so, another chapter, a little longer as there was a lot to cover. Enjoy!! hugs, Ember
Chapter Eleven
Ashen-faced, a tinge of blue colored Drake's lips as Sam tore off his neck brace, tilted his head back a little further and tried once again to give him mouth to mouth resuscitation with the same grim results. Something was blocking his airway, and Sam didn't dare risk lodging it in further by swiping his finger through his mouth again to try and clear it out.
Panic setting in, Sam tore through first aid kit searching for a penlight, hoping he could see the obstruction to better determine his next course of action, but couldn't find one. Raking his hands through his hair, he looked all around as he screamed at the top of his lungs for someone to help him. The sounds of dogs barking in the distance, and birds chirping and flapping their wings in the trees high overhead reached his ears, but those were the only noises he heard.
Pulling Drake into his arms, and cradling him closely, he dropped his head back onto his shoulders to look heavenward. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he cried out, "God, please help me save my brother . . . please just once answer me."
"I'm here, Sam," Castiel called out from behind Sam, and Sam jumped, momentarily startled, and then relief flooded through him. "I hadn't expected you to push your brother out of the loft or I would have come sooner."
"Cas, you have to fix him . . . do whatever you've gotta do, but save my brother's life."
"You mean Drake's life?"
"No, I mean my brother's life . . . now get your ass moving and heal him."
"He'll question it, Sam," Castiel uttered as he crouched beside Sam, and placed a hand on Drake's forehead. "Are you going to tell him about me when he does?"
"I'll figure out something to tell him."
"So you're going to lie." A look of disappointment furrowed at the angel's brow as he slowly shook his head. "Weren't there enough lies between you and Dean – this is your chance to start out fresh with no lies between the two of you – I'd suggest you take it."
"I can't tell him an angel saved his life." Sam swallowed hard, recalling how Drake had said he'd promised to save them all if his – his words had cut off then, but Sam knew he'd meant his family lived, and if he told him that Castiel had saved him, he would say yes to Michael. "It'll be the thing that makes him say yes to Michael, and I can't let that happen – Dean didn't want that to happen."
"So you're never going to tell him that he's your brother?" As Castiel spoke, his fingertips began to gleam with brilliant light, heat emanating from them, and Sam was forced to turn his head and shield his eyes.
"No, he had a brother he loved – he doesn't want someone like me to try and take Jake's place."
"Did you ever stop to consider that maybe Jake was just standing in for you – he is Dean after all."
"No, he's just a watered down version of my brother, an' if given the choice, I would never chose him over Dean."
"Well, whether he is your brother or just Drake to you – I have healed him." Castiel stood, and pushed his hands into the pockets of his trench coat.
Sam pulled away the blankets covering Drake, and looked over him over, searching for any signs at all that he had been critically injured, but found none. Yet, although Sam could see the gentle rise and fall of Drake's chest as he breathed in and out, the younger man eyes remained closed even as Sam tried to nudge him awake. "If you healed him, why isn't he waking up?"
"He almost died, Sam – he's tired." Glancing up at the opening in the loft, Castiel looked back at Drake and went on to add, "With the fall he took, I'd imagine he'll wake up somewhere around noon tomorrow."
"Noon? Tomorrow?" Sam's eyes widened considerably. "What am I supposed to do with him until then? I'm sure the whole freakin' town will be looking for him – an' there'll definitely be some sort of hick country boy lynch mob wanting to hunt me down."
"I don't know what to tell you, Sam." He shrugged unconcernedly. "It was my job to heal him – an' so I guess it's your job to babysit until he wakes up." With that said, he disappeared leaving Sam to take care of the unconscious man by himself.
"I should've left town the moment I met you," he grumbled as he got to his feet, lifted Drake into his arms and carried him to the car, "but no, I had to stick around . . . go to a few fires, an' then push you out of a window because my life wasn't screwed up enough before this."
Gently placing Drake on the passenger's seat, he pulled the seatbelt around him and snapped it into place. Exhausted and dead on his feet from all the mental stress he had just endured, Sam trudged to the driver's side, got in, and eased the door closed. As he drove to the motel he was staying at, he mulled over exactly what he was going to tell Drake when he finally managed to wake up, but every lie seemed too farfetched to be even remotely believable.
