Thanks everyone for all your awesome reviews for the last chapter and to all who have favourited and alerted.
My good pal Sharlot has been so generous with her time and encouragement during the writing of this story and I am truly indebted to her for all of her hard beta work. I want to say an extra thanks to her too for not letting me scrimp on the Dean POV in this chapter! :)
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this piece of fiction.
o0o0o
Chapter 14 – How to Save a Life
The sound of the shot seemed to shake the whole world.
The corroded walls appeared to billow and flap like a tent in high wind, the ground shuddered, the air boomed with a thundery rumble that reverberated to and fro across the room, and a flurry of splintery, wooden flakes floated softly down from the ceiling. Where Jud's deflected aim had sent the bullet. There was a jagged hole where the round had blasted its way through, the rafters snapped and bent. A cool breeze filtered down from the air outside, the bullet having torn straight through the flimsy, untiled roof and out into the night sky.
A heavy silence blanketed the room for several stunned seconds.
Sam remained rooted to the spot, certain that he was alive, but not quite sure how he'd managed it. His heart hadn't yet received the memo and was still lying prostrate on the floor of his ribcage. He closed his jaw with an abrupt snap as he brought himself back to awareness from the numbing shock of expected oblivion, the sound clicking loudly in the hushed stillness. He hadn't even had time to blink, no time to cringe, to duck, to even take a breath when the gun had fired. He'd stared down the barrel of the weapon, his mind zooming in on the hammer as it drew back, picturing the small metal round as it hurtled towards him.
He hadn't even had time to blink.
If he had, he'd have missed the moment that Dean had suddenly reared backwards, the crown of his head colliding brutally with Jud's stubbly chin with a dull clunk. Sam had noted the signs of Dean's growing awareness as Jud had been taunting him, and in desperation, he'd realised that his brother had been his only hope. It had been a gamble; Dean in his bewildered state far from being the ally in battle that he'd always been. But Sam had had faith, a belief that no matter how far gone his brother's mind might have been, Dean would always look out for him. There had been a split second when he'd feared he'd made a fatal miscalculation, that Dean might have been merely moving from unconscious insensibility to wakeful disorientation. But he'd felt it, their bond, stretching the distance between them with an almost physical pull. And Dean hadn't let him down.
Though Sam had expected some sort of intervention, he'd still felt his heart drop to the ground in a dead faint at the sight of his brother's impulsive movement, Dean's eyes – saucer-wide and furious – easily discernible in the dimness like cornered wildcat. "You do that to my brother, I'll kill you!" Dean had snarled, his mouth a ferocious slash across his face. Sam had stared, transfixed as Jud's head had snapped backwards at the impact, a guttural grunt of surprised pain exhaling from the older man's abruptly deflated lungs. The arm that had wielded the weapon with such unflinching aim had been flung wildly off course, just as his finger had squeezed the trigger. The jerking recoil had unbalanced the older man still further, and he'd ended up sprawled flat on his back against the mattress, goggle-eyed and dazed.
Sam shook his head fleetingly, his heart beginning to crawl to its feet as sensation returned to the young hunter's limbs with the roar of rushing rapids. Jud's incapacitation was a reprieve of precious few seconds, and Sam wasn't about to waste any more time. He stole a glance at Dean, to where his brother had shied away from the gunshot. The elder Winchester had shuffled up close to the headboard he was cuffed to, both hands latticed across the back of his skull and blocking any inspection Sam might have wanted to make of his features. Dean was rocking slightly back and forth, knees huddled against his chest. The newly visible tears on his clothing offered an agonising insight into yet more bruises that Sam hadn't been privy to earlier, and the younger Winchester felt his own body throb in concern and sympathy. There was a soft, keening murmur that seemed to be emanating from somewhere in the region of where Dean's chin was crammed against his chest, the words slurred and muddled to ears that were still recovering from the cacophony of the gunshot blast. As his brain adjusted its frequency, Sam finally made out the gist of his brother's lament. "No, Sammy, no. Sammy, no. No. Sammy, I'm sorry. Sorry, Sammy, I'm sorry."
Oh Dean! Sam couldn't prevent a heavy shroud of grief from choking his heart as he realised that his brother thought he was dead. He took a half step towards him, instinctively seeking to soothe Dean, to reassure him that his little brother was alive and well. Thanks to him. But the younger Winchester stopped himself abruptly, knowing he had a job to do. It took every fibre of Sam's self-control not to go to his brother there and then, but the training he'd so stupidly let slide just minutes earlier had to be his first priority; neutralising the threat. He'd already placed Dean in more danger by faltering, by allowing himself to be sidetracked by his brother's condition. By allowing Jud to get the upper hand. But there would be time to beat himself up for that later, once Dean was safe.
