Author:Mirrordance
Title: Home Road
Summary:The brothers were so different sometimes.Dean after Sam died was lethal silence and a sense of suicide-Let the world end.Leave me alone.That loudly unspoken I wish I was dead.Sam was different.He had murder in his eyes.Post-3.16 and Sam finds a way.
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Home Road
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11
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Indiana
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"Help me up."
"Sam, no--" Bobby hesitated, hands floundering as the youngest Winchester hissed and cussed and pushed himself to sit.
"Damn it, Sam--"
"Help me," Sam said irritably, and the tone would have ruffled Bobby's feathers except Sam's eyes had taken on wildly screaming desperation.
"All right, all right," Bobby breathed, and helped Sam up to sit, before scurrying back and forth from one end of the room to the other, to toss him more decent clothes and serve hot tea to make him more comfortable, all the while muttering curses about crazy Winchesters and why in god's name did they both have to take after crazy John...
Sam drifted in and out of the resigned tirade, head lolling as his shaking hands worked, putting on clothes, scowling at the proffered tea before finally taking it, resting the cup over his sore stomach. He felt like he was wrung out, or better, put inside-out, which was probably the more accurate description. They'd have pumped all that shit out of his body, after all.
"Devil's trap," Sam said.
"What?" Bobby asked.
"This is the room right on top of Dean's, right?" Sam said, "Devil's trap, on the ground. And just to be sure, I want one more, on the ceiling of the basement right underneath."
"Sam--"
"Bobby, please," Sam begged, "I would do it on my own except I can't go so fast right now, damn it--"
"Is Dean...possessed?" Bobby asked, alarmed.
Sam's eyes had taken on a haunted, scared-shitless look. "Lilith hid where she knew I wouldn't look. She hid where, once found, she knew I couldn't hurt her."
"Goddamnitt," Bobby cussed, dropping everything he was doing and heading for the door.
"Bobby, wait," Sam called after him, making the older hunter stop in an agitated pause at the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot, anxious, but unwilling to rush the just-returned-from-the-dead.
"Quietly," Sam said, "Don't make a show, as much as possible don't let the others know."
"But none of them are possessed for sure," Bobby pointed out, "If Lilith is in there, she's got no one else near. We got everyone rigged with the charms to make sure--"
"She'll know something's going on," Sam said, "If people start acting strange around her. And then there's no telling what she'd do."
"You got it," Bobby agreed, jogging for the stairs.
" " "
Minutes later, Bobby trudged back into Sam's room from the basement to find him back in bed, leaning heavily against the headboard and breathing harshly. He looked beyond the young man at the cleared a space on the floor, where a Devil's Trap had been drawn with Sam's usual precision, injury or no. Still, the activity had taken its toll, and he looked ill and shock-y, lying back like that.
"I saw him, Bobby," Sam said, quietly, the desperation-fueled adrenalin of his first waking beginning to ebb as it ate at his bedraggled body. But there was no telling him to stand down, not this time, so Bobby said nothing, understanding full-well that they had a job to do now, more than ever. He remembered having a conversation like this with Dean too, just before that goddamned Cold Oak nightmare; Dean on the hood of his car, plastered by a vision of his brother. Looking ill also, and just as stubbornly determined.
I saw him, Bobby...
Bobby glanced at the amulet that was still wound in Sam's unyielding hand. It hadn't been there when he hauled Sam out of the tub, else he'd have known. It hadn't been there when they settled Sam in bed. God knows how, but Sam opened his eyes and reclaimed himself and suddenly it was just there.
"I could always find him," Sam murmured, "Never thought anything of it. But I... when I woke up in hell and found this, I knew he had to be near."
"It's just a toy," Bobby shrugged, "I looked it up before I gave it to you to give to your dad, Sam. Lots of unthinking knuckle-heads use occult objects carelessly and end up hurt. I wouldn't have taken a chance with you boys. Your daddy would have strung me up."