"I can't tell him the truth," he muttered under his breath as he cast a sideways glance at the sleeping man, and a smile crept across his face at how peacefully unaware his little brother appeared. As Drake, Dean had no horrific memories of Hell to mar his dreams, turning them all into vivid nightmares, and for that much, Sam was grateful to the younger man.
Once at the motel, Sam got out of the car, took a quick look around, and when he was fairly certain no one was around, he lifted Drake out of the vehicle and carried him inside his room. Carefully laying him down on the spare bed, Sam snatched a shirt out of his duffel bag and made quick work of taking off Drake's bloodied and torn shirt. For a brief moment he studied the silver cross necklace his brother wore, noting the protective pentagram worked into the center of it, and then his gaze was drawn to the leather cording of another necklace with a charm that lay hidden beneath the thick silver cross. Of the two, he was certain the leather necklace meant more to Drake as he had seen him toying with it several times, but resisted the urge to find out what sort of charm dangled from it.
As he replaced the ruined t-shirt with the clean flannel, he noticed a small plastic bag poking out of Drake's jean's pocket, and yanked it out. Holding the baggie up to the light, he studied the crystal rock inside, and shaking his head, he glanced back at the blissful sleeping man. Anger seethed through him, and it took every sheer ounce of willpower he possessed not to throttle his brother for risking everything he had just to get high.
"You don't even realize how good you've got it, do you?" he asked, gripping hold of Drake's shirt, and pulling him forward. "You have tons of friends, a home – family – why the hell do you need this?"
Even as he spoke, Sam recalled slicing a broken piece of glass through a demon girl's neck to drink her blood, and when he was finished with her he moved on to her partner. No one ever sets out to be an addict, but once they get a taste of the powerful euphoria a quick fix brings them, it quickly drags them under and becomes a demon in its own right. "You're not ever using this crap again. Got me?" He shook his little brother, and watched as his head drooped to the side, unaware of anything he had said.
With a heavy sigh, Sam stood and went into the bathroom to flush his brother's drugs down the toilet, and as he did he wondered how hard it had to have been for Dean to stand by and watch him go through withdrawal. And if Drake was as addicted to meth as Sam was to demon blood how hard would it be for him to kick the habit?
Uncertain of what he would have to do to detox his brother, and unable to sleep until he knew for certain Drake was all right, Sam headed back out into the main room and grabbed his laptop to research any and all drugs his brother might have taken to prepare himself for the worst. His fears were confirmed as he read that crystal meth was a dangerously addictive drug and it was highly suggested that any treatment should be done in a drug recovery facility.
Eyelids growing heavy after hours and hours of referencing and cross-referencing every website he could find on drugs and their various withdrawal symptoms and treatments, he rubbed at them and then stood to stretch out the kinks in his neck, back and shoulders. Then after checking on Drake to make sure he was doing all right, he gave in to his need for sleep, and flopped down on his bed.
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With a groan, Drake pried his eyes open, blinked hard several times, and then glanced around at unfamiliar room. His gaze landed on the bed opposite of his own, and narrowed on the sleeping form of Sam. He then glanced down and noticed he was wearing an oversized flannel shirt that had to have belonged to the older, bigger man, and heaved another heavy groan. His hand immediately went to his throat, and breathed a thankful sigh when his fingers gripped around the leather necklace that had belonged to Dean. His fingertips then slid downward, and his brow furrowed in confusion as he touched upon the skin of his chest and found no scar. Grasping hold of his shirt, he pulled it away from himself and glanced down, searching for the raised scar he had gotten when dirt-biking down the mountain with Bear, but it was gone.
Eyes widening incredulously, he pulled his hand away, and lifted it closer to his face, searching for the thin scar that had wrapped around his thumb and index finger from a cut he had received while working on his motorcycle in the barn, but it was gone as well. No freakin' way. He shook his head in disbelief as he searched for more scars only to find that they had all vanished. It's not possible – it's just not possible.
His gaze flew back to the sleeping man certain he was somehow responsible for the disappearance of his scars. Memories then came rushing back of falling from the loft in his barn, and he groped at his side for the deep cut he had gotten from landing on a rock, but found nothing. What the hell is he? And what the hell did he do to me?
Determined to find out the answer to both of those questions Drake slid from his bed, and snatched Sam's cell phone and car keys off the bedside table. Slipping quietly from the motel room, he eased the door shut behind him, and strode to the Impala.
