No, don't leave me to die here

Help me survive here alone,

Don't surrender

December 1st, 2008

~~HoC~~

Sam sat in the car, staring blankly through the windshield. He didn't notice the sun, creeping slowly, fearfully above the horizon, didn't notice the gradually increasing traffic passing on the road behind him. All he saw was his brother, swathed in blankets, shivering uncontrollably as he stole one last glance through the window set into the door. Walking away from the room had been hard, his throat locking tight as he listened to his footsteps echo from the walls, loud in the empty corridors. He'd hadn't heard his heart beat so loudly in his head since it had thundered over his brother's screams as the hell hounds tore him apart but at least then he could fight, could strain against the pressure crushing him into the wall and scream his own voice away.

Now, there was nothing but the terrible sensation of helplessness, the task ahead of him too great for the time he had. He'd spoken with Tom again, the young doctor's admission tearing them both apart.

"I'm sorry, Sam. It just doesn't make sense. I've tried everything I can think of, and none of it's working. I don't know why. We'll make him as comfortable as we can."

"When?" Cold, empty, feeling the life slip away through his fingers.

"A day at most. There's nothing else to try. I don't know what else we can do. I'm so sorry."

No. there has to be something. There has to.

Sam sniffed and climbed out of the car, shutting the door carefully. He yawned as he shuffled up the stairs to the door of the motel room, blinking wearily and squinting at the handle as he stabbed the key at its hole. It took him three tries to get it in place and he stumbled as he shouldered his way through the door, sagging back against it, dropping his head into his shaking hands.

He didn't lift it as he slid slowly down the door, his jacket and shirts bunching up under his arms and around his ribs until his backside thumped softly into the floor. Pulling his knees up, he rested his elbows on them, crossed his arms and let his head roll on his wrists, his watch digging gently into his cheek.

He closed his eyes, pulled one hand out from under his cheek and wrapped his arm around his head, fisting his hand in his hair. In the dark, he listened to the echo of the voice he couldn't shut off, hadn't been able to drown beneath the deafening music in the car.

"I killed him. The kid. Sa..." he heard the ragged breath his brother sucked in, as if even thinking the name hurt. Sam held himself still, forced himself to wait and listen. "I killed him once. They'd already started to turn him and he bit me." The younger man almost flinched as he saw the blood, thick around a dead boy's lips but his brother kept going as if he couldn't stop. "I kicked him, broke his neck, I think. It's a little fuzzy." He wanted to vomit, wanted to scream at the shattered little laugh his brother gave. "They cut my back," he saw glass, glittering in the blood that spilled over his fingers, felt his hands itch again, "...gave him some of the blood and he came back. Then they left us, turned the lights out and I could hear him. He was still breathing. He just kept coming. I fought him, Sammy, I kicked him back over and over but he never stopped. I could hear him. I couldn't see him but I could hear every bone I broke. He didn't scream. He should have screamed. They all should have."

He stared at the garage, unseeing as he tried not to give any sign he'd heard the last four words that had sliced deep into him, knowing Dean had never meant to utter them. He felt his heart turn cold in his chest as his brother fell silent. For the longest time, the loudest sound was the dust settling slowly around them, over them. He almost didn't hear his brother's whisper, so quiet, so lost in the dark.

"He forgot to breathe, after a while. He just... stopped."

He felt his brother's eyes on him, couldn't look up back, couldn't see past the image of the dead boy's face, his own face, bloody and pale in the cellar.

"Then the rope snapped."

He flinched as his brother turned away, spoke in that cold, dispassionate voice he used to use when he was reporting to John at the end of a hunt.

"I killed him again. He came at me, pinned me down and I snapped his neck again. Don't know why it stopped him that time. Maybe..."

Dean trailed off, didn't finish what he'd been about to say and Sam wondered if he even knew what it was. He felt as if he was the revenant, half-turned, only breathing from force of habit, struggling to remember the chores of life. He sat there, pulled air ripe with sweat and dust and old, tainted blood into his lungs, pushed it out, trying to find a way to make the world understandable again.

Sam opened his eyes, blinked once, staring blankly at his wrist in close-up in front of his aching eyes.

"It can't be that simple," he whispered, frowning to the empty room. "It can't."