"But sometimes," reasoned Sam, "Belief in an object gives it power, right?"
"I guess," Bobby shrugged, "I gave it to you 'cos you were always looking for yer daddy. You were so sure giving him a present could keep him around more, see how much his boys cared for him. Hell, even just the idea of a present, you thinking he would be with you for Christmas, have him around... it began with that, I guess.
"And then yer idiot brother never took it off," Bobby added, "Thinking it was like keeping you near. Belief, with the symbolism: the horns for power. The exaggerated facial features for heightened senses – seeing, hearing... even the spiral on the forehead – traditional symbol for an eye, like a third eye... maybe."
Sam had closed his eyes, and Bobby wondered if the boy was rightfully losing consciousness now.
"He uh," Sam hesitated, blinking himself back, "He didn't look so good down there. But what was I supposed to expect, right?"
"Sam..." Bobby said, unsure of anything else.
The youngest Winchester's eyes began to water thickly. "I'm," his voice shook, "I'm starting to think if I can live with him gone."
Bobby's brows furrowed, wondering where the hell this was going. The bull-headed youngest Winchester had fought tooth and nail to get here and now he's doubting? He had seen Dean and now he wants to just stop?
"Why?" Bobby said, finding that his voice was barely above a whisper, as his heart was strangled with fear, "What... what did you see of him, down there?"
Have we lost him?
What's left...?
...Is that why...?
"No," Sam shook his head vigorously, "No, nothing like that. It's just..." Sam looked away, his chest heaving shakily. His fingers tightened around the covers beneath him.
"Someone else has him," Sam said, "Someone who wants Lilith dead. Told me he'd protect Dean down there, if I killed Lilith up here. If I killed Lilith, he'd give Dean back to me."
"And Dean would just... float right outta hell?" Bobby asked, skeptically.
"No," Sam answered, "I gotta get him out. I make my own gate."
He gave Bobby the short version of their current nightmare. Bobby listened intently, asking questions here and there, making clarifications, trying to remain objective and clear-headed as if he was working on a hunt, instead of fighting for the lives of men he thought of as sons.
Sam told him about how Colt's gate was made. A spell and the blood of a being part-man and part-demon? It made sense in a way, like this being was the embodiment of a cross between the two worlds, much like a gate himself. Bobby noticed Sam's eyes had darkened at that, and wordlessly, they both understood that the being in question in this case was Sam himself. Bobby didn't know how, or what that would mean in the future. He couldn't bear to think of what that could mean, this... this kid, being some sort of a hybrid-demon. But what he did know, for now and that might be enough, was that Sam can save his brother.
Sam told him about what made the Colt and its bullets so powerful. He told Bobby about Halley's comet, about the demon throwing in one more shot into the pot, about not breaking into the world until the next time the comet comes around.
"I'd be dead by then," muttered Bobby, thinking, Lucky me.
Sam shrugged, "I'd be old. But I get Dean and I get a truce if I kill Lilith, which I would have done anyway except..."
"She's in there," Bobby breathed, "Do you boys ever catch a break? If we exorcise her..."
"No, no," Sam said, shaking his head, "Lucian wants her dead. Her going back down there will royally piss him off, they're fighting for the same turf. Is there... is there a spell of some sort, you know, something that like, transfers a possession to... to another object, something inanimate or even... even some other living thing?"
"You wanna shove her inside someone else you'd have the balls to kill?" Bobby snapped at him, turning angry, angry at the emerging homicidal desperation and at the same time, fearing it.
Sam winced at the tone.
The boy was no killer, not yet, far from. What he was was desperate, and it was so hard, so hard to separate the two sometimes. It was remarkable, how the effects of the things you do because you hate are the same as the things you do out of love. The road to hell is paved with good intentions after all, so they say...
"What if I offer--"
"No," Bobby told him, before Sam could voice myself. "No," Bobby insisted, "I told you I'd draw the line somewhere, Sam, and this isn't just a streak, this is a goddamned faultline. I am not gonna let you do that. You have gifts, boy--"
"A curse," Sam corrected him, darkly.
