No Dominion
By Inzane
Disclaimer: I do not own the Winchester boys or Bobby Singer.
Summary: After a year of increasingly desperate research, Sam finally accepts that there is no way to break Dean's deal. But that doesn't mean he's giving up.
A/N: Forgive the delay. Seemed like every time I turned around, the boss was sending me out of the state. Occasional travel, my ass.
Warning: Language. Also, serious liberties with medical procedures. Those of you in the know, please forgive me if my medical procedures and terminology are half-assed. (Which makes me ponder what the opposite of half-assed would be. Full-assed? Ohhh, sleep deprivation...)
Chapter 4: Crisis of Faith
Sam's scream was still echoing off of the walls of the empty warehouse when he came back to himself. There was no time to grieve, and he didn't want to, wasn't going to, because Dean wasn't going to stay dead. Sam refused to accept a reality where Dean would stay dead.
Dean had done his part. The hardest part. Now it was Sam's turn.
Unwilling to let go of Dean--Dean's body, it wasn't Dean, not anymore--he fumbled with one hand into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Hand shaking, he held down the number three, speed dialing Bobby's cell. He didn't bother to wait for an answer; he let the phone drop to the ground, knowing that Bobby would respond to the prearranged signal.
Sam had more important things to do.
His breathing was unsteady as he lowered Dean's body to the ground. Through strength of will alone, the younger Winchester forced his shaking hands to still. He came to his knees beside his dead brother, then reached down to tilt Dean's head back. He bent over and blew two breaths into Dean's mouth, then moved to start chest compressions.
The plan was to save Dean's soul from Hell, but that wouldn't mean a damn thing if Dean's soul didn't have a body to come back to.
As Sam worked, he found his vision tunneling until the only thing he saw was his brother's empty, dead eyes. He'd seen those eyes before, over and over and over, back when he'd lived through too many Tuesdays to count. His own eyes began to well up with tears, and he reached up to angrily brush them away. He would not cry for Dean, because Dean was not going to die. He would not let Dean die. Sam paused after the next set of chest compressions, reaching up to feel for a pulse at Dean's neck.
Nothing.
"Shit," Sam whispered harshly. "Come on, Dean," he commanded, as if his dead, soulless brother could somehow hear him and respond. "Please."
Sam leaned forward to breathe once more into Dean's lungs, willing Dean's body to start breathing again on its own. As he straightened and began chest compressions again, he felt panic threaten to overtake him. "Where are they?" he snapped, wanting to lash out at someone because anger kept the tears at bay.
It felt like an eternity. Every second that Dean's unseeing eyes stared at him held an accusation. Every moment that Dean's heart didn't beat was another step toward failure. Every breath Dean didn't take reminded Sam of the horrific life he'd already lived without his brother. A life that he would live again if he couldn't get Dean's heart and lungs working.
An eternity, but it was really only two and a half minutes.
An ambulance, sirens silenced, came screaming through the service entrance the Winchesters had left open for just that purpose. The vehicle came screeching to a halt a good ten feet away from Sam and Dean, back doors bursting open practically before the vehicle had stopped.
An older man, slightly overweight and with a thick mane of wavy salt-and-pepper hair, jumped out of the back, medical equipment in hand. It didn't take much more than a glance to be able to tell this man was a doctor--Doctor Marcus Gaffney, an important part of the big plan. All Sam knew about the man was that he owed Bobby a favor, and Bobby said the Doc, as he'd referred to him, could be trusted to keep his mouth shut, and, more importantly, keep Dean's heart beating. That was all Sam cared about.
The driver's door of the ambulance popped open and Bobby stepped out. As soon as his feet hit the ground, he froze, throat and chest tightening as emotion gripped him.
He knew what he was going to see. Thanks to Sam, they'd gone over the plan a hundred times, and he'd thought he'd prepared himself for what he would have to face. Dean was dead. He knew, as soon as he got the phone call from Sam, that Dean was dead. Maybe his brain hadn't accepted it, though, because to see Dean lying there now… and they'd let the demon just take him… goddammit.
