Title: You're Losing Your Memory Now
Summary: He couldn't take having a blood-lusting demon for a brother, so he had told Crowley to do whatever he could, as long as it didn't kill him. This wasn't what he meant. Post-Season 9 finale.
Characters/Pairings: Sam, Dean, some Crowley and Castiel.
Warnings: Character death.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Author's Note: OH MAH GOD. IT'S FINALLY DONE. IT'S FINALLY DONEEEE!
I've worked really hard on this. Weeks and weeks and weeks of pushing through often-zero-motivation and hopelessness. And now it's finished! And, well, I hope you enjoy it. :)
I've had the idea for a long time. I got it before Dean became a demon, and it was supposed to be written then. But I was too lazy to start. Plus school *rolls eyes*. And then the writers dropped this OHMYGODWHATTHEHELL bombshell on us, and there were had to be a lot of changes to the original plotline. Although the idea's still the same. It's not everything that I wanted it to be, but I did my best here. And I hope it's enough!
Title emerged from the song 'Losing Your Memory' by Ryan Star.
Thank you, thank you, thank you so much, MagicGirl41, for betaing the story for me. *hugs*
Anti-flamers zone. Constructive criticism is welcome, but please be polite.
You're Losing Your Memory Now
"You know he'll slaughter every one of your demons, Crowley. You know he can," Sam warned solemnly as he looked at the demon dead in the eye. "You know he will."
Crowley gazed back at him for a long while, hands buried deep into his pockets. Then his chin lifted slowly as he shifted on his feet in consideration.
"So don't stand there and tell me that he's not your problem. Because he can destroy you in ways that he never could have as a human."
He paused, and heaved a large breath that caused his entire chest to expand, and then deflate again as he released the air slowly through his nose. He closed his eyes, silently hoping that this wouldn't be another let-down. "I've tried everything. I've locked him down, and he just tore the door off its hinges. I've tried curing him with my blood, and he just laughed. I've searched the entire internet, scoured almost every book in the bunker that seemed relevant to our situation, and I found nothing. Now, you're the only person who can help me, Crowley."
"And why do you think so?" Crowley challenged, narrowing his eyes and tilting his cheek a bit sideways in question, a small smug smirk playing on one corner of his mouth.
"Because you're a demon too. A demon who has been around for a long time. Long enough to have a few tricks up his sleeve," Sam answered easily, as if he had every answer rehearsed. "I know you know something."
"I know plenty, Moose," Crowley replied simply.
"So you'll help me?" Sam asked hopefully.
"Only because it'll help me," Crowley prompted.
"Fine then," Sam nodded slightly, once. "Do whatever you can, as long as it doesn't kill him. You do that, and we'll never come after you. Do we have a deal?"
Crowley smirked. "We have a deal."
...
"What were you doing down there?" Dean inquired as he met his brother half-way down the stairs.
"Nothing important," Sam replied dismissively, pushing past him.
"You hiding things from me again, little brother?" Dean provoked, smirking widely with a hint of malice in it as he saw Sam stop in his tracks. "You know how that works out, don't you? Ruby, demon blood, soulless you and all that."
"Don't forget about Gadreel," Sam retorted, without turning around. "Remember how you shoved an angel down my throat and lied to me about it for months, Dean?"
Dean smiled in an almost mock-nostalgic way. "Yeah, I remember. Good to know I could get a little payback for all those times you've let me down."
Sam snarled angrily, ready to spin around and give it back to Dean, before he stopped himself as he caught on and realized, yet again, what was going on. He cursed himself for taking the bait, and felt slightly upset that they were both still holding on to each other's mistakes even after everything that had happened. But it seemed that ever since the Mark had darkened his brother's soul and turned him into a demon, Dean had been deliberately trying to pick a fight with him. Dean's craving for violence and battle, little or huge as that may be, was making him more violent by the day. It was getting extremely hard to forgive and forget Sam's grudges against his brother, no matter how much he tried to do just that.
"Whatever. I'm really not in the mood for this," Sam said, swallowing the sudden onslaught of anger and irritation burning in his veins. "I'm going to do some research."
Dean snorted. "If you're still trying to cure me of my new, demonic nature, I'm telling you this again, Sammy, forget it. Because it's not happening. You've already tried everything, and you still got nothing. You can't do anything to make me change back."
Sam inhaled a sharp breath through his nose, and rolled his shoulders. "Watch me."
...
Crowley told him to bring Dean to an empty warehouse just on the outskirts of Lebanon, five days after their conversation. Sam didn't know what the demon had in mind, and spent a few minutes trying to figure out what it could be after the phone call. He came up blank, and he thought, not for the first time, how stupid he was being by trusting a demon in this way again, even after he had learned his lesson five years ago on how manipulative and deceiving they can be. But there was nothing else, and this was all he had, his one last hope to save the brother who had never given up on him.