"Whatever," Bobby snapped, "You let that bitch into your body and we are all gonna go through all sorts of hell. I am not gonna let you do that. Your daddy'd be pissed as hell at me. Dean's gonna run me over with the car. You wanna spit on your daddy's grave, Sam? On Dean's? I ain't helpin.'"
"What am I supposed to do?" Sam asked, jaws tightening, "Am I just supposed to... to kill Dean, huh, to get at her? Or keep her in there until she gets sick of his body? Why do I have to make a choice like this, huh? Why do I have to care about everyone else and not my own family? Why can't I just do what dad and Dean did, screw everyone, take care of my family first. Why? Dad could die for Dean, Dean could die for me, what the hell does everyone think my job is?"
Only a damned Winchester would be jealous of dying for someone else. Dad could die for Dean... Dean could die for me... what the hell does everyone think my job is...?
"Your job's to live, Sam," Bobby said, "I'm not saying it's fair, and we both know it ain't easy. But you got gifts, a curse – whatever – that gives you a different responsibility. You don't get to die for Dean, Sam. You get to live. You gotta live, and you gotta fight."
"I just want my family back," Sam said, in a broken whisper, "I just... want him back. He couldn't live like this, I don't know why he thinks I could. I'm pissed as hell at him, Bobby..."
"The people who love you," said the older hunter, "The people who raised you, who gave their time and their childhood and their very life for you, the people who believe in you, they got a right to expect impossible things from you, Sam. They got a right to ask you for irrational things."
Sam closed his eyes, took a deep, shaky breath. Bobby suspected his words rang true and home, and shouldn't have been new to Sam. He had, after all, opened this discussion by saying he was wondering if he could live without Dean.
"You gotta live," Bobby insisted, "And you gotta fight. No more offering up yourself, all right?"
"And what about Dean?" Sam whispered, "She's not leaving his body for anyone less than me, Bobby, we both know that."
"If you kill his body to get to her," Bobby said, softly, settling his lonely gaze on Sam, "You at least set his soul free. I'm not sure if you can live with him dead, Sam. But I am sure you can't live with him in hell."
Sam stared at him for a long moment.
"Okay," Sam breathed, "Okay."
" " "
Hell
" " "
If there was one good place to start thinking it was better not to have ever been born, it was, fair enough, hell.
Dean trudged along next to Ruby, finding it easy not to think about the supportive fingers that dug into his arm as she half-pulled him along, finding it easy to drift and not think about anything at all.
The two of them walked side by side, flanked left and right and front and back by Lucian and Dolores' followers. They were to be taken to the couple's stronghold, passing by the heart of hell as they walked... Fire pits and whips and wailing and torture and pain and tears and inescapable, stifling suffering were the sights along the length of the road, sporadically broken by crippling visions of a more personalized torture that often drove Dean to his knees.
"Why wouldn't you want to be born?" she asked, suddenly, out of the blue.
His brows raised, surprised for a moment until he realized he must have been saying things without knowing it. Ranting and raving and screaming things, he grimaced, Might even be the better term.
'Cos Sam's fucking up his life for me.
'Cos my dad did the same thing.
I let down the people that I love.
I guess that's what I do...
Anything that does that is better not to have been born. This is obvious stuff.
He didn't answer her question, and she didn't seem surprised or offended. For a good portion of their eternal walk, she let it go and he himself forgot about it, up until the next time he awoke to find himself down on the ground again, with her face hovering over his.
"You gotta start talking to me," she said, her voice low, "If you wanna hang on to the things you don't want to forget."
Forced honesty and talk, he realized, as he wordlessly pushed himself back to his shaky feet, Sammy would be laughing his ass off, me stuck in yapping chick-flick moments to survive.
But the thing was... he did want to forget.
And more and more, he was finding that he did not mind not surviving.
