Chapter Two:
The closer Sam got to Dean's bedroom door, the slower his steps became. By the time he reached the doorway, the younger Winchester's knees were failing him and there was an uncontrollable tremor in his hands. He paused, back pressed against the frigid stone wall, suddenly unable to catch his breath.
The impulse to run to his brother was automatic, instinctive, as soon as Crowley dropped his bombshell (he's alive...he's alive). The self appointed King of Hell had intimated that Dean was not himself anymore (in a manner of speaking, Crowley had warned). The possibility that the Mark of Cain had transformed him into something unspeakable was a small point to Sam. Both of them had been to Hell, for God's sake. They had seen and suffered through unimaginable horrors, and had, somehow, survived. Whatever lay beyond that door, whatever had been done could be undone. They had done it before.
Sam took a steadying breath and moved to the door...the door that was now closed. Please, please don't let it be locked. He placed a shaking hand out and it swung open.
The room was dark, shadowed and cold. Sam blinked to hasten his night vision; he could have sworn the lights were on before; now only the light filtering over his shoulder lit his way. His breath caught as he barely made out the rumpled, bloody bed where he had tenderly placed his brother's body a few hours before. It was empty now and Sam felt his heart catch. A snapping sound drew his eyes to the right, where Dean's desk occupied the far corner of the room. He recognized the sound of the antique lamp Dean had discovered in the library and promptly claimed for his own when they moved in. A light flared in the corner and Sam blinked, his eyes promptly filling with tears.
...snap...snap...snap...
Dean sat hunched in a faded office chair, his back to the door. He gave no indication that he was aware of his brother's arrival. The light flared on..and off...and on...and off...as Dean's bloodied hand snapped the switch back and forth. Each flare of the lamp briefly illuminated his silhouette: head bowed, shoulders stooped, and then the light would go out momentarily and the room would fall silent except for Sam's stuttered breathing.
Sam wanted to speak, tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come (there aren't words, Dean had said once.) If it was true, if what Crowley had said had actually happened (and there he is, alive, so you do the math, college boy), what could he possibly say? How would he stop his brother if he tried to leave, if he attacked Sam in a demonic frenzy or...God help him...if he didn't even recognize Sam anymore?
So, he took one tentative step into the room, watched his brother's hand go still on the switch as the light died away and the shadows crept across his unmoving form. What the hell is the deal with the lamp? He took one more step; unsure in the near darkness how close he was when Dean's hand moved again and the harsh snap flooded his pale, swollen face with an artificial, ghastly glow. He seemed to be staring directly into the blinding light, unblinking, unfocused, and seemingly unaware of his brother's approach.
When Sam leaned forward to take another step, Dean's hand shot out from the desk, palm out toward his brother in an unmistakable signal to stop. Sam froze, so many thoughts tumbling through his head, none of them making out through his trembling lips. Finally the only words that mattered came out in a voice so strong, even Sam was surprised:
"Dean...I'm here."
to be continued...