Summary : One minute they were arguing, and the next he was trying to save his brother's life.
A/N: This story is AU. No idea if the events herein would jive with SPN canon. This is 100% headcanon. If you don't like fics that step outside official canon, you might want to skip this one (but please give it a try if you want to). If you crave hurt/comfort, and don't care much which form it comes in, then I think this will be a good read for you.
It was an argument that had quickly spun out of control. That much Dean knew. The details of the argument were a little sketchy to him because the mark on his arm had come alive, burning with desire, and all of his focus had shifted to the struggle of not laying into his brother.
He had it under control, but, he really should tell Sam they needed to stop; he needed to stop. Because, if he was honest with himself, he wasn't entirely certain how much control he actually had over it. The monster living within him.
But, Dean's stubbornness and pride didn't want him to back down from the fight. He wasn't going to allow his little brother to tell him what he could, and could not do. Sam wasn't calling the shots for him, and anger over the little shit having the audacity to even try...
The thought stung deeply. That wasn't him. Those weren't his thoughts or opinions. That is when Dean knew that he'd let it go too far, and he had to put a stop to it. Quick.
But, then Sam said something in response to a hurtful, snide comment. Dean wasn't for certain what exactly he had said, but the look on his brother's face—god, he knew that look—just before he spoke, Dean could tell it has been a really low blow.
So, Sam retaliated.
And, that was it.
Dean's fist took on a life of its own, and the part of him that had zero control over the situation was devastated to watch it smash into his brother's face. He was horrified to hear the crackling sound that came with the impact.
Seeing Sam's head snap back from the force of the blow wasn't enough for him to regain control over his actions. The way his brother floundered backward into the table behind him, did nothing except entice his temper to spiral further out of control. The blood that gushed from Sam's broken nose inflamed the mark's need to kill.
He was fighting an internal battle with himself, but he could not grab the reins. The monster was unleashed, and no matter how shocked he was by his actions, the searing-hot rage that was flowing through his veins overrode everything else. It moved through him, poisoning his mind, paralyzing his heart and locking his true self far away from his brother.
Exactly the opposite of where he needed to be in order to stop the assault.
Sam crashed into the wooden chair behind, and slumped over it. Blood flowed freely from his nose, ran down his face, and dripped onto the tabletop with large splats. He turned to look over his shoulder, and the fear that Dean was eager to see in his brother's eyes was non-existent. There was only sadness and concern. For him.
Dean heard himself growl as he moved in for another attack.
Gushing, broken nose or not, Sam got his footing back and pushed off the chairback. He blocked Dean's first punch, then his next, and then another. His brother was trying to talk to him, trying to reach him, as he refused to fight back.
The mark's fury billowed and swelled within, supplying Dean with greater strength, greater stamina, and even less control.
More blocks were delivered alongside words of loyalty and trust; words of faith in his brother. But, they had no effect.
Pain and blood loss was making Sam move slower, and Dean waited. He waited for that one chink in his defense. And, when he saw it, the mark surged with desire and lust for the slaughter.
A double uppercut landed with inhuman speed, drawing out a hard grunt from his brother. Sam stumbled back a few steps, but started to turn toward him again, and that's when Dean's hand reached out for the whiskey bottle.
Sam wasn't even facing him full on when Dean saw himself wield it against his brother. He brought it down with brutal force, using it to bash him on the side of the head. Sam was unconscious before he ever hit the floor.
It's true that the sight of his kid brother lying motionless on the wood floor, affected Dean. But, mostly it just swaddled him with a shroud of ecstasy, delivering with it a euphoria so unparalleled, so delicious, even the purest opiate couldn't compare.
It carried away his last bit of consciousness. Dean could see himself as he kicked Sam in the side over and over again, but it did nothing to faze him. He was floating, drifting; everything was peaceful. Everything was good. The mark was in full control of him and everything was as it was supposed to have been all along. Everything was perfect.
Until it wasn't.
Dean heard the mark roar with rage. It was warring against something and the diversion of its control and focus sent Dean crashing back down into himself. He was no longer floating in a serene mist of indulgence. Instead, he was listening to the mark erupt over whatever had come in between it and it's kill.
He was being restrained. Someone was pinning his arms to his sides from behind. He looked down to see their hands clenched together over his chest and the mark roared out again. It moved to throw them off, but he was yanked back, the arms around his increased their vice-like grip, inflicting pain and constricting his chest.
He wasn't sure if it was the pain or the inability to take a breath that finally put him within arm's reach of the driver's seat, but then he was there. Instead of being surrounded by the soothing thrum generated by the mark's power, he started to hear a familiar voice. The indignation and despair coming from that voice is what brought him back to full consciousness.
"—'re killing him, Dean! Stop! DEAN, STOP!"
The mark gave one last effort to regain control. It thundered and crashed inside of him, clawing for purchase within his mind, but it was too late. Dean was too close to the surface to ignore the voice belonging to the trench-coat-wearing arms, or pretend that he couldn't see Sam just to his right, covered in blood, and lying deathly-still.
