No Dominion
By Inzane
Disclaimer: I lay no claim to Supernatural or its characters. The chapter title comes from a line from Shakespeare's Henry V.
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: I am a little creeped out by how easily Dean's gruesome death scenes have come to me. My imagination has taken a very, very dark turn. When this is all over, I'm going to write something nice and fluffy. There could be bunnies.
Warning: Stressed out boys bad language. More Dean abuse.
Chapter 7: Once More into the Breach
"Sam?"
Dean blinked several times, deep in the land of confusion. There'd been… something. Just a second ago. Someone there. Running toward him, reaching out. A man.
He'd looked like Sam.
Like Sam, but, of course, that wasn't saying much, considering he was surrounded by a thousand bodies with Sam's face. He'd watched each and every one of them die right in front of him. But there had been something about this one. Something… he wasn't sure what it was. Different. Better. Which was stupid, because one Sam was just like another, right? They came, they saw, they died horrible fucking deaths. End of story.
But what if it had been different this time? What if his brother really had come for him?
"Sammy?" Dean called out, voice unsteady and uncertain. He waited for an answer, but there was none, and the scene in front of him did not change. No one was there, now. Just a field of dead Sams and a blood-red sky.
No. It hadn't been Sam. Just another carbon copy. Probably would've joined his brothers in the field, if he hadn't poofed out of existence. And what the fuck was up with that? That didn't follow the game plan, now did it? There were rules. Didn't he know that there were rules? He should be ripped in two or eaten by zombies or implode or something, not pull some I Dream of Jeannie bullshit disappearing act. Unless...
Unless it had been Sam. His Sam. But if it had been the real Sammy, then something must've happened. Obviously, because Sam was gone, and he was still stuck in Hell. Maybe the girl wasn't as powerful as Sam thought, or maybe some big bad had intervened to stop his little brother from riding to the rescue. Whatever the reason, it was clear that something had gone wrong.
Of course, it could be that Hell was just screwing with him. Letting him build up a bit of hope just to tear him down all over again.
Dean ground his teeth together. If it was the former, he was pretty much fucked. Eternally. If it was the latter, then they'd have to score this round as Hell: 1, Dean Winchester: big fat 0.
Try as he might to resist, hope was a terribly seductive thing.
He let out a frustrated scream through his clenched teeth. It caused the barrel of the shotgun he'd forgotten he was holding to dig harder into the soft flesh under his chin. He froze.
Time to even the score.
"Fuck you," Dean said, and pulled the trigger.
"Send me back!"
The room was in pandemonium. Sam was furiously struggling against the bindings that still held him to the chair. Everyone was talking at once.
"Sam..."
"Send me back, right now, goddammit!"
"You need to settle down…"
"If he thinks he's putting my daughter through that again…"
"He was there! He was right there, Bobby! I almost…"
"Blood pressure's dropping…"
"Dammit, Sam, if you could shut your yap for half a minute, I could …"
"I have to go back. I have to go back right now, before he…"
"…pulse is thready..."
"Gaffney, what's going on? Is she…"
"Bobby, please!"
"Damn. She's in V fib."
"Oh my God. Charlotte…"
"Sonofabitch."
"Charging."
"Wait, what's going on…"
"CLEAR!"
The sound of the defibrillator discharging instantly shut everyone up. Charlotte's thin form, deathly pale and covered in a sheen of sweat, jerked under the current, then settled back down on the couch. The steady beep from the heart monitor rang out in the sudden stillness.
Gaffney examined the readings, then sagged beside the couch and ran a hand through his hair. "It's all right, now. We've got normal rhythm."
"I want her taken to the hospital," Clay demanded.
"I don't think we really need to…"
"What happened, Doc? Is she okay?" Sam asked, still struggling against his bonds, but Clay interrupted.
"No, she is not okay! You almost killed her!"
"I didn't…"
"Yes, you did! You and your redneck friend and your stupid ritual!"
"Now, wait just a damn minute…" Bobby began, but Clay ignored him. His anger was focused on Sam.
"Do you have any idea of the amount of effort it took her to maintain the connection to you, much less pull you back? You could practically see the life draining out of her! Well, I've had enough of it, you hear me? Enough! I went along with it because it's what Charlotte wanted, but I'm done. I want you out of my house. All of you," he added, and his eyes flicked to the room across the hall, where Dean Winchester's body quietly waited for its soul.
Sam's mouth fell open as he was shocked into silence. Bobby took a casual step toward Clay, which somehow managed to be threatening all the same. "Now, normally," Bobby drawled, "I'd say you were in the right, here. But you can't possibly be considerin' throwing a man in a coma out on his ass."
Doc Gaffney stood up and turned to Clay. "He's right. He's stable right now, but that could easily change if we attempt to move him. You can't…"
"Don't tell me what I can and cannot do in my own house!" Clay bellowed.
