, but he didn't look away from his brother's eyes.
Sam's crying harder now, angry, bitter tears falling freely down his cheeks, but still, he never looks away from Dean's eyes. And for the first time in months, it's Sam, Sammy that Dean sees.
They stay in the hotel room that night and leave at sunrise the next morning, they know they need to keep moving.
It's not like Dean doesn't know. He knows that the darkness is forever nipping at their heels, always a breath away. He knows it will try to corrupt his brother, to turn Sam into the very thing they hunt, but Dean also knows it will never succeed. Not while he still has a breath to take. Not while he has a reason to fight, and a brother to fight for.
Comments are love!
Please allow me to live vicariously through your feedback – it is much appreciated! Any comments/criticisms are welcome.
Also, if you're a fan of the show, I'd love to chat with you - stuff about the show, our favourite brothers, the sexass that is Jared and Jensen...
And may the Powers That Be renew this fantastic show for another season – it more than deserves one.