Prepared or not, he was tired of seeing Winchesters dead .
Sam reluctantly allowed the doctor to push him aside. His heart hated putting his brother's life in someone else's hands, but his head told him that this man had the best chance of saving the physical part of Dean. Sam stood and backed away to give the doctor room to work, unable to tear his eyes from the tableau in front of him. As he watched, he unconsciously started chewing on the side of his thumbnail, and his body began to rock slightly in time to the compressions on Dean's chest.
He felt rather than saw Bobby come up beside him. When the older man's hand came to rest on his shoulder, Sam couldn't help but jerk and shrug it off.
He didn't want sympathy. Dean wasn't gone. Not forever. He'd just taken a little involuntary leave. Accepting comfort would be like admitting that he had failed, and he hadn't. They hadn't. They'd get Dean back. They would. They had to.
Though Dean probably would've scoffed at him for it, he found himself sending up a desperate prayer. Please, God, I'll do anything… anything… just save him. Please. Save my brother.
The doctor didn't appear to be having any more luck with CPR than Sam had, so he switched to the portable defibrillator he'd brought with him. Sam watched as the doctor ripped Dean's shirt down the middle. As he attached the electrode pads, Sam's vision began to gray out as he was overcome with déjà vu.
Electricity coursed through Dean's body, causing it to arch off of the ground; Sam's body jerked in response, as if he could feel the jolt. His lips tightened into a thin line as he was overcome by memories of the last time he had seen Dean like this.
They had now come full circle. After the car wreck, Dean had almost died, flatlined, but they'd managed to bring him back to life. Their father had sold his soul to make sure that Dean stayed that way. Sam had died, and Dean had sold his soul to save his little brother, who he had sworn to protect. Now Dean was dead. Again.
Sam could have decided to continue the circle. He could have sold his soul to save his brother and relish whatever time the demon would grant him before it came to collect. Then Dean would have to sell his soul again, then Sam, then Dean, until eventually their souls would be so tattered that the demons would no longer be willing to deal.
It had to stop.
Sam glanced down at his watch, the phantom ticking sounding off in his head like gunshots. Too long. He glanced back up to see the doctor still working on Dean.
"Come on, kid," the doctor huffed with a touch of a southern accent as squeezed the bulb of the CPR mask to force air into Dean's lungs. "Breathe."
Sam shuffled nervously forward, edging closer to his brother. "There's nothing wrong with him," Sam insisted, his tone edging closer to frantic. Nothing wrong. That was the plan. Dean's body was supposed to be left in perfect condition… just empty. "Why isn't he coming back? There's nothing wrong with his body." Sam hadn't counted on bringing Dean's body back to life as being the difficult part. Not with what he knew was yet to come.
Doc Gaffney cursed and wiped a hasty forearm across his sweaty brow as he prepared to shock Dean again. When he finally responded to Sam, he spoke in a calm tone that suggested he was used to dealing with hysterical family members. "Bringing a man back from the dead is not as easy as it looks on TV, boy. His body's had one hell of a shock, from what I hear, and it looks like it was too much to handle," he said, then sent more electricity coursing through Dean's body. He did it twice more.
Gaffney stopped and turned to look at Dean's vitals on the small monitor. Sam froze when the doctor bowed his head, defeat on his face. Gaffney glanced down at his own watch, then looked up at Sam, a question on his face.
Sam could see what the man was asking. He began to back away, shaking his head. "No. No, you bring him back."
"Sam…" Bobby began, reaching out to grab Sam's arm. This was what he had been most afraid of, what he had tried to warn Sam about when he'd come up with his crazy plan, though the boy had refused to listen. If they couldn't keep Dean's body alive…
"No!" Sam said violently, jerking his arm away. "You bring him back, goddammit! I don't care how long it takes!"
Sam's prior conviction--his determination to end the vicious circle of Winchesters selling their souls--self destructed when faced with the death, the true death, of his brother. His voice lowered to something deep and dangerous that was reminiscent of those days when he had been possessed. "Bring him back, or, so help me God, I will."