"But... he could die," Sam said quietly, still in shock. Things had gone from bad to worse in typical Winchester fashion.
"Better him than my daughter!"
"You... don't mean that."
At the sound of Charlotte's tired voice, all eyes went to her. She'd put a hand to her forehead, and her eyes were scrunched closed, as if battling a headache.
Clay moved over to the couch and sank down beside his daughter. He took her free hand in his. "Charlotte... honey... let me deal with this, okay? I need to do what's best for you. You can't take the strain."
"You can't..." She paused to catch her breath. "You can't send them away. I'm their only hope."
"Charlotte..."
"I won't abandon them. Please… don't ask me to do that."
"I'm not asking, Charlotte."
"I need to finish this."
Clay's face hardened. "I'm sorry, baby, but I can't let you."
Charlotte opened her eyes and stared up into her father's face. His breath caught in his throat. He felt a tingle in the back of his head--just a soft touch, a little push--to remind him of exactly who and what she was.
"You can't stop me."
She hadn't wanted to give him that push, to draw a line in the sand, but he'd left her no choice.
Clay swallowed hard. He didn't think his daughter would take control of him, wasn't sure if she really could, but the possibility was there. He didn't want to force her to test that possibility. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, unsure if he could trust his voice.
The others in the room had watched the little drama play out and had kept silent. Sam had bitten his bottom lip until he'd tasted blood, torn. He needed to save Dean. He had to. He was willing to endure just about anything to make that happen, but it was a bit harder to deal when it was clear that Charlotte was the one paying the price.
"One condition," Clay said, fully aware that he was in no position to make demands but hoping that Charlotte would humor him. He stood up and turned toward the other men in the room. "We don't do this again until tomorrow."
He looked down at Charlotte for confirmation, and, after a moment's hesitation, she nodded in silent agreement. She had hit the wall. She had nothing left, and they both knew it.
"Tomorrow..." Sam started to protest, but clamped his mouth down on it. There were dark circles under Charlotte's eyes, and her breathing seemed unsteady.
"She needs to sleep," Clay said. "If she'd going to risk herself for you again, you should at least have the decency to let her recover her strength."
Sam closed his eyes and nodded. "You're right. I'm sorry."
As Clay and Doc Gaffney helped Charlotte out of the room, Sam's mind raced. Part of him was screaming Save Dean! Save Dean! Save Dean! But the other part, the logical part, knew that he had to wait. Charlotte was tapped out. If he pushed, he'd end up getting her killed, or end up stranded in Hell, or both.
Waiting: it was an easy concept to understand, but a hard one to accept. All he could see every time he closed his eyes was an image of Dean with a shotgun jammed under his chin.
"It'll be all right, Sam," Bobby said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You'll get him next time."
"Yeah," Sam replied half-heartedly. He opened his eyes and looked down, tugging against the bonds that still held him. "You wanna untie me now?"
Bobby made a noncommittal noise and made no move to release him. Instead, he leaned slowly forward, bringing his head level with Sam's.
"Cristo."
Sam rolled his eyes and tugged hard against his bonds. "Jesus, Bobby, will you untie me, already? I'm me."
Bobby nodded, satisfied. "Just makin' sure, kid."
Dean groaned and tried to move, but he felt like his entire body was made of lead. Even his eyelids were impossibly heavy. His head agonizingly throbbed with each beat of his heart.
As the pain lessened and his senses gradually retuned, he felt something wet against his right cheek, where it pressed against the floor of the porch. He didn't have to open his eyes to know what it was. He knew that smell. Thinking he might regret it, Dean struggled to force his eyes open.
Yep. Should've kept 'em shut.
He was lying facedown in a thick pool of blood. There were little white-ish lumps scattered here and there, and jagged fragments of something that looked a lot like bone. It kind of reminded him of that time when he'd blown the head off of that nasty little chupacabra when he was …
Oh, yeah. Right.
Dean gingerly reached up to feel his head. He was surprised to find it intact, considering that it still felt like it was split in two. He'd take a hangover over this any day. He grunted with effort as he rolled himself onto his back. Blood covered the right side of his face and body. Something was sticking to his cheek, and he was pretty sure that something was a piece of his own grey matter.
"Eww."
Even as Dean reached up to pluck his own brains off his face, he felt it sink back into his skin. The blood under his head slowly absorbed back into his body, his skin soaking it up like a sponge.
He let his arm flop back to the floor with a thud. His head gave one final pulse of pain, then even that faded away.
Back to status quo.
Dammit.
Dean sighed and just lay there, contemplating the porch ceiling.
Note to self--do not blow own head off with shotgun in future. Gross, and seriously fucking hurts.
Eventually, he managed to drum up enough willpower to roll his head and take a look around. The shotgun was gone. Headless Sam was still there on the porch, beside him. A ton of Sams waiting in the dead grass beyond.