" " "
Dean forgot that there were quite a few nightmares worse than watching each of your family members die.
The first one was if they died because of you. That one was dad, yeah. Worse than him being dead was it being Dean's fault. And if Sam got hurt or died trying to kill Lilith all just to save his stupid soul, that would be pretty crippling too.
But fault was always different from actual action. It would be even worse than these two things, if they had actually died at his hands.
Look out for Sammy.
Kill him.
Save him.
How certain are you that what you brought back is 100 percent pure Sam?
As long as I'm around, nothing bad is going to happen to you.
Show your brother the killer you really are...
He was confused. How could all these things possibly come together? How could all these contradicting things just come down on him? How's he supposed to know what to do about this? How's he expected to make objective decisions when he had nothing else but Sam?
He wasn't scared of his brother, that was the only thing he was sure of. Even with a gun pointed his way (about thrice now) and fired (hell, thrice now too, that's like, what, a hundred percent? With an actual bullet and a salt round making their ways home?), he feared him not at all.
But should he?
"For the last few weeks I've been having these feelings," Meg-in-Sam had said, and in that heart-stopping moment, Dean had thought that the words were truly his brother's, "Rage. Hate. And i can't stop it. It just gets worse. Day by day it gets worse."
He's scared for his brother, and that was a monumental difference. He's never doubted Sam. All he doubted was his own capacity to protect him. Watch him. Save him.
"Dean you promised him," Meg-in-Sam had begged, "You promised me. I don't wanna hurt anyone else. I don't wanna hurt you..."
"Dean kill me," Meg-in-Sam had begged again, "Or I'm gonna kill her. Please, you'd be doing me a favor."
Shoot me.
Shoot me!
Just before Dean was dragged down to hell he remembered that Sam's face was distorted, like an actual actual demon's.
Fugly.
Less fugly than Lilith, but that was hardly flattering. There was nowhere to go up from there, after all. But he looked like one of them. He really, truly looked like one of them.
Mom's dead because of Sam, he tested the thought in his mind, and realized it didn't feel very alien. Like it was something that had crossed his mind before. There was no assignment of blame to it, though, not at all. There was no part of him that he could bring to hate Sam. It was just objective cause-and-effect, exactly like Dad's dead because of me, something he also knew Sam could not resent him for.
There was nothing about Sam that could bring Dean to hurt him, not even that thought. There was nothing about Sam, part-demon-ness and all, that could bring Dean to any point closer to pulling that trigger against him.
Shoot me!
But nothing can ever make Dean do it.
The tragic thing about this stupid hell-vision was that it also had the capacity to shell out crippling truths. He imagined what their future would have been, if Sam went and turned into the demon he feared, the demon he thought was hiding inside his own skin.
Sammy can kill Jo.
Sammy can slit Bobby's throat.
Sammy can murder hunters up and down the country and Dean would just follow in his Impala, pretending he was in some macabre crusade to try and stop him, but, always getting there, never would.
He rode out the horrid vision, because there was nothing else to do.
It will burn his soul black, to let Sam keep going. His eyes will darken too. One day, his heart would be so black it would stop caring and could, finally, just shoot Sam in the evil fucking face. But by then, he probably wouldn't either. Because he won't care enough to stop all the crap his brother's been up to.
Just two black souls walking, here.
Everybody just get the fuck out of the way.
" " "
He fell and woke and fell and woke and once, he realized with a jolt, the waking looked as bleak and black as the losing-himself part.
"Oh god," he gasped, scratching at his eyes, scrambling to sit up, feeling stifled and choked by the darkness.
"Calm down."
Ruby, Dean realized, turning his head toward her voice, trying to catch his breath.
"I am calmed down," he snapped, irritably. As calm as he could possibly be, that is, given the circumstances. He couldn't seem to slow his breathing. He didn't like it, being cooped up in flat-dead-dark like this.
"Something's wrong with my eye," he said, hesitantly, hoping it was just him and he wasn't really, wasn't really trapped, like this.