He pushed himself to his knees, swayed back, barely catching himself before he fell to the carpet again. Half-crouched, head hanging low he fought off the wave of nausea and dizziness that swamped him, finally dragging himself over the floor to the nearest chair. His head swam as he pulled himself unsteadily into it, blearily watching the triplicate laptops boot up and flicker patiently at him.

The exhausted man squeezed his eyes shut again, opened them as wide as he could, tapping slowly at the keys, one finger at a time. Pages opened, changed, his hands starting to move faster as adrenaline began to twist through him. He waited impatiently for a file to download, drumming his fingers on the warm casing of the computer, finally pushing away, staring blindly at the wall, unable to stand the image his mind was only too happy to create. The dead boy - Sammy - crouched over his brother as the hunter held him off, gathered him close when it was done, blood smearing Dean's torn, raw skin.

"It can't be," he murmured again, hardly daring to believe the hope fluttering inside. He paced to the kitchenette, back to the table five times before he gave it up and flicked the coffee maker on, the rich, dark smell of the brew filling the room.

He'd almost finished the first cup by the time the laptop chimed softly; the mug teetering on the edge of the worktop as he abandoned it, crashing into the chair so hard it teetered precariously on two legs for a moment. Sam didn't notice; too busy staring at the screen, jaw tight and getting tighter.

"No. No, it can't be."

He barely realised as his hands reached for his jacket, slung carelessly on the back of the chair, dug in the pocket and pulled out his phone. His fingers trembled as he dialled, pressed it hard against his ear.

"Yeah?"

"Bobby?"

"Sam? What is it? What's wrong?"

"Do you know the spell used to make revenants, Bobby?"

Distantly, he wondered if he was possessed, the sensation of someone else playing puppet master with his body, with his voice eerily, hideously familiar.

"What?! What the hell's going on, Sam?"

"Please, Bobby. It's important."

"Yeah. At least, I think I've got a copy somewhere. Hold on..."

"I need you to check something for me, Bobby." He listened to the distant sound of books thumping to the floor, of his friend's footsteps a hundred miles away. "It's a binding spell, right? In the blood of the victim."

"Yeah, that's right. It's Haitian, older than voudoun, but similar. The victim is killed, pretty nastily too, so the spirit hangs around after death. Then whoever's trying to turn them calls on one of the ghede, Papa Ghede, usually; spirits who got kind of amalgamated with Baron Samedi and the voudoun gods of the dead. This spell asks the Loa to give a piece of himself - blood, which is mixed with the victims' once they're dead. It binds the dead spirit back into their body, and then uses the ghede's blood to seal the link. Makes them damn near immortal, but it changes them and people can always tell what they are. There was a priest, back in the seventeenth century or so, said they carry the grave with them, like death riding on their shoulder. Sam, where's Dean?"

The question broke him, his voice suddenly thick as he pushed away from the screen.

"When they... when they had him and he killed the boy. I think... I think maybe some of Sa..." he couldn't say it either, recognised the hitch in his voice from Dean's in the garage. "Some of the kid's blood got into him."

"Hell. But Sam, that shouldn't be a problem. The spell only works on a spirit, a dead spirit, not on a living person."

"I almost lost him, Bobby. I think... I think I did."

The confession was almost silent, the hum of the laptop loud in the hush that followed.

"How?"

The older man's voice shook, hard, cracking on the single word.

"Last night. We were hunting a poltergeist. It took him, hanged him. I got him back but it took too long...He's... he's sick Bobby. Real sick. The doctors don't know what to do."

"The revenant's blood must have carried the spell with it. If he...dammit, if he died, it would transfer to him. How long Sam?"

He curled in around the sudden pain in his stomach, feeling the knife twist, the confession making it suddenly real, Sam, there's nothing else to try. I'm so sorry, playing over and over in his head.

"The doc said tomorrow, at the latest." He whispered, his voice hitching as the pent up sob escaped him.

"Okay. Okay, listen to me, Sam. Calm down, boy. You have to do the spell again, right? You hear me?"

"What?"

"The spell binds the dead spirit into the body again. Right now, Dean's still alive, so it's the spell that's killing him. You have to lock Dean's living spirit into his body, but you got to do the ritual while he's alive. Otherwise the original spell will run its normal course and he'll..."

The older man didn't need to finish. Sam shivered, pushing himself up in the seat once again.

"Call me, okay Sam? You call me when you and Dean get out of there."

"Yeah. I will."

"You bring him here. Both of you, get yourselves down here for a while."