So, he went along with it, foolishly holding faith in a demon who had no problems in breaking it.
...
"It's just some abandoned house, Sam. There's nothing here," Dean pointed out, looking at him as if he was insane. "Unless you're hallucinating again, somehow."
Sam ignored the jarring reference back to that painful time. "I got a call from another hunter. Said there's something important here that we need to check out."
"What, decades old dust bunnies and cobwebs?" Dean asked sarcastically, rolling his eyes.
"Just bear with me," Sam snapped exasperatedly, his brother's reluctance and remarks getting on his nerves. "He's a reliable source. Pretty sure he wouldn't have called us here if it wasn't something worth looking into." He felt slightly guilty for his lies, but he knew it was necessary. He doubted Dean would listen if he told him the whole truth.
"Fine," Dean relented, slamming his car door shut, and he started heading towards the house. "This better be as 'important' as your hunter friend insists. Or else, I'll go after him next."
...
They entered the house, and for a moment, there was no one. Silence reigned.
"Well?" Dean asked, raising his eyebrows as he swiveled on his heel to face him.
Sam looked around, eyebrows furrowed, confused. "I-I don't..."
And then it happened.
About twelve people appeared out of the dark shadows tinging the corners and edges, hands outstretched towards Dean as they chanted words in a foreign language that Sam couldn't understand. He noticed the fearful tremble in their hands and their voices, the terrified tone of someone threatened with something grave (something like eternal torture) if they didn't comply, and he figured Crowley must have done just that.
He still had no idea what the hell was going on.
"Crowley, what the hell-"
His ears suddenly exploded with almost inhuman screaming, loud and anguished and nothing like Dean, agony coloring every decibel.
Sam's eyes snapped down beside him, where Dean had been, and found his brother on his knees, hands grasping his head, fingers knotted tightly in his hair. Dean's face was split with agony as he fell hard on his side, still clutching at the sides of his head, and then stopped, strangled gasps still ripping out of him. He curled his legs into himself, tucking them as close to his chest as possible and straining to lean his forehead on his knees, as if that could somehow drive out the pain.
Sam rushed towards him, by his side in two seconds, and placed a hand on his shoulder, worry and anxiety full-blown on his face. "Dean!" he yelled, receiving only an agonized groan in response, and then his head whipped up and he glared at Crowley, who was standing behind two of his witches. "What the hell are you doing, Crowley? Tell them to stop!"
"I'm keeping up my end of the deal, Moose," Crowley explained in the midst of furious chanting, ignoring the desperate and enraged demand. "You told me to do whatever I can, as long as it doesn't kill him. That's exactly what I'm doing."
Dean went silent, muscles relaxing as he fell limp under Sam's palm.
Around the same time the witches dropped to the ground.
Dead.
...
Crowley had disappeared soon after, leaving Sam surrounded by deceased witches in an almost perfect circle.
But at that moment, he didn't care.
Sam pressed his palm down a little more on his brother's shoulder, his other hand coming to rest on Dean's rising chest. He felt Dean's demonic heart still beating behind his sternum, and Sam released the breath he was holding inside, a long whoosh through his mouth. His eyes slipped shut in relief.
...
Sam was pacing at the foot of Dean's bed, worrying out of his mind and wondering what the hell was wrong. It was what Sam had been wondering ever since he had seen Dean shivering and sweating in the passenger seat on the way home, burning with fever. (Demons weren't supposed to shiver and sweat and have fevers. It was too human and it made Sam's heart hurt with longing.)
Dean finally stirred, fingers twitching as his head rolled a bit to the side, features twisted with what seemed to be pain and confusion and concentration, causing the lines on his pale face to deepen. Sam was beside him in a second, eyes slightly wide with keen intent as he watched his brother's struggles to awaken. "Dean?" he asked hesitantly, his hand finding his shoulder once again. "Dean, can you hear me?"
Sam was beside him in a second, eyes slightly wide with keen intent as he watched his brother's struggles to awaken. "Dean?" he asked hesitantly, his hand finding his shoulder once again. "Dean, can you hear me?"
"Wh..." Dean mumbled incoherently, his tone puzzled, his hazel-green eyes still half open, though they languidly swiveled to his brother and struggled to fix on his face none the less. "Wh...h'pp'n..."
Sam had been asking the same question himself.
He still hadn't didn't come up with an answer.
...
"What do you want, Moose?" Crowley questioned, irritant and with zero-patience as if he didn't have time for any of this and had somewhere to be. "I did what you asked, followed all the rules - "
"What the hell did you do to my brother?" Sam hissed angrily, his nostrils flaring dangerously at the demon. His fists twitched at his side, ready to beat the answers out of the demon with his bare hands if another second was wasted.
"He's not dying, if that's what's getting you all hot and bothered," Crowley said, rolling his eyes. "Now, if you would scrape off the paint from this bloody demon trap - "
"Then what is it doing to him?" Sam cut in once again, his tone sharp and still furious.