He froze. This couldn't be real. This had to be a dream; a nightmare, because there was just no way that Dean had beaten his own brother to within an inch of his life. There was no way that Sam was covered in his own blood, lying in even more blood, and it was just not possible that he was hearing the raspy gurgle that came every time his brother tried to inhale. An involuntary function that Sam's body wasn't performing nearly well enough.
Cas was saying something, he didn't know what it was, and then he was being shaken, and the question was repeated. Dean's subconscious must have heard it that time, because he felt himself nod, but he still had no clue what Cas was saying. Because, the only thing he could hear was his brother struggling to breathe. His brother that still hadn't moved. And the last time he'd seen Sam lying that still was when he was in the hospital after the trials—dying.
Dean's knees gave out on him, sending him on an express route to the floor. He blinked, and then Cas was leaning over Sam, placing his hand against the blood coating his friend's forehead. The angel remained like that for a moment, but then he shouted with anger and frustration. He looked back at Dean and yelled something at him.
Dean blinked again, and then the angel was in his face, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and shaking him with gusto. He shouted in his face, and Dean's eyes made a sluggish attempt to focus in on his friend.
Castiel's eyes blazed with anger and urgency, and he all but screamed at him as he tried to get through to him.
"Are you listening?!"
Dean swallowed and nodded.
"Sam is going to die unless you help me. Your brother needs your help!"
The room was silent, and then Sam tried to breathe again and Dean was finally able to kick himself into motion. He pushed Castiel aside and scrambled on hands and knees the few feet over to his brother.
Sam way lying half on his side and half on his stomach, and he was such a mess that for a moment Dean was unsure of where to start. He looked up at Cas, "I take it you don't have enough juice to help him?"
Castiel's eyes were brimming with ire when his gaze flicked up to meet his, "Not enough to matter. I used up most of what I had while restraining you."
The brutal truth of the statement slammed into Dean's gut and the panic that blossomed from it was almost uncontrollable. His brother was bleeding, beaten almost to death because of him, and Cas didn't have enough grace left to heal even some of his injuries. Again, because of him.
Dean tore off his outer shirt and tried to mop up some of the blood flowing over his brother's face. He needed to see where he was bleeding from. It would help if he could remember what had happened when the mark had taken control, but it was lost to him.
Cas returned with some clean towels from the bathroom. When he had left to get them, Dean had no clue, but he tossed his ruined shirt aside and grabbed one.
After a couple of gentle swipes, Dean found the two-inch-long gash, not even a centimeter above Sam's temple. He had Castiel put pressure on that while he continued to triage his brother.
One look at Sam's nose was all he needed to know that it was most-positively broken. That Dean did remember. He hadn't been completely taken over by the mark at that point. He remembered the sound of his brother's nose breaking. He remembered Sam tumbling back against the table behind. He remembered the blood flowing down his face. He remembered charging after him, but after that, he had nothing.
Dean grabbed a towel and placed it over Sam's nose; cringing with sympathy when the bone shifted as he pinched the bridge.
Sam never flinched; never made a sound.
This was so much worse than bad, and he was now officially flat-out scared.
Barking at Castiel to use his other hand to keep pinching his brother's nose, Dean reached for Sam's pulse, and then shook his head. He was missing something. His pulse was too weak for it only to be a result of the obvious injuries. He was missing something, damn it!
Dean ran his hands down the length of the familiar, unnaturally-still body. He felt for breaks along his brother's arms and legs. Nothing shifted. Nothing felt swollen or radiated heat. He felt along Sam's rib cage, but again, nothing shifted.
It was when he had leaned over, slipping his hand between the floor and his brother's stomach, that he found what he was looking for. Cursing out loud, he probed the area again.
"Fuck—FUCK!"
"What?" Castiel asked, looking sharply from Sam, up to him, "Dean; what?"
Dean didn't look at the angel as he was gathering his brother's limp body into his arms, "He's bleeding internally. A lot."
Dean took care as he placed Sam's head in the crook of his arm, and then slipped an arm under his knees. His brother might be thin and lanky, but he was all muscle, and Dean groaned from the strain of picking the both of them up off the floor.
Castiel moved in to stand opposite of him, taking part of his burden in his own arms, and helping him to stand. Once Dean was up, he heaved his brother up to get a better hold on him, and then took off for the garage.
When Castiel had found Dean, he'd been standing against a pillar, gazing out of the sixth-floor window, and trying to lose himself in the nightscape outside. He'd lost track of how long he'd been there in that same position, but from the way his legs and feet had gone from aching, to throbbing, and then finally to being numb all together, Dean knew it had to have been hours.
He didn't know what time it was, he didn't know when he'd come screaming into the Emergency Room, he wasn't even sure when Sam had come out of surgery. All Dean knew for sure was, Sam was lying in the ICU, recovering from an operation to fix a tear in his spleen that Dean had given him.
