12 hours. Dean had calculated how long it would take to get from the bunker to the ghetto where Metatron was waiting. He hadn't calculated the return trip however. Perhaps he'd known there wouldn't be one. At least not for him.
12 hours felt much longer when your only company was a dead body. 12 hours to dry the tears from your eyes. 12 hours continually glancing at your brother in the passenger seat, hoping he'd open his eyes.
"Stop worrying about me Sammy!" Another glance. Silence.
"I'm proud of us." Sam's eyes filled with fresh new tears as he began only the second hour of his journey.
"I'm proud of us too." It was a lame reply and much too late. There was so much more he'd wanted to say; about how much he really was proud of them, about how he'd tried so hard to live up to his brother, about how sorry he was. He'd tried hundreds of times to say it but each time the words would fail him or Dean would shrug it off.
"Don't get all mushy on me now, Sammy." But it needed to be said. Somehow or other, Sam had to say it. Dean couldn't die yet, not when all those unspoken words hung between them.
12 hours was plenty of time. Too much time. Time to go over all the times you've failed your brother. Time to replay them all in detail. Dean shouldn't have been the one bleeding all over the leather seat. It should've been Sam. So many times it should've been Sam but somehow Dean had been the one stuck cleaning up his mess. Now here he was paying for some other guy's mistakes. It hadn't been Sam this time but it didn't matter. Dean shouldn't be dead.
12 hours. His brain was running low on times he'd failed his brother and it'd only been four hours. He must've forgotten something. Not that it mattered. He looked at his brother. His brain began a new list. Dean had been cleaning up others messes ever since their mother had died. It had started with Sam and their father but it stretched far beyond. Dean seemed to think that family meant everyone stepping on you while you wipe up the trail of blood and tears they've left behind. And this new sacrifice had stretched beyond to a blue-eyed angel they'd somehow adopted into their pseudo-family.
12 hours can do quite the number on high emotions. His tears and guilt quickly shifted gears into anger. Why did Dean have to pay for all this? Why did he have to suffer the cost of heaven's mistakes? Sure he'd been the chosen one of God or whatever but wasn't that battle far over. Why did they keep coming back? Those dicks didn't deserve their help. Didn't deserve his life. The life of a man who compared to all the people he knew, was more of an angel than anyone who'd lived in heaven. So where were they when he needed them? Where were they?
12 hours can pass in a blur of fluctuating emotions. It was night when Sam pulled up in front of the bunker. He stumbled down the stairs under his brother's weight. Dean's head bobbed on his shoulders.
"This is awkward." Sam wondered if he was going crazy again. After all, the last time he'd heard voices in his head, Satan was trying to convince him he was still in hell. He dropped Dean into a chair and put his hands on his brother's shoulders, bracing himself as well as the body. He hated the way it slumped forward when he let go. It was much too undignified and much too real. After a moment's rest, Sam lifted the body again and lumbered towards Dean's room. He was almost to the doorway when he tripped and Dean's legs slipped from his grasp. They hit the ground with a thud. Sam whimpered and his eyes, which had been dry for so long, began to well up again. He swallowed the teary lump in his throat and dragged Dean to the bed. He hoisted the body up and stared at it. It lay unmoving on top of the blankets, eyes closed, arms at its sides. Sam let out a sob and fell into the chair in the corner of the room. When his eyes finally dried, not for the first time since it had all began, Sam looked up. Perhaps he had hope for some small miracle. But Dean was still dead. That's when it hit him. He needed a miracle. Dean had done this numerous times when Sam had suffered so he was surprised he hadn't thought of it right away. Hesitantly he kneeled beside the bed and awkwardly folded his hands. He closed his eyes and cleared his throat.
"Hey Cas," he said, "I know you're probably busy but I could really use your help right now." He listened for the rustle of wings. Moments passed. Silence. He opened his eyes. No angel stood there.
"Hey Cas," he tried again, "It's Sam. I know we don't talk much but I really need you… Now." Nothing. Sam stood up and raised his hands towards the ceiling.
"If any of you angels are listening. My brother needs your help."
"Hey dickbags. There's a guy down here who could really use a little healing."
"You know what fine. Ignore the guy who just saved all your asses. He's dead now!" Sam was yelling now. He cursed and threatened and screamed before falling back into the chair.
Whoosh! Sam's head shot up. Cas was leaning on the bed and staring at Dean. Sam leapt to his feet.
"Metatron told me what happened," Cas rasped. Sam was so happy to see the angel that it didn't even bother him that Cas had to wait to hear it from the murderer rather than Sam himself.
"You have to help him," he pleaded and in two strides stood by his brother. Cas stumbled over and Sam thought back to when he'd first seen the angel drunk. He ignored it. Cas placed his two fingers on Dean's head and closed his eyes. Sam's eyes flitted back and forth between the two faces. Nothing happened except for the occasional grimace from Cas. Then with a gasp, the angel stumbled back. Sam straightened up.
"What the hell happened?" Cas shook his head.
"I can't…" he whispered.
"What do you mean you can't? You have to help him."
"My grace," Cas replied, "It's fading."
"Listen to me," Sam stalked towards him, "it's your fault he's dead. You're gonna bring him back." Cas stared up at Sam with wide blue eyes and coughed. Blood spattered Sam's shirt. He stopped, looked at the blood stain, and stepped back, glancing at his brother.
"Go home, Cas," he said, dejectedly.
"But I have to help him."
"The best way you can help him is by getting better." Cas nodded and disappeared. Sam turned back to his brother and sighed.
Sam searched through every book on every shelf for something that could bring his brother back. He had always loved research until it came to times like this. Times when sitting and reading felt useless. The words on the page couldn't bring his brother back. His patience wore thin quickly and he found himself ripping pages and throwing books more often than actually reading them. After having emptied almost every shelf he stared at the dark room cluttered with papers and half-torn books. He gasped for air and something to cling too but his world seemed to be slipping. It was as if he stood on a small rock in the middle of a stormy sea. His cries for help were useless, blown away by the howling wind. Sam grabbed a bookshelf to steady himself and it shook. Glass rattled and Sam whirled around just in time to catch the bottle of whiskey and glass that had sat on the shelf he'd almost fallen on. The other glass fell with a crash to the ground and shattered into tiny pieces on and around Sam's boot. He fell into the nearest chair, stretching his legs across another and poured himself a drink. He downed it in one gulp before jumping up. The smell of dank useless pages or the darkness pressing down on him put Sam on edge. He needed to escape this large room which felt so cluttered and so empty at the same time. He found himself stumbling down the steps to the basement. It was then that he noticed it. He ducked into the dungeon and stood before a large bowl, surrounded by strange but familiar markings and smelling of sulfur.
"Damn it, Crowley," he muttered angrily, "You got him into this mess, you're going to get him out. Or so help me God..." Without finishing his sentence, Sam knelt down, pulled out his lighter and lit it, putting the flame into the bowl. Sparks spattered out and Sam waited. He whispered an incantation under his breath.
"Well, hello Moose." His suave British voice was his only fanfare. Not that he needed much more. He stood with his hands in his suit pant pockets and smiled. Sam stood up to his full height which had earned him the dumb nickname.
"Bring him back."
"I'm going to need a bit more context," he replied staring at his fingernails.
"I don't have time for your stupid games. Bring Dean back." Crowley smiled.
"What's in it for me?"
"My soul. Money. I don't care. Just. Bring. Him. Back."
"Tempting," Crowley muttered then stood for awhile as if considering it. Sam's hands clenched and unclenched as he glared at the demon.
"You got him into this you're damn well gonna help him out."
"Is that a threat?" Crowley asked, nonchalantly inspecting his fingernails.
"I'll kill you." Crowley chuckled.
"I suppose that's my cue to go." With a snap of his fingers, he disappeared. Sam picked up the bowl and threw it against the wall. It fell with a clang to the ground and Sam ran to pick it up and stuff the ingredients back in. It took him three clicks of the lighter to relight it and he spoke the incantation again. No one answered. He'd messed it all up. He kicked the bowl and thundered back up the stairs. He threw books onto the table and dug into the backs of shelves when he heard a strange sound coming from the other room. He stiffened. He crept down the hall and peeked into Dean's room. His heart stopped. The bed was empty. It took only a few strides for Sam to stand at the bedside. A single piece of paper lay where his brother had been stretched out only moments before. Let me go, Sammy.