He dived for the bed just as Jud was beginning to regain awareness, clambering clumsily onto the mattress in his haste to reach for the gun, which was still loosely clasped in the older man's stubby fist. Jud's chest looked impossibly large, lolling on the bed like a beached whale. Sam gulped nervously as the man's juggernaut frame slowly stirred. He saw Jud's scratchy brows twitch spasmodically just as he felt his own fingers close around the smooth metal, and would most likely have been able to wrestle it away quite easily before Jud recovered his strength, had Dean not chosen that precise moment to let out a deafening, panicked bellow.
"SAM!"
Sam's head jerked up involuntarily, eyes intuitively seeking out Dean's as the molten terror in his brother's howl instinctively stopped him in his tracks. But his big brother's head was twisting this way and that, agitated and alarmed, his eyes rolling and unfocussed. He was yanking at his cuffs so violently that the whole bed frame quaked and trembled.
The distraction would cost Sam dearly.
Jud's knee exploded upwards like a jackhammer, slamming solidly into Sam's groin with enough force to throw him somersaulting off the bed. His shoulder hit the crooked floorboards with a blunt crack, the rest of him following in a snowball of flailing limbs. The warped wood groaned wheezily underneath him as he felt his body go slack.
It was several moments before Sam could see anything other than blinding white light, before he could hear anything other than a high-pitched buzzing in his ears, before he could feel anything other than pounding, pulsing agony. His senses were going haywire in a power-surge of pain, dials and meters swinging from one extreme to another, sparks flying from malfunctioning machines. He didn't know how long he lay there, it might have been seconds...or days, the pain whisking him away from reality to a destination of timeless torture. When his ears finally stopped ringing, he became aware of heavy, groaning pants shredding the air around him. Eventually reconnecting with the world, with body and brain, he realised that the wounded-buffalo noises were coming from his own lips. Jesus. That had been one hell of an acid trip. He barely had time to register his return to reality before his eyes suddenly sharpened in focus, picking up a twirling, spinning object in the periphery of his vision. It was his gun, whirling madly on the spot several feet away from Sam's sprawled form, where it had clearly been tossed during his tussle with Jud.
He lifted himself on trembling arms – the pain between his legs pulling him downwards like a lead weight – not getting further than the mere thought of reaching the gun before he saw Jud's hulking figure already closing in on it. Dammit! He clenched his fists, choking back a groan as he launched to his feet, pure, primitive determination to live driving him forward, until his shoulders were crashing into the unprotected flesh at Jud's waist. The tackle took them both tumbling to the ground with a thud that robbed them both of air and voice, Sam's shoulder protesting vociferously at this new abuse after ploughing into what felt like a brick wall. The younger Winchester recovered first, pushing his opponent roughly onto his back and grinning maliciously as he saw Jud's head rebound violently against the floor. The older man had time to do little more than assemble a house-of-cards sneer before Sam was cocking his fist, imbuing it with all the hatred, all the fury, all the protective concern he'd felt for Dean when he'd seen his brother's condition, and ramming it savagely into Jud's gut.
Was there any part of this man's body that wasn't friggin' solid?
"Sam?" The younger Winchester had been pulling back for another strike, his jarred knuckles trumpeting like a brass band, when he heard Bobby's gruff call. 'Bout time! He muttered to himself as he caught Jud across the chin this time, the older man's head snapping roughly to the side from the blow, his lip ruptured and spurting like squashed fruit.
Sam chanced a peek at his old friend out of the corner of his eye, letting out a small huff of frustration as he saw the hesitancy in Bobby's shifting feet. The veteran hunter flicked his gaze from Dean to Sam, clearly unsure as to who needed his assistance more. "I've got it under control Bobby, just get Dean!" The younger Winchester called over his shoulder, catching his breath as Jud pushed viciously at him, shoving him to the side. He allowed his momentum to roll him over, taking that brief moment to douse the fire of agony that had risen once more between his legs, and then he was springing agilely to his feet and running at Gordon's friend once more. But Jud was ready for him this time, blocking his swinging paw and jabbing at Sam's sternum with an iron fist.
"Not bad, Sammy! I'll give you that," A film of blood sprayed across Sam's bulging eyes from Jud's split lip as he heaved, the hit he'd taken to his midriff still restricting his air flow, but he smirked as Sam coughed harshly, bent nearly double from the older man's blow. His smile was short-lived however, as the younger Winchester abandoned his mostly feigned injury and used his position to grapple Jud to the floor once more. Sam was ready for the jarring impact this time, allowing it to jolt him without destroying his balance. His eyes scoured the uneven surface of the floor frantically for the dropped gun, realising when he failed to locate it that he'd have to improvise.
"You son of a bitch!" Sam growled, scrambling hastily to his feet and pinning Jud's neck to the floor with the sole of his boot, beginning to press downwards on the older man's frantically bobbling Adam's apple with imperious vindictiveness. He felt it fluttering beneath his foot like a buzzing insect. "I warned you..." Sam panted thickly, his chest still pulsing out blaring klaxons of pain from Jud's earlier hit. "I told you...You hurt him, now I'm hurting you."