That caused the demon to smile, in a leisure and 'I-know-something-you-don't' way, and Sam could tell he was going to enjoy telling him the answer. But not before playing around a bit. "Well, Moose. I did what I needed to do, and gave you what you wanted along the way... sort of. Still, it's a win-win. Anything I could, as long as he doesn't dance the last dance, am I right?"
"What. The hell. Did you do?" Sam bit out, teeth gritted in frustration and anger. His curled fingers dug deep into his palm until all the blood rushed out of his knuckles, his entire body shaking with full rage. His jaw was clenched tightly, the muscles on his face tense as impatience boiled vehemently inside him.
Crowley sighed. "You think I'll be telling you anything while I'm trapped here like this, my life at your mercy? Let me out, and you can find out."
"So, you did something douchey enough for me to want to kill you?" Sam asked, raising his eyebrows.
"Well, you could say that," Crowley assented in mock-thoughtfulness. He frowned and shrugged slightly, in a 'something-like-that' manner, his head tilted back almost casually.
"Then I guess I should just kill you, whether you tell me or not," Sam said nonchalantly, raising his chin in insouciant decision as the Angel blade slowly slipped out of his sleeve. He lifted the weapon and began striding forward.
"Wait, hold on!" Crowley exclaimed, ripping his hands out of his expensive, black trouser pockets and raising them up in a placating matter, before he spread out his arms. "I'm sure there's no need for demonicide here. We can sort this out like rational people, can't we?"
"You know us, Crowley. The Winchesters are the least rational people when the other one's hurt," Sam answered plainly.
"You kill me, how will you find out what's going on with your beloved big brother?"
Sam paused for a moment. "I'll figure it out."
"And who's going to tell you how to save him, Winchester?" Crowley disputed, challenging.
Sam stopped, stilling completely at that.
A slow, smug smile grew on Crowley's lips.
"Exactly," Crowley said triumphantly as he watched the hesitance in Sam's features, his brows melding and the line of his mouth tightening in thought. "You need me, Moose. Scrape off the paint, and you can know."
"Talk first," Sam demanded. "And I'll let you go."
Crowley laughed. "You think I haven't seen this one before? Come on, Moose. You can't think that I'll believe you."
"And you can't think that I'll believe you," Sam countered.
"Have I ever went back on a deal?"
"You're a demon."
"Don't be so racist. Now, I can do this all day. You know I can. So I'll be the peacemaker here and tell you not to waste your time, because we both know where this will end. I refuse to trust you, and you really want to know how to save your Rocky, and which one of us has more veracity in his words?" Crowley said.
Sam stared at Crowley doubtfully. The demon had already screwed Sam over once, and he wasn't willing to make the same mistake of trusting a demon thrice. But he was desperate, and even though it was that same thing that led him to shit the first two times, he needed to do this. This was the one and only way he knew to save Dean, and he had his back against the wall. This time, he didn't have any other choice.
Sam inched his boot up to the circle of red paint and, after one wary glance at Crowley, tentatively rubbed it with the tip of his sole, creating a small gap in the ward.
Crowley walked out with a smirk, clapping his hands once at his freedom.
"Talk," Sam ordered curtly, his near growl an angry rumble in his throat. "Tell me how I can fix my brother."
Crowley paused, before he released an almost pitiful sigh. "Well, here's the deal, Moose. You can't."
Sam's cheek tilted to the side bemusedly, his forehead creased. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
Crowley breathed a long-suffering sigh and rolled his eyes again. "How did a tall imbecile like you ever get accepted into one of the world's top Universities? Or figure out how to stop the bloody apocalypse? It means, Dean can't be saved," he rephrased the last words slowly, as if speaking to a child.
Sam fell silent for a moment, allowing the words to sink in.
And then inhaled heavily through his nose, his mouth pursed in a thin line.
"You're lying," he said resolutely, face blank and hard and chin thrust forward in determination.
"I'm not," Crowley answered simply.
"Goddamnit, Crowley! You just promised me a few minutes ago that you'll tell me how to save him!" Sam yelled, his hands curling into fists at his sides again.
Crowley raised his eyes up in exasperation and impatience, before looking back at Sam, eyes ablaze. "Listen to me, Winchester. Your brother's losing his mind, and I don't mean in the loony way, but more like Alzheimer. Except more painfully. That curse is going to burn away every one of his memories, to the point where it won't even seem familiar when you mention it again. It's going to make him forget every single thing he's ever known and learned, including how to bloody move. There's no way you can reverse the spell, and the sooner you accept that, the better," Crowley hissed ardently.
"No. There's always a cure for every curse, and you'll find it if you want to live," Sam spat vehemently, glaring at him, the sinister snarl twisting his mouth and his savage tone threatening with a promise of violence.