Dean…
He'd been expecting it. Sam, calling for him like he always did. He expected the voice to come from off in the distance, like always. But it didn't. It came from the disembodied head right next to him.
Sammy's head. Hair matted with blood. White-filmed eyes blindly searching for him. Pale lips, moving ever so slightly, whispering his name.
Dean turned away and stared up at the ceiling again. His face remained slack. If you didn't know him, you might have thought that he didn't have any reaction at all, that he had become so jaded that even this new horror could have no affect on him. But that was far from the case.
Dean… help me…
Dean Winchester had faced every horror that Hell had thrown at him. He'd raged and he'd cried. He'd fought and he begged. He'd blown his own goddamn head off. There wasn't much left for him to do.
He laughed.
Laughed until he thought his sides would split, until tears ran down his cheeks and he was gasping for breath.
He didn't stop for a long, long time.
Sam leaned against the window in the library. His looked out at the well-manicured lawn, but he didn't really see it. He was too preoccupied with his own thoughts. Save for the soft beeping of the monitors attached to his brother, it was quiet.
This is how his life would be, without Dean. Quiet.
He was sick of quiet. He wanted pointless conversations about who was the hotter chick on Charmed, or the proper way to eat pizza (to fold or not to fold?). He wanted slightly off-key but enthusiastic sing-alongs with the Impala's radio. He wanted dirty jokes and brotherly insults and infectious laughter. He didn't want quiet. He wanted his brother back.
Sam glanced over his shoulder. Dean lay still in the bed, waiting far more patiently for the return of his soul than Sam was.
The younger Winchester turned back to the window and sighed. There was nothing he could do for now. Since everything he'd done so far had pretty much amounted to nothing anyway, there wasn't much change there. Dean was still in Hell, going through God only knew what, and he was stuck sitting around with his thumb up his ass. Some hero he was.
Sam clenched his fists, then gave a little yelp when one flared with pain. He opened his hand to find Dean's amulet, which had dug painfully into the cut in his palm. He'd forgotten it was there. Sam reached forward and gently, almost reverently, unwrapped the cord. He flexed his hand, wincing as the stiff skin around the cut on his palm protested.
He lifted the amulet by the cord, holding it up to the light. It didn't look like much--just a weird piece of metal on a battered leather cord. But it was far more than that. He could feel it, not just physically, but on some psychic level--like a low level hum in the back of his mind. In Hell, it had been his guiding light (though he would never tell Dean that; it sounded too damn corny). He prayed that it would hold true the second time around.
He reached up and settled the amulet around his neck. He hoped that by this time tomorrow, he'd be able to give it back to its rightful owner.
"Sam."
Sam turned at the sound of his name to find a pair of concerned eyes staring at him from under the brim of a beat up trucker hat. "Hey, Bobby."
Bobby moved into the room, eyes flicking briefly to Dean's body as he passed. He wondered how long a body could last without its soul. He hadn't said anything to Sam, because the kid was already on edge as is, but he couldn't shake the feeling that time was running out.
"The Doc's got Charlotte settled back up in her room. Said her vitals are back to normal, so he gave her a sedative to make sure she got some rest. Girl's pretty much worn out. Maintaining that link took a lot out of her."
Sam bowed his head and nodded. His brain was all mixed up when it came to Charlotte. Sure, he felt a healthy dose of guilt for putting her in this situation, which was clearly taking a toll on her body, but he was ashamed to admit that there was a good deal of resentment there, as well. He knew his resentment was unjustified, but he couldn't help it. She'd plucked him away just as he was about to reach his brother. How could he not resent that? It didn't matter that he knew it wasn't her fault; human emotions were fickle.
Bobby narrowed his eyes and took a hard look at Sam. "She's not the only one worn out."
Sam gave Bobby a look, one that not-so-subtly said back off. "I'm fine."
Bobby frowned. Damn stubborn Winchesters. "No, Sam. You're not fine," he said, using that same I'm-in-charge-here voice that he'd used when Sam was a still a snot-nosed little kid. "You got circles under your eyes the size of dinner plates, and you haven't slept a wink in three days. You've hardly eaten a thing, either, but I guess that'll solve the first problem when you pass out because you're too weak to stand on your own two feet!"
"I don't need…"
"Shut up, boy!" Bobby snapped, taking off his hat and smacking it angrily against his own thigh. "Did I say I was finished?"
Sam lowered his eyes, looking contrite and feeling like he was ten years old again. "Sorry."
Bobby softened a bit at Sam's apology. "You won't do your brother a lick of good by running yourself into the ground. You need to get some food into you and get some sleep."
"How can I do that, Bobby?" Sam replied hoarsely. "How can I eat or sleep when Dean's… when he's…" He trailed off, remembering what he had seen in Hell, just before he'd been snatched away.
"'Cause you're a smart man, Sam. It may not be what you wanna do, but it's what you need to do. You know that."
"I'm being stupid, aren't I?"