Jud could only wheeze in response – his eyes beginning to expand outwards like balloons as Sam gradually restricted his air – somehow still managing to fill the weak rasp with a litany of unvoiced expletives. The younger Winchester merely narrowed his eyes in response, ensuring that the downed man met his gaze and could feel every hurled dagger. This sadistic son of a bitch, this man who'd had the gall to question Sam's humanity, who'd abducted his big brother to use as bait. Who'd tortured him to get at Sam...It was too much. He pressed down harder – ignoring the small voice at the back of his mind that was loudly and passionately proclaiming that they didn't kill humans – enjoying the gagging fear that gurgled from Jud's distorted lips.
He might have ended it there and then, had a muffled commotion somewhere in the background not jolted him back into full awareness.
"Dean! Dean!" Bobby was pleading in an urgent voice, his tone sounding strained and desperate. "It's okay, son. You don't wanna be stickin' that nowhere. Give it here. It's me! It's Bobby." And out of breath. Immediately sensing that his friend was struggling to contain a clearly irascible – and possibly dangerous – Dean, and instantly forgetting about how close he'd come to murder, Sam twisted around, his balance shifting as he simultaneously attempted to maintain his hold on Jud. Bobby had managed to free Dean, that much the younger Winchester could tell, but the two men appeared to be facing off against each other from across the expanse of the mattress. Bobby was standing in a loose, wide stance, looking as if it took a near Herculean effort of will to maintain as he tried to appear non-threatening. Dean on the other hand, was hunched and taut, every muscle wired tighter than a guitar string. The wound on his neck was still sluggishly trickling, jagged and uneven, wrapping around him like a line of barbed wire. He wavered from side to side, lips spasming manically in a silent mutter. Winces seemed to scuttle across his features from different angles and directions like an army of scurrying insects. His gaze was locked on Bobby, irises shifting between ferocity and fear as they bopped and writhed, an iridescent spectrum of emotions seeming to catch the moonlight at each movement.
But what drew Sam's panicked eye was the knife Dean fiercely held in one vibrating fist. The same serrated blade that had been used to mutilate his big brother's neck by the man pinioned beneath his toes. Blood still clung to its jagged edge, shiny and not yet dried. Dean's blood. Dripping from the blade. Dripping from his neck.
They had to get the knife away from him.
"Dean!" Sam barked without thinking, heart bungeeing around in his ribcage as a film reel of grisly outcomes jerked and stuttered before his eyes. For the briefest of seconds, they connected, sparks flying as their almost telepathic link reignited into flame. And Sam forgot everything else, the complete sincerity and sentience in Dean's eyes utterly flooring him. All that he'd lost over the past few days, all that he'd missed seemed to come flooding back; rushing over him, under him, through him. He felt whole again, complete in a way he hadn't realised he'd been without until he'd finally been sealed back together.
"Sammy?" Dean murmured softly, the entreaty wistful and broken, hope brightening his eyes before his features caved in with a groan of agony. The arm holding the knife dropped slightly as the elder Winchester took one wobbling step towards his little brother.
"Hey," Sam managed, emotions turning his tongue limp and uncooperative in his mouth. The smile that broke across his face was a more than eloquent substitute however, and when he saw the answering upturn in Dean's lips he let out an awestruck sigh. His brother was back. He didn't even notice the gradual lessening in pressure of his boot, too entranced by the sight of Dean...of Dean Dean. His big brother was looking at Sam like he was really present in the room, like he was really seeing his little brother.
When Sam's legs disappeared from underneath him, he knew he'd made yet another disastrous error.
The younger Winchester hit the ground with a thud that rattled his bones and drove the air from his lungs. His brain seemed to sag like a saturated sponge, his ears numb and muffled as though they had been stuffed with cotton wool. Sam thought he might have heard his brother's yell somewhere in the distance, but as he rolled over onto his back and turned his head towards his best guess of Dean's location, the young hunter found himself staring straight up at the barrel of his own gun. His pupils followed the weapon's downward motion, beginning to cross as it arrogantly came to rest on the tip of his nose. Jud's heavy, putrid breath seemed to gather around him like a suffocating fog as the older man's leering face peered close. The entire reversal in fortune had taken less than two seconds.
There was a scraping, creaking scuffle happening somewhere beyond the tips of his toes, but Sam could focus on nothing else but the slow click of the depressing trigger as Jud leered triumphantly, cold-blooded murder glinting in the depths of his dark eyes. "Nice try, Sammy."
This time Sam did have time to blink.
He opened his eyes just in time to see Jud's smile falter, to see the paralysing confusion in his captor's gaze. He heard the guttering gasp before he truly realised what had happened, could almost feel the rattling and popping in the other man's lungs as Jud frantically sought to drag in a precious breath. One hurked cough was all it took; a pulpy, viscous mess of blood and phlegm splattering down onto Sam's nose and cheeks, warm, lumpy and wet as it slid down his chin. Jud's expression froze, rigid; as if each plane and curve was carved delicately in ice, and he slumped forwards. On top of Sam.