"Sam," Bobby said again, and this time it was an admonition.
Sam's head jerked to look at Bobby. He felt like his heart was beating at twice the normal speed, as if making up for every beat that should have been in Dean's now still heart. "I'm not losing my brother, Bobby. Not if there's a way that I can save him."
"At what cost?" Bobby asked gruffly, his tone tinged with anger. He was determined to stop Sam from making a deal of his own. If he'd followed his instincts and stayed after Sam's death instead of listening to Dean, they might not have been dealing with the shitstorm they were currently dealing with. But then, of course, Sam would be dead.
Damned if you do, damned if you don't. Winchesters were just damned, period.
Sam stared back at Bobby with the same steely determination he'd used to convince the man to help him, the same determination he'd used on Dean to convince him to follow a plan that was now rapidly disintegrating into dust.
"Everything I am, every good thing I've ever done in my entire life, is because of him. He made me into who I am today. Am I supposed to just forget that? If I sold my soul a thousand times, it still wouldn't be enough to repay everything he's given up for me. Whatever the cost, it will never be enough."
Bobby's protest died on his lips. How the hell did you think up a comeback to something like that?
"You might want to hold up on whatever you're planning, son."
Both Sam's and Bobby's heads turned at the interjection from Doc Gaffney. They had been so caught up in their own battle that they had lost track of the more important one. While they'd been arguing, the doctor had made one last, and successful, attempt to save his patient.
Gaffney nodded his head toward Dean. "We got him back. He's stable for now, but we need to get him to the house as soon as possible. We need to get him on life support right away."
"He's okay?" Sam asked shakily, then mentally chastised himself. Of course Dean was not okay. He was an empty shell. But they would see to that soon enough. As long as Dean's body was alive, there was hope.
"Like I said, for now. But he won't be if we don't get moving."
That was all Sam and Bobby needed to hear. They sprung into action, getting the gurney from the ambulance so they could move Dean. As they loaded their precious cargo into the vehicle, Sam paused, turning to stare at something on the other side of the room. Bobby stopped beside him and turned to see what Sam was looking at.
Ruby's body, now vacant, lying in a broken heap on the floor.
Both men stared at the body for a second, then turned to each other and shared a look. It was a look that could only be understood by people who have done things that the common man would find distasteful, but the informed man knew was necessary.
"Burn it," Sam said, his tone tinged with mild disgust.
It wasn't the prospect of burning the body that disgusted Sam. No, he was disgusted with himself. He wondered if the demon hadn't chosen such a pretty package, would he have been less willing to give his trust? If the demon's chosen vehicle hadn't had flowing blonde hair, sparkling eyes, and a lithe figure, would he have seen the thing for what it truly was?
He'd never know, and maybe that was a good thing.
Bobby hesitated only for a moment--more from Sam's tone than his request--then he nodded lightly. Sam dug into his pocket and pulled out the keys to the Impala, handing them to Bobby. Aside from Dean, Bobby was the only person that he knew he could trust to deal with what remained of Ruby, as well as Dean's beloved car.
Marcus Gaffney, who had been busy checking Dean's blood pressure, paused to glance at his patient's brother out of the corner of his eye.
He knew what Sam and Dean Winchester did for a living, though sometimes he still found it hard to believe. In fact, if someone had told him ten years ago that he would believe demons, he would've laughed in his face, then probably asked him to take a drug test. But that had been then. Before his teenage son had been possessed by a demon.
It was how he had met Bobby Singer. He'd come across Bobby's name through a mutual acquaintance, and had been desperate enough to call the man for help. The only other option would've been to have his son committed, and he just couldn't do that. Trusting his son's life to a man he didn't know hadn't come easy either, but he'd figured if it hadn't worked, a little Latin and holy water probably wouldn't do any harm. It was a desperate move by a desperate man. He hadn't really expected it to work.
That night, nine years ago, Bobby Singer had saved his son, and Marcus Gaffney had become a reluctant believer.