"You're entitled, once in a while." Bobby gave Sam a little poke in the chest. "Jus' don't make a habit of it."
This made Sam smile a little. "I won't." The smile quickly faded though as he looked over at his brother's body, brows knitting with concern.
Bobby could practically read his thoughts. Sam was an open book when it came to his brother. "Don't worry. I'll look out for him."
"Thanks, Bobby. I couldn't do this without you."
"Damn straight, kid," Bobby replied, snapping his hat back on his head. "Now git. I catch you up and walkin' around before six hours sleep, I'll beat your ass."
Sam's lips quirked as he tried not to smile at the empty threat. Bobby had never raised a hand to either one of them in his life, even though they'd given him plenty of cause over the years. "Yes, sir."
As Sam shambled off, hopefully in search of a sandwich and a bed, Bobby moved to stand at the foot of Dean's bed. Maybe he imagined it, but it seemed like the steady beep of the heart monitor was just a little bit slower than before.
"Just hang on, Dean. Sam's comin' for you. You hear? He's comin'."
Bobby hoped to God he'd be in time.
Dean had stopped laughing a long time ago. Now he was sitting on the porch steps of his childhood home next to Sam and his disembodied head, looking out over the field of dead Sams and waiting for something to happen. He'd been sitting there for hours. Days maybe. Who the hell knew anymore? Not like it mattered, anyway.
The Sam next to him still hadn't shut up.
"Help me, Dean, help me, help me," Dean said in a mocking, girly tone. "Can't you come up with something else? Something a little more stimulating, maybe?"
Dean… please… help me….
"No?" Dean asked, raising his eyebrows in question. He shook his head with disapproval. "Waste of a college education, if you ask me. Kids today."
Dean knew things were not good. He was talking to his dead brother's head, which was currently sitting about two feet from the rest of his dead brother's body.
He expected someone would be coming to fit him for a straightjacket pretty damn soon.
Dean turned to look down at the corpse next to him. Then it was like something inside of him clicked, and he suddenly knew what he had to do. He got to his feet.
With a few grunts and curses, he picked up Sam's body in a fireman's carry. He reached down and picked up the head and cradled it under his free arm, much like a football. A talking, dead-eyed football. He straightened and stared out into to field of bodies in front of him.
It was time to do something about the dead Sams.
Sam had done his best to choke down a ham and cheese sandwich, which had pretty much tasted like sawdust to him. Still, he ate most of it, because he knew he needed to, and because he really didn't want to give Bobby a reason to kick his ass.
He'd been tossing and turning on the bed in one of the Athertons' guest rooms for the past hour. He couldn't seem to get his brain to shut off. It was too preoccupied trying to think ten moves ahead, imagining every possible scenario and how to deal with it. Finally, the exhaustion of his body overrode his brain, and he fell asleep.
Thankfully, he was too tired to dream.
Sam's head was finally silenced. Dean had buried it, along with the rest of him. Him and three others, so far. It had taken a long time, because he didn't have anything but his hands to dig with, and the dirt was dry and hard packed. He could've looked in house for something to dig with, but he refused to go in that house. Ever. Not since that first time.
Dean shoved the last bit of dirt back over the most recent grave, then pushed himself to his feet. As he surveyed his handiwork, his hands hung limply at his sides, bloody and ragged. All of his fingernails were cracked or torn, and a few were missing completely. He didn't feel it. It was unimportant. What was important was that he bury Sam.
He looked out over a land filled with dead little brothers. It would take him forever to bury them all, but he was okay with that. It's not like he had anything better to do.
Dean...
Dean's head fell back and he closed his eyes. "Fuck."
The ground beneath his feet trembled. Before he could move, a hand shot out of the earth--Sam's hand--and clamped over his ankle. In an instant, he was pulled halfway under. His fingers scrabbled over the ground, trying to find purchase, but Sammy continued to drag him further down. He was buried to the middle of his chest when he felt sharp, burning pains shoot through his legs as Sam's fingers dug into the flesh, ripping in their need to pull him under. But still, he fought. As far gone as he was, he still fought. He didn't know how not to.
His entire body jerked hard, then stiffened. His eyes flew wide as he felt dead fingers, driven by unnatural strength, puncture his flesh, digging in until they were able to wrap around the base of his spine. He felt his backbone snap and his spinal cord sever a moment before Sam dragged him down into the grave with one last, mighty heave.
Somehow, even as far gone as he was, he still found the will to scream.
Sam hadn't thought that he would sleep long, so it was a surprise when a small hand shook his shoulder gently to wake him.
"Wha...?" Sam muttered, rolling over and blinking lazily. He wondered at first why there was a woman sitting on his bed, especially one that looked like jail bait, but then he woke up the rest of the way and remembered where he was. "Oh. Hey, Charlotte. You feel any better?"
Charlotte nodded, though she didn't look much better than she had before. "I wanted to talk to you. Ummm... you know... without my father around."