Drake slid behind the wheel, and then ducked his head to search beneath the passenger's seat, and pulled what looked to be an old worn journal. Momentary guilt rattled through him, but he pushed it aside recalling how Sam had thought nothing of stealing his medical files to learn everything about him.
His brow furrowed as he flipped through the pages filled with folklore bullshit about white ladies, wendigos, and every other sort of creature imaginable. The only thing he found of interest or even relatively useful came from the first few pages, and Drake felt himself trembling as he read about Mary, and how whoever had written the journal found the answers they were searching for when they went to Missouri. What kind of answers could anyone ever find in Missouri? I'm certainly not driving all the way there to find out anything.
Uncertain how long he had before Sam woke up, he tucked the book in his waistband, and then flipped open the glove compartment. Rummaging through it, he yanked out a box, flipped it open, and his eyes widened as he pulled out various credit cards and photo ids identifying Sam as different people on each one of them.
"What the hell are you, Sam?" he muttered aloud as he held up a fake FBI badge to study it more closely. Pocketing the badge, Drake slid out of the car, and walked to the trunk.
At first glance he saw nothing out of the ordinary when he opened the lid, but noticing the matting was slightly askew, he pulled it away to find a hidden compartment beneath. As he yanked off the covering, his eyes grew huge as he took in every sort of weapon imaginable. Machetes. Guns. Crossbows, Wicked looking blades - A complete one man arsenal.
Rifling through the contents of the trunk, he found several bags of rock salt, candles of various colors, and strange books he didn't even want to know the titles to and was more than thankful that they were written in some foreign language that appeared to be Latin.
Heart lurching into his throat, Drake hastily closed the compartment lid, and slammed the trunk. Sam the Satanistic psycho serial killer is my new best buddy. Shit, I'm so screwed!
Nervously tapping his fingertips against the trunk of the car, he tried his damnedest to come up with any other logical explanation for all the things he'd found in Sam's car, but always came back to one conclusion – Sam was definitely not someone he wanted to have anything to do with. Ever.
Desperately hoping to change his mind about the man, he yanked Sam's cell phone out of his pocket, opened it and searched the contact list for Dean's phone number, but couldn't find it amongst the few names listed. Undeterred and somewhat surprised to find his father's number listed as he thought he was dead, he jabbed the button to call him instead.
The phone rang a few times, and then went to voice mail, "This is John Winchester – if you can't get a hold of me, call my son Sam at 566-1354, he can help."
At the sound of the older man's serious tone, Drake began to tremble feeling an odd flipping sensation in the pit of his stomach as if he'd heard the voice before. "Help with what?" Drake's brows pulled together as he dialed the number and listened to the man speak again. "Probably with killing someone. Yeah, so not the kind of help I'm looking for."
"Okay, so if John isn't going to answer his damn phone, I guess that leaves Bobby Singer – who's probably serving time for multiple mass murders, an' I'm just stupid enough to interrupt him from yard time with Rocko and Curly."
Warily hitting the button, he listened as the phone rang a few times, and then a gruff-sounding man answered the phone. "Sam, where the hell have you been? I've been trying to get a hold of you for days now," Bobby said without any sort of greeting, making Drake believe that the man on the other end of the line must be some sort of crime lord, and Sam worked for him killing people.
"Umm . . . hi, this is . . . I'm Dr-Drake – a friend of Sam's." Drake cursed under his breath, hearing the tremor in his own voice. I'm pretty sure mob bosses kill people for that kind of thing in the movies – this was so definitely a bad idea.
"A friend of Sam's?" There was the unmistakable sound of confusion in the older man's voice, making Drake wonder if Sam truly didn't have any friends at all which only added to his suspicions about his new friend. "Where is he – is he alright?" His tone turned to an almost fatherly concern, and Drake was forced to momentarily reconsider his first thoughts on both men.
"He's fine – I was just wondering how I could get a hold of his brother Dean?"
After a lengthy pause, Drake heard Bobby heave a sigh. "Look, I don't know what Sam's been telling you, but he doesn't have a brother."
"He doesn't have a brother," Drake numbly repeated, feeling as if someone had just stomped on his heart and shattered it to pieces. Sam had not only lied to him from the moment they had met, he'd also used Drake's own need to for his brother to further the bond he'd thought they were forging together. "Thanks, I'm sorry I bothered you."