"For Hell's sakes! It took twelve witches for the bloody spell to work! You think magic like that doesn't come with a few perks, Brainy?" Crowley sneered. "As soon as those witches drop dead, it's the point of no return. The curse is irreversible. And the only way to save him? Is to kill him."
With that, the demon disappeared, leaving him with lost hopes and broken faith once again.
...
It happened just as Crowley had said.
Dean began to forget.
Sometimes, it was only a few days at once, whereas other times, it was weeks. There were times when the memory lapse stretched out into months, until suddenly, it became a full year of all memories lost. Sam felt every loss weigh on his chest, knowing Dean would never get them back (never get them back because of him).
Not until he found something. Something that would make his brother okay again.
"Z-Z'ke?" Dean whispered, squinting at him. "S'mmy? S'he... s'he a'right? S'he...s-s'he gettin' b...b'tt'r?" Dean swallowed hard, his shaky throat visibly bobbing. "H's... h-he's gon-g'nna be 'kay, righ'?" There was deep fear and crushing anxiety in his stuttered and slurred words, and Sam's heart clenched as he swallowed thickly, wondering if this was how his brother truly felt when he was dying in that coma. Wondering if this was Dean, stripped off all defensive layers and false masks and pretenses that he hid behind, and now showing him what he really looked like underneath it all.
Somehow, the answer came to his mind, and he knew. He knew this was Dean. Not the demon. Not the protector. Not the hunter. But the human (it seemed the curse has made him revert back to that, just like it retrograded his mind a year earlier). The human who was afraid of losing the only person he had left, terrified of being alone (Sam understood that terror now. He had forgotten what it was like to feel it, but he remembered it when that Angel blade pierced Dean's chest, when he laid his corpse down on his bed and stood over him and tried not to cry, when he drank that shot of whiskey and thought about all the things he shouldn't have said to him and all the things he should have. And now, he was remembering it again as he watched Dean slowly slip away from him).
He learned, on that day, that there were other (far worse) ways to lose someone to rather than death.
...
"S'mmy? G'tta...g'tta t'ke... c-c're 'f...'f you. D'trials 're... 're..." Dean mumbled incoherently, sweat beading his hairline as he breathed hard and feeble and shifted in agitation, torso rising abnormally high and low as he feebly sucked in air. His skin was pale, the beginnings of dark shadows beneath his slit eyes that gave him an appearance of heartwrenching frailty. The image triggered something in Sam as the severity of the situation hit him painfully in the stomach (when it would all be over, Dean would never remember the memories that he lost, the moments that he forgot. Not even a mere sense of familiarity. And when he'd lose it all...).
Dean moved his head slightly towards Sam, somehow knowing he was there even in the midst of hazy disorientation and feverish confusion and pain. "S'mmy. G'tta...g'tta get y're str-streng'h back. Lemme - lemme 'elp y'u. Pl'se." It was that same worry in his frantic voice. The same fear. Fear of loss of purpose and reason to live and his only family left and the one person he had always loved more than anything (the same fear Sam was feeling right now).
Sam gently placed a hand on his forehead, to gauge his temperature as well as to soothe him. "It's okay, Dean. I'm okay," he whispered softly, a strained and weak smile meant to reassure shakily curving his lips. "There are no more trials, alright? We're past all that. You saved me, remember?"
Remember. He felt the word become heavy in his chest.
Dean stared at him, half-mast eyes furrowed in confusion.
"God, you're burning up," Sam muttered quietly, and turned to take the wet washcloth from the bowl of cold water, which was sitting on the nightstand, and carefully splayed it over his brother's heated forehead.
"S'mmy? D'trials... d'trials 're g'nna... g'tta t... t'ke care f'y'u."
...
It had been three days.
Dean's memories were paring away, piece by piece, and Sam could do nothing but watch as the world inside his brother's eyes withered and frayed away year by year. He had recognized the pattern of the curse by now, realizing that Dean forgot one whole year in one slow and agonizing day, losing months and weeks and days at a time in twenty four hours until the entire year went away in his mind.
It meant Dean had thirty two more days now.
And Sam was terrified.
...
It took two more days for Sam to realize there was nothing.
There was nothing to make Dean okay again.
He had looked through almost every spell book he could find, every book about spells and curses and hoodoo. Searched through their Dad's journal and looked up for healers (even considered calling out to any angel who would respond, give them the secret location of the bunker, but then decided that they probably wouldn't be too favorable about helping a demon).
He found nothing.
So, he called Castiel.
"What happened?" Castiel asked, his brow creased with worry.
Sam told him everything, pacing back and forth and running his fingers through his hair anxiously as he tried to hold back tears of frustration and fear and guilt.
...
Castiel's grace was borrowed and burning out. Sam knew that, but still hoped anyway.
It was the desperate and scared kind of hope, where you were stuck with nothing else so all rationality was ignored because it was the only thing left there and if you lost that what did you have?
(What did you do when you lost that too?)