Sam pushed himself to a sitting position, thankful that he hadn't bothered to take off his clothes. "Does he know you're here?"
She shook her head. "No. He doesn't want me to help you." She paused and looked down at her hands, which were clenched tight in her lap. "My father is a good man, Sam. He only wants to protect me. He means well, but sometimes I think he doesn't realize how trapped it makes me feel. For the first time in my life, I have a chance to make a difference. I won't give that up, no matter what the cost."
"Are you sure you want to do this again?" He couldn't believe he was asking the question, but he couldn't force her. Not after helping him had almost killed her.
She gave Sam a soft smile. "Yes. As many times as it takes." There must have been some hint of doubt on his face, because she narrowed her eyes at him. "I can do this, Sam Winchester. Trust me, I'm not as fragile as I look. It hit me hard because I wasn't prepared last time. This time, I'll be ready."
Relief flooded through Sam. He wasn't really sure if he believed her, but he would give her the benefit of the doubt. "Okay. As long as you're sure."
Charlotte's smile widened. "Let's go save your brother."
Dean jerked awake, racked by a fit of coughing and covered head to toe in dirt. He could taste it in his mouth, feel it weigh down his lungs; he coughed it out until it felt like a few internal organs just might come up with it. It was only after the coughing subsided that he realized he couldn't feel anything from the waist down.
He only had time for a moment of panic before he felt something inside him shift with a sharp crack. He cried out at the sudden, vicious pain that flared through him as his backbone snapped back into place.
He rolled over and shoved himself onto his hands and knees. Dirt fell from his body and disappeared before it had a chance to reach the floor. The pain pulsed white hot one last time, then faded away.
Status goddamn motherfucking quo.
Dean bent over, forehead to the floor. He took quick, deep breaths, but it didn't help. That one had been bad. Really, really bad. He didn't know why this death had bothered him more than the others. It had been rather tame, comparatively.
He wallowed in his misery for a while, then forced himself to get up. He stumbled off the porch and walked out into the field, dragging his feet. After a few steps, he stopped. It shouldn't have been possible for every single muscle in his body to sag at once, but Dean somehow managed it.
They were back. All of them.
All four of the Sams he had buried lay in a jumble of limbs, dead eyes staring up at him as if to say, You can't hide what you've done.
Oh yeah? Dean thought. Watch me.
He sank to his knees and began to dig.
They were ready. Bobby and Sam had already gone around the house a second time, verifying the protections were still in place. Clay Atherton was busy pestering the doctor about Charlotte's vitals. Clay's coven was scattered about the house, back at the spellwork that would shore up the physical protections. They couldn't afford to have the bad guys sit up and take notice.
Bobby was about to pick up the book containing the summoning ritual when Charlotte placed a hand on top of it to prevent him.
"You don't need to summon a demon," Charlotte said with quiet command. "I know the way."
Bobby and Sam shared a look. Sam shrugged slightly, as if to say Why not?
Charlotte lay down on the couch, and her father moved to stand behind it, a nervous sentinel. Sam took his place in the chair, though this time Bobby didn't tie him. They all were silent as Doc Gaffney took a few minutes to hook Sam and Charlotte back up to the monitors. When he was finished, Sam wrapped a hand around Dean's amulet and closed his eyes, taking a brief moment to send up a silent prayer. When he opened them, he turned them on Charlotte. "You ready?"
"I'm ready."
"Two hours. Not a second before."
"I know, Sam." They had decided on two hours. He was pretty sure he knew where Dean would be, and how to use his power and Dean's amulet to get him there.
Sam braced himself for the invasion. "Okay, then. Do your thing."
Charlotte nodded, then closed her eyes. She took several slow, deliberate breaths as she mentally sought out the path. It wasn't hard. It was burned into her brain, tinged with the same wrongness that she'd felt in Hell. She knew it was something that she would have to live with for the rest of her life.
The way fixed firmly in her mind, she leapt toward Sam.
He felt her join him in his own body. He had expected the same sense of violation he'd felt when the demon had possessed him, but it wasn't like that. It was a joining--intimate, but not sexual. He could feel the purity of her soul, as it mingled with his, could feel her power.
She was beautiful.
He saw her the way no one else ever had, and though he didn't really have any romantic feelings towards her, he knew that he would never be able to look at her the same way.
Her soul enveloped him, like a caress. Then they were flying, rocketing down the path as Charlotte pulled him into Hell.
Dean was pretty much ready to admit that burying Sam had become an unhealthy obsession.
He'd lost count of how many times he had buried his brother. Enough that it had become sort of their routine, now. He'd bury his brother. Sammy (eager to do his part) would drag him down into the dirt. Dean would slowly suffocate and then--presto!--he'd be back on the porch coughing up his lungs and Sam would be magically unburied. Then they'd start all over.
