Cast No Shadow (continued)
Disclaimer: See Chapter One.
A/N: Six complete rewrites, people. Six. Countless partial rewrites as well. This chapter was nearly the death of me. If not for the amazing efforts, support, and patience of Karasu and Deanish, this chapter may well have never seen the light of day. If you like what you read, send them pie. They deserve it.
This chapter finally bring us up to where the story began. Only took me a year to get us here… (face palm and sigh) Thanks as always for being patient through the ages it takes me to update. Please give me feedback or leave a review—I always love to hear what you think of my scribbles, be it good or bad or puzzled.
You may want to reread some of Chapter Nine before you start. A lot of small details are brought up in this chapter. Plus there are more layers to this section of the story than a wedding cake. I hope you enjoy.
Chapter Ten
Dean would run, if only Sam would let him. But unlike the last time he had possessed his brother, when Dean was in control, this time Sam is calling all the shots. Trapped inside, Dean is forced stand up as Sam slowly turns to look at the hellhound.
Dammit, Sam, DON'T, Dean thinks at him. I've had nightmares about that thing for months! RUN, you idiot!
The hellhound growls again. Dean tries to move Sam's legs, but they won't respond. Dean then tries to use his TK to freeze his brother in place, but nothing happens; somehow, Sam has control of Dean's energy, too. Sam keeps turning, slow, deliberate, and ready. And there it is. Big and black, teeth like daggers, thick hair matted with blood and dirt and God knows what else. Claws in massive paws stir up the ground like a bull about to charge. It smells like death. Steely silver eyes fix on Sam as it growls again, scarred forehead and slashed muzzle broiling with its own hot blood. Darkest red drips down its nose and mixes with the acidic spittle eating away at rotted gums; the sticky mess hits the earth and sizzles as it soaks in. It's worse than Dean ever imagined it.
"And I thought the pictures were bad," Sam tells it. "You're even uglier in real life."
Dean's about to agree when something occurs to him. Wait—how can you see it? Only the person the hellhound is after can see it. Right? So how—
The hellhound licks its chops, and both of their stomachs roll as part of the rotted tongue falls off. It writhes in the dirt, pustules busting with acid. "Ew," the brothers say as one. The dog decides to eat the disgusting morsel, and Sam closes his eyes. Dean is eternally thankful. Then the dog growls again, and Sam's sharp gaze locks onto the beast. He looks into its eyes and utters four words:
"You. Can't. Have. Dean."
A second growl sounds out to Sam's left, but he keeps his eyes on the hellhound in front of him. He gets his hunting knife out from his bootstrap with one hand and takes a folded handkerchief out of his pocket with the other. He rubs the blade along the inside of the cloth, covering it with a greasy mixture. Devil's Shoestring resin, Dean recognizes. When did you have time to get Devil's Shoestring?! Next, Sam rubs the cloth and resin over his face, arms, and legs, pauses, then gives his crotch a quick scrub as well before he stuffs the cloth back in his pocket. Ready, he hunkers down into his well-practiced defense position.
This is so many kinds of stupid, Dean thinks as loudly as he can. Smear on all the magic warpaint you want, Sammy—it won't do you any good. They know I'm in here, look! Sam's eyes go to the hellhound as it sniffs in his direction, blistered tongue salivating. All you're doing is buying me a few minutes—they'll kill you and get me and that's it!
"Keep Dean safe," Sam tells himself, flipping the knife into stabbing position. "Keep Dean HERE."
STOP IGNORING ME! Dean pushes around, searching for any tiny crack in his human prison, but finds all the exits sealed. The other dog make an appearance to Sam's extreme left, and Dean tries to look but can't get Sam's head to move. Sam turns his eyes to it but not his face, and both men see the newest arrival. This one's even uglier than the first one—it's missing an ear and an eye, leaving a chewed-off, bloody stub and a gooey, amber and yellow puss-filled scab respectively. Sam eyes it and the first one together, daring them to come at him.
No…Sam, this is NUTS. Dean has never been so scared in his life. No control, risky plans, Sam's gone psycho, hellhounds are here, deal is up, time is up, why are they still standing there, what's gonna happen, why won't he move, why is he DOING THIS?
Sam doesn't react in any way to Dean's fears. His own emotions have retreated, leaving a cool, cunning robot behind to fight. Sam looks the first hellhound in the eye, and everything in the background dulls out. Colors become greyscale, sounds turn to muffles. Only the dog remains distinct, every hair and tooth and spit bubble in sharpest focus. Sam plans out his attack; no running in and acting on predatory instinct, like Dean would have it. Sam visualizes the entire thing. Where the blade will strike first (in the soft tissue under the dog's jaw), how the dog will fall (heavy, surprised), where his knee will come up and how hard he'll throw the creature to the ground. Calculated down to the last detail. Dean had no idea his brother became such a machine when he hunted.
He'd be impressed if it wasn't so creepy.
No Sam RUN Sam you're not the Terminator Sam you'll get hurt Sam for ME Sam let me out SAM don't DO this!
The hellhound lunges for Sam's throat. Sam's heart beats fast as he twists down, whips his arm around, stabs upward with the knife—and the lights go out.
SAM?!
And Dean gets pulled down into confusion. The cold clarity is replaced with chaotic images, empty sounds that ricochet off unseen walls, and dizziness teetering on vertigo. Dean reaches out for something to stop himself, but he is pulled further. He smells salt and copper—sweat and blood. It's everywhere. Heat radiates in, adding nausea to the mix. Dean 'feels' around for Sam, but can't sense that familiar presence anywhere.
"SAMMY!" Dean screams into the bedlam around him. "Don't do this. Don't cut me out. Don't kill yourself for me!"
No reply. Dean wails for his brother, but his voice is swallowed by the colorful void. Dean's eyes search for something to focus on, but it's too much at once. Images fly through his brain like cards being shuffled. Butterflies erupt into flight in his stomach, wasps sting his skin. The air grows tight; Dean feels as if he's being squeezed into a tiny box. Then HAPPY. Then fear. Then AFFECTION. Then frustration. Then questions and comfort and rejection and more affection. Two stubborn wills fighting to love and respect the other more. A memory provides a boundary. Then a truce.
Then SPLASH.
Dean is underwater. His arms thrash, his legs kick, but it's like trying to swim through Jell-O. Body won't work, water isn't water. Dean panics.
Then he hears laughter. It steals his panic away. The mess of colors give way to form: cool blues and greens. A muddy ground below him. A watery sun overhead. Two small legs kicking toward shore in green swim trunks two sizes too big. The legs and trunks climb out of the water. The laughter comes again—bright laughter like Dean hasn't heard in years. It brings his body and strength back, and he kicks off the bottom and pushes upward. He breaks through the surface and into sunlight. Summer air heavy with juniper fills his senses. He squints as his eyes adjust to his new surroundings. Trees and tall grasses, an earthen ledge and a knotted rope tied to a low-hanging bough. A swimming hole. He knows this place. Arkansas. Somewhere in Arkansas.
No way…
A dragonfly buzzes around his head and he brings a hand out of the water to swat at it. The hand is much smaller than it should be. Dean touches his cheek. It's real. Bright hazel eyes peer down at reflected freckles, summer-sunned hair, youth-ified features, and a crooked, shocked smile. He can't be more than twelve years old. Then he notes the blue swimming trunks he's wearing. He remembers a musty drawer in a dusty room in one of his thousands of temporary homes. The memory is right there, vivid, like it just happened that morning. It hurts to think about it. Dean rubs at his temples and looks around again.
Don't tell me your stupid plan involved time travel, he grumbles in his mind. His eyes grow wide. Sam. Hellhounds. The scenery fuzzes out as a haze settles into his mind, heavy but gentle—a buzz without the humor. He tries to shake it off but it only works its way in deeper.
Can't get drunk…without drinking… he tells himself, trying to clear his thoughts and vision, but the haze keeps building. Then a cry of "RAAAAAAH!" comes at him from above, bringing the scene back into focus. Dean turns to look as a little green blur swings on the rope and cannonballs into the water, splashing Dean with pond water. Dean rubs the water out of his eyes and hears the same, bright laughter from before. Sam, no more than 8, treads the water and looks over at his big brother.
"Was that one better, Dean?" Sam asks, little hazel eyes shining.
Dean only blinks at him, overcome by his senses. The smell of Sam's wet hair, the tickle of water evaporating from his own skin, the cool waters on a lazy, August day. August 1991. The date appears for a moment in his mind, scrawled on the face of an old, yellowed photograph, before retreating into the recesses of memory.
"Dean?" Sam asks again, drifting closer. "Was it okay?"