She snorted. "Yeah, sure. They shoved us in a goddamn cell, Winchester. You're not afraid of the dark, are you?"
"'Course not," he muttered, "It just really annoys me a lot."
He clawed at his eyes again, wanting to see, wanting to be set free from the dark. He growled in irritation, and closed them, seeking some form of relief, except closed or open, everything was the same. And it was stiflingly hot. The air moved not at all, it just hung around them heavily. The air and the dark, descending on him...
"Trying to keep us out of trouble, are they?" Dean murmured.
"Yeah," she agreed, and he heard the grimace in her voice.
"Well, well," he said, grinning half-heartedly, the quip coming in just a beat too late, "Sounds like somebody else is afraid of the dark after all."
"No," she snapped, "It just really annoys me a lot."
Now he snorts at her.
"I guess," she hesitated, "It's that one facet of hell I've never had to try before. The one place where there is nothing to be done. No pain, no hurt. Just... nothing. And I thought I'd seen everything there is to see down here."
"I don't know," Dean said, and he was feeling a lame attempt at a half-hearted joke, "There's lots of things a guy and a girl can do in the dark."
It sounded like a B-movie conversation, this talk they were having. Like two characters, with bad lines and awful timing. The words felt forced and loud and misplaced, just hanging in the air, the jokes coming in two seconds too late each time, and he was just too tired to make things any better, or more real.
"My um," Dean cleared his throat, finding it hard to summon that small, dying part of him that wanted to fight harder, that regretted the hopelessness, "My dad, stubborn son-of-a-gun. Stayed down here a long while, you know, far longer 'n me, and he still didn't lose his mind. Not only that, he managed to crawl out of hell by himself without pestering nobody. He saved my life, and then walked out to the light. He's really out there, huh? Better man than me."
"I wouldn't say that," she said, wistfully, "It's different for everybody, Dean. His hell's not the same as yours. His hell was just your mother, burning. And he's been living with that long before he landed down here. Her dying turned him into a bastard too, the way the fires shape a demon. You, on the other hand... your hell is your mom burning, your dad burning, your brother dying, your brother turning... I'm not saying his was easier, but you gotta give yourself a little more credit."
He just grunted, uncomfortable with being comforted. By a demon.
"What's your hell?" he asked.
"I'm not in the mood for this," she muttered at him.
He found it ironic that he was doing the discussing and she was brushing him off, like he would have done with Sam.
" " "
Of course Dean had mommy issues.
Your mother dies at age four and her killers become your father's obsession and, consequently, the search for them becomes your life and this is pretty obvious.
And the other obvious thing is that he had daddy issues too; probably more than Sam himself, because Dean's were buried so deep they grew roots that stretched to everywhere. Not to mention that his father died and went to hell for him.
The Sammy Thing was a little bit more complicated.
Conventionally, people would think there was some sort of a sibling thing. Rivalry, sure, he enjoyed the competition as much as anyone. Jealousy... strangely, not really. He didn't mind that Sam was smarter, got higher grades, got more friends, got hot girls, got better chances in life, got to have a childhood, got taller. How could he be jealous about the things he helped provide? How could he be jealous of the man he helped create? He was always just proud of Sam.
Proud because, big brothers can't lose. Ever. It was totally a win-win situation. If he's better at something, great, he had a fan. If Sam was better than him, its because he taught him how. Dean learned this lesson early. When it came to Sam, there was just always a sense of victory.
Betrayal though... there was, unfortunately. More than a little bit. Primarily because being left behind sucked, for anybody. And Sam tended to do that to him, a lot. Leave for Stanford. Leave once this is all over. Leave to look for dad. Leave to look for himself. Always leaving. That's why... for all the things he loved about Sam, selfish was that one bad he'd never been afraid to say. The most annoying thing of all, though, was that now that Dean wanted to be left alone, the blockhead wasn't letting go.