"Wait," Bobby called out just as Drake was about to hang up the phone, and reluctantly he put the phone back to his ear.
"Yeah, I'm still here."
"I was just – your voice sounds really familiar, an' seein' as you know Sam, I was wondering if we've met before . . . maybe from hunting?"
"Yeah, I hunt, but I doubt we've ever met before."
"You're sure about that?" Bobby pressed, not letting the matter go. "Cuz the more I hear your voice, I just get this feeling in my gut that we do know each other."
"Well, trust me when I say gut feelings about people don't amount to anything," Drake muttered as he looked back toward the motel room Sam was staying in. "Look, I've gotta go . . . I've got some things I've gotta take care of." Before the older man could try to stop him again, Drake hung up the phone.
As quietly as he could manage, Drake slipped back into the motel room, and placed Sam's cell phone and cars keys on the table between the two beds, and then turned back around to leave. At the door he paused, and took one last glance at the sleeping man, hoping he would wake up and explain everything to him, but when he didn't Drake walked away.
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Drake stood staring at the door to Bear's hospital room, wondering if he was making the right decision in telling him what he had learned about Sam – it somehow didn't feel right, but at the moment he wasn't trusting his feelings on anything in regards to Sam. With a deep breath, he forced a smile and pushed the door open, and walked inside.
"Hey there, brother man, you're looking as ugly as ever," he said as he made his way to Bear's hospital bed and took a seat on the edge of the mattress.
"Well, you look as if you've seen better days yourself, little man." Bear chuckled. "You come to bust me out of this place so we could go muddin' – so I can end up back in here when you run me over with Gary's truck?"
"That only happened once, an' I really didn't actually run you over – it was more like I paused when you slipped in the mud an' fell beneath the truck."
Running a hand through his thick dark hair, he laughed. "Oh yeah, I forgot the whole pausing thing that you made sure they added to the accident report."
"I had to have them add it cuz if there wasn't a pause, you'd definitely be a helluva lot flatter than you are now."
"True enough," Bear conceded, and with it, his smile died away. "You doing alright, Dray? Everyone tried calling you last night when Jasper . . . an' when your parents said you didn't come home – I just figured you needed some time alone to sort things through."
"Jasper died?" So wrapped up in Sam, Drake had allowed one of his best friends to die without ever getting to say his last goodbyes. But deep down he knew he couldn't blame the older man as it wasn't Sam's fault that he had chosen to get high instead of spending time with Jasper. "I didn't know – I was at the barn, an' I . . . ." his voice trailed off as he refused to lie to Bear.
"Yeah, I heard about your house, Dray, an' I'm really sorry I wasn't there . . . maybe I could've – "
"There was nothing you could've done if you were there," Drake said, cutting him off, "So don't worry about it."
With a heavy sigh, Bear pushed forward in his bed, shifted around and hung his long legs over the edge of the bed. "What's going on with you, Drake? Something's not right, an' it's more than just Jasper dying or that your house burned down – so if you're using again, I need to know."
His hand slipped to graze along the side of his jeans, and he cursed under his breath when he didn't feel anything in his pocket. "I'm not." As the lie slipped from his lips, Drake lowered his gaze. He'd been so busy trying to find out all he could about Sam's life, he hadn't even realized the older man had stolen his meth.
"Don't lie to me," Bear uttered with a disgusted shake of his head, "tell me it's none of my damn business or you'd rather not talk about it, but don't give me some bullshit lie cuz you're just not that good at it, little man."
"Alright," Drake gave a curt nod, "it's none of your damn business."
"You know I knew you'd say that." With another shake of his head, Bear let out a wry laugh. "I was hoping you'd tell me, but I really didn't need you to cuz Lowey stopped here – all bullshittin' about feelin' bad over Jasper . . . an' then he just happened to let it slip that he was looking for you cuz you owed him money – an' there's only one reason why you'd owe him anything."
Drake's heart sunk to the pit of his stomach as he heard the utter disappointment in Bear's voice and saw it clearly etched in his golden-brown eyes. "What'd you tell him?"
"He was going to go to your dad for the money, so I paid it."
"You shouldn't have."
"I know I shouldn't have." Gripping hold of Drake's shirt, Bear yanked him around, forcing him to look at him. "But I told him that if he ever thought to sell to you again, I'd bury him so deep they'd never be able to find his body."