And now he was sitting with two men from Bobby's world, one barely alive--and without a soul, if Bobby was to be believed--and the other staring at his brother with a desperate intensity that made Gaffney believe that he was sitting across from a very dangerous man. It made him wonder just this kid would do if his brother died.
What the hell had he gotten himself into?
Sam stood in the doorway to the library--now a makeshift hospital room--leaning heavily against the frame. The sliding double doors had been pushed back into the wall to make the room as easily accessible as possible and to allow them to keep an eye on Dean from across the hall in the living room, where all of the action would be taking place. Across the room, various medical devices beeped and whirred, making a familiar music that Sam had come to hate.
Dean lay on the hospital bed, his features highlighted only by a dim lamp on the mahogany desk, which had been pushed to the side to make room for all of the equipment Bobby and Doc Gaffney had managed to smuggle out of the hospital. That equipment was keeping Dean's body alive--breathing tubes and IVs and heart monitors, and hadn't they been down this road before, so many times? Why was it that he was always the one standing vigil while Dean was always the one fighting for his life?
Sam already knew the answer to that one, but he didn't have to like it.
In the muted light, it didn't look like Dean was breathing at all. Sam found himself staring at Dean's chest, watching for the barely perceptible rise and fall. The beeping of the heart monitor was both welcomed and despised, a reminder that his brother's body was still alive, but also that the clock was ticking.
Sam glanced around him, taking in the expensive, uncomfortable-looking furniture, the gleaming wood and brass. The wall behind Dean was full of leather-bound books, many of which Sam suspected were first edition classics. To the right of the bed was a gorgeous marble fireplace, logs piled artfully inside but unlit. The rug looked like it had never seen a crumb in its life. If there was a television, it was well hidden. The rest of the house was pretty much the same--very upscale and a bit pretentious.
It was a good thing Dean was "out," so to speak. He would've hated it here.
Sam saw Doc Gaffney come up beside him out of the corner of his eye. Never taking his eyes off Dean, he said, "I thought you said he was breathing on his own?" He could hear the accusation in his tone and knew that it was unwarranted, but it was too late to take it back.
Gaffney was unfazed. He knew from experience that every person dealt with this kind of crisis in a different way. And this crisis, admittedly, was a bit beyond his experience. "He is," he replied quietly. "He's just not doing too good a job of it."
Sam's head turned around at this, and Gaffney felt a stab of sympathy. He could see Sam was trying to keep it together, probably thought he was handling it pretty well, too, but the kid's face was an open book. A myriad of emotions flitted across Sam's face: worry, fear, love, desperation.
He gave Sam a small smile and clarified. "His breathing is shallower than I'd like. The respirator is just making sure he gets the enough oxygen."
Sam sniffed and swallowed hard, turning his head away. He clenched his teeth together, hard. He was not going to break down in front of a stranger. He was not going to break down, period. Suck it up, Sammy, he mentally chastised himself, and his inner voice had somehow become Dean's. Crying is for pussies.
Gaffney walked across the room and began to check the readouts on various machines. "I'm not gonna lie to you, son. Dean's in a heavy coma. There's virtually no brainwave activity, and he's completely unresponsive to any stimuli. Most people in this state don't recover." He didn't mention anything about Dean's soul. Even if it was true that a demon had taken Dean's soul, he had no idea what that would mean in terms of recovery.
Gaffney saw Sam turn his eyes back on his brother, and if he was not mistaken, he saw a hint of pride in Sam's face. "Dean's not most people. He's beaten the odds before. He'll do it again."
The doctor straightened and looked Sam in the eye. "I don't know what you're going to do, Sam, and frankly, I don't wanna know. But I'll watch over him until it's done."
Sam felt some of the tension in his muscles ease. Something told him he could trust this man to watch over his brother. "Thank you, Doctor Gaffney."
Gaffney laughed and shook his head. "Might as well call me Doc, son. All of my patients call me that, and more than half my friends, now that I think about it. I'm kind of used to it. 'Sides, Doctor Gaffney's too stuffy. Kind of like this house."
Sam's lips quirked slightly--as close as he could come to a smile at that moment. "Sure thing... Doc."