Dead.
"Guh!" Sam grunted involuntarily as he felt the full weight of Jud's body begin to squash him, the pressure seeming to come at him from all sides, crushing him as if he were a condemned vehicle. The younger Winchester felt his ribs crinkle and contort like twisted metal as the man's matted locks fell forward to curtain his face, obscuring his vision with an impenetrable screen of blond. "Ugh!" He groaned again, attempting to manoeuvre lethargic, uncooperative limbs underneath Jud's midriff to lever the man's body up and off him. But they kept sliding uselessly back to his side as his lungs struggled to inflate, weakening and slackening as his muscles downed tools and left the building. Melting spots of black were splodging the jaundiced yellow around him, slowly dissolving and evaporating his vision.
"Sam!" There was a voice now, somewhere above him, peaty and smoky like an aged malt. Bobby, Sam guessed vaguely, his thoughts beginning to divide and shuffle mitotically. "Sam!" There was a deep, throaty growl of exertion and then the younger Winchester began to feel the smothering compression ease ever so slightly. "Little...help?" Bobby grouched hoarsely, exhaling a gravelly breath as he heaved. Exalting in the feeling of fresh air entering his lungs, Sam finally managed to coax his muscles into action, positioning his hands underneath Jud's barrel chest and pushing upwards. It was a weak effort, but more than enough to allow Bobby to roll Jud's body to the side.
The younger man desperately sucked in a gallon of air as if he'd just surfaced from forty fathoms deep, the oxygen flowing refreshingly down his parched throat to quench the burning thirst in his lungs. Sam shakily panted out a feeble "thanks," raising a hand to disgustedly wipe at the sticky residue on his chin. He sat up, forcing his still recovering eyes to study the prone figure of the man who had tried to kill him. Who had hurt Dean. Jud's head was twisted awkwardly, facing away from him, and mercifully sparing Sam another eyeful of his death mask. The younger Winchester allowed his eyes to roam along the length of Jud's frame, stopping short when he saw the knife's hilt sticking grotesquely upwards from where it had pierced the man's heart from behind. The curved wood jutted out at a skewed angle, a victory flag, a statement of claim.
Dumbfounded, Sam looked from the blade to Bobby, who was staring at him with warm concern. The older man was sporting another impressive bruise on his chin, a charcoal smudge that nevertheless stood out in the gloom. Dean, Sam could only guess, but he couldn't comprehend why, or how, or when at that point. His thoughts were still reassembling themselves, marshalling the fit and tending to the wounded. The younger Winchester nodded deliberately at Jud before spearing Bobby with a sharp look. At the implicit question scrawled in Sam's raised eyebrows, he shook his head, jerking the bill of his cap instead to a huddled figure in one of the room's far corners.
"Dean?" Sam demanded, needing confirmation before he could assimilate what his old friend was really saying.
"Yeah," Bobby affirmed softly, lifting his cap to run a tired hand through his hair.
"Jesus," Sam murmured, dazed.
"Yeah."
o0o0o
"One day, you'd have ended up a monster. It's your destiny."
The words boomeranged back and forth through a swirling, gyrating, roiling, tumbling vortex of crashing, clattering pain; agony that seismically radiated out from points on his body that he couldn't fully distinguish, and a searing, scorching fire that burned him from within. That brought true tears to his eyes, spilling blazing trails down his cheeks like rivers of lava no matter how hard he crushed his palms to his skull in an attempt to stave them off. He was hunched as tightly as he could make himself, knees squeezed hard against his middle despite the curiously unpleasant, crunching sensation that ground and gnawed at his insides every time he breathed.
Smoke funnelled and furled around him, clogging his lungs and burning his throat. There was something thick and cottony in his mouth, muffling his voice as he tried to sob out his devastation. Chips and chunks of wood were hailing down on him, tearing and scraping at him as he tried to protect himself. Like he hadn't protected Sammy.
"Sam's not gonna fall for a freakin' tripwire."
Tripwire. Sam hadn't fallen for one tripwire. He'd fallen for the second one. Dean pushed his palms harder, wishing he could disintegrate his skull into dust. He was alone. The one thing he had always truly feared. Sammy was gone. Sammy had died. Died. Sammy had died. Dean felt his mental cogs grind to a halt, the unbearable realisation blocking and jamming their motion. Sammy...Sammy had died. He'd died.
Sam was dead. And it was all his fault. He couldn't even comprehend the extent of what had just happened. The explosion had shaken the whole world. Had destroyed Dean's.
"No, Sammy, no. Sammy, no. No. Sammy, I'm sorry. Sorry, Sammy, I'm sorry." He didn't know if the words had made it past his gag, or if they were just circling like vultures inside his head, picking over the carcass of his slain existence for scraps of lingering denial. He couldn't sit still, couldn't wait idly by while the storm raged within. The motion of rocking back and forward that he opted for became soothing somehow, the repetitive movement easing the pain until he could tolerate it without writhing. He settled into a gentle rhythm, catching his breath every so often as the grating sensation in his middle sparked and growled like a hot-wired engine. There was blankness for a merciful few moments as he focussed on the swaying of his body, and then his mind began to drift, a light breeze sending it airborne, floating and dancing in the ether around him like a stray feather. Calmed, he followed its motion with mild interest, watching to see where it would land. It tickled at memories, brushed past images, twirled daintily away from blustery emotions.