"Heaven needs me," Castiel said, reluctance clear in the way he was staring at Dean sadly, and Sam knew he didn't want to go. "But I can't..."
"It's okay, Cas. You should go ahead, take care of things upstairs," Sam said softly, his warm and kind eyes reassuring. "I'll take care of him."
"He's my friend," was all he said, still gazing at Dean lying cursed and sickly and fragile on the bed.
"I know," Sam replied, his lips curling up lightly in a small smile. "But I'm here with him."
Castiel looked back at him and gave a faltering, weak smile in return, before letting it fade. He glanced at Dean again, watching as he mumbled something unintelligibly and frantically about the time Sam was in Hell, followed by quiet whispers about Lisa and Ben. "Will he be okay?" Castiel asked (and Sam's heart jolted and ached at the question because he wasn't so sure about the answer anymore), turning his gaze back on Sam, his erythraean blue eyes holding a hint of the same fear and desperation (that same desperate hope) Sam had been seeing in his own all this time.
The corners of his mouth raised, forced and tiny, and he hoped Cas wouldn't notice. "Yeah, he will be."
Castiel looked back at Dean once more and didn't say anything for a while.
Sam wished he never did.
"Promise me," Castiel pleaded quietly as he faced him again, brows pinched with desperation.
He smiled again, and hoped he wouldn't break. "Promise."
...
Dean was remembering hell.
"N-no... st-stop," Dean croaked, cracked and hoarse and nothing more than a little, broken whisper as he thrashed and writhed with an agony that was only in his memories and mind. "Pl'se. S'meb'dy help... S'm... S'mmy..."
And Sam sat by helplessly, wishing he could take it all away.
"T'hurts. M'ke it stop. M'ke it stop, pl'se." Dean begged deliriously, making an inhuman sound between a gasping sob and a strangled whimper that made Sam's chest ache and tighten.
Dean's head jerked sideways, left and right, pale and sweaty and tear-stained face twisting in anguish and torment as his hands twitched convulsively beside him, fingers curling in shakily and then sharply wrenching out flat against the mattress.
Sam swallowed heavily, and slowly grasped one of them, fingers entwining with Dean's.
And silently prayed for the day to be over soon, for Dean to forget just this one year. Just this one (because this wasn't supposed to happen and screw destiny and fate and everything that brought them to that point).
...
"Don'... don' wanna g-go t'hell, S'mmy..." Dean whispered quietly, gripping Sam's arm fearfully as he stared at him (and saw the Sam from seven years ago) through huge, scared eyes. "I-I don'..."
"Hey, it's okay. It's okay. You're not going to hell, alright?" Sam soothed, the quality of his tone slightly above a gentle whisper as he dipped the washcloth in the frigid water for a few seconds, and pulled it out and spread it over his brother's forehead, and then he lightly placed his warm hand on top of it in a consoling manner. "It's just the curse messing with you."
Dean shook his head frantically, enlarged red-rimmed eyes surrounded by shadows watching him intensely, terrified, as the lines of fear embedded deep into his crumpling face. "M'...m'goin' t'hell...one y-year..."
And Sam realized that this was Dean's true face during that year.
One he hadn't wanted Sam to see, one Sam had wished he would trust him with.
One he now wished that he didn't have to see anymore.
Apparently, Crowley had neglected to mention that the spell would also take away most of Dean's inhibitions, leaving him with nothing but raw and true vulnerability, as if it dug out the truth of the deepest recesses and parts of his mind and conscience and brought it to the surface, before eating it all away.
"You're not," Sam said softly, smiling waveringly as his long fingers delicately wiped his brother's tears away and held his quaking hand tightly once again.
...
Sam pushed down the heavy lump in his throat, squeezing the corners of his eyes with his fingers to stop the tears as he watched Dean murmur and whisper and cry and whimper through memories of his life. Who would've known Dean's entire life sucked like hell? He thought sardonically.
Twenty-two more days.
And he was still trying to expel some of his feelings of uselessness by taking care of Dean in the only ways he knew how.
(But what about the fear? The sorrow? What about the pain and the guilt and the nearing shadows of loss in a way worse than death? The helplessness and desperation? How would he get rid of that?)
"Don' go, S'mmy," Dean whispered quietly, voice thick with the desolation brimming in his eyes as he swallowed slightly, and he squeezed his grip on Sam's hand. "Don' leave y'ur fam'ly." Don't leave me.
He remembered that night. The night he left his hunting life (his family) behind for school. He remembered the yelling match between his father and him with perfect clarity, the words, the emotions, the hard, enraged look on his father's face when he told him if you walked out of that door, don't ever come back.
He remembered the look on Dean's face when he walked out anyway.
And he remembered Dean running out after him, catching him by the shoulder and turning him around and looking at him with poorly hidden sadness and pain as they stood out there under the cold, starless night. Sam had been so sure that Dean would try to stop him, try to bring him back from his decision or practically disown him like their father.