He found it almost comforting, actually. Sure, it was some seriously fucked up brotherly bonding, but it was hard enough to squeeze in quality family time between all the death and dismemberment. You had to take what you could get.
He was on the downward spiral. He had no illusions about that. His insistence on burying his brother even though it didn't do a damn bit of good was what he believed Freud would call, using the technical term, bat-shit crazy.
It didn't really matter much, in the grand scheme of things. He couldn't not bury Sam.
"This isn't so bad, huh, Sammy? Better than watching you die, anyway."
He was standing in the middle of a mass grave. It had taken a long time to dig this one. Weeks, probably. When he had finally gotten the grave big enough, he'd been too tired to climb out, so he'd just reached up and tugged the closest bodies down into the hole.
There were about eighteen of them, ranging from toddler to grown up Sam, down in the hole with him, surrounding him on all sides. Eighteen--that was probably enough.
He was about to climb out and begin the painstaking task of shoving the dirt back in when the bodies around him moved.
A twitch here, a slight shift there. Hands stretching out, reaching for him. Tiny, toddler-sized teeth sinking into his ankle.
"Sonofabitch," Dean muttered as he closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable.
He doesn't scream. Even as they rip him apart, he doesn't scream.
Sam was on his hands and knees, breathing hard as he tried to once again find the level of concentration that would block out the Hell-vibes that made his head spin and his stomach threaten mutiny. It didn't take long. This time, he knew what he was doing.
Charlotte was gone. She'd paused only long enough to dump him off in Hell before shooting back up to her own body. They'd planned it that way. Bobby and Clay had both agreed that Charlotte needed to conserve all of her strength for maintaining the link to Sam.
He got to his feet, once again surrounded by thick, inky blackness. He didn't bother trying to get the amulet around his neck to chase away the darkness. This wasn't where he was supposed to be.
Hand wrapped around Dean's amulet, Sam reached, gathering the power within him as he visualized where he needed to go.
White house in a field of dead grass. Crimson sky looming above. Dead bodies with his own face. Dean.
A column of flame erupted in front of him, materializing into the fire demon he'd run into before. He could actually physically feel the menace rolling off the thing, like angry ants on his skin.
"You're not supposed to be here, human" it said, the thought screaming into Sam's head, but Sam knew what was coming and was ready for it. When Sam didn't react, the column of fire flared angrily. "I will burn your soul to ashes!" the demon howled, swelling to twice its size.
Sam's lips quirked. "I don't think so," he said, a challenge in his eyes.
The demon screamed and lunged for him just as, with a flare of light from Dean's amulet, Sam winked out of existence.
Dean woke up screaming, a mass of blood and mangled flesh, back arching off of the porch as pain racked his body.
He could still feel it… hands ripping, teeth tearing. Losing himself piece by piece, somehow able to feel each part of him, even after it had been torn away. By his little brother. By Sammy.
His screams degenerated into choked sobs as he felt his body return to the now hated status quo.
He slowly rolled, trying to get up, but only made it to his hands and knees. Light tremors racked his body, which no longer seemed to want to obey his commands. He wouldn't have obeyed him either if he'd kept constantly getting dismembered.
"This is not better," Dean rasped. "This is so not better."
He raised his head to scan the horizon. An acre of dead Sams patiently waited.
He couldn't just leave them like that.
He swallowed hard, knowing what he was about to do. He pushed himself to his feet, knowing what was most likely about to happen to him.
Hell had found a new, better game for him to play.
"Next time, Dean," he said, as he stepped off of the porch, "keep your fucking mouth shut."
He stood in a field full of dead grass and bodies with his face, under a blood-red sky. A white house stood in the distance.
Bingo.
The amulet around Sam's neck began to pulse steadily, gently tugging him toward the house. Toward his brother.
"Dean!" Sam called out, and began to run.
Dean continued with dogged determination to bury his brother. No matter the effort, the ending was always the same.
He'd been ripped apart, had his skull crushed, neck snapped, heart ripped out, among various other uninventive but still horribly painful deaths. Still, he persisted.
Though he was starting to think that maybe Sam didn't want to be buried.
The amulet led Sam right to his brother, just as he knew it would. At first, he'd run, occasionally stumbling over the various incarnations of his own death. As he got closer, he slowed, afraid of what he might see. As much as he wanted to save Dean, he couldn't help but fear what Hell had done to him. When he finally came across his brother, what he saw was so out of line with what he'd been expecting that he came to a complete stop, speechless.
Dean was digging.
His brother was on his hands and knees in a hole four or five feet deep, clawing at the bottom with his hands. He'd randomly scoop up loose dirt and chuck it over his shoulder, then start digging again. All the while, he was muttering something under his breath, but Sam couldn't make it out.
Sam approached warily, as he would a wounded animal. "Dean?" he called out hesitantly, but Dean didn't answer. Sam wasn't even sure if Dean had heard him. He seemed too focused on his task.