Cocooned in concentrated distraction, he absently began to lift one hand away from his head to explore the unusually textured surface he was leaning against, frowning in consternation when the limb refused to budge. A ring of pain chased itself around the appendage he'd tried to move, cruelly shooting down his gliding mind like a hunter aiming for game. Game. His heart snagged on the word, unravelling at dizzying speed as his mind landed with a quaking thud, a deafening explosion bursting out around him at the impact. Your brother's fair game. He jolted as his consciousness flickered feebly like a storm generator. He's your brother, you love the guy...This has gotta hurt like hell for you...Sorry Dean.
Then he remembered again.
"SAM!" The howl was of the purest loss, torn from somewhere deep and primal. Somewhere thought, and logic, and conscious awareness had never truly plumbed. It tore something vital from him; life, hope. Love.
And then the horror took control of his body, the sensation too gripping, too uncontrollable and all consuming as it swamped him from top to toe. He knew nothing but the soul-deep abyss of grief and loss, too much for his skull alone to contain as he began thrashing his limbs wildly, swinging his head from side to side as though he could shake the pain away. There was nothing else he could do. And gradually lights began to switch off, chambers and corridors in his mind plunging into darkness, a domino effect spreading from one wing to another. Sheets were placed over furniture, valuables were removed, shutters were closed. The pain was locked up in the basement as a protective inertia took hold, the only lingering brightness remaining towards the front of the structure; the view from the street one of superficial residence. The lights were on...but no one was home.
He knew nothing until a sound behind him disturbed his stupor.
The noise rebounded off his eardrum, a harsh, creaky arpeggio that was somehow passively jarring. His eyes were fixed forward, staring without seeing. He detected no movement in front of him, darkness had numbed his pupils to the luxury of detail, and everything was fuzzy and pixelated.
Brrmmmmph! The vibration was thick and shaggy as it skimmed past his ears. It was familiar, in a completely unfamiliar way, but just curious enough to lift him from catatonia. His brow spasmed and furrowed, that one small movement sending a chain reaction of skittering motion down the length of his body. Wakening him. "Dean!" He heard it now, clear and distinct. What did–What was–Who was–Wait. His lost, roaming thoughts began retracing their steps back to the beaten track. Dean was him. He was Dean.
He was Dean.
His eyes unfocussed, he lowered his head, pondering this new information. When he looked up, an enormous mass of black had appeared in front of him, and he recoiled, catching his wrist roughly on whatever was encircling it. He let out a small, hitched gasp of fear and pain as the shape moved closer. "Dean! Take it easy, boy. It's okay. It's Bobby." The words were slow, painstaking and hushed. But the elder Winchester was far from appeased, and he shrank away from the shadowy figure as it began to stretch gingerly towards him.
When the restriction dropped away from his wrist, it took Dean several long seconds to realise that he was free, the sonic boom of released pain firing down the nerves on his arm and detonating in his brain. When the raining debris finally cleared from his mind, the elder Winchester saw the dark shape move towards him again. Widening his eyes in terror, he let fly with a swinging fist, feeling the vibration from the smacking impact reverberate up the length of his arm. He heard a muffled grunt, rippling jaggedly with an emotion he could identify only too easily: anger. Dean scrabbled backwards away from the threat with pained stiffness, across the springy surface of whatever he'd been resting on, patting palms hitting against and closing upon something sharp and cold as he felt his way. Reaching the edge of the creaking, shifting layer beneath him, he turned to look behind him. Beyond the rim of his current position was a black hole of nothingness that seemed to yawn downwards into depthless oblivion. Air left him in a stunned exhale that scraped painfully at his middle as his eyes widened in disbelief. There was nothing...nothing beyond the precipice he now sat on. What the...?
The elder Winchester turned his head frantically back in the direction he'd just travelled, still seeing the bulbous shape of the figure that had come after him. He paused, uncertain. He could either face the threat that still scared the hell out of him, or let himself fall into the unknown. The young hunter gulped, feeling the motion roll down his throat like a wave. Awesome. Dean returned his gaze to the nothingness before him, brows knitting as he became aware of strange sounds that were coming from somewhere beyond him; thumps and bumps and gurgles and rumbles.
And then words too, he could suddenly discern.