Let me go Sam, Dean begged, My body's dead, my mind's half-gone... it was questionable to begin with, but now more than ever, I'm pretty sure I'm not worth the things you're doing to get me back. No deals, Sam, and don't risk yourself. Just kill all these bastards and walk away.
I'm not worth it.
" " "
Indiana
" " "
Sam silently watched Ellen from the door frame, as she stood over his brother in easy affection, a hand over his, telling him about how he had embraced her the year before, just after the Roadhouse burned down.
"Like you were really happy to see me," she said, and Sam could hear the small smile in her face, "I felt safe for the first time in a long time. There was something inside me that broke, you know, that very last part that blamed your father for my Bill. You're really around, you know, to make up for the things your daddy couldn't be, for all the great that he was.
"Looked out for your brother," she went on, "Set straight the relationships your father bulldozed over with Bobby and me. You're all right."
Sam's eyes watered, and he held back the tears and the rage, feeling ill that it was Lilith receiving these words in Dean's body, and not Dean himself.
"Won't let you marry my daughter, hell no," she chuckled, "But you're all right." Her tone softened and lowered again, "We're all rooting for you up here. Sam looks like he can do anything, so you just gotta hang on a bit longer--"
"Ellen?" he called out to her, finally unable to stand the scene.
"Hey Sam," she said, a little bit self-consciously, "Glad to see you up and around. I was just having some words for your brother, here."
"Yeah?" he said, pretending not to have heard a thing as he stepped forward, "You mind, ah, giving me a few minutes?"
"'Course not," she said quickly, moving around him, and he noticed she gave Dean's hand a parting pat, "You can take as long as you want, Sam."
"Thanks," he said, half-smiling and half-grimacing at her, giving her a light wave as she stepped outside of the room and closed the door behind her.
The smile faded completely from his face as he set a determined look down at his brother's wrongly-occupied body.
Dean's not in here, he thought, If I kill Lilith, he won't get killed.
The body will be harmed, there was no way around that. But then Dean's body has been dead for awhile now, sustained only by machines. A few more scars, especially if strategically placed and quickly treated, would be just like adding one more injury to a litany. The most important thing, though, was that Dean's soul wouldn't die as Lilith's will, because he simply was not in there at the moment.
Sam heard the door open behind him, and Bobby stepped inside before closing it again. On his hand was a makeshift iron brand forged with resourcefulness from the fire place pokers, glimmering hot from when he had heated it in the Martha Stewart-esque oven.
He nodded at Bobby, signaling him to come forward and do what they had set out to do.
Sam gripped his brother's slack hand in a death-grip.
Bobby shot forward and let the brand, a symbol for a binding link, press against the skin of Dean's forearm, as he murmured a spell.
Dean's eyes shot open. He couldn't cry out because of the tube that ran down his throat, but he bucked, and arched, as the burn left a mark.
Still gripping the now un-limp hand, Sam turned it over palm-up, and with his free hand, grabbed Ruby's knife from the holster on his belt. Gritting his teeth, he slid the knife neatly along the veins on Dean's wrist. In a flash of moment, he reached for Dean's other wrist and did the same thing.
Dean's blood started gushing out everywhere - on the white sheets, on Sam's clothes, just... everywhere. And then, gasping, Sam stepped back beside a gawking Bobby, just at the very outlines of the Devil's Trap.
Side by side, they watched as Dean's body writhed and arched and kicked.
The machines around him were going crazy.
His eyes were open and imploring, looking injured and earnest, as if asking, Sammy, what are you doing?
Sammy, no.
Sammy, why...?
Sam shook his head, trying vainly not to be fooled. He breathed out "Cristo"and the shift from begging to a wince and glaring, and green eyes to white, was enough to keep him focused, at least for a little while, knowing that what he was doing was the right thing.
Urgent footsteps sounded from the halls, and the door to the room was thrown open, the doctor and the EMTs running inside, trailed by Jo and the teenager.
