Drops of Darkness

Set in a 'verse where Sam was blinded at 13. Insertion of the episode Croatoan.

Sam kept his teeth pressed together, trapping the yell of frustration and fear that wanted to burst forth.

He had the right to, but he had to kind of keep it together, if just for the sake of the civilians.

And in the hope Dean didn't shoot somebody. Sam's stomach rolled. The vision had been unusually vivid, actually causing him to collapse. Dean's freak-out when he had returned to find Sam on the floor had not been fun. Neither had the subsequent headache or the all-too-present memory of seeing a guy get shot.

"How you doin', Sammy?" Dean murmured, startling Sam out of his thoughts.

"We figure any of this out?"

Sam could practically hear the wry twist of Dean's mouth. "I don't like this, dude."

"I don't think anybody does." Sam shuddered involuntarily. "It feels like it's all going to go wrong."

"Cause of your visions?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably. "I guess."

"I really really don't like this."

Sam reached a hand out, finding Dean's jaw and working his hand over his brother's face. Dean stayed motionless, probably thinking Sam wanted to read his emotions.

Sam flicked Dean in the middle of his forehead.

"Hey!"

"Don't worry so much. We'll be fine," he smiled, getting a huff of amusement out of Dean.

"You are simultaneously the most optimistic person I know, combined with the most emo."

"Am not," Sam said, affronted.

"Are too." Dean screwed up his hair and Sam batted him away, scowling.

"Marshall?"

"Hang here, buddy." Dean kneaded the scruff of his neck briefly before going off with the doctor.

Sam focused on listening to his surroundings and thinking through the case. The whole town wasn't possessed, so it had to be something else. A contagious madness? A curse on the town?

"Hey, Sam. So, no real help. Doc says that there's some kind of virus. Laced with sulfur. Mean anything to us in our line?"

Sam drummed his fingers on the counter. "Maybe? A demonic virus . . . y'know, I think dad may have written about that in the journal once."

"I never fail to be impressed with your memorization skills," Dean said. Sam wasn't sure if it was mocking or admiration in Dean's voice. "Alright. What does that mean we should do, then? We're trapped in this town, and it isn't like we have a vaccine."

"Fight our way out? I guess?"

They were interrupted by someone entering, and Sam pulled out his gun just in case. He couldn't really tell what was going on, but Dean leaned in close.

"Sam, describe the guy in your vision again?"

"White, male, young adult, wearing plaid and a jacket, light hair," Sam said quickly. "Is it him?"

"'fraid so."

Sam grabbed a spastic handful of Dean's sleeve. "Don't shoot him," he urged.

"Sam, it's a risk, if he's infected . . . "

"What if he's not?" Sam insisted.

Dean pulled away, and Sam was left fumbling after him, unable to keep up. As usual.

"Dean?" he tried, but there was nothing. As far as he could tell, everyone was in a different room. Sam snarled in his impotence.

He waited, but there was no shot. Sam realized distantly that he was clutching at the counter, and made himself unlock his fingers.

Another door opened and closed, this time quietly, and Sam turned towards it, stiffening.

"They're deciding whether or not to shoot him, I couldn't stay in there." It was a girl's voice, and Sam thought maybe . . . the nurse? Or attendant, whatever she was.

"He's not . . ." Sam stopped. In his vision, the girl had stayed there too.

"Not yet."

Sam flinched back. She was a lot closer than before. "Right."

"I've been waiting for this."

Sam's uneasiness flared bright. "Waiting for what?" he asked tightly.

A slash of pain across his collarbone answered him, and Sam fell back with a shout. The girl's weight followed him to the floor, straddling him. Sam struggled past the shock and unsureness, but then a small hand pressed directly down on the cut and Sam cried out again as she ground down into the wound, widening the lips of the cut.

"Sammy!" Dean's voice had never been so welcome.

The gunshots were still a shock, and the body on top of Sam slumped over. Sam scrambled backwards, breathing heavily and automatically reaching out for his brother.

"No. Stop!"

The other voice threw him off, and Sam hesitated, one hand stretched out, the other on his chest.

"She infected him. You saw it."

Sam swallowed. "She . . . she got her blood in me?" he asked, his voice small.

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean choked out, obviously unwillingly. Sam pulled back his hand.

"Right," he said quietly. At least it wasn't Dean.

"We need to shoot him."

"No," Dean snarled. "You lay one hand on my brother and it'll be the last thing you do."

"You were about to kill that other boy even though we didn't know for sure that he was infected."

"Well, I didn't, did I?"

The cacophony of voices was leaving Sam disoriented, and he scooted back until his back hit the wall, reaching with his right hand into his jacket pocket.

"Dean," he whispered, but they were arguing too loudly to hear him.

Sam drew his gun out. It was already loaded. Easiest thing, just had to point it at his head.

He prayed for forgiveness—maybe suicide wouldn't matter if it was in lieu of going evil—and pressed the barrel to his head.

"No!" Dean's shout nearly had Sam squeezing the trigger off, but his voice was coupled with a hand on his wrist, twisting the gun away.

"Dean, no, let go, I can't become one of those things, okay?"

"No, Sammy," Dean hissed in his ear.

"What are you suggesting we do, then?" the other voice was back, and Sam inadvertently cringed away from it. Dean's hand momentarily landed on his head, and Sam was unsure if it was in comfort or in protectiveness.

"Leave us here. Take my wheels, get out. Just keep on driving through."