"You hurt him, now I'm hurting you." Dean moved forward on pure instinct, something in the sound, something in the tone tugging at him in a way he couldn't begin to understand. All kinds of emotions were colliding and popping within him like volatile chemicals, creating feelings and urges and senses that he couldn't piece together or make meaning from. The elder Winchester had no words for them, no explanation for why the sound had affected him so. He just knew that it had made him move, and move fast. The words were so compelling, so demanding that he'd have determinedly followed them all the way to their source had the feeling of his feet touching solid ground not reminded him that he'd been on the verge of free-falling into an abyss. The abruptness of his landing shocked him into immobility for a brief moment as he realised that he was in fact standing upright, and not plummeting.
Suddenly remembering the object in his hand, Dean began studying it intently, lifting it closer to his face. Even in the dimness it seemed to shine, there was a fascinating silveriness to it that instantly attracted his attention. The elder Winchester wiggled it back and forth, eyes brightening as the little twinkle of light at its tip winked gleefully back at him. But something darker clung to its jagged edge, something that was sticky to the touch as he lifted an intrepid finger to explore it. The tackiness coated the tip of his digit, the smell sickly and unpleasant as he examined it with his nose.
"Dean!" He whirled around, jolting as he abruptly recalled the threat he'd thought he'd managed to escape from, and he resolutely raised the object in front of him without quite knowing why.
"Dean!" His attacker called again, but more thinly this time, stretched and breakable. "It's okay, son. You don't wanna be stickin' that nowhere. Give it here. It's me! It's Bobby."
The elder Winchester felt anger sweep through his body as fear's dam broke, and he grimaced, tensing up his muscles and clenching his fist around the serrated object it held. He was going to rip that thing limb from limb. But what if it got to him first? What if it killed him? Fear threw up an enormous blockade, freezing him on the spot. God, he had to get out of here, he had to run. The barrier held for a few hushed seconds before rage broke through once more. Dammit, that thing had to pay, and he was going to friggin' annihilate it–
"Dean!" That strangely familiar voice again. It cut clean across Dean's consciousness, halting his thoughts in their circular tracks. He jerked his eyes reflexively in the direction of the call. And then his world seemed to shift, seemed to realign. And he saw his brother. His heart altered its rhythm, his brain waves began pulsating to a different frequency. To Sam's. To the almost psychic synchronicity they shared. There he was, Dean's little brother, staring at him as if he'd just risen from the dead, as if he was the most awe inspiring sight that could ever be seen. The elder Winchester met his gaze head on, returning the sentiment with every ounce of strength he had. Sam was alive. He was alive! Gordon hadn't killed him, hadn't blown him apart, hadn't taken him away from his big brother. Dean felt a great surge of relief engulf him.
"Sammy?" He murmured tentatively, scarcely daring to believe that his little brother was really there, in front of him. He made to take a step towards the younger man, aiming for an embrace that would reassure him of the younger man's solidity, but he faltered as the bones ground together across his midriff. Broken ribs. Terrific. He scrunched his features as he rode out the wave of pain, calming slightly at the sound of his brother's voice.
"Hey." Sam's smile was brimming with unvoiced emotion, his soft greeting wobbling under the heavy burden of the things he seemed to want to say but couldn't. It didn't matter. Dean didn't need the words to translate the smile, they wouldn't have done it justice anyway. He felt his own lips curve upwards in response, his own unspoken affection beaming across the room in that telepathic way that had always communicated more than words ever had.
But both smiles were short-lived.
Belatedly Dean realised that Sam had been holding someone down with the sole of his boot. Someone the elder Winchester instantly recognised. It was Gordon! Gordon who had tried to kill Sam, and who had failed. But who was apparently determined to try again. "Sam!" Too late, he yelled out a warning. In slow motion Dean watched it; Sam's legs being swept out from underneath him, the ringing thud as his brother hit the floor, the swiftness with which Gordon had him pinned with a gun.
Gordon was going to murder Sam, right before his eyes.
No! Dean ignored the pain that spiked at every step, ignored the terror that had frozen the blood in his veins, ignored Bobby's sudden presence at his side. Dismissively, he shoved the elder hunter aside and locked in on his target. The floorboards were protesting stridently at each movement, but all Dean could see was Gordon's leering figure as he pressed the gun triumphantly against Sam's nose. The younger Winchester was looking up at his killer with raw fear pooling in his eyes, his pupils cockeyed as they focussed on the weapon.
Incensed, Dean was all big brother as he bore down on his little brother's tormentor, the cocky "Nice try, Sammy," all the murdering sonofabitch was able to utter before the elder Winchester was raising his knife and ramming it home. He felt the spongy resistance of flesh beneath the tip of the blade, heard the squelch of sliced tendon and muscle, knew instinctively when the knife had found its target in Gordon's pumping heart. There was a sharp gasp, a wet gurgle and crackle of starved lungs, and a hacking cough. Gordon sagged forward as life left his body, and Dean watched dispassionately as the other man's arms flopped out like whale fins, the gun skittering away several paces.
He'd done it. He'd killed Gordon.
And then a swooping devastation made his blood drain straight to his toes.
Sam...Sammy was dead, was lying lifelessly beneath Walker's body. He was dead.
Dean had been too late. Always too late.