Castiel, their "oldest brother" where the medical staff was concerned, had been sitting with Sam since he'd been brought up from recovery. Dean hadn't seen his brother since he'd been rushed off for surgery. He couldn't. He wouldn't allow himself near him, for his protection; and because he just couldn't face him.
The angel walked up beside him and stood there with him in silence for a while. When he finally spoke, his eyes remained watchful over the city.
"Sam is awake. It will take a while, but the surgeon said he would recover."
Relief washed over him followed by guilt and sorrow, the negative emotions crushing his heart. There was never a time, when it was within Dean's power, to remain at his brother's bedside, but had not. There was never a time he wasn't the first one Sam would see after coming back around. Until tonight.
"He's asking for you."
That had Dean turning away from the window to find his friend looking at him. Dean searched the angel's eyes and then shook his head, "No. It's not safe. I can't—"
Dean cut himself off, shaking his head, and looked back outside again.
"You can't; or you won't?"
Dean heard the implication loud and clear and spun back around, "Did you somehow miss how close I came to killing my brother?" He stared hard into the angel's blue eyes, "Did you space-out while telling the doctor down in the ER how the mugger had overpowered Sam, and had been kicking him in the stomach over, and over, and over?"
Castiel frowned when Dean's voice cut out over the last two words, and he placed a hand on his arm, "This wasn't your fault, Dean."
"The hell it wasn't!" He shouted, ripping his arm from the comforting gesture. He didn't deserve the angel's pity; and he didn't want it. He turned around and began to strut off, but then spun back around, thrusting a finger at the other man's chest, "You stopped me from killing my brother, Cas. I was killing him; just like Cain said I would."
"Dean, I have no belief that you will kill Sam. What Cain said doesn't matter—"
"It does! It has to! Because, if you hadn't walked in and stopped me, Sam would be dead. No two ways about it. He would be dead." He turned and pointed at the double doors leading to the ICU, "Not recovering from surgery, not dealing with a grade three concussion and a broken nose. The most important thing in the world to me, would be dead—Dead, Cas—and, it would have been by my own hand."
Dean sighed, feeling completely helpless. "I just can't risk it. I can't put him at that risk. I have zero control over this thing," Dean said, pointing at the mark lying beneath his sleeve.
"That's not true. It does not control you—"
"It does, Cas. Otherwise tonight would have never have happened."
Castiel took a step closer, making it impossible for Dean to look anywhere but at him. "If the mark were truly in control of you, and you fully under its power, I would not have been able to stop you, Dean."
The angel paused and let that sink in for a beat, "I am working on borrowed grace, and I'm not at my full strength. I would not have been able to stop you. You stopped because you were able to regain control over the mark. You stopped because you willed yourself to."
Dean tried to turn away, but Castiel grabbed his arm and spun him back around, "You stopped because your will to not harm your brother is stronger than the mark's lustful desire for Sam's blood."
They stood there, practically nose-to-nose with each other. The silence of the corridor made his ears ring as Castiel's words and his own beliefs warred it out in his heart, over his brother.
The hand that had gripped his arm hard enough to bruise, moved up to this shoulder and gave him an affectionate squeeze, "You're afraid. I understand that. But, you have more power over the mark than you give yourself credit for. No more harm will bestow upon your brother tonight, because you won't allow it. I believe in you. Sam believes in you—"
The guilt and pain over those last words were just too much to bear and Dean closed his eyes, holding in his emotions.
Castiel squeezed his shoulder again, "Your brother needs you, Dean. If you are truly concerned for his well-being, do not deny him the one thing that he needs most right now."
Breathing out a conflicted sigh, Dean shook his head and looked at the angel. He looked over his shoulder at the doors to the ICU, and then back. When he began to speak, his throat closed up and he could barely get the words out. "Don't you leave him alone with me."
Castiel nodded in understanding, "I will remain by Sam's side at all times."
Dean's brows pulled together in a worried scowl, "I mean it, Cas. Not for one second. If anything seems even the slightest bit off, I need you to promise me you'll step in before anything happens; that you'll keep Sam safe. Whatever the cost. Whatever you think; whatever Sam says. You keep him safe."
Castiel looked hard into Dean's eyes and nodded again, "I give you my word, if I feel you pose any threat to Sam, I will not hesitate to smite you."
Dean did a double-take at his friend's words, "Okay…, not exactly how I would have worded it, but good to know we're on the same page."
Dean smirked at his friend's solemn expression of understanding, and allowed himself to be turned toward the double doors at the end of the hall.
Castiel entered a numeric code on the keypad by the doors. It was one that he'd been given by the staff, and one that Dean had refused to know.
"Just out of curiosity," Dean said as they entered the unit. "How exactly would you 'smite' me."
Castiel looked over at him with near-enthusiasm, "There are many ways to choose from."
Dean's eyebrows rose toward his hairline, "That so?"
The angel leaned in toward his friend, nodding, as the heavy doors were swinging closed, "The possibilities are practically endless."
TBC...