Sam couldn't speak through the pain in his stomach, dimly heard a low, muffled sob echo over the miles to him before the phone went dead. He held it against his ear for a moment longer, not wanting to break the contact, finally letting it slip between fingers gone numb. It clattered to the table, bounced over the edge and thumped onto his leg, ended up balanced precariously on his knee as he stared at the spell on the laptop, the light from the screen turning his face cold and pale.

It took him an hour to find everything he needed.

An hour of his hands shaking, his head spinning and his nerves fraying before he stood in a musty herbalists shop, his money clip slipped from his quaking fingers, sending notes fluttering to the floor. The young woman behind the counter giggled, the scent of pot wafting around him, making the hunter light-headed as she crouched too close to help him gather them up. Her arm brushed against his with too much pressure to be accidental, the breath that tickled his cheek smelling of the weed and her own odour, rank and sour. He practically growled at her, snatching the bill from her hand, couldn't stop the embarrassment rising in his cheeks as she gasped and scurried back to the other side of the counter. She didn't speak to him again as he handed her back the note, took his change and the small pack of dried, long dead herbs and left, her gaze tickling the back of his neck all the way down the dusty street.

Rounding the corner, he stopped, heart thumping wildly in his chest as he leant against the wall of the bank beside him. His knees turned weak, shivers chasing each other through his limbs and up his back into his skull. He tipped the side of his head against the wall, the stone scratching at his ear as he dragged his free hand across his face, air fluttering between his fingers as he pushed out a slow, trembling breath. He was beyond exhausted, running on the last, thin dregs of stubborn will and the image of his once invincible big brother, curled up, child-like, shivering and scared beneath layers of thick blankets.

"Come on, man. Get a grip," he muttered to himself, not listening to the rasping of his voice as he pushed himself away from the red brick, careless of the worried, fearful glances shot his way through the plate glass windows. Stumbling a little, he forced his heavy feet along the sidewalk until he turned the last corner into the parking lot, almost walking straight into the side of the big muscle car. His hands shook again as he fumbled with the key, finally jamming it into the slot and twisting it hard, yanking the door open and all but falling behind the wheel.

He blinked as the ripe, sweet scent of rum hit him, glancing down at the large plastic bag in the footwell. It sloshed about noisily as he reversed out of the parking space, the railroad ties soaking in the alcohol poking at the sides of the bag and he held his breath, seeing it strain. It held and he turned back to the road, guiding the big car out into the traffic, praying - again - that he wouldn't meet any cops.

The sun glared at him from the horizon as he drove back through the town, shop windows bright, the streets filling with lengthening shadows around him. He stopped at a red light, watched a few late copper leaves dance their way erratically down the street and he squeezed his eyes shut, watching again as his brother's blood turned them red and black, at the start of all this, so many years ago.

Horns blared impatiently and he jumped, startled, snatched a glance at the mirror as he shoved the car into drive and pulled away, grimacing at the angry gesture flung his way from the car behind. Finally, he pulled into the motel parking lot and let the engine die, sitting in the seat, staring up at the stairs in front of him.

The metal mesh of the treads was rusty, worn, the frame beneath them dented and loose. His gaze tracked up the steps, to the battered, flaking paint of the door to their empty room, feeling ice settle into his nerves, burn along his veins. His fingers curled around the wheel, knuckles pressed white as the sun finally fell below the ridgeline, going out in a blaze of glory that set the sky aflame.

"I can't," he whispered, the sound thick and choked by the lump in his throat. "I can't do this again."

He dropped his head and stared at his boots, resting lightly on the pedals as the night fell around him. The fear fluttering through his every breath made the dark even lonelier, but he didn't climb out of the car, lost in memories he didn't want anymore.

Sitting in the passenger seat, sleeping there night after night, inhaling the lingering scent of his brother, worn into the leather over the years, his heart shattering as he tasted it but he couldn't go into the empty, silent motel room. Not alone. Reaching up and turning the key so that the radio hummed, quietly sang him to sleep with Joe Elliot's voice. He shivered, curled into the seat as the words washed over him, "...try to shake this sleep that burns, the darkness screams its icy breath, as daylight dies a thousand deaths..."

Sam shuffled lower in the familiar seat, rolled his head against the window, staring at nothing for a moment longer before dragging the crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket, mumbling his way through the chant, over and over as the radio played softly around him in the dark.