He'd failed again.
o0o0o
"Dean?" Sam crouched gingerly before his brother's cowering form, the appellation rushing out in a stunned, overwhelmed huff of breath. Dean's head was resting on his bent knees, a riot of spiky tufts all Sam could see before the older man's crossed arms obscured the view. His big brother was rocking slightly again, tiny shifts that seemed to shy away from Sam's touch as he ghosted his fingers down Dean's frame. He wasn't certain that he could lay his hands anywhere that wouldn't cause his brother pain, but he wasn't quite able to resist the urge to soothe and comfort either. He couldn't look at Dean's forearms without wincing in sympathy, the mottling bruises seeming to have deepened even in the amount of time since Sam had last seen them. And then there was the ring of torn skin around his wrist which looked to have been bleeding afresh since Bobby had removed the cuffs.
Sam closed his eyes for a brief, bolstering moment, reminding himself that he needed to be the strong one again. Dean had already been through so much, had already suffered so much, and yet he'd still come through for his little brother like he always did. And Sam couldn't quite wrap his mind around what Dean had done to save his life, not that the older man had in any way been to blame. The younger Winchester found himself caught in a prize fight between gladness and horror, the two circling and sniping at each other in the ring as they traded blows. He felt no sympathy for Jud, only relief at the elimination of a threat and satisfaction that the man who'd hurt his brother so much wouldn't be able to hurt him anymore. But killing a human? He didn't quite know what to do with that, and he suspected it would be a long time before he did.
But Dean had to be his priority.
Sam finally plucked up the courage to lay a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder, steeling himself as he felt the shuddering vibrations of his brother's body carry all the way up his arm. "Hey, Dean, it's me. It's Sammy." He used the nickname again, hoping it would still reach his brother however far away he was. "I'm going to take care of you, alright?" He moved the hand to Dean's head, carefully smoothing his fingers across the tousled spikes. "Dean?"
"Sammy's gone." The reply was achingly mournful, so soft and muffled by the barrier of Dean's arms that Sam had to lean in close to hear it. He felt his heart constrict as its meaning finally reached the surface of his consciousness, and he flinched. No...his mind was vociferously shaking its head and waving its arms in determined denial. Just, no. He wasn't going through this again; Dean getting upset over him leaving. He got it. He didn't need the message reinforced any further, didn't need to see his brother suffering anymore. He was a selfish screw-up, he already knew that.
"No, it's okay, Dean! I'm here! I didn't leave." He twisted his neck, trying to peer at his brother's hidden features, pressing insistently at Dean's arm in an attempt to move it out of the way. The connection they'd had just minutes earlier seemed to have vanished however, leaving Sam with a hollow, cavernous sense of loss that felt all too devastatingly familiar after the euphoria of feeling whole again. His brother had drifted away once more, wandering somewhere that Sam couldn't hope to find him.
"I'm sorry." Dean's voice was barely raised above a whisper but Sam could still hear the crushing grief, the defeat and desolation in his tone. "I couldn't save him, Dad. Gordon...he...he killed him. It was my fault."
"W-what?" Sam stammered, floored by what his brother had just said, his hand beginning to clench where it rested on Dean's arm as he felt his mind go into a nosedive. Dean hadn't been upset about him leaving, he'd been...Oh, god.
"Tripwire," Dean mumbled miserably in response, his breath catching with a tight groan of pain. "I couldn't stop it, Dad. I couldn't warn him."
Sam dropped his chin to his chest as the horror dawned on him, scrubbing his free hand through his hair and grabbing a thick handful as if to rip it from his head. Dean thought he'd really died in Gordon's grenade explosion...
Opening his eyes again, he clenched his teeth and ground them agitatedly. How much was his brother supposed to bear? How much was he going to be forced to relive? How much was Sam going to be forced to watch?
Sam remembered deliberately setting off the tripwire grenades so that he could turn the tables on his would-be killer, forewarned by Ava and knowing he would be able to evade their blast. But there had been no way of tipping Dean off. God...his brother had really believed...? He scoffed internally at himself, of course Dean had thought that, his brother hadn't been aware that Sam had known what he'd been walking into. The younger Winchester realised with no small amount of shame that he had never really thought about what it might have been like for Dean that night; helplessly bound and gagged while the world exploded around him. While his kid brother apparently exploded around him.
Damn.
His insides writhed as he recalled the flippant way he'd been with his brother after they'd gotten Gordon safely packed off to jail. He'd have known better than to say anything about it to Dean – the Winchester's didn't do that kind of thing, after all – but Sam ought to have understood how friggin' terrifying that had to have been for his brother. Hell, he'd nearly lived through the same experience just moments earlier, and could still feel his nerves jangling with the lingering what-might-have-been anxiety. Sam's mind flashed him back to the time he'd sat in the Impala, watching and listening to his irate brother as he chewed Ellen out over the phone. That more than anything should have told him how rattled Dean had been. Only the younger Winchester knew he'd been too pissed, perturbed and preoccupied to notice.