"Dean?" Sam called out again, crouching at the edge of the hole and reaching out a hand toward his brother.
Dean turned on him so fast that Sam instinctively jerked his hand back. He fell backwards and landed on his butt in the dirt. "God," he gasped, causing the sky above to roil in anger, as he caught his first real good look at Dean.
His brother was covered in dirt and smeared with blood. He was pale and sweating, sunken eyes more than a little bit crazed. Sam could see glimpses of bone peeking out from the ends of a few ruined fingertips. His entire body was shaking with light tremors, as if he were having some kind of seizure.
Those wild eyes looked up at him, taking a minute to assess before dismissing him altogether.
"Dude, wait your turn."
"Wha… What?" Sam stammered, taken aback by the completely casual tone of Dean's voice, as if he had asked something as trivial as Dude, pass the salt.
"Am I not speaking English here? I'm not finished with this one," Dean said, nodding his head toward the nearest body. "You'll have to wait."
"Dean, it's me," Sam said, then sputtered as Dean threw a handful of dirt over his shoulder directly into Sam's face. "It's Sam."
Dean froze for a second, and Sam thought he might have gotten through to him, but then Dean continued digging.
"I know who you are," Dean snapped angrily. "I'm dead, not blind." He heaved another clump of dirt over his shoulder, which Sam managed to avoid this time. "Sorry I don't have time to chat, Sammy, but, as you can see, I'm kind of busy here. Which I wouldn't be, if you would be a good little dead person and stay buried. But noooo, you gotta go and be difficult, don't you?" Dean shook his head. "Always were fucking stubborn."
Sam stared. Dean thought he was one of them--one of the dead versions of himself, up and walking around to torment him. The way Dean was acting made Sam think that this wasn't the first time he had experienced this particular torment.
Sam's vision went white with anger. If he ever got his hands on the demon formerly known as Ruby, he was going to figure out a way to kill the bitch. Slow. But that was for later. Right now, he had more important concerns.
He shoved himself forward, sliding down into the hole with his brother. "Look, I'm not one of them, okay? It's me. The real me." He pulled on Dean's shoulder, trying to get him to stop digging, to look at him, but Dean shrugged him off. "Come on, man, you have to stop digging. Your hands…"
Dean spun, slapping one of those ruined hands against Sam's chest and shoving him against the side of the hole. "I told you to wait your fucking turn," he said, each word clipped and razor sharp.
Sam's mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. He was at a loss. The plan had been find Dean, wait for Charlotte to pull them back, ride out of Hell like heroes. He hadn't expected Dean to resist him.
Suddenly, the hand was gone, and Dean vaulted himself up and out of the hole. Sam just stood there for a second, Dean's bloody handprint on his shirt. Come on, think of something, think of something. Christ, this is impossible! How do I convince Dean that I'm the real Sam Winchester when he's surrounded by hundreds, maybe thousands, of them?
Sam jumped as a body suddenly landed in the hole next to him. Startled, he looked up, but all he saw was Dean's retreating back. His brother had chucked the body down into the grave, then had apparently gone to get another, leaving Sam alone. In a grave. With a corpse. Not that he wasn't used to it and all, considering their line of work, but circumstances in this case were a little different. This one had his face.
It looked to be him at about age eighteen, when he'd first headed off to college--shaggy hair, shoulders that hadn't quite filled out yet. The body was dressed in jeans and a Stanford t-shirt. The typical college attire in his early days.
Sam's eyes narrowed as he spotted something… or, more specifically, the lack of something. His looked up and quickly scanned several other bodies nearby, confirming his suspicion, before he bolted out of the hole and took off after his brother.
Dean had grabbed one of the adult Sam's by the arm and was dragging him toward the hole.
Sam moved in front of him and grabbed him by his shoulders. "Dean…"
Dean let go of the Sam he was dragging so he could push the other, more annoying Sam's hands away. "Back off, man. Just back off."
Sam stood his ground. "Dean, I need you to focus and listen to me for a minute, okay? Just take a look at…"
Sam's words were cut off by a fist to the face.
He flew backwards, landing on the pile of dirt next to the grave. Dean advanced on him and then stopped, staring down at him with such a fiery intensity that Sam thought it quite possible that he might burst into flames. (He was in Hell. It could happen). Or maybe even end up in buried in the grave behind him with his other self. His big brother's mind was definitely not firing on all cylinders.
Dean stopped just short of him, face contorting with conflicting emotions. Then he spun away from Sam and began to pace angrily.
"You're dead. You're pissed. I get it, all right? I fucking get it! It's my fault, it's always my fault, but there's not a damn thing I can do about it. I can't save you, no matter what I do, 'cause we all know I'm just one big fuckup. Hell, I can't even bury you properly. But this whole Night of the Living Dead thing is getting old. So why don't you just run along and come up with something else to torment me, huh?" Dean turned his back on Sam and began to walk back toward the body he'd dropped. "I got Sams to bury."