But all he did was reach into his pocket for his wallet, handed him a few dollar notes and said, let me give you a ride to the bus station.
Looking back now, maybe that was Dean's way to tell him he was proud (no matter how much it had hurt).
(No matter how much he knew he had wanted him to stay).
"I'm not going anywhere, Dean."
...
Four more days had gone by, and he wanted to grab on to the precious time, slow it down, stop it, but it only left him feeling like he was trying to hold water in his hands, slipping through his fingers no matter how hard he tried to catch it. It was unsettling to see how fast everything was moving, and he was left wondering how he suddenly found himself with only eighteen more days to find a way to make it all right.
...
He silently closed the door of the bathroom behind him with quivering hands, twisting the cold metal knob, and didn't bother to lock it, knowing there wasn't anyone who could come searching for him. (No one to come and ask him if he was okay).
Sam slowly slid down the tiled walls, dragging his back against it as he did so, and caught his head in his hands. He held his head tightly as he reached the bottom, elbows digging onto his weakened knees as they curled loosely against his heaving chest.
Sam felt his hunched shoulders shake with the burden of this situation. (Somehow he knew this was the one they wouldn't make it through.) His fingers clutched and tugged hard at his hair as emotions burned behind his eyes, an all-consuming billow of fear and shame and remorse and failure and overwhelming hopelessness (that felt like a knife deep in his heart and a goddamn boulder sitting in his middle) washed down on him all at once as he fell apart after nineteen days of holding all the pieces in.
"I can't do this..." he whispered, closing his blurred eyes as the tears pushed through his control and streamed down his crumpled features.
"Not again," he gasped out in a broken sob, shaking his head. "Please, not again." I can't lose him again.
...
One day had passed after Sam's breakdown, with no more than fifteen days left. He was still trying to find new sources of information, still going through more books, including re-reading ones he had already done just to make sure he hadn't missed anything, which, quite frankly, made him feel like he was wasting time. But it also made him feel like he was trying. Gave him something to do that he could fool himself into thinking was worthwhile, and at least, it made that feeling of uselessness disappear for a few hours.
...
Sam tried to call on all the angels that were listening, deciding that they couldn't possibly do anything worse than what was already happening to Dean. What could be worse than slowly having your years worth of memories in life, your identity, the experiences that shaped you into who you were, burn out? To have a fate where you would be stuck in your own body forever, with no sense of anything?
So, he prayed, and prayed, and prayed.
No one came.
He smiled mirthlessly, shaking his head slightly as he stumbled back hopelessly with a soft huff.
Because who would want to save a violent, blood-lusting, psychopathic demon anyway? Why would it matter that he never chose to be one? (Why would it matter that maybe that demon was someone's brother? Someone's entire family? That he was someone's purpose and reason to live and his only family left and the one person he had always loved more than anything?)
...
Castiel visited again that same day.
"Did you find anything?" Castiel asked, glancing at Dean's frail and ill form, and he observed how he had grown progressively worse since the last time he had seen him. More pale, more shaky, more weak, more feverish, more delirious.
Sam shook his head, sighing, and hated himself a little more. His lips pursed together as his weary and darkened eyes regarded the angel.
For a full moment, Castiel said nothing, staring at him.
And then he exhaled a delicate, feeble breath of sadness through his nose, nodding his head slightly. He slowly walked towards Sam, sat beside him quietly on the edge near the end of Dean's bed, and raised a hand to place it on his shoulder.
Sam wordlessly welcomed it, inhaling a small, trembling breath, and he ducked his head to hide the wet glint of despair shining in his hazel eyes.
...
The next day, he summoned Crowley again.
"This is becoming a little too frequent, don't you think? I'm starting to think you're just making up excuses to see me."
Sam swallowed, feeling too fragile and lost, too small and scared to feel anything other than an aching desperation.
"Fix him," he pleaded, little more than a soft and shaky breath of raw fear and devastation that shone clearly in his hazel eyes, showing the vulnerability that he didn't have the strength to hide anymore. "Please."
"I've already told you - "
"Please." Sam swallowed, his weary, dark eyes wet. "Please... I'm begging you," he whispered.
Crowley sighed. "I have already told you, Sam. The only way to save him -"
"I can't." His voice cracked, and he didn't care. "He's my brother."
"I can't help him. And even if I could, why would I?"
"Because you lied to me, you bastard!" he yelled, his voice high with emotion and rage as his hands curled into fists, his face crumpled with tears and anger. "You - you did this to him." His chest heaved as he panted heavily, breaths coming out shaky, his cheeks wet, and his voice dropped to a low, menacing tone as he snarled at Crowley through gritted teeth. "So you better damn well fix him."
"I never lied to you, Sam," Crowley said calmly, hands in his pockets as he shifted on his feet and looked up at him. "Not really. You can save him, but not in the way you want to."