Cannonball. He's asking about his cannonball. The fact appears and disappears just as swiftly as the date had. Dean smirks and nods. "Yeah, better, but you still have to work on your war cry. Geronimo… never said… 'RAH'…" Dean drifts off at the sound of his own, younger voice. Sam just splashes him and starts swimming around.
This is wrong. Dean looks around, feeling groggy again. Isn't it? He watches Sam swim. He wants to join him. Instead he heads for the shore. No. I'm not supposed to be here. Small feet climb onto the mix of grass, dirt, and sand on the shore. This isn't real. None of it is. It's the Djinn Mindfuck without the djinn. But the feel of the soft grass between his toes begs to differ. Sweet wind whispers over him as he makes his way to the top of the earthen ledge, telling him to relax, to enjoy himself—it's what summertime is all about. But Dean can't relax. Every muscle is tense, like something's about to hit him at any time and he has to be ready for it. His head feels like it's being split in two and someone left the axe blade inside just for safety's sake. His thoughts take sides and gather in strength
Shouldn't be here
Should be here
Sam is in danger
Sam is doing fine
Not real
Real Enough
Find a way out
Enjoy it.
Sam calls his name, and Dean looks down at him. Sam looks happy—happier than Dean has seen him in a long time. Dean smiles, relishing the joy on his brother's face, the innocence in his smile, the complete lack of burden on those skinny shoulders.
He doesn't know the truth yet. I haven't failed him yet.
Both notions warm Dean's heart.
Sam slips under the surface, and his toes come up out of the water as he does a wobbly handstand. Dean laughs as the feet shake and fall, and Sam comes up coughing and wiping snot from his nose. Sam grins and kicks his legs up, splashing his brother as hard as he's able.
"Come on, Dean! Show me again!"
Dean smiles but gives a look of regret. "N-no Sammy…I should go…"
Sam pouts. "Aww, c'mon. We don't hafta go yet, do we?"
Dean looks away to keep himself from saying, "Of course not." Want to stay…LOVE to stay…but I can't…can I?
"You said we'd stay until I got it right," Sam reminds him. "You promised!"
Dean tries to argue but his words get caught in his throat. Have to leave…Sam NEEDS me!
Sam needs you HERE.
It's not real! Can't be…it's just a dream, or a vision, who knows…who cares…
YOU do.
Trembling, torn, Dean looks up at the sky. The sun shines down and warms his skin. Warmth. He's been so cold for so long now…to feel this again. And not just the sun… He looks down at his brother. Sam is a kid again. Sam is having fun. The only thing on the To Do List is to perfect Sam's cannonball. No spirits to banish, no monsters to slay. No deals, no deadlines, no death.
Dean could cry, he's missed it so much.
"Deeeeaaaaan!" Sam calls, pounding at the water. "Hurry up! My fingers are getting all pruny!"
Dean sighs happily as he gives in. Okay. You can stay for a minute, he allots himself. Just long enough to figure things out. Then it's back to reality. His entire body relaxes, that feeling of dread finally lifting away. He smirks as he backs up, digging his heels into the dirt.
"Watch and learn, Sammy. THIS is how you cannonball." Dean runs hard and jumps off the edge, forgoing the rope altogether as he easily clears his brother's head. "BONZAI!" He tucks his legs under and crashes into the water, leaving a huge splash in his wake. Dean smiles as he hears his brother's muffled laughter from underneath the water. He surfaces and finds Sam still laughing.
"That was awesome!"
"I know," Dean grins back. "Toldja I'm the expert."
"But I thought you needed a cool war cry to cannonball."
"You do. Why?"
"Cos Geronimo never said 'Bonzai,' either. That's a Japa-NESE word, Dean."
Dean shakes his head and splashes him. "You're such a nerd." He swims past his brother's mini-bitchface. "Anyway, it's a better than 'RAH.' 'Least mine's a real word."
"Whatever."
Dean jumps up and pushes down on Sam's head, plunging him under the water. He holds him down for a few seconds, then lets him come back up and take a breath.
"Stop!" Sam coughs and laughs.
"What's that Sammy? You wanna go again?" Dean pushes him back down, but this time Sam's ready for him: he grabs onto Dean's hair and pulls his face down into the water. The brothers playfully kick and punch at each other and push away, coming up and going right into a splash fight. Sam tries to push Dean down, but he isn't tall or strong enough; Dean easily hauls him overhead and throws him down into the water. Sam swims down and pulls at Dean's feet, taking his brother off balance until Dean kicks him off. Sam comes back up for air and Dean grabs him by the amulet cord and pulls him forward, wrapping an arm around Sam's neck in a headlock. He pulls him toward the shore.
"No fair!" Sam pounds his fists against his brother's grip, and Dean's free hand grabs some mud from the bank and rubs it into his little brother's hair. Sam finally breaks free and shoves Dean off of him.
"Aw come on," Dean teases. "It's not my fault you're a little wuss." Sam glares as he starts to climb out of the water. "Besides, I gotta enjoy this while I can," Dean tells him. "In a few years you'll be taller than me, and then you'll be making the short jokes."
Sam's eyes light up with hope—and revenge plans. "Really? You mean it?"
"Yeah, you know I do." Dean looks into the younger face, searching for the adult he suspects is inside. "Don't you?"
Sam doesn't answer. Instead, he looks down as his too-big-for-him trunks start to fall. He hikes them back up with angry little fists, but they slip down again as soon as he lets go. Dean takes pity on him and turns him around by his shoulders, finding the undone knot of twine in the back.
"Knew I shoulda used a double knot," Dean murmurs to himself.
"I TOLD you it wouldn't stay," Sam snits. "TOLD you to find a smaller pair."
"There WEREN'T any other pairs—just these two." Sam bristles at Dean's answer. "Dude, what do you want? We're crashing at someone's summer place, not a store. You take what you can get," he cinches the twine as tight as he can around Sam's little waist, "and you make the best of it." He ties it in a triple knot and pats Sam on the back to let him know he's done. Then Dean spots something wrong and grabs Sam by his elbow before he can leave. He spins him back around and holds him by his wrists. The inside of Sam's left arm is all cut up.
"Dean…leggo…"
Sam squirms to get away but Dean holds him tight, staring at the symbol carved into the flesh. Blood outlines it but does not drip, as if it's frozen inside the wounds. Sam flicks the lingering water on his fingertips into Dean's right eye and he shuts it. The symbol disappears. He opens the eye again and it's back. The two-brain feeling returns, and Dean's grip falls lax.
Shouldn't be here
SHOULD be here
Gotta go
Gotta STAY
A small hand waves in front of Dean's face. "Dean? You okay?"
Dean nods hard to clear the grogginess from his mind. "Sorry…just thinkin'."
"About what?"
"How much your cannonballs suck." Dean points to the water. "Try it again."
Sam runs off, more than ready to prove his brother wrong. "Don't use the rope!" Dean calls. "Just back up and run as hard as you can. DISTANCE, Sam!" Sam backs way, way up, past the tree line and out of Dean's view. Then the little blur in green swim trunks returns, leaping into the water with a yodely sort of yell. The splash is much bigger this time, and Dean laughs and claps as he walks back to the edge.
"Nice splash, but that yell was even worse than your last one!" He looks for Sam but doesn't see him. His grin falls. "Sam?" Dean's eyes search around the water for shadows, movement…anything. The water looks murky now, despite the sun still beating down on it. Dean cups his hands around his mouth. "SAM?"
He spies bubbles about five feet from the shore. Dean jumps in at once. The ground greets Dean's foot as he lands in the too-shallow water, and he feels his ankle twist up in the second between falling and pushing off to swim. Sam is just ahead of him, his left foot tangled in the remnants of an old log stuck in the mud. Dean's ankle starts to throb, compromising his kicks, but he keeps his eye on Sam and reaches for him. Sam's face is frustration instead of panic; he pulls and pulls at his foot but only manages to scrape it up along the log.
Hang on, Sammy…
Dean goes up for air and dives back down. Then Sam is gone. The water is gone. The entire day is gone. It's nighttime, and Dean is in a forest. His ankle is clamped between the slobbering jaws of a one-eyed hellbeast, its fangs piercing denim, muscle, and flesh as it drags him across the dirt, past the bleeding body of another beast.
Multiple howls fill in the distance. More? How many is that bitch going to send? two minds wonder as one. Dean's head starts to hurt. His body soon follows, mauled by an avalanche of pain, hot and unbearable.
FUCK Sam you're hurt Sam you're dying For me For ME
An arm comes up and smashes a big rock at the dog's forehead, but the rock passes right through it—yet the dog's very sharp and solid teeth sink further into the skin. Try again! Dean yells. The arm swings up again and this time, the rock connects. The dog whines but does not let go. The other foot comes up to kick it off, but it falls limp before it gets to its target. The scenery starts to dim. Two red glows appear in the shadows.