Sam scrambled to his feet and grabbed for Dean again. The elder Winchester spun and let his fist fly, but Sam had expected it and blocked. There was a rapid succession of blows, most of which Sam blocked, but Dean had always been better at hand to hand than he was, and he once again found himself on his ass.
When Dean turned his back on him again, Sam decided he'd had enough. He leapt and took Dean down with a flying tackle. They rolled, fighting for dominance, until Sam slammed Dean down against the dirt with a forearm to the chest. He kept it there, using his size and weight to pin his struggling brother to the ground. He used his free hand to grab the amulet dangling from his neck.
"Remember this?" When Dean turned his head away, refusing to look at what Sam was holding, Sam reached up and grabbed his chin, forcing Dean to face him. "Look at it!"
As soon as Dean's gaze fell on the amulet, he stopped struggling, though his tremors did not cease. Confusion clouded his eyes.
"You remember this," Sam said again, making it a statement. "I know you do. You told me to hold on to it for you. Remember?"
Dean's brows furrowed, and he looked from the amulet to Sam and then back again. His eyes widened.
That was it--the one thing that had been missing from all of the other Sams. The thing only his brother--his real brother--would have. Could it be...?
"Sammy?" Dean asked, his eyes brimming with tears.
Sam fisted a hand in Dean's shirt and tugged him to a sitting position. "Yeah. It's me, Dean. It's Sam. I'm here to rescue you."
"Aren't you a little tall for a storm trooper?" Dean said hoarsely, closing his eyes before the tears could fall.
Sam let out a bark of a laugh. Only Dean. He backed off so he could tug Dean to a sitting position. His own eyes were rimmed with tears. He stood and tried to pull Dean to his feet, but found that Dean resisted.
"Dean… come on…" Sam said, confused, as he gave Dean's hand another tug. He was sure he'd gotten through to him.
Dean shook his head and pulled his hand away. "It's too late."
He couldn't believe. Not anymore.
Sam crouched back down in front of his brother. "No. I won't accept that. I will not leave you here.
"Sam…"
"No, Dean. You either come with me, or we both stay. Those are your choices."
"And if I choose to stay?" Dean asked--eyes, voice, whole body weary.
Sam stood, bracing himself for a fight as he stared his brother down. "Then I knock your dumb ass unconscious and drag you outta here."
Dean bowed his head and laughed thinly. It was the answer he had been expecting. He only wished he could tell if this were real, or just a bit of wish fulfillment before Hell pulled the rug out from under him.
Sam held out his hand to his brother. "I will get you out of here, Dean. I swear it. You just have to trust me."
Silence reigned under the bloody sky. When Dean finally looked up at him, Sam knew that he had made his decision.
The moment he reached up to grasp the offered hand, a single sob escaped Dean's throat. It broke Sam's heart. He pulled Dean to his feet and wrapped him in a bear hug, squeezing hard. "It'll be okay," Sam whispered. "I promise."
Dean pulled away from the hug, unable to meet Sam's eyes. "Sam… I… If it's just another… " He trailed off, head turning to look out at the field of bodies, his eyes bleak. "I'm hanging on by a thread here, man."
Sam clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezed, giving him the Sam Winchester eyes of extreme sincerity, which were almost as famous as the Sam Winchester puppy dog eyes of doom.
"It's not a trick, Dean."
"You sure?" Dean asked, sounding like he was the younger brother.
Sam smirked. "Of course I'm sure. I'm the smart one, remember?"
Dean bit his bottom lip and nodded. He'd believe, for now. If it ended badly... well, he was used to it.
Sam and Dean stood opposite each other; left hands clasped together, the amulet in between them. Sam took the cord that was dangling from their hands and slowly wrapped it around them, all the while softly chanting archaic words to a ritual that would bind Dean's soul to his. Sam hoped that his theory was right, and that when Charlotte pulled him out of Hell, Dean would be pulled with him. The amulet hadn't really been part of the ritual, but Sam thought it was fitting. It had led him to Dean, now it would help see Dean home.
As the last words of the ritual fell from Sam's lips, heat flared in between their palms. They watched as the amulet faded, seeming to sink in their skin until it completely disappeared. But it wasn't gone; they could both still feel it, linking them together. They pulled their hands apart, but the connection remained. Their part in the escape plan was not complete.
Dean looked back up at Sam, eyes questioning. He was a little fuzzy on the details of the plan. "Now what?"
Sam gave a little shrug. "Now we wait."
The Winchester brothers sat down side by side on the porch steps, mirror images in both their posture and their vigilance. There was a long silence before Dean finally spoke.
"They're not gonna let me go without a fight. You know that, right?"
Sam watched the horizon, waiting. "Yeah. I know it."
A/N: The things I have to put these boys through to get them to hug. Sheesh.
Now that the brothers are finally reunited, it's time I had a little fun. The next chapter is called "No Quarter."