Sam shook his head, and swallowed. "I can't kill him. He's the successor of Cain." It was so clear in his voice, Sam knew that. He was just making up excuses, finding all the reasons he couldn't do it (couldn't kill him, save him).
"Well, how about that ugly set of teeth you call the First Blade?" Crowley reminded, raising his eyebrows.
Sam narrowed his eyes. "Didn't Cain kill himself with the First Blade?" he shot back. "And yet, he's not dead."
"For the love of Hell, how in the world did you ever come this far without a brain? Yes. Yes, he did, but that was when he was human. It's just like any normal weapon for a mortal. But Dean's no mortal. He's supernatural, a demon," Crowley explained.
"Then why didn't Cain kill himself after he transformed?"
"Because he transformed. He was a human with petty, worthless feelings. He knew what the Mark would do, and he didn't want to hurt people. He didn't want to kill," Crowley sneered. "But when you become a demon, there is nothing in this world that can make you care enough. Your whole world changes. Your perception, your moral compass, your mindset. Everything."
Sam swallowed. "Dean wasn't like that," he said quietly.
"He was exactly like that, Moose. And you know it."
"Then why didn't he kill me?"
"Probably thought you were useful," Crowley reasoned, shrugging.
Sam looked away, his jaw clenching at the demon's words. He inhaled heavily, and then faced him again. "Why do you think I can kill him? Newsflash, Crowley. The Blade needs the Mark to work, and I don't have that."
"Actually, Moose. I think you'll find that you do."
...
"Stop making excuses, Sam. And free his soul. You don't want him stuck in that body forever. And you know how long his forever will be."
The line repeated over and over in Sam's head as he wallowed in the darkness of the room. He watched his brother sleep, a few hours of peace in an entire day of pain, and he thought of how human Dean looked. And he let himself believe, for a moment, that that was exactly what Dean was. He was his big brother; his caring, overprotective big brother. The big brother who loved him unconditionally, the one person he would always matter to no matter how much he screwed up, who cared about him even after having every reason not to.
This was his Dean.
But he knew that maybe, at this point, he was ready to have the Dean who didn't care about him as much, if it meant he would still be there.
...
Ten days.
Sam fell down on the chair, running a trembling hand through his hair and breathing heavily, glaring down at his feet through blurred sight.
He glanced up at Dean, and felt the flare of burning failure intensify at the sight of his brother's deteriorating state.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered to him, and then watched him for a while, gaze fixed on his face. I'm so sorry for letting this happen to you. For being the one to make this happen to you. For not being able to save you.
And then he heard Dean's faint voice amidst pants. "S'mmy? D'y'u... h-h've... nigh'm-m're?"
Sam wished he did. Wished that was all it was (wished this was all it was.)
Dean's smile was weak, but tender and comforting (he remembered it so well), the lightest curves on the sides of his mouth as he fought to keep his shadowed eyes open, his chest moving higher than before as the struggle for breaths became harder, and then gradually dropping low again. High. Low. High. Low. High.
Sam inhaled quietly, gazing at him with sad and soft eyes, before silently leaning down and laying his head on his arms, tucking it against his big brother's side, and he closed his eyes and tried not to break into pieces once again.
He felt a frail hand land delicately on his head, shaking in his hair as it curled a little (he remembered this so well too).
Sam nodded slightly against him, the tears staining his cheeks once again. He squeezed his eyes hard until a pressure built in his head, his jaw hardening as his face twisted a little. "Yeah," he whispered, the word cracking in his tightened throat.
...
He spent the next four days trying to do what needed to be done.
He wanted to watch Dean live until the very last second. He wanted to hold on to hope and try to convince himself that he'd figure it out, that he'd fix all of this and make everything better again.
But he didn't want to watch his brother wither away, slowly and painfully, in front of him anymore. He didn't want to see what would become of him at the end of it all.
He couldn't.
...
Sam stood silently over his brother, hands in his pockets, watching him.
His mouth tightened, his soft eyes, red and swollen and colored by shadows of weariness and hopelessness around it, gathering a thick line of moist as he heaved a large and shuddering breath in, closing his eyes gently and letting the tears go.
Dean was sleeping (looking human again). And he wanted to take the picture and lock it away, despite the frail appearance that made him ache inside with grief.
He thought about all the things that could have been different (all the things he should have done differently), all the things that should have happened (it was never supposed to be this). He thought about what he would change and what he wouldn't (Definitely not Dean. Never Dean). All the what-ifs, whys (why did it have to be like this?), hows (how did it come to this? How did it happen?), if-onlys (if only he hadn't been so weak).
Sam lifted his chin, inhaling deeply, and tilted his head over his shoulder to reach for the Blade tucked in the back of his jeans. He wrapped his fingers around the hilt, and slowly pulled it out, bringing it in front of him, staring at it. At the thing that would take Dean's life, and at the same time, save him (from a fate that was much worse).