"Back off," Sam told them, quickly, raising up a hand to keep them from moving toward Dean.
"Are you out of your mind?" Brennan snapped, but he held his ground, and watched, horrified, as Dean raised up bloodied arms and started pulling out the tube from his throat. He coughed, and cried out, and threw it away from him, glaring hotly at Sam. There was, by now, blood on the equipment and the bed and the pillows and Dean's clothes.
Dean threw aside the blankets, chest heaving, tearing off all the wires clinging to his body. He looked like a nightmare. All blood and staggering movement and growling, wordless sounds, angry white eyes.
He opened his mouth, and released an unearthly, angry cry at Sam, who was watching him, coldly. Dean stalked toward Sam, but was held back by the invisible force of the Devil's Trap. He slammed himself against it once. Twice. Crying like a madman and getting even more blood on everything, before standing there, huffing, and glaring.
"Aren't you clever," he growled at Sam.
"Lilith," Sam said, his voice raw, "It's over. You can't escape his body, you can't escape the Trap, and I've used the knife to inflict fatal wounds. It's over."
Dean/Lilith's head tilted at him maliciously. "I will bite his tongue off.
"I will tear his eyes out.
"I will break his neck.
"If you thought," he/she gasped, as the blood loss started to take its toll, "If you thought it was broken before... if you get to shove his soul back in here, he would be nothing, and he can only hate you. Hate you, until you pity him so much you will kill him yourself in the end."
Sam's body was trembling. He wished he had tied her up first, but it would have tipped her off to their plan sooner. All he could hope now was that he had cut her enough that she would bleed to death and weaken before she could inflict any lasting damage on Dean's already battered body.
Dean's/Lilith's fingers clawed toward Dean's eyes.
Sam stepped forward, instinct taking over.
"Sam!" Bobby exclaimed.
But neither Sam nor Lilith had any powers in that circle, and Dean's body was running out of steam. Sam took Dean/Lilith forcibly by the forearms. He/she spat and kicked and struggled against him.
Sam could taste his brother's blood, could feel it staining everything he wore as he struggled with Lilith, and held his brother's body in a forced embrace from behind.
Arms incapacitated, her jaws started working, and she was going right for Dean's tongue, until Bobby shot forward too, and forced the hilt of a knife between her gnawing teeth.
She fought them, tooth and nail, growling, clawing, snarling.
Dean's blood was everywhere.
Sam was losing his nerve.
But finally, Lilith was dying.
Something bright flickered from within her borrowed face. It flickered and shivered, and dimmed slowly, as gradually as her jerky, fighting movements began to still.
Bobby stepped back, and took the knife away from Dean's – and it really was just Dean by now – mouth. The older man looked practically green-gray. Sam, shivering and sobbing unknowingly and rocking himself and his brother's now-still body, looked worse.
The room looked like a scene from an exorcism movie gone wrong.
No one should have to watch their brother die twice.
Sam's been around that block over a hundred times now.
The entire household was staring at him. He wanted to tear their horrified, pitying eyes out.
Sam caught his breath, let the tears get lost with all the blood and sweat on his face. He clutched Dean's body tight to him. Lilith was dead. Next on the agenda was weirdly easier. Shed some blood, mutter some chants, step into hell, pull your brother's soul out.
But pull him out to what?
To go back to this broken shell?
Or to go free, out into the goddamn light?
"Sam?" Bobby asked, "What do you want to do now?"
Can I live with you dead?
Can I live with myself if I put you back in here, handicapped and hurting, just because I couldn't? Broken body, and, he suspected, dented spirit?
"Sam?" Bobby crouched down in front of him, peering closely at his face, "Sam. You with me, boy?"
Sam blinked up at him a few times, before replying.
"Yeah."
Not really.
"What do you want to do now?" Bobby asked him again.
Can I live with you dead...?
Can I live with myself if I put you back in here, handicapped and hurting, just because I couldn't? Broken body, dented spirit...?
To be continued...