"An' what'd he say to that?" Drake asked, not able to meet his friend's gaze as the last thing he wanted the bigger man to know was badly he wanted to find Lowey at the moment.
"The guy's a real worm, but he's definitely not stupid – he took the money and ran." Bear gripped hold of Drake's jaw and forced him to lift his head. "But make no mistake about it, Dray, you put peoples' lives at risk, an' someone gets hurt because of you, I will go to your dad an' get you fired from the department." Pulling his hand away from Drake's face, he raked his fingers through his hair as he let out a frustrated sigh. "Damn it, Drake, I really hate this cuz I love ya too much to see you doing this to yourself again, an' I know nothing I say or do is gonna make a damn bit of difference."
"Can we just talk about something else?"
"Yeah," he sighed, "I'm done preachin' like Father McCleary sermonizing about how yer soul's gonna be lost ta the devil if'in ya don't turn from yer wicked ways an' repent ta the Lord Almighty." Clapping Drake on the back, Bear let out a laugh at his poor attempt at impersonating their priest.
Drake laughed along with his friend, thankful that he had let the matter slide for the moment, but dreaded their future conversations about his problems. Bear never let something go once he had sunk his teeth into it, but he did know how to retreat when he'd pushed too far, and that was one of the things Drake had always liked most about him.
"Bear, can I show you something, an' have you swear you'll never tell anyone about it?"
"Dude, the last time you asked me that I ended up looking at the tiny birthmark on your upper inner thigh cuz you swore it was cancerous, an' it's not something I ever wanna look at again, an' definitely not something I'll ever admit to seeing even in a court of law."
"Give me a break, man, I was like eight at the time, an' my grandmother had just died of skin cancer, so I was a little bit freaked."
"More than a little freaked, I'd say." Bear chuckled heartily as he waved his hand around his face in a circular motion. "As I recall you smeared two whole tubes of sunscreen all over your face and body an' then wore this big floppy hat that I swear belonged to your mother." As a flush of heat spread across Drake's cheeks at the memory, his friend laughed all the harder. "What was that nickname your brother gave you?"
With a groan, Drake murmured, "Chuckles the Pasty-faced Clown."
"Yep, that was it – God, that still kills me."
"Are you just about done laughing cuz I really need to show you something?" Drake grimaced as he touched his fingertips to where the scar had been on his chest, waiting until Bear laughter faded to a smile, and then unbuttoned the first two buttons of Sam's flannel, and pulled back the fabric.
Brows pulling together, Bears' eyes narrowed on Drake's chest. "Dude, where's your scar?"
"It's gone." Drake shrugged.
"I see that it's gone – why is it gone?"
"I dunno, but they're all gone – every single scar I ever had just disappeared."
"The one on your hand from the – " Drake lifted his hand, and turned it back and forth. "How about the one on your elbow from the time we – " Pushing back his sleeve, Drake revealed an scar-free elbow. "Yeah, but the one on your head from the sled thing – " Drake ran a hand through his hair, pushing his bangs away from where the thin silvery scar had been on his forehead. "How about the one on your right cheek from the metal fence incident?"
"I really haven't checked that one out, but I'm pretty damn sure it's gone, too."
"That . . . that's like freakin' Twilight Zone weird . . . were you abducted by aliens or something?"
"I hadn't actually considered that as a possibility." Drake smirked as Bear scratched at his stubbled chin while staring at him in awe. "But I think it has something to do with this." Pulling Sam's journal out of the back of his waistband, he handed it to Bear. "I got it from that guy Sam's car. An I also got this," he yanked the fake FBI badge out of his pocket and showed it to his friend, "he's got a bunch of them – an' fake credit cards, too."
As Bear leafed through the journal his expression became more and more perplexed. "This is some crazy-assed shit – lunar cycles . . . cutting off the heads of vampires, and dosing them with dead man's blood to weaken them . . . where the hell would a person even go to find dead man's blood?" he asked, looking wide-eyed at Drake.
"You're looking at me like I'd have some sort of freakin' clue." Drake shrugged. "Hell, I was lost on the whole Wendigo thing."
"Wendigo?"
"Yeah, supposedly it's this thing that runs real fast an' kills people to eat them."
"Huh, sounds like your friend Sam's a real freak."
"You don't even know the half of it," Drake uttered, nodding his head in full agreement, "you should've seen the arsenal he had in the trunk of his car – I seriously think he could be some sort of deranged Satan worshipping psycho killer."