She's here Sam stop Get OUT of here!
Dean feels recognition hit him—then alarm. The trunk of a tree appears in front of his face…
…and Dean is back in the water. His little, 8-year-old brother is still drowning. Dean dives down. Sam is struggling to free himself but when he sees Dean, his body calms. Dean glides past him and down to his stuck foot. He pulls at it and Sam gives a watery yell; it's really stuck. Dean brings his good foot down and smashes his heel at the log. It cracks but doesn't release Sam. Dean glances up at his brother—he's stopped moving. Dean smashes his heel down again and again until the log finally gives way. Then he pulls Sam up to the surface and rejoices at the sound of his brother's coughs.
"Dean! Help—" Sam bobs, shouting Dean's name, breathing hard, coughing up water. Dean moves behind him and hauls him back up. Sam struggles against him but Dean holds him close.
"Calm down, Sammy, I've got you…" The little boy stops resisting and sinks back into his brother's sure arms. Bony shoulders dig into Dean's chest, soaked hair rests under Dean's chin. "I've got you," Dean says again. Sam nods and holds tight. Dean pats Sam on his right shoulder and Sam whimpers in pain. Dean looks down and sees blood on his hand. "What the hell?" Sam's right shoulder is ripped open—it looks like something tried to take a bite out of it. "What happened?"
He winces at his own question as
Teeth Fur Pain
images cut through him. Sam shakes his head violently 'no' and coughs hard. His head drops down. Dean grabs his face with one hand. "Look at me—hey…" He holds Sam's chin up as his little brother's eyes drift weakly to his own. His skin has gone white. Bruises bloom all over his face and chest in dark purples and reds. The blood from the open wound dyes the water around them.
"Sam?" Dean asks in a small, scared voice.
Teeth Fur Pain
Sam's eyes flutter as his head drops deadweight against his brother's palm. "Tired," Sam murmurs. Dean shakes him, and Sam offers a sleepy smile. "'s working, Dean. You're still here…safe…"
Teeth Fur Pain SAM
"Who's safe—me or you?" Sam doesn't answer him this time, so Dean shakes him again. "Sam?!" Sam flops against him, and Dean goes into action. He turns Sam around, resting his head against his shoulder. Sam moans into Dean's ear, and Dean hooks his arms under Sam's armpits. "Hold on, Sammy." He starts swimming backwards, kicking as best he can with a twisted ankle. He looks back and up, eyeing the shoreline, wondering how it got so far away. The swimming hole was maybe 15 feet across; the shore looks twice that now.
Suddenly Sam gets heavy. Dean is pulled forward and down into the water, but he kicks hard and pulls them both back to the surface. He scowls as he looks down at broad shoulders and long hair. "Why'd you ever have to get bigger than me …" Sam's adult face gives the same sleepy smile as the 8-year-old version. Dean wraps his adolescent arm as best he can around one muscular arm, careful not to touch the wounded shoulder, and starts swimming again.
"Dean…" The name comes out Sam's familiar, deep voice.
"I'm here, Sammy," Dean tells him, breathing hard from the added weight. "Saving your extra-large ass again."
"I know. Helped me kill one of them."
Teeth Fur Pain TRIUMPH...hellhound carcass at twelve o' clock.
"But now I'm tired," Sam says, sounding more amused than bemused. "Dunno why…"
"Just hang on. You'll be safe soon, I promise."
Sam nods and closes his eyes. "So will you."
Dean makes for the sandy shore in painfully slow strokes, his own body worn out from saving Sam and ignoring his own, throbbing ankle. His burden becomes much lighter and when he looks back, his little brother has returned, right size and all. The shoulder wound and bruises are gone as well. They get to the shore and Dean sits down on the sand, laying Sam out to his right. Sam coughs a few more times, clearing his lungs of pond water. Dean helps him sit up and puts a hand on Sam's back to steady him.
"Breathe. You're safe." Sam nods and does as he's told, puffing his little chest out to take in as much air as possible. "What happened out there?" Dean asks after a little while.
"I cannonballed into the water…" Sam pauses to cough. "An' when I pushed off from the bottom to come back up, my foot got caught in the log."
"No," Dean says quietly. "I meant, what happened out THERE?" Sam looks confused, so Dean gestures to the pond. "I know what happened in here. I remember all of this. But what's going on out there?"
Sam's face becomes troubled for a moment, but then he shakes his head and breaks out into a toothy grin. Dean gives him a long, knowing look. "You're hurt, Sam, inside and out." Dean gestures to his brother's injured, left foot. It's cut pretty deep across the top, with another gash along the ankle. "It's not just a log that did this." Dean touches it gingerly and Sam hisses. "You gonna let me out or what?"
Sam looks down at his chest. "It doesn't work that way," is all he says.
Dean looks to the amulet hanging around Sam's neck. The double vision hits him again—it's there but not there, should be there and shouldn't be. Dean's stomach churns as he struggles to either see or not see it.
"Shouldn't…have that," he mumbles, seeing visions of the amulet around his own chest interlaced with an illustration of the same amulet in a small book. He hears Sam ask what he's talking about, and Dean gestures to the general area of Sam's chest. "Didn't get it…till Christmas…91…" he tries to explain. His eyelids shut when Sam becomes a crowd of Sams.
"You said I could wear it today, remember?" Sam's voice replies. "That it looked good on me."
"Yeah, but that was in a motel room…miles and years from now."
"But still today."
The dizziness lifts, and Dean eyes refocus on his little brother's smug face. Dean smirks back. "Not TODAY-today…"
Sam grins, little eyes sparkling. "You think I'm trying to trick you?"
Dean folds his arms. "I think you don't want me to see what's really going on."
Now Sam folds his. "Maybe YOU'RE the one that's doing this. Maybe YOU don't want to see what's really going on."
"And what is going on?"
"I'm saving you. It's working." Sam beams, but Dean shakes his head at him, looking dismayed. "What? You don't believe me?"
Dean ignores him and gets to his feet. "It's not the believing that's the problem." He gruffs in pain from his own, swollen ankle as he balances himself. "Come on. Let's get back to the cabin."
Sam fixates on the skin-colored grapefruit now surrounding Dean's ankle. "What happened?!"
"Get up, Sam."
Saucer-sized eyes remain on the sight as Sam wobbles to his feet. Dean grabs him by the arm before he can topple over. "Does it hurt?" he asks Dean.
"Yeah, but it's nothing."
"It's not nothing!" Sam yells, shoving his brother off him. "You're hurt!"
"So are you!" Dean tries to put his arm around Sam's shoulders, but Sam slaps him away. He bends down a little to take a closer look.
"I don't remember it being this bad…" The concern switches to resentment, though not directed at Dean. "You did this trying to help me…"
Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, Sam, it's all your fault. Dibs on your desserts for the next two weeks." Dean looks away from his little brother's angry face and spies a long, sturdy stick lying near the water's edge. "Get me that, wouldja?" Sam still looks pissed, but he looks to where Dean is pointing and retrieves the stick. "Good boy," Dean smirks, patting Sam on the head like a puppy. Sam smacks his hand away. Dean holds the stick upright with his right hand and plants it in the sand, taking the weight off his damaged ankle.
"All right, here's what we're gonna do. You," he puts his left arm around Sam and pulls him to his side, "are gonna lean on me, and I'm gonna lean on you. And together, we're gonna walk back to the house, nice and slow. All right?"
"But—"
"No bitching, dude. Your cuts are infected. We need to get you cleaned up before they get worse."
Sam looks at his foot. "They're not infected."
"I wasn't talking about those cuts…" Dean takes his first step forward, forcing his weight onto the stick as he sets his right foot back down. He winces and looks away.
"Dean, you're in pain."
"Thanks Captain Obvious." Dean takes another step, all but dragging Sam along with him.
"Wait…just, stop for a second." Sam looks up as Dean looks down. "Can't we just stay here for a little while longer?" Sam looks back at the swimming hole, and Dean follows his gaze. They both feel its pull. Sam leans into his brother. "I miss this, y'know?" he whispers, hugging an arm around Dean's waist. "So much."
Dean feels Sam's little heartbeat pounding into his skin. So delicate. How could he forget how delicate it was? Dean gives a small hug back. "I miss it too," he confesses. It pains Dean to say it. There's a reason he doesn't let himself think about happier times: it makes the burden of the here and now that much heavier. Sam hugs him tight, and Dean understands that playtime is over. It's time to go. He gently pulls Sam away and back to his side. Sam is aglow with trust and love. Dean can't bear it. He turns his eyes to their feet.
"We have to move," he says with quiet force.
"But Dean—"
"We're both hurt," Dean retorts. "And if we want to get better, we have to work through the pain. Together." Dean holds Sam close as Sam tries to squirm away from him. "We're GOING. No more arguments. You're already starting to shake."
Sam looks down at himself. "No I'm not."
"Made ya look."
Dean takes a step forward for both of them, grunting through the pain that erupts from his ankle. Before Sam can say anything, Dean takes another step, and another, clearing them from the shore. They head toward the woods at a snail's pace, both of them growing weaker and putting that much more weight on the other. But Dean keeps them going, step by step, ache by ache. Sam starts to whimper each time his injured foot comes down, and Dean pats him with the arm that is holding him up.
"You're doing great, just keep going."
He feels an electric pulse go through Sam's body, and Sam stands up straight and smiles. "Three down," he informs Dean with pride. Then he stumbles and has to hold on to Dean to keep from face-planting into the dirt.
"Nearly four down," Dean quips. He pulls Sam back up and they keep going. They lose track of time as they focus on keeping each other upright.
"You're all sweaty," Sam says.
"'Course I'm sweaty. It's hot, my ankle's twisted, and I'm carrying around my whiny little brother."
"You're not carrying me," Sam carps. "And I'm not whiny." He takes in a heavy breath and looks down.
"You need a rest?"
"No," Sam replies without looking at him. He's limping badly, but Dean takes him at his word and keeps them moving.
"I know it hurts," Dean says patiently. "But the pain can actually be good for you."
Sam peers up at him, eyes narrowed. "How do you know?"
"Cos Dad told me, okay?" Dean looks down at his brother, who looks up for a moment, then looks back to the ground. "Come on, you remember this. Dad said that if you let the pain take over, it won't let you go. You'll get weak. But he also said that you can't ignore it, or it'll sneak up on you the second you let your guard down. The trick," Dean peers into Sam's face, "is to let it in, but only a little. Just enough so you can use it to keep your mind sharp."
"But what if it hurts so bad that it's all you can think about?" Sam asks.
"See, I asked Dad the same question. You know what he told me?" Sam shakes his head no, and Dean leans over so that he's next to Sam's face. "He said that he just thinks about Mom, and the pain goes away." Sam's face scrunches up, and his lower lip trembles. He pushes Dean away and limps over to a large rock. Dean hobbles after him.
"Sammy?" Dean tries to get him to look back at him, but Sam keeps his eyes on everything else. "What's wrong?"
"I…I can't…" His little face grows hot as he fights the tears. Dean doesn't crowd him, just waits for him to spit it out. Sam takes a breath and looks up at Dean with reddened eyes. "I can't think about Mom," he confesses in a whisper. "I don't know what she looks like."
Dean sighs and sits down next to Sam on the rock, keeping his right leg straight so that he doesn't injure his ankle further. He pulls Sam to his shoulder and lets him cry quietly into his chest. Normally the topic of Mom was forbidden, and Dean is mad at himself for bringing it up. Sam's admission goes through his mind again, and Dean remembers showing Sam photos of Mom and telling him stories about her. That had stopped as Dean grew older. He didn't want to think about her, and he certainly didn't want to talk about her. She was gone. It was his job to take care of everyone now.
Dean rubs his hand along Sam's back and gently pulls him away. "I don't think he meant that literally," he tells Sam. Sam rubs his eyes with his fist and looks at him to explain. "I think you're just supposed to think about the person that means the most to you. It'll give you strength."
"Well, you're hurt," Sam says, pointing at Dean's very swollen ankle. "Who are you thinking about?"
"Dad, of course." It's a lie; the truth is caught in his throat like a wayward peanut shell. Sam looks into his older brother's eyes, and Dean looks away.
"I'm gonna think about you," Sam announces. Dean shudders at the words and keeps his face turned away from his brother.
"Not me. Pick someone else. Someone better."
"There is no one better."
Dean shudders again and folds in on himself, knees coming up to his chest. "How can you say that?!"
"Cos it's the truth. Cos you're you, Dean."
Dean gives a watery sigh and ducks his head down, shaking 'no' into his knees. He feels small arms wrap around his shoulders and a little head rest on his back. Dean tries to shake him off but Sam holds him tight. The arms grow weighty and strong, and Dean is soon scooped up into them. He looks up into Sam's adult face as Sam lifts him off the rock.
"No," Dean protests. "You're the little brother."
"But I'm not little," Sam's deep voice replies.
"I'm supposed to carry YOU…!"
"And you have. All my life." Sam starts walking down the trail. "Let me carry you for a little while."
Dean squirms to free himself, but Sam holds him close, propping Dean's chin onto his right shoulder. "Shouldn't be doing this."
"You're in pain."
"So are you…" Dean gives him a weak punch in the arm. Sam doesn't react. "Why'd you bring me here, huh? Risk yourself for me. I'm not worth it."
"Yes you are. You're YOU, Dean."
Dean kicks him in the stomach. "Stop SAYING that!" Sam doesn't let go, just holds him even closer. Dean starts to shiver—Sam is growing cold. As Dean looks on, Sam's skin bleaches white, and the dark bruises reappear all over. Dean feels something moist and sticky beneath his chest. He looks down as four small holes sink into Sam's right shoulder, each pooling with blood. Sam breaks into a run, face scrunched up from pain and determination.
"Almost there, Dean…" Sam says through his shakes.
"Where?"
"Not much longer."
The top of Sam's shoulder peels off, muscles and skin tearing clear through to the bone. Sam cries out for a second but shuts his mouth, heavy breaths snorting out through his nose. Dean's wide, terrified eyes look to the ruined shoulder, then to his brother's reddening face.
He's working through the pain. Dean looks up at him, partly in awe, mostly in guilt. Sam holds him tight.
"Almost there…almost there, I promise."
"Yeah, and you'll drop dead before we get there!" Again, Dean tries to squirm away, but the bigger man clings to him, switching Dean's chin to his other, non-wounded shoulder.
"Have to…keep you…safe," Sam pants, his pace slowing as he weakens. "No matter what."
Dean twists and punches and knees and grabs and pulls. Sam endures it all and keeps them going. "Lemme go!" Dean yells into Sam's face.
"No."
"Let me GO! Save YOURSELF!"
"NO, Dean!" Sam shouts back into the kid's face. "I'm saving YOU!"
By now there's so much blood that Dean is covered with it; Sam loses his grip and Dean falls. He lands on his bad ankle but scrambles away before Sam can grab him again. Sam calls his name, begs for him to stop, but Dean keeps moving.
"You are not doing this," he shouts. "I'm not letting you kill yourself to protect me!" He stumbles over some rocks but keeps himself upright, hobbling as fast as he can, keeping his eyes off the blood
SAM'S blood
covering his arms and chest. Sam calls for him again, voice strained with emotion. Dean ignores him and focuses on his pain. It's not real pain, he tells himself. It's a memory of the pain. Let it be just a memory again. He concentrates, hard as he's able, and the pain begins to let up. Dean starts to feel lightheaded. "No, not again…" His hand comes up and he smacks himself hard in the face. "Keep going, Dean, COME on…"
He rests against a tree for a moment to catch his breath, knowing Sam's long strides will bring him along in no time if Dean stays for too long. He focuses back on his ankle and concentrates, willing it to become his normal, healthy ankle again. The grapefruit becomes an orange, then a peach, then an ankle. The dizziness rolls back in, nearly crippling him in its own way, and Dean reaches from tree to tree, pulling himself along and keeping himself upright as the scenery goes topsy-turvy.
Keep going, he orders himself. He hears heavy footfalls behind him; Sam is catching up. Memories of their last chase through the woods come to mind and bring stability to Dean's senses. Need to move. Need my wheels.
Something appears ahead of Dean. He looks up, blinks twice, and smiles in relief.
"You'd better not be a mirage…"
Still smiling, he staggers forward, closing the distance between himself and the gorgeous, gleaming black sanctuary in front of him. The Impala is parked just past the edge of these woods, reflecting the green hues all around her. Dean doesn't care that day goes to near dark as he gets closer to her. He hobbles up to her shotgun-side door and rests his small hands on her window. She's real. She's wonderful. Dean opens the door and gets inside. Closes his eyes. Breathes in her leather goodness. Relaxes. Finally, he's safe.
I hate this car.
Dean's eyes flash open. He did NOT just think that. He would never, COULD never—
I HATE this car.
Dean's about to smack himself for such blasphemy when another thought interrupts him. Hate that they lock me in here. Hate that they LEAVE me in here. Hate that I never know what's going on. Hate being scared all the time.
They're Sam's thoughts; Dean realizes this about the same time as he notes that he's now in the back seat instead of the front. The top of the bench seat in front of him is too high, as is the rear, driver's side window to his left. Dean looks at his legs and finds them much too small. The body he's in gets up on the backseat and looks at the reflection in the rearview mirror. Sam, not quite 9, looks back. The reflection glares at the little boy.
Hate not being normal, Sam thinks at himself as he looks in the mirror. Hate being different. Hate being stupid and little and useless.
Dean is overwhelmed by his brother's admission. Sammy… I had no idea… The familiarity of those pent-up feelings hurts worse than anything Dean has ever endured. Sam isn't supposed to feel this way. Has he always felt this way? Does he still?
Hate my life. Hate me. Hate everything. Sam kicks at the bench seat in front of him in a dramatic show of Kid Frustration.
Guess Emo starts early, huh, Dean thinks back at him, hoping to steer Sam's dark thoughts away with some good-humored teasing. Sam just sits down on the seat and stuffs his hands under his arm pits, fuming at everything around him. Dean chuckles. Aw, come on, Sammy. Why so hard on yourself? You're fine. You're smart, you're strong…you're almost good looking… The little boy shows no sign of hearing him, just stares at the back of the bench seat, temper rising. You ignoring me or you not hearing me at all? Sam?
They hear screaming outside and Sam ducks down, crawling into the small space between the back seat and the bench seat. The scream comes again, inhuman and piercing. The car seems to shake along with Sam. Dean tries to comfort them both but neither seems to hear him.
More screaming. Small hands touch the door as frightened eyes peer out. The Impala is parked near the front of an old and isolated Victorian house, somewhere deep in the woods. Lights are flashing on and off on every floor. One of the windows on the top floor breaks, and something draped in bright white flies out, screaming the whole time. A gunshot follows it, but the shot misses, and the scary thing flies down toward the car. Sam ducks, bracing for impact, but everything falls quiet. Little heart pounding away in his chest, Sam peeks through the fingers over his eyes and looks up. There's nothing there. Slowly he rises up for a better look. Something rises up with him on the other side of the window: an old, birdlike woman with scaley, green-blue skin and a mess of wild, white hair. She brings her talons up to the glass and twitches her index claw in a hello, smiling at him with bloodied lips. She opens her mouth to scream.
"Get away from him!"
A gunshot sends her flying and screaming, and Dean sees his 13-year-old self run up to the car. He watches himself open the door and climb in.
"Sammy? You all right?"
"What's going on, what's happening?"
"It's a feral banshee, Sam. Dad's hunted them before, but this one's being difficult, so he sent me down for more bullets." Dean reaches past Sam and grabs a bag of ammo of the floor. "Sit tight, it's almost over."
"Wait!" Sam grabs the older boy's arm and pulls him down. "You're hurt!" He points to the bloodied arm and the deep scratch marks on his cheek. Dean waves it off.
"It's nothing—birdbrain just got a lucky scrape in, that's all." He stands up but Sam pulls him down again. "What the hell, Sam? Lemme go—Dad needs me!"
"What if you get hurt again?"
"So what if I do?"
Sam just stares at his brother's face, and the Dean trapped inside feels his little brother's unbridled fear. Sam is scared to death for Dean. Scared of what might happen to him, of ever being without him. Terrified that he'll never see him again. 13-year-old Dean frowns down at him, and Dean feels a whole new fear encompass Sam: fear of rejection.
"What's with you today?" Dean asks. "This isn't your first time out with us on a hunt. You didn't freak last week when we were fighting that poltergeist—that thing was ten times worse than this banshee."
"You didn't get hurt that time," Sam replies softly. Dean looks sympathetic for a moment, but he turns away. "And Dad never sends you down for more bullets." Dean glares back at Sam. "He only sends you down," Sam goes on, looking his brother plain in the face, "if he wants you safe in the car. Safe with me."
"Dad needs me," Dean insists.
"You know the rules, Dean. Dad makes us recite them every time we go on a hunt. If he sends you back here, we get the big phone and call Pastor J—"
"I know the rules! Forget the stupid rules—if I don't get these bullets to Dad—"
"Screw Dad!" Sam yells. "What about you?!"
Dean looks insulted. "What ABOUT me, Sammy?" Sam just gapes at him, so confused, so out of his element, but Dean's face and attitude are stringent. "Look. Sometimes in life, you have to be a man and take what comes at you. Yeah, I might get hurt, but I have to risk it. That thing is still out there, and now it knows you're here, too. I can't let anything happen to you. You OR Dad."
He opens the door and climbs out. "DEAN!" Sam cries, reaching for him.
"Stay there!" Dean yells, and he shuts the door. And the moment he does, the 13-year-old is gone, replaced by Sam, now an adult. Dean has been left inside the car. He looks down at himself and sees that he's an adult again as well.
"Sam? What are you doing?" he asks.
"Sit tight," Sam responds without looking at him. "It's almost over."
The banshee wails across the shrouded sky. The locks on all the doors lock themselves. Dean rolls his eyes. "You can't lock me in, genius. The locks are on my side." Sam doesn't look back at him or reply, just gets his gun out and looks around. Dean lifts up the lock on the back door and pushes. The door won't budge. Dean looks at Sam's back. "Very funny." He crawls over the bench seat and tries the driver's door. Same thing. "Sam…" He knocks on the glass, but Sam doesn't respond. "Sam!" The knocks turn into fist pounds but get the same lack of response.
Thunder grumbles across the sky. Fog rolls in all around, thick and shadowy. The banshee wails again, and both of them see a streak of white imprint itself against the darkness.
"That's it." Dean tries the doors again, but they still won't open. "I'm done, all right? No more plans, no more pretending, no more getting yourself hurt in my name. I'm here. Let me fight. It's MY fight, Sam, not yours."
Sam looks down at him at last, eyes deep with emotion. "It's OUR fight, Dean. Always has been." He puts his palm on the window. "Always will be."
Breaking glass from above as the banshee breaks back into the house. Sam takes his hand away and thumps the glass once, and Dean sees bravery reflected in Sam's face: the frightened little face he knew, and the strong, grown face he knows now. Sam turns and runs toward the house.
"No don't go in that house!" Dean yells. "You don't know what's in there!" But Sam keeps running and doesn't look back. Dean's stomach clenches up as he sees tall, determined Sam plow through the front doors. This isn't right. Dean's fingers clutch the door handle, paralyzed. FUCK this isn't right…should be out there with him, not in here and safe! He presses his forehead to the window, bites his lip till it bleeds. His heart races as his eyes search the house for movement. All is silence. What's going ON? Is Sam okay? Why aren't I with him, why am I STILL IN HERE?
Dean slams his fists against the door.
"FUCK!"
Broken by his frustration and worry, Dean glares at his reflection in the rearview mirror. "You're useless. Can't even get out of your own car to help your brother!" His face fills with rage as he regards himself with all his hatred. "He's gonna die, and it's all your fault!" Dean stares at his reflection, demanding solutions that he can't give. He shakes his head once, still fuming, still glaring. "Sam's gonna die. You failed him AGAIN. WHY, Dean?" The hatred mixes with self-pity—the glare remains, but the eyes round and soften with emotion. "Why aren't you ever good enough? Why can't you help him? Why won't—"
"—he let me help him?" 9-year-old Sam finishes for Dean. Dean blinks at his new reflection. His body hasn't changed, but the mirror says otherwise. "I just want to help him!" little Sam professes. "He's always kept me safe—why can't I do the same thing for him? Why doesn't he trust me?"
"It's not about trust!" Dean argues. "It's about knowing what's happening to you while you're out there fighting for a lost cause!"
"No, Dean," little Sam says through the rearview mirror. "You're not a lost cause." Dean looks up at the reflection, and the kid smiles through his tear-stained face. "You're awesome."
Dean feels a strange sensation come over him—warm, powerful, and tickly. The inside of the car seems to grow smaller. "You're what I always wanted to be," little Sam tells him. "Big n' strong n' brave…"
"You're bigger and stronger than me," Dean points out. "And brave…" He shakes his head. "I'm not brave. Never was. I was scared all the time. Never knew what I was doing…just went in, kept my head down, hoped for the best. That's not bravery." He drops his head and scratches the back of his neck. "That's dumb luck."
Sam laughs, and Dean looks up. "That's still brave, dummy! That's what it's all about—being scared but going into the darkness anyway." Sam smiles at Dean's sour expression. "You taught me that."
"I also taught you not to take stupid risks. And for the record? Taking on hellhounds all by yourself? That's about as stupid and risky as anything gets."
"But you're family, Dean! And family comes first, no matter what. You SAID."
Dean looks up at his kid brother at the words. Little Sam's face is fierce. "…you got me there," Dean admits extra-quietly.
"You're family," Sam says again. "You're my brother. You need help. I'm just doing what you told me to do."
"I NEVER told you to die in order to save me," Dean snaps.
"You told me to be a man and not worry about getting hurt," Sam reminds him. "And if I got hurt, you taught me how to—"
"Work through the pain…" Dean trails off as he considers recent events. The swimming hole, the banshee hunt. Lesson days. They were lesson days. Sam's been justifying what he's doing. He looks back at Sam, more than ready to call him on it. The mirror is filled with Sam's hazel eyes, emotional but serious.
"Why'd you ever teach me that stuff if you didn't want me to use it?"
"You're supposed to use it—just not for me!"
"So I can save complete strangers but not my own brother?!" The little kid shakes his head and smiles. Dean doesn't say anything, just looks away. "You've kept me safe all my life, Dean. Now it's time to save you." A shadow falls over the reflection, and Sam looks up and to his left. "No matter what it takes."
The reflection changes back to Dean's eyes. "Don't you fucking leave me…" He waits for a reply but doesn't get one. "SAM!"
The wail of the banshee cuts through the area again, and Dean looks up. The banshee is circling the Victorian house, screaming louder with every pass. Dean grows numb. You know the lore, he thinks as he watches the creature fly around the back of the house. Banshee playing vulture? Means someone in the house is about to die.
Then everything changes. The house and the edge of the woods transform to a dark area deep in another forest. Heavy black blankets swallow it all up, then expose it again: lids fighting to stay open and alert. Dean is hit with exhaustion, as if he's just had the fight of his life. Snarling grinds through his ears as a badly-wounded hellhound appears front and center, pushing right into his face. Acid blood drips onto his skin and burns in. Dean feels skin blistering and breaking, suffers the dog's weight as its paws crush into his stomach, smells its hot, putrid breath. The image shifts slightly upward as his head leans forward.
"It's over!" Sam's voice strains. "You can't…kill me."
A harsh whisper of a voice laughs from somewhere nearby. "True," it concedes. "But we can still get to Dean. Few more chinks in your armor and he's ours." Black fingernails reach out of the darkness and stroke the hellhound's ears. "Bleed him, sweetie," she coos, "but don't touch his heart."
Three scimitars pierce Sam's right pectoral and dig in, ripping through flesh and skin with terrifying ease.
"NO!" Dean pushes forward, lunging for that hellhound's neck. Sam's arms won't respond. Dean pushes again, brimming with rage and energy, and feels himself start to break through whatever has been trapping him. His spiritual energy responds at last, reaching up through every part of him. Dean feels his strength return and then some: he takes up the entire forest in a matter of seconds, his outrage and his need to protect his brother fueling the fire within him. The hellhound's face is tinted green as Dean's eyes come forward and glow through Sam's sockets. The hellhound whimpers in fear. Dean grins. He gathers his energy up for a blast—and stops when he feels something that shouldn't be there. Sam's life force. All of it. Dean unwittingly gathered it up along with his own energy. He tries to send it back to Sam, but it clings to the mass of energy around it. Dean can't separate the two.
I can't send it out without killing Sam.
The glow goes out of Sam's eyes as Dean settles back, allowing his hold on the energy to lapse. Sam's life force returns to him. The guilt returns to Dean and doubles.
I can't help you.
The dog leans forward, and the sharp points stab in further. Sam shuts his eyes, knowing what's about to happen. Dean does the same.
I'm sorry, Sam…!
Sam screams as the hellhound draws its claws down at an angle, cutting across his chest, through his belly button, and down to his left hip. It pulls its claws out and a chunk of flesh comes with it. Dean screams with Sam until they're both hoarse. Searing pain everywhere. Dean feels Sam struggling to rise above it, but it's so intense. It burns, it pierces, it writhes and cuts and leaks and runs. Sam tilts his head back as he wilts from it all. The red-eyed shadow appears overhead and stares down into his eyes.
"I seeeee you," it sings, looking right at Dean. It starts to laugh. No…SAM starts to laugh. Coarse giggling fills the air as both Dean and the shadow look around, confounded. Sam laughs harder, pain shooting through his wounds as his belly and body roll. The shadow and the hellhound back away. Sam grins at them through bloody teeth.
"Still here," Sam announces, red spitting out at the first word. He laughs some more when the shadow doesn't say anything. "Still here!" he shouts into the night. "We won…I was right…still here…still HERE…"
Sam's thoughts start to jumble as he fights to stay conscious. Amidst the memories and the pain, Dean sees parts of Sam's master plan. He relives Sam's chance discovery in the Le Grange book of a spell to keep the soul of a loved one locked inside a living body as a bound spirit. It was only ever meant for the spirits of those whose own bodies were already dead. Dean was still alive—changed, certainly, but alive. Sam decided to take the risk anyway.
Not worth the risk, Dean thinks angrily.
COMPLETELY worth the risk, Sam thinks back.
The scenery starts to flicker between the forest outside and the car inside. Dean closes his eyes but his mind remains open and connected, and a third set of images come into view. The symbol on Sam's arm is on the same page as the binding spell. Next to it is an illustration of Dean's amulet. Dean can't read what the caption says, but he catches Sam's thoughts upon seeing it:
Charm the amulet to keep Dean around, then use it to bind his spirit to me.
It's not a normal possession, Dean understands at last. That's why I have no control. That's why everything in here is as real as everything out there. It's a deeper connection. Spiritual level.
He hears Sam laugh again, but not as a happy 8-year-old in a swimming hole. These are the huffed and crazed laughs of someone who has lost all his strength, and only has laughter as his final, defiant weapon. Dean is furious. No wonder why you wouldn't tell me the plan—you knew I'd bolt to save you from doing something so fucking stupid!
Yeah, and then who would be around to save YOU? Sam shoots back.
Anger and self-loathing bursts out from Dean in every direction. Both are blocked by a wall of warmth. It burns Dean instead of comforting him. Don't deserve it, don't deserve it… The realities keep flickering and blending, house and the forest, Dean's car and Sam's body, faster and faster until they are superimposed, one and the same. Three long, jagged claw marks have been torn through the roof of the Impala, and Sam's skin is gleaming metal.
I'm not locked inside. Sam's locked all the dangers OUT. Dean looks out and up. He can still feel the pain from the open wounds, feel the burning in his lungs. Hear the awful laughter of his brother losing his mind. What have you DONE?
Sam shows Dean more of the pieces of his nearly complete Save Dean puzzle. How Dean was changed the night their dad made the deal—demon-tainted life force restoring his health but marking his soul. The reaper making her own changes within him, ensuring that he'd change into a spirit-human hybrid should any deal involving his soul ever be made again. The yellow-eyed demon guessing her plans and sabotaging Dean, granting the ability to take energy as a reaper would, but denying him the control—giving him cravings instead. Dean first feels Sam's outrage that they dared to mess with his brother like that, then his satisfaction as he figured out a way to turn the tables on them.
I can save him, discovers adult Sam. I can SAVE HIM! chirps a younger Sam. The two voices combine and babble through Dean's mind, some thoughts past and some present:
She can't kill me She'll try but she can't Save Dean Use yourself as a shield She can't kill me She'll TRY She won't succeed I can save him It'll hurt Work through the pain She won't take him She'll try You can do this She has no say over you Loophole Can't kill you Protect Dean You know he'd do the same for you He's the greatest He's my brother She'll take him and hurt him I won't let her I'll save him or die trying She can't kill you She'll try—
"STOP!" Dean cries. The warmth comes again, stronger, everywhere. Sam's love. Dean tries to push away, uncomfortable and undeserving, but Sam won't let him. The garbled thoughts give way to flashes of the midnight fight. Sam stabbing hellhounds. Hellhounds biting him. Sam being dragged. Hellhounds getting thrown. Blood and grit everywhere. Hellhounds going down, more and more coming in from the shadows. Sam tiring but fighting on with everything he's got until there's nothing left but willpower. He falls to his knees, then drops on his back, thrashed but not giving up.
You went through all that for me, Dean thinks meekly, suffering through Sam's unwavering love. It bathes him in pure, unconditional and honest devotion and won't let up. No…don't… Sam keeps pressing, so Dean curls into a ball, feeling both the plush leather of the bench seat and the hard, forest floor beneath him at the same time. Shouldn't have…not worth it. Not by a longshot. His mind gets flooded with picture after picture of times that Dean saved Sam. Self-hatred turns to fury. That was different! You're WORTH saving, Sammy! I'm not!"
Yes you are. You're my brother. You're a hero.
I'm a FREAK! Always have been, always will be!
And I love you anyway. Cos you're you, Dean.
"And I HATE IT!" Dean yells with everything he is. Sam's body jolts at the words, and the car rocks. "I HATE being me! I'm NOT brave and I'm NOT great and I'm NOT FUCKING WORTH your sacrifice!" The earth trembles at his words, and trees in both sets of woods fall. The background goes bright white, swallowing the house and the sky. The warm force attempts a rebound, and Dean throws it off of him, utterly terrified by what it means.
"NO! You hear me?! NO! Stop it!" The warmth recedes. "I WANT OUT!" Dean kicks his boots at the window. "NO MORE!" Kicks again. A crack forms. "Can't do this to me, can't DO THIS!" Harder kick. Cracks everywhere. "WON'T LET YOU!" Shatter; jagged glass fragments pierce leather and denim. Dean hauls his bleeding legs back in the car, then pushes his arms and head forward and crawls his way out. Glass scrapes up his sides. Dean doesn't feel it. Bloody arms reach for the ground. Gravity does the rest.
The whiteness gives way to woods. Dean is back outside—truly outside—in the forest around Ghost Lake. Any remaining warmth is lost to the inhuman chill that Dean has grown so accustomed to. He gets to his feet and looks around. The forest has been bleached white—ashes stacked and frozen in the shapes of their former tree bodies. The ground is burning in some places and snowy in others. Hellhound skeletons lie strewn about the area, while nearby, a fresh set of tracks shows the path of the survivors that tucked tail and ran.
One shadowy figure remains in the darkness, sporting two very wide, very frightened red orbs. Dean's glowing green eyes lock onto it and glare. The shadow dissipates at once.
Above him, the heavy clouds burst at last, dumping rain on the silent scene below. The ashen trees begin to droop as they grow soggy. Dean looks around for Sam. His brother is nowhere in front of him, so he whirls around to look behind him. Dean's body shivers into spirit form at the sight.
Sam is encased in a thin layer of ice. His chest cavity and some of his ribs have been ripped clean through by the hellhounds. Congealed blood seeps slowly underneath the icy covering, following and spreading out from the tears like flooding waterways. Sam's shoulder has been bitten clean through, a large flap of skin and tendons resting over an area where blood and sizzling slobber have mixed together and eaten away at the tissue. It's the only part of Sam that stays red hot and uncovered by ice.
I'm too late.
Dean stumbles to the ground. With great pain, he looks at Sam's face. His mouth is locked in a scream. His brother's eyes are both open and closed—the left eye cracked, the right eye swollen and shut. It's not just black and blue, but raw, like someone hit him with a red-hot fist. Dean sees more burn marks on Sam's neck and the sides of his face, each in the tell-tale point and curve of a flame. The worst burns are on his left arm. The symbol Sam had carved in has been burnt through, leaving crisp, grey skin behind.
I did this.
Dean knows it to be true. The nuclear winter around him, the ice and damage to his brother. Hellhounds can't fry themselves. Hellhounds don't leave energy burns.
I did this, Dean thinks again, the truth sinking in and pulling him down. I broke free of his hold and I broke him in the process.
Guilt pours over him. Dean's fingers splay out above the ice over Sam's chest, unable to touch or help him. First you get clawed up for me, then I try to leave so I can save you, and I destroy you instead. He looks back at Sam's eyes, heaving with the need to cry, but unable to in his spirit form. "See why I'm not worth it?!" he hisses. "I wreck everything! Now you're dead." Sam's face screams back in silence, placing the fault squarely on his brother. Dean takes it. Dean deserves it.
"I'm supposed to be dead, not you. My deal. MY sacrifice. Not yours. Never yours…" Dean falls back and starts to shake with the blame. The ground trembles with him. Rain pours harder from the sky, hitting the ice on Sam's body as little hammers. Dean looks down at his transparent body and watches the rain fall through him. Disappear, dammit, he tells himself. For good. Before you kill anyone else. No one will miss you. No one will notice. The world will be better off without you.
A tiny twitch pulls him out of his head—one he feels rather than sees. His Need reaches out to it, and Dean opens his eyes. He feels Sam's life force. It's barely registering, but it's there. Still there.
"You're alive…"
Dean leans forward and looks back at his brother as the Need confirms it. The guilt gives way to hope. "You're alive!" The hope turns to horror as Dean looks at Sam and is reminded of his brother's torn-up body. "You won't be for long—not like that. Shit." Dean moves onto his knees and gets down to business. "Hold on, Sammy. I'm going to fix this, I promise."
Dean doesn't think about what he's about to do. Doesn't question and doesn't wonder, just does what he does best and acts on instinct. Just save Sam. That's all that matters. Dean pulls at the vast energy inside of him and the response is immediate: a golden light shoots out of his fingertips and into Sam's heart. It beats fast and strong. Dean keeps sending, coaxing the sewn-through ribs to fuse themselves back together, warming the skin to melt the ice and erase the burns. Dean won't let himself rejoice at the progress—there's still too much to fix.
That's it, Sammy. Take your medicine. The ice disappears all around, allowing the blood to flow freely both in and out. Dean keeps healing. He feels himself growing tired from sending out so much of his own energy, but Sam's strengthening heartbeat keeps him going. Save Sam. SAVE him. The bitten-through shoulder hisses as the poison is pushed out of Sam's tissue, leaving healing muscles and skin behind. Dean puts one translucent hand above the area and mimes soothing it, and the skin rubs back into place and seals itself up. He focuses back on Sam's torso, where the deep claw marks still remain. Dean relives that awful moment
Teeth fur pain tearing claws
but fights past it and locks his energy and attention onto the open wounds. They won't close. He tries again, pushing harder. Blood oozes out instead of creeping back inside, as Dean is instructing it to. The memory hits him again
Tearing claws Sam screaming
and the wounds grow deeper as Dean watches on, as if the hellhounds in his memory just tore through Sam a second time. What the hell? Don't get worse, get better!
Tearing claws Sam screaming You doing NOTHING
I'm doing something now, dammit! Dean yells at his thoughts. He shoots all of his remaining energy into Sam, gritting his teeth as he concentrates. No effect: blood spurts out from all over, and the newly healed ribs try and pull themselves back apart. Dean won't let them. No nonono…you're better. Stay better! More blood. More energy. Sam groans, and Dean looks at his brother's face. His mouth has relaxed out of its scream and his eyelids are fluttering. His head starts to move around.
"Stay still, Sammy, you're hurt."
Sam smiles, though his eyes remain closed. "Thanks Captain Obvious." A weak left arm lifts up from the ground. "What time is it…?"
Dean doesn't welcome the distraction, but he glances at the watch anyway to check the time. "12:06."
Sam's smile becomes a grin. "Midnight's gone…" He looks at Dean with his non-swollen eye. "And you're still here."
"And you won't be if you keep talking. Shut up. Save your strength."
Sam gives a little laugh. "Should've seen her face…" He coughs once and cuts it off with another laugh. "She was PISSED…Dean…you woulda loved it."
Sam's eye rolls back and his arm drops back down. The Need feels Sam's life force dwindling again. "Shit…Sam? Don't you leave me." Dean reaches for Sam but his hand passes right through. He tries to pour more energy into him but there isn't enough left in Dean to spare; he's literally given everything he has. Blood is dripping on the ground around Sam, his shredded shirt stained with the stuff. The rain keeps pouring steady, washing away some blood and encouraging more out at the same time.
Time to move. And there's only one way…
Dean swallows hard, really not wanting to do this again, but knowing he has no choice. He leans in close to Sam's chest and lets himself fall in. The life energy he sent inside to heal Sam now merges them both, stretching Dean out and all around inside of Sam. He opens Sam's eyes to the raindrops splashing his face and cutting at open wounds across his body.
Dean feels his control return to him. He blinks and tries to sit them up, but the deep cuts across Sam's chest bleed fresh as they stretch and move with his abdomen muscles. Dean lies them back down. Sam? he thinks gently. Still with me? No words form in reply, but Dean feels the faint warmth of emotion respond to him. Good enough. Now hold on…this is probably going to hurt.
Dean grits Sam's teeth and stands them both up. Sam cries out. Every part of him is stiff with pain. Even his hair is somehow sore. What's worse, he's still losing blood; it percolates through the holes in his shoulder and streams from the tears in his chest, trickling down his jeans and onto his boots. Dean knows that this time, it won't be a simple matter of leaning on each other and working through the pain: Sam's hurt too badly, and the Impala is too far away.
If only I could make you immaterial, Dean thinks wistfully. We could both run back to the car in no time. Dean's lips curl into a smirk. Wait…why the hell can't I? We're merged right now…it's worth a shot… He concentrates and tells himself to disappear. Sam's hand starts to wave in and out of being. Dean concentrates harder, pulling Sam's presence close to him and away from his changing body. The shared life force is soon fluctuating in time with Sam's form. Dean watches both body and feeling fade out, and he holds the fluctuation in pause, keeping Sam out.
Only have a few seconds. Go.
Dean races them through the woods, hurtling through everything in their path. He feels Sam becoming more and more aware, but Dean keeps his mind and mouth shut, not wanting to lose his concentration. He keeps them running as wind through the trees. Dean gets them back to the car in less than 20 seconds, though the seconds draw out just as long as the hours it took them to walk through the woods in the first place. He passes them through the driver-side door and gently sets Sam down behind the wheel. Then he digs his keys out of Sam's pocket and starts the car.
"Hope you got some rest, baby," Dean says to the Impala. "We're going full throttle till we find a hospital."
The car revs its readiness, and Dean slams Sam's foot down on the gas. The Impala tears down the country road and back out onto WI-77, heading west. Sam starts to slouch, but Dean sits them back up and straight, not wanting Sam's breathing to be any more labored than it already is. Dean can feel the blood from Sam's cuts pooling on Sam's crotch, and he wonders which of them is more uncomfortable at the moment.
Dean… Sam thinks to him, voice heavy. You're safe…
You aren't. Not yet. Rest up.
I kept you safe. Sam's lips smile, drowsy but triumphant. Kept you here with me…
And you'll be in a world of hurt if you don't shut up and let me drive.
Sam takes their gaze off the road for a second to look down at himself. …it's not that bad, he declares.
Dean's laugh comes out in Sam's voice. Not that bad?! You nearly died! You nearly got torn in half! You're bleeding out—in my car! And I just had the leather cleaned two weeks ago! Sam smirks at Dean's tirade, and Dean shakes Sam's head at his well-meaning but stupid brother. "Not worth it, Sam," Dean murmurs with Sam's mouth. "I don't care what you say."
Sam nods once and smiles again. "Likewise."
The car surges to its top speed, flying down the road. Dean doesn't hear from Sam the rest of the trip. He won't let him say anything more.
Thirty-three minutes later and they are sitting in the small ER in the small hospital in the town of Hayward. Dean had stayed merged with Sam until they pulled up to the emergency entrance, when he finally relinquished control and allowed Sam's chin to land on the car horn. He pretended not to hear Sam's soft cry to not leave him. The orderlies came running out, and Dean disappeared before they could see him.
Sam is now connected to IVs of blood and fluids, enduring suture after suture in a half-conscious, half-still-out-of-it state. Dean stands in front and watches. Sam knows he's there. Dean doesn't quite know how he knows, but Sam looks right at him too many times for coincidence. Each time, it's with big eyes and a warm smile, like Dean is the most welcome sight he's ever seen. Dean looks away every time in turn. He only looks back once he feels the weight of Sam's Adoration Stare move elsewhere.
A doctor approaches Sam and asks what happened. Sam clears his throat and gives the doc a bullshit cover story about camping and bear attacks. Dean bristles as he hears the lies. He knows they're necessary—it's not the story that's the problem. It's the necessity of this entire night that has him so pissed off.
You left out the part where you got tortured and nearly killed trying to protect me, Dean thinks, disgusted. He looks at the doc. I never asked him to. I wish to God he hadn't. But he did and there you go and here we are. Sam finishes his story and smiles again at Dean. Dean glares back and hopes Sam sees it.
The doctor finishes writing all this down, and both brothers look at him. "It's good you got in here as soon as you did. You've lost a lot of blood, but you're responding well to the fluids and blood transfusion."
Sam nods, then winces as another suture goes in. "Thanks, doc."
"We'll call animal control about the bear," the doctor announces. "Better call the sheriff, too. Lotta folks staying in the cabins around that lake. Might have to warn them." The doctor doesn't notice the alarmed look his patient gives the air in front of him at the word 'sheriff.' "Soon as the surgeon is finished with the sutures, we'll set you up in a room for the night. Is there anyone we can call?"
"My brother's on the way." Sam looks at where Dean is hovering. "Called him from the car." Sam gives a small smirk. "He'll probably try and sneak me out the moment he gets here. He's not a big fan of hospitals."
"There's an understatement," Dean deadpans. The surgeon hears him and looks around but sees no one besides the doctor, the patient, and himself. The doctor gives Sam a serious sigh and a look in kind.
"You're staying here tonight, Mr. Taylor. You need to be monitored in case further transfusions are needed. Plus your body is still weak and could slip into shock. Tell your brother to suck it up and let you get some rest." Sam nods to confirm the doctor's orders (and to prevent himself from laughing). The doctor takes his leave as the stitch-up man leans back in.
"Look at that," Dean mutters. "There's actually someone out there that needs to get laid more than you do, Sam." Again the surgeon looks around, swearing he heard someone. Sam gives Dean a look, then winces again as the last suture gets pulled through and tied off. Dean winces with him. The surgeon does a final check of the sutures and, as he's placing long bandage strips over the stitching, gives Sam a few instructions on suture care. Sam only pays half-attention. His eyes are already on the door.
The doctor walks back in two minutes later. "Sheriff's on the way. He'd like to ask you a few questions, Mr.—" The bed is empty. "Taylor?"
The Impala is already peeling out of the parking lot, Sam behind the wheel, all smiles despite the lingering pain in his torso and the pinching pulls of each suture.
"It's done," he exclaims, looking at Dean as his older brother starts to reappear. "It's over! Can you believe it?"
"No," Dean nods, fronting a smile. "It's unreal."
"But it IS real—that's what's so great!" Sam beams. Dean pretends to be happy as he fully reappears. "Think you could pull yourself back together enough for a victory drink?"
Dean shakes his head and replies quietly, "No drinking tonight. You need your rest. You've been through hell."
"And kept you from going to hell." Sam smiles broadly, though it wavers as the pain in his chest starts to throb; he readjusts how he's sitting to try and hide it from Dean. But Dean can feel everything through his life force sensors. He knows it's not just Sam's body that was hurt, but his spirit. Sam's little merging spell taxed his own spiritual energy. No doctor can fix that. Dean's not even sure he can fix it. But Dean remains mute for the time being. They have bigger problems to worry about.
Sam turns his eyes to short buildings with old neon signs, checking for vacancy. Dean looks away from the light and watches the shadows for red eyes he knows are still watching them. It's not over yet, Dean thinks at it all. Not even close.
A few hours later and Sam is sleeping. The fatigue had hit him hard as he got out of the car and stepped into the still-pouring rain. Dean had to support him in order to keep him standing, or the sheer exhaustion would have collapsed him right there in the parking lot. Once inside their little bungalow, Sam managed to stay awake long enough to get his soaking jeans and shoes off. He tugged an old pair of sweats on, but he needed help getting his shirt off. Dean cringed right along with Sam as the shirt fabric touched every one of those sutures. Sam tried to act like it was nothing. Dean resisted slugging him for it.
"You're not Rambo, dude," Dean scolded. "You're not even Chuck Norris. Fuck the macho bullshit and let yourself rest."
That's when Sam looked at him. Adoration came into his face as he stared at his older brother, delighting in the fact that Dean really was still there with him. Dean stared back, but with sadness, recalling claws through flesh, demonic threats, and his brother's screams and mad laughter. Sam smiled at him, laid his bare back down onto the sheets, and closed his eyes. Dean sat down next to him and watched him drift off to sleep. He knew there would be no sleep for himself tonight.
Now Dean's eyes turn to the clock on the nightstand. 2:51 a.m. You're still here, Sam's bloody smile says in Dean's memory. Dean rolls his heavy head around, laden with guilt. The few times Dean dreamed about still being alive today had never included a cost so high.
Sam's bandaged chest rises up and down, soft snores being drowned out by the raging storm outside. Dean can't find comfort in the fact that his brother is finally getting the sleep he's been deprived of for so many long nights: he can see and feel the pain his brother is in. The events leading up to those 47 sutures play on a continuous loop in Dean's mind.
You should've done something to prevent this, he growls at himself. Doesn't matter if there was nothing you could've done. You should've tried. But you didn't. And now you have to live with the Coulda Shouldas….
He looks at the mirror in the room as the lightning flickers through the blinds in the window. He shivers as he catches sight of himself, body still and always cold. He's not supposed to be here. But I am, Dean thinks, guilty as charged and feeling all the more wretched because of it. He looks down at Sam again. Everything you went through… He shakes his head. You know the crossroads bitch is going to try again. She could come at any time. What happens when does? Smackdown of the century, that's what. Only now she'll be gunning for both of us.
Sam sleeps on, oblivious to his brother's fears. Dean shivers again. And what about my other problem? What happens if I go nuclear again or if I disappear for good? What crazy thing are you going to do then? Dean hangs his head, sick with worry and burdened with guilt. Thunder grinds overhead as rain stabs into the roof. Dean rubs his eyes and face and looks away.
Can't let you lose anymore of yourself for me, Sammy, Dean thinks with determination. Have to save you from yourself. And to do that, I have to get you to stop trying to save me. Dean looks back at Sam and makes up his mind on the spot. He knows what he has to do, as much as it pains him to do so.
Dean has to leave him.
And it has to be right now.