He could feel it, somewhere deep inside. This was it. This was really the day he would do it. It was there like a crawl in his middle, a churn in his gut. The feeling of wrong, even when it was the only right left now (because Dean didn't deserve what would happen to him if he didn't do this).
He lowered to perch on the edge, slow and careful, as if something would break if he moved too fast (maybe it would be him, or maybe it would be Dean?) For a while, Sam just stared at him, focusing on the stuttering and deep highs and lows of his ribs as he breathed.
Sam moved his hands towards Dean and grasped his biceps, slowly tugging his upper body up and sliding behind him, clutching him close while he held the Blade flat against his brother's shoulder. Dean's head lolled against his collar bone, and he was warmer than normal, shivering violently and drenched in feverish sweat.
"S'mmy?"
Sam froze, tensing at his brother's sudden voice.
He sounded young. Almost like the Dean who came and got him at Stanford. Like the Dean who pulled him out of the fire that caused Jessica's death. The Dean who used to laugh more, smile more. The Dean from the simpler days before death and deals and demon blood and Hell and Purgatory and trials.
"Just go to sleep, brother," Sam whispered softly, running a hand over his brother's hair and tightening his grip around him.
He didn't receive a response.
He took Dean's hand in his gently, placing the Blade on his palm, and slowly curled his brother's trembling fingers around the hilt (and tried not to acknowledge how badly his own were shaking). The Mark began to glow in the dark as it stretched red lines across Dean's forearm.
His hand didn't move away. Just remained curled over Dean's, quaking from where it covered his closed one, the Blade locked in the middle of their entwined fingers. Sam's eyes slipped shut, wet lashes falling gently against his cheeks, his breaths coming out in sharp and shaky pants until a sob caught in his throat, and he choked, his mouth scrunching up tightly.
And the Blade rose.
(There would be no going back once the Blade pierced Dean's chest. There was still time before the end. He could still find a way. He could still save Dean. He could still hold on to hope and figure it out and fix this and make everything better. He could - )
The Blade plunged in, cutting through flesh and bone, and the abrupt cry that echoed throughout the room wasn't Dean's.
Dean. Dean was slow and quiet. Like a falling leaf in the lightest breeze of autumn.
The barest inhale of air rushing in through parted lips, whispering finality and nascent loss and goodbyes as it filled his lungs one last time (like a human), his chest raising a little higher (and never again after this).
(Loss of reason to live and purpose and his only family left and the one person he loved more than anything).
And then, just like that, it was gone. Out in one mellow release of air, slowly easing out in a single soft breath. Dean's smaller body relaxed fully against his little brother's, the side of his head drooping to rest against Sam's neck gently, and his hand slowly loosened underneath Sam's, cold and heavy.
And then it was over.
And Sam was left thinking about what could have been if things had been different and all the things that should have happened (and goddamnit it was never supposed to be this) and all the what-ifs, whys, hows and if-onlys (if only he had done better).
And realized none of that mattered now that Dean was gone (because Dean was gone and nothing else mattered except that).
...
He kissed his brother's cold forehead, and leaned his own against it.
(Dean taking care of him as kids. Making him food. Beating up his bullies. Cheering him up when Dad wouldn't come home. Dean smiling at him. Dean laughing with him. Singing with him. Singing to annoy him. Teasing him. Pranking him with a mischievous glint in his green eyes. Dean telling him as long as I'm around, nothing bad's gonna happen to you and I'm proud of you, Sammy.)
Sam stepped back from the coffin, sucking a hard breath in to restrain the sobs and loosen his throat, and slowly turned around, fingers reaching and digging into the dirt as he climbed up from the hole.
(Dean sitting with him after the nightmares and the visions. Dean promising him that he'd save him. Dean consoling him through his death. Dean hugging him when he came back. Dean nudging him when a pretty girl walked by. Dean teaching him how to fix the Impala. Dean and him spending Christmas together before he went to Hell. Dean returning to him. Hugging him.)
Sam stood over the dug earth, staring down at his big brother one last time, as his veins burned with the feeling of never again (see him and listen to him and talk to him and touch him and hold him and hear him breathe). He swallowed down the anguish choking his throat and shredding his heart apart, closed his eyes and inhaled a soft, shaky breath.
And let the lighter fall.
(Dean and him gazing at the stars. Sharing a beer. Dean and him playing pool. Dean there when Lucifer possessed him. Dean and him reuniting after he came back to him. Embracing him. Dean pulling him back from his hallucinations. Dean laughing at the glitter all over him. Grinning as Sam handed him the slinky).
The flames stung his eyes with smoke and tears (with finality and loss and goodbyes), and he watched them burn his brother away into ashes.
(Dean grabbing him tight after he came back from the second trial. Dean taking care of him throughout the trials. Dean saving him and telling him that there is nothing, past or present, that I would put in front of you. Dean holding him again.)
He closed his eyes, and watched the memories rush him by.
I'm proud of us.
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