"Dean, you can't," Sam protested.

"I hope you know what you're doing, kid." Sam heard the sound of keys being tossed, and got to his feet, wobbling slightly. He hated when people ignored him because he was blind, and normally Dean stood up for him, but not this time.

"No, take Dean with you," he insisted. "You can't . . ."

"Shut up, Sam."

Dean must've looked at the others intimidatingly, because it was suddenly, suffocatingly silent.

"Dean, what are you doing?" Sam gasped out.

"Wish we had our set of cards, huh?"

"Dean." Sam tried to swallow the emotion threatening to overwhelm him. "It's over for me. It doesn't have to be for you. Go live."

"Who says I want to?"

Sam gaped. "What?"

"I'm tired, Sam. This job, carrying around this weight. I'm just . . . I'm just tired."

Sam pushed to his feet, the cut throbbing lowly but unimportant. "Dean." He reached out, and this time his hand connected with Dean's. "I know that hunting and looking after me, it's an awful situation, but you can find something else. Be free."

"It's not that, Sammy," Dean said softly. "You're not the weight."

"You don't have to lie to me, Dean."

"I'm not. Sam, it's . . ."

"Hey."

Sam jumped at the unexpected voice.

"You guys might want to see this."

"Dean, I should stay." Sam wanted his gun back, but kept that thought to himself.

"C'mon, Sammy." Sam allowed himself to be gently dragged forward, reluctantly lifting a hand to grasp Dean's elbow and getting control over himself.

"They're all gone. The infected."

When the doc pronounced Sam clear, Dean nearly burst into tears, the terror of the day coalescing into one close-to-a-freak-out moment.

Okay, not actually, but it was still close. As it was, he brushed a hand over his suddenly stinging eyes, clapped Sam on the shoulder, and packed their guns and his little brother into the Impala.

They hadn't driven far before Dean felt Sam shift, turning to him even though he couldn't see him, just as always.

"Dean, let's . . ." Sam trailed off, white eyes staring at something Dean could never see.

"What, Sammy?"

"Can we grab some beers and stop? Somewhere."

Dean relaxed. "Sure, we can do that."

Sam didn't say much as Dean topped the Impala off and grabbed their beers. Sam still didn't say anything as he pulled the Impala over next to an old fence, overlooking a lake.

"Wish you could see it, man. View's nice. Lake's blue, fence separating us from it, and you can really see the green right now."

"Thanks," Sam said softly.

"You know you never have to thank me for describing things," Dean returned, leading Sam to the fence so that he could lean on it.

"You need to be honest with me, Dean."

Dean froze. How could he know about what Dad told him?

"The weight . . . you talked about." Sam touched Dean's face with his hand, probably to feel his expression. "Is it me?"

Dean had never had to hide his emotions on his face from Sam because of his blindness, and it was almost impossible to not react in a way that immediately affirmed Sam's statement by touch. Sam was obviously drawing his own conclusions from Dean's silence, but Dean couldn't make his mouth say anything.

"Dean, if you don't want me around anymore, that's fine." Sam looked like it was not even close to fine, but he was valiantly struggling to keep his face controlled. "Could you drop me off at Bobby's?" He looked about ten, trying not to cry as Dean patched up an abraded knee.

"Sammy, that's not it," Dean finally managed to say. "Look, it's not . . ." he stepped back so Sam wasn't touching him and sighed. "It's not about that."

"Then what is it?" Sam carefully set down his bottle and took a step in Dean's direction, one hand trailing the old fence. Dean absently reminded himself to check for splinters later. "We're brothers, Dean. We share the burden. You always do more than I, but let me help, man."

"I lied," Dean blurted.

"What?"

"After—" Dean swallowed "—after Dad's death. You asked me if he said anything, and I lied."

Sam was trembling minutely. "What did he say?"

"It was about you," Dean confessed. Somehow, the weight wasn't starting to feel lighter—if anything, it was getting heavier at Sam's distraught face. "He said that he wanted me to watch out for you, to take care of you."

Sam tilted his head. "And?"

"He said I had to save you. And if . . . if I couldn't, then I might have to kill you."

Sam stumbled back a step, his face devastated. "Dean, you . . . what? Kill me?"

Dean used his own anger to keep himself from breaking "Sammy, I don't know! That's all he told me. I wish . . ." Dean cursed, flinging his bottle at the tree. Sam jumped at the shattering noise.

"You kept this from me." Sam's voice was so soft, it was almost more condemning. "Dad thought my powers were evil, that I was going to go . . . darkside or something, and you kept this from me."

"You think I wanted this? Sammy, don't be like that," Dean pleaded. "Look, we'll figure it out, okay? It's all screwed up, you being immune and having visions, but we'll get through this. I promise."

Sam stilled. He knew as well as Dean did that they never promised unless it was serious—it was too easy to break promises the way they lived.

"I—I . . . Dean, I'm—" Sam bit his lip, but Dean heard him as plain as day. Scared.

"We'll be fine." Dean wasn't sure if Sam could even stand touching him, but couldn't help reaching for his shoulder. Sam jerked back, and Dean wanted to do something. Make this betrayal up to Sam, somehow, someway.

But he couldn't do anything.

A/N: hey guys, so I was messing around with my files and found this! Forgot I had written it, so yay, new update (even though this isn't new).

still in the middle of exams, so haven't written anything otherwise. Hope you liked this :)