Just then Bobby walked in, and if you weren't looking for it, you wouldn't have noticed how he faltered for just a second, at the sight of Dean lying there. Not dead, but pretty much as good as unless they could get his soul back.
Sam turned to Bobby, and his heart began to pound just a little faster. "Are they ready?"
Bobby shook his head. "They said they're gonna need another hour or two to prepare. Cleansing ritual. Plus, we need to finish the defenses: wards, hex bags, salt-lines. You know the drill."
"Dammit, this stuff should've been taken care of before we got here. We need to get this done now," Sam said, and he turned around, planning on pushing them along.
Bobby knew what Sam was going to do and grabbed his arm, concerned and a little bit angry. "Don't go running off, half-cocked. This is some serious shit were dealing with here, boy. Life or death shit, and more than just you and your brother's. All of us are at risk. You best not take it lightly."
Sam closed his eyes and counted to ten. Calm. Bobby's right. He's right, and you know it. You can't afford to screw this up. "I'm sorry. It's just... the thought of Dean... there. She… It..." Sam corrected, unable to think of it as Ruby anymore, "...the demon... it said they'd be waiting for him."
Both hunters turned their heads to look at their fallen comrade. The steady beep of the heart monitor was like a countdown.
"We'll get him back," Bobby said, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder. He wanted to believe he was telling the truth.
"Yeah," Sam said, and for the first time, his heart wasn't in it. The task ahead suddenly seemed too daunting. Was he strong enough to do what needed to be done? Could he really go against the forces of Hell and expect to win? Or was he just completely out of his mind, and his crazy-ass plan had just damned his brother's soul to eternal torment?
Hearing the doubt in that one word, and understanding where it was coming from, Bobby gave Sam's shoulder a little reassuring squeeze. "I'll go see if I can help speed things up a bit. Why don't you stay here with Dean?" he added, unnecessarily. As if there was any other place Sam would rather be.
Sam walked over to Dean's bed, shoulders sagging slightly and reminding Bobby more of the boy he had been than the man he had become. After a moment of hesitation, Sam gingerly sat down on the end of the bed, letting out a shaky exhalation of air that didn't quite end in a sob. Bobby found himself blinking back tears.
The elder hunter backed out of the room, pulling the double doors shut behind him. He didn't want anyone bothering them; this moment belonged to the Winchesters.
Sam sat on the end of Dean's bed, watching the machines help his brother breathe. Bobby and Doc Gaffney had disappeared over an hour ago, leaving Sam alone with Dean's shell and his own thoughts.
For the first time in months, Sam had time to kill.
It was unfamiliar territory for him. For weeks, months even, he'd felt like time had been screaming by, rushing them toward Dean's deadline. Now that the contract had been fulfilled, every minute seemed to last forever. An eternity existed between every tick of the clock. An eternity with Dean in Hell.
Sam paced for a while, pushed by his need to do something now. His anxiety grew exponentially with every step. He knew that he should be patient, that everything needed to be perfect for this to work, but he was having a hard time standing around, doing nothing. Doing nothing meant that he had time to think, and thinking was bad, because every time he thought about what needed to be done, he felt doubt creep in just a little bit more. Eventually, the pacing started to wear him down, and he came to rest at the bottom of Dean's bed. He'd been sitting there for quite a while.
Sam placed a hand on Dean's ankle, which was buried under a light blanket. It made him feel weak and childish, but he needed that physical connection, if only to reassure himself that part of Dean remained in this world, and all was not lost.
His brother was now clothed in sweats and black t-shirt. His chest looked strangely bare without his amulet, which still hung around Sam's neck. Sam had thought about returning it to Dean, but the weight of it around his own neck was a welcome comfort. In some ways, he felt more connected to Dean through it than through the body in front of him. It was as if the amulet, which his brother had worn since the day Sam had given it to him, had somehow absorbed some of the vital essence that was Dean. Like it carried a tiny fleck of Dean's soul.
Maybe it did. Or maybe it was just enough for Sam to believe that it did.
Sam reached up and closed his other hand over the amulet, feeling its edges dig into his skin as he held it tight. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself a moment of comfort.
When he opened his eyes, nothing around him had changed. Dean lay there still, an empty shell. The monitors still beeped and whirred. The expensive grandfather clock on the other side of the room still ticked away. But something inside of Sam had changed.
He wasn't afraid anymore.
It's not like he wasn't scared. Anybody who was about to do what Sam was about to do and not be scared would be completely out of his mind. But he no longer feared failure. Sam knew would save Dean. He just knew. There was no longer any doubt in his mind.
"You remember that time…" Sam began, bowing his head and smiling slightly, almost as if he was embarrassed, "…man, I think I was about nine? No, ten. It was Halloween, and all the kids were allowed to dress up in costumes for school. It was kind of a consensus that all of the guys would dress up as their favorite hero. The other guys, they were dressed like Batman or Superman, a fireman or a cop or whatever." Sam shook his head. "Not me. I swiped that leather jacket you'd found at some used clothing store and your sunglasses and went in there trying to look all badass like my big brother. The kids, they kept asking me if I was trying to be Arnold in T2. I was like, please, my brother could kick Arnold's ass… a bunch of bull, really, but back then, I believed it."
The grandfather clock behind him began to chime, marking the hour. Sam paused to look at it, heaved a sigh, then looked back at Dean.
"They made fun of me, for dressing up like you. I wouldn't have cared, but then they started making fun of you. That was the first fight I ever got into at school. Remember? They had to call you out of class at the middle school because they couldn't get a hold of Dad."
Sam laughed a little. "I can still see your face, when you came into the office and spotted me in your jacket, with blood on it, no less. I could see that for a second, you were pissed at me for taking it without asking. Then there was surprise, followed by a bit of pride, I think. Not really the reaction my teacher was looking for."
"She told you she'd thought I'd taken the big brother hero worship a little too far. But what did she know, right? Sure, a lot of kids may have had a case of hero worship for their big brothers, but how many of them could actually say that their brother really is a hero?"
Sam bowed his head and began to pick at a loose thread on the blanket. He swallowed hard. "Seems like you've always been a hero. It just came naturally to you. It never did for me, and I think that's part of the reason Dad and I butted heads so often. I could never be as good as you, so at some point, I stopped trying. Dad may have been pissed at me for it, but being pissed was better than being disappointed, right? I guess I threw myself into books partly because I knew it was one area you couldn't--more like wouldn't--compete. Pretty childish, huh?"
Sam fell silent once more. He desperately wished for one of Dean's smart-ass comments or bad jokes, but there was only silence. After a while, Sam raised his eyes to look at Dean's face. "I may not be the hero you are, Dean, but I swear to you, I will get you out of Hell. I won't let you down."
"Sam."
Sam turned his head at the sound of the soft, feminine voice. Standing in the doorway, hidden partially behind it, was a young woman. She'd slid the doors open so quietly that Sam hadn't even heard her. She looked like she was no older than sixteen, but Sam knew for a fact that she was twenty. She also looked like she would blow away if you breathed in her direction.
The girl was painfully thin and so pale that her skin seemed almost translucent. She had the big, brown eyes of a frightened doe, and her demeanor did not belie the image. When Sam's eyes met hers, she immediately lowered hers and bashfully backed a bit further behind the door, though her pale skin didn't seem to be able to work up enough blood flow to blush.
This was who their lives depended on--a fragile little wisp of a girl who was his only hope of getting Dean's soul out of Hell. Everything hinged on her. The burden of it seemed too much for her small shoulders to bear.
As if sensing his thoughts, the girl straightened and, with some effort, raised her eyes to meet Sam's. What on the surface seemed weak was not weak at all. Sam felt as if he were falling into her eyes, and behind them was a force to be reckoned with. The determination in her gaze was only rivaled by his own. When she spoke again, her voice was a little stronger, fortified by her resolve.
"We're ready."
A/N: It seems I still haven't gotten over my cliffhanger addiction. Apologies.