"Did you give him a chance to explain?" he asked as he continued to flip through the pages of the journal. "Like for instance, you could've asked him what answers he found in Missouri . . . that might make for an interesting conversation." Biting at his lower lip, Bear tried to stifle his snicker, but couldn't hide his grin of amusement.
"No, I didn't give him a chance to explain anything – he would've just lied, and after everything I've seen, how could I even begin to trust him?"
"I dunno . . . but what I do know is that he saved my life – an' yours as well, so I'm pretty sure that rules him out as a deranged Satan worshipping psycho killer."
"Even if he isn't, I don't want to know what he really is." With a shake of his head, Drake pushed himself to his feet, and headed to the window. Leaning his forehead against the cool glass, he mulled over all the bad things that had happened in his life since Sam had arrived in town. "I just wish he'd leave so things could go back to the way they were before."
"Little man, I've known you since the first day of kindergarten, which means I'm pretty confident in saying that's really the last thing you want to happen – so go back to wherever he's staying, confront him with everything you know, and see what he has to say."
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Startled awake at the sensation of being watched, Sam grabbed for the knife he'd placed beneath his pillow, and abruptly pushed himself upward and back against the headboard as he spied a withered old man sitting on the edge of his bed. His eyes were like the reflective glass of a mirror, but instead of seeing the image of himself on the bed, he saw glimpses of all his worst failures and greatest accomplishments, and he took comfort in them as in the man's eyes Dean was there to share them with him.
"Put the knife away, Sammy," he uttered in a soft timbre, and without hesitation Sam did as he asked. "I thought it was high time that we should meet."
"Death," Sam murmured as he unconsciously shifted a little closer to the skeletal man.
"Ahhh . . . yes, my name precedes me." He chuckled lightly as he lifted a bony arm and gently trailed sharpened nails down Sam's cheek. "You have wished for me a lot lately, but have found that I have forsaken you as have all the others."
"Then what are you doing here now?"
"I'm here to collect the souls of the dying – that's my job. I play no favorites," he lifted both his hands, splaying out his long fingers, "I'm bound by no ring like my brothers are – or were as the case may be." He smiled, paper thin skin stretching taut across his protruding cheek bones. "I guess I should congratulate you on killing my brother Famine – a shining moment in a bleak history." As he spoke of Sam destroying Famine after the Horseman had swallowed the souls of all the demons Sam had killed, the scene played out like a movie in his reflective eyes. "I do find it rather odd that he should die from the same thing he was sent to spread – almost like divine justice . . . wouldn't you say?"
A faint smile ghosted across Sam's lips as he had never stopped to consider it that way before, but as Death had pointed out Famine's own hunger for souls was the thing that had led to his death.
"Did you know that even Lucifer fears Death?" he went on to say without waiting for Sam to respond. "So I guess that would make me the second most powerful entity in all existence."
"Who would be the first?" Sam asked, pushing himself forward to be closer to Death, hoping that it would take him.
"That would be God, Sam."
"The angels don't believe he exists any longer."
"The angels are wrong – but not all of them think that way, do they?" Laying a gnarled hand across Sam's hand, he further added, "I don't believe Castiel would agree with them."
"I don't care what Cas thinks."
"No, I don't suppose you would as he did allow your brother to die." Mirrored eyes locking on Sam, Death stretched out an arm, and gently placed it on his shoulder. "You're so weary, Sam," he spoke softly, the words wrapping around Sam like the warmest of blankets, and laying flat his hand a long curved blade appeared in it. "Take the knife, Sam – I can show you the way in which to find your brother once more if you'll follow me."
Staring Death in the eyes, Sam willingly took hold of the knife. "That's it, Sammy," he spoke again, but this time his voice and face were Dean's, "cut deeply and let the sadness pour from you."
"Dean," Sam breathed, scarcely feeling the cool blade as he pressed it against his wrist and sliced deeply into his veins.
"You can see him now, can't you, Sam?"
"Mm'hmm."
"He's calling to you – he wants you with him . . . an' all it'll take is one more little cut then you can be at rest with Dean at your side." Eye still locked on his, Sam weakly took hold of the knife in his bloodied hand and pressed it against his other wrist. "That's it, Sammy, follow Dean – it's what you really want to do."
"D-Dean . . . ."