And now that Sam thought about it, his brother's behaviour after Jud's gunshot suddenly made much more sense. Dean had almost literally relived the explosion. Sam sighed, his lungs choked and clogged with regret. What a mess he'd made of things. I'm sorry, Dean.
The sudden juddering of Dean's shoulders warned Sam of his brother's tears even before he caught the smothered snuffling, and though he knew he ought to have been moving Dean, getting him back to the Impala and back to the motel, he found he couldn't do anything else except pull Dean close. Almost numb with shock and exhaustion, he took refuge in his instincts, and wrapped his arms around his brother, needing the comfort just as much as Dean seemed to. The elder Winchester remained tensely curled, not even slackening at the familiarity of his little brother's embrace. And somehow, that was even more painful than not being recognised by face nor voice. Sam braced himself against shakes and shudders, murmuring softly to Dean as he had done all those days ago when his brother had been grieving for their father, almost certain that it was doing nothing more than allaying his own distress, but not knowing what else he could do. Desperate, he pretended to be their father again, telling Dean that 'Sammy' was fine, that he was alive, and that he was waiting for them back at the motel. But the words had no effect, rebounding off Dean like a rubber ball against a wall.
The helplessness of it all was ripping him at the seems.
Sam glanced up as Bobby re-entered the shack. He was looking rumpled and dishevelled, his clothes clotted with mud and stained with grass, his baseball cap almost comically askew. Earlier, the two of them had dragged Jud's body outside to the rear of the shack in preparation for a hunter's burial – not that the bastard deserved the honour of such a ritual. No, this was purely pragmatic, a vengeful spirit with Jud's sadism not something they wanted to risk. Sam had left the elder hunter to the digging, any guilt he might have felt about the action vastly overridden by his desire to see to his brother. That, and Bobby had told him to skedaddle with a grim expression and the threat of gunfire if he didn't get his ass back into the building. Sam hadn't stopped to argue.
"How's he doin'?" Bobby asked roughly, sharp eyes assessing Dean with one practised sweep. His voice was thick, either from exertion or concern. Or both. Sam could easily read the worry shining in his friend's eyes, knowing it was reflected in his own. The younger Winchester looked back at Dean for a moment, to where his brother was still huddled rigidly against him. Dean hadn't once raised his head, nor shifted from his hunched position. The tears had stopped a few minutes earlier though, leaving him in a motionless, lifeless stupor. Sam wasn't sure which he preferred. He turned back to Bobby and shook his head, his crumbled thoughts unable to cobble together even a basic summary of how bad things really were.
"How's it going out there?" He opted for neutral territory, voice still cracking half way through. He was grateful when his old friend didn't call him on it.
"Got some ways to go," Bobby replied, rubbing a muddy hand across his face and leaving a smudged trail in its wake. "But you need to get him outta here, Sam. He needs patchin' up."
Crap.
Sam nodded distractedly, though internally a landslide had surged into motion; trees were uprooted, buildings were bulldozed, people fled in all directions. Damn, damn, damn! As if he hadn't already messed up enough. He ought to have gotten Dean to the Impala far earlier, his brother needed medical attention, or at least, the best medical attention that Sam could give him. But he'd gotten so caught up in Dean's distress that he'd forgotten how long his brother had been sitting there with likely broken ribs. Dammit! Not to mention the fact that Dean might have been going into shock from the extent of his injuries...which Sam still didn't know because he hadn't checked.
"Yeah," the younger Winchester agreed absently, eyes skittering from side to side as he berated himself. There were so many things he needed to do, tasks and necessities that were juggling in his mind's hands at bewildering speed. He started to to shift from his position, the stiff muscles in his shoulders snapping and popping like firecrackers, but paused mid-motion as a thought struck him. "But what about you, Bobby? How will you get back?"
The elder hunter levelled him a glare that was just shy of the bitchface he looked to have been aiming for. Dean had always told his little brother with perfect seriousness that Sam had the expression down to an art form, and that no one else could touch it. Looked like he was right. "How exactly do you think Jud and Dean got here, Sam? Magic carpet? Don't know how you coulda missed that friggin' tank out front!"
"I was a little preoccupied, Bobby!" Sam snarked, his composure cracking. He cast his mind's net back to their arrival at the shack, hoping to catch a floating memory of what the exterior surroundings had looked like, but the image of Dean's bleeding neck had neatly wiped them all out.
"I know, I know," Bobby raised his hands, looking contrite. "Look, I'll take care of things here, and you take Dean back to the motel. We'll need to get rid of that car anyway, so I'll bring it back into the city, wipe it and ditch it."
"Okay," Sam nodded in agreement, before giving Dean a soft pat on the arm. His brother didn't even twitch. "Help me get him up?" He looked hopefully up at Bobby.
Dean was pliant and docile as the two men placed a hand on each arm, and another on his lower back, and gently hoisted him upwards. Sam had never seen his brother so meek and subdued, and the contrast to his normally boisterous, cocky self was devastatingