No Life Without You

By Nebula (authoressnebula)

.com

He'd forgotten how much, even while they were fighting with each other, even while they were being nasty and hurtful to each other, how very protective Dean still could be.

And he'd forgotten how the worst things happened when they didn't make peace with each other.

A poltergeist in an old abandoned house wasn't anything out of the ordinary, which let them stay angry. Sam still wanted to find Dad; Dean still wanted to follow Dad's orders blindly. They snapped at each other as they hurried to get the banishment spell together, and when the poltergeist shrieked and disappeared in a strong gust of wind, the silence wasn't welcome.

The sudden fire, as their candles were knocked over and easily lit the old wooden floor, wasn't welcome either.

Sam instinctively threw his arm up to protect himself. Dean shouted at him, and Sam scrambled to gather up their guns and Dad's journal before following Dean down the stairs. The fire spread fast, and the floor they'd stood on a moment before was now the ceiling, raining pieces of burning wood down on them. They hurried for the door, dashing through the living room as glass broke around them.

A large piece of wood fell in front of Sam, bringing him to a halt. He shielded himself, then instinctively looked up.

And froze. Because all he saw was Jess, burning away on the ceiling as he'd tried to get to her. Somewhere distant, he heard Dean yelling again, further shoving him back into the nightmarish memory.

Dean's hands were suddenly there, pushing him instead of pulling, and Sam flew through one of the broken windows and down a small drop to the ground. He scrambled to his feet, doing the yelling this time instead of Dean, but all he saw was the mound of ceiling that had fallen, burning merrily away. The ceiling that Dean had shoved him out of the way of. The ceiling that wasn't moving as if someone underneath were trying to fight free. Sam ran back towards the window, and sudden flames sprang up, pushing him back and away from Dean. Even as he stumbled away, he could still see the mound of ceiling disintegrating, nothing more than a pile of blackened wood and ash.

Just the ceiling. Not Dean. Not anymore.

Sam didn't remember how he'd left. In the Impala, presumably, since it was parked outside their room. His room. Not Dean's anymore.

Because Dean had gone up in flames, just like everyone else.

Sam shuddered and sank further into the chair. He could still smell the smoke and ashes, despite the three scalding showers he'd taken. Maybe he should take a cold shower instead.

In front of him was the television, the news relating the terrible tragedy of the old house. When they began to interview the fire chief and asked him if there'd been anyone inside, Sam hit the off button hard. The remote stayed in his hand for a long moment, before he hurled it at the television, shattering the glass and sending sparks flying. It'd be ironic, in a funny sort of way, if he went up in flames, and he gave a hysterical laugh at the thought.

The laugh faded into a sob, and Sam buried his face in his hands. Everywhere in the room was Dean, from his duffel bag to his dirty towels left on the bathroom floor. Everywhere except where he was needed most, and the thought made Sam's stomach turn again.

He couldn't stay. He just...couldn't.

He gathered up everything that was his and headed out to the Impala, before stopping dead in his tracks. The Impala. Dean's car. And he was betting, since he'd driven it back, that it would still smell like ashes and death.

He stumbled back inside in time to be sick in the sink. A glass of water, a towel to wipe down his face, and a long look in the mirror finally got him settled. Nothing like staring at red eyes and insurmountable grief to make you want to move.

The small truck to the right was rusted red, an old banged-up Ford, and Sam figured it was past its years. Whoever it belonged to could get something new. The truck bed was empty, the cabin was remotely clean, and in a few seconds it was revved to go. He put it in reverse and backed it out, then stopped. The door. He had to close the door.

He moved back to the room and wrapped his hand around the doorknob, then stared at Dean's open duffel on his bed. The ache in his chest made him physically bend over at the realization that Dean was gone. Dean wasn't coming back. Dean was gone.

And Dean had always thought he was the only one who needed his brother.

Unable to help himself, he stepped back inside and over to the duffel. For all his bad habits about cleanliness, Dean's shirts and pants inside were rolled neatly, and Sam let his shaking hand roam over them. The plaid shirt on top was Dean's favorite—besides the one he'd worn that day, the one that was still probably burning—and Sam quickly grabbed the shirt and pulled it out, then headed back out again with it in his hands. The door was shut, and in less than a minute, Sam was heading down the road.

It was around one in the morning when he finally started searching for a motel. They'd started the job in the morning, knowing a late-night foray into the house would alert the authorities, who were already keeping a close eye on the place. Local teens had gone inside and stirred the damn thing up, and Sam felt a sudden irrational anger toward them because if they hadn't gone in, then Dean would never have noticed the story in the paper, and they never would've driven there, and Dean wouldn't be dead.

Except the blame for Dean was all on him. If Sam hadn't frozen, Dean wouldn't have had to shove him out of the way. And Dean would still be alive, and they'd be driving down the road together, and Sam wouldn't be driving a rusted old truck down an empty road alone.

His vision blurred past the point of clarity, and Sam blinked furiously to see. His chest began to shake, his eyesight only getting worse, and Sam finally pulled off to the side of the road and put the truck in Park. He glanced over to his right, and the empty seat felt like condemnation. He was utterly alone. No big brother.

No Dean.

He brought Dean's shirt up to his face and smelled laundry detergent, leather, gunpowder, and his brother's aftershave. It was every scent he'd ever put down as Dean, and Sam leaned his forehead against the wheel and let tears roll down his face.

The sudden shrill sound of his cell phone made him inhale sharply and glance to where it lay on the seat. The caller ID showed an unknown number.

Sam slowly reached over and stared at it in his hand, then brought the phone to his ear. "Hello."

"Sir, this is Helen from Crensdale Hospital. I'm calling in regards to—"

Sam ended the call and tossed the cell phone back onto the other seat. Half of him expected Dean to catch it, and the dull thud of it hitting cold leather made him shut his eyes tight again.

Going off to college had been easy. Somewhere in the back of Sam's mind, Dean had been whole, healthy, and uninjured, even if that hadn't really been the case. In his mind, Dean had always been safe, always been alive. But now, now he knew otherwise, knew Dean was really gone.

He put the pickup back into Drive and kept going.

A little after two, Sam pulled into a motel and swayed in front of the desk until the clerk asked if he wanted one bed or two. He knew that, logically, the single cost a little less, would make more sense, would be easier to maneuver around.

He got the double, and both keys in his palm felt like they were burning.

Sam stumbled down to the room that was now just his, whether there were two beds or not, and he leaned his head against the door and took deep breaths. If he closed his eyes hard enough, he could imagine Dean closing the car door and coming up beside him, asking him if he was okay, joking that Sam was blocking the doorway, hand on his shoulder to guide him inside.

The tears almost hurt in his swollen and gritty eyes, and Sam finally opened them, let himself inside the room, then shut the door behind him. The room was dark and empty. Quiet.

Not the best place given his headspace at the moment, but a noisy, crowded area would've just made him search for Dean in the din, because that was what Dean did, flirted and was loud and obnoxious, shouted when he was angry, but was quiet and soft when he was really worried, and the duffel bag slid from Sam's shoulder to the floor.

And suddenly he knew he couldn't do this alone. The room was too empty, the silence a roar in his ears, and he had to get out. He tossed the bags haphazardly into the room, not even looking where they went, and turned around, feeling in his pocket with trembling fingers for the key he'd just used.

He opened the door, and froze for the second time that day. Because Dean was right in front of him, hand raised to knock. There was a patch of burned skin on Dean's cheek, his knuckles the same as his face, but the frown between his eyebrows was so familiar and so Dean, the pursed lips a sure sign of frustration, anger, and more than a little worry. "Sam?" he asked. "'The hell, man?"

He reached for Sam, but Sam was already backing away, jerking from his touch. The anger faded away from Dean's face, leaving only the growing concern, and when he called Sam's name again, softer this time, the room began to spin. "No," Sam managed to get out. "No, I can't...I can't do this, I..."

Dean was gone. Dean was dead. The universe couldn't give him back just to take him away again, and Sam couldn't stand it if this wound up being a figment of his imagination. Dean reached out again, his worry deepening, and when Sam quickly stepped away from his touch, he stumbled over the duffel bag he'd dropped and landed on the floor. He stared up at Dean, Dean with his worry reaching the point of panic, through his tears, the narrowing tunnel vision, because Sam realized he couldn't breathe, and his chest was too tight and shuddering as it tried to force him to cry and break.

Dean moved again, and Sam desperately tried to scramble backward, but Dean was faster. He was on his knees with his arms wrapped around Sam before Sam could get away. Sam pushed and kicked and gasped out no and don't and I can't, and Dean only held him tighter and bent down to whisper in his ear, "I'm right here, Sammy."

It was the "Sammy" that let Sam finally take a breath in, only to let it out with a sob. Then he was pulling and grasping and choking out don't go and you were dead and Dean, and Dean pulled him up close enough for Sam to smell the lingering scent of smoke and the unmistakable smell of a sterile hospital.

And further underneath those scents was the leather and the gunpowder and the aftershave, and Sam buried his face in Dean's neck and cried.

It was later, when Sam could breathe again and his fingers were wound so tightly around Dean's shirt they had long since gone numb, that Dean quietly began talking. Shoving Sam out of the way of the falling ceiling, another chunk hitting Dean in the shoulder and hurling him off to the side and away from the burning mound of wood. Getting dizzy but working his way out of the house in time for the fire department and the paramedics to arrive, and seeing no sign of the Impala. Riding to the hospital to be treated for first-degree burns and smoke inhalation, and finding his cell phone trashed. Having the hospital try to call, and when that didn't work, signing himself out to find Sam.

The empty and trashed motel room. The Impala there, and Sam gone. The man three doors down complaining to the authorities about his truck being missing. Aiming the Impala in the direction witnesses had seen the truck go. Searching motel parking lots along the highway until he'd spotted the pickup outside Sam's room.

Sam closed his eyes as Dean explained, and when Dean asked him what he'd done, he only shook his head. Dean huffed a sigh, a front of irritation, and it made Sam want to cry again.

"Did you get hurt?" Dean asked a moment later. The annoyance was obvious in his voice, but it was the hidden worry that made the words so very Dean. What Sam had missed for many cold, empty hours.

"You were dead," Sam whispered, his voice like gravel.

Dean fell silent after that, just held Sam tight and let Sam cling to him. Probably killing his legs and knees tucked beneath him, but he wasn't saying anything. He was just being Dean, the big brother who was brave and concerned and too protective for his own good, and Sam finally pushed away to meet Dean's gaze with his own. Dean's frown immediately came back, his eyes a little red-rimmed, and they widened when Sam punched him lightly in the chest.

"What—?"

"Don't do it again," Sam managed, and had to swallow hard, because Dean wasn't dead, he was alive, but the ache and the loneliness and the hurt of hours was hard to push away. "I mean it, Dean. Don't...don't ever be that stupid again."

Dean's frown slid away, and he gave a smile that looked just as tired and sad as Sam felt. "I'd still do it. I'll always do it." And before Sam could barely start shaking his head, he added quietly, "Because I can't lose you."

Sam stared at him, trying to find an answer, and his inhale shook and brought fresh tears to his eyes. Dean reached up and gently wiped them away with his thumb, and the thought of Dean not being there to do that, of Sam sitting alone on the floor of some random motel room made him choke around a building sob. "Then you leave with me, because I can't lose you either. I can't, Dean."

The nod Sam was waiting for finally came, and Sam closed his eyes, suddenly feeling incredibly tired. He was pulled up and guided over to one of the beds, his hoodie removed and his shoes tugged off. The blankets were laid over him, and when nothing happened, Sam fought to open his eyes past the sudden sleepiness. "Dean," he whispered.

Dean came into view out of the darkness, sitting on the other bed. "I'm right here, Sammy," he said again. "I'll be right here when you wake up. Promise."

When he woke the next morning, not remembering when he'd fallen asleep, Dean was still right there, arranging the bags Sam had tossed into the room the night before. Only when he found his plaid shirt did he pause and glance at Sam. There was no condescension in his face, nothing but understanding. He left it out, and didn't say anything when Sam took it and put it on to wear for the day. Didn't say anything about the bags being thrown around, or Sam leaving him behind, or Sam freezing when he'd caught sight of the ceiling. When Sam tried to bring it up, Dean only shook his head with a smile Sam hadn't seen since Jess's funeral.

He'd forgotten how little the arguments and fights and nasty words between them mattered.

He'd forgotten how much, even while his brother pissed him off and drove him nuts and followed Dad blindly, Dean was still always there for Sam, that he needed Sam.

And he'd forgotten how much he always needed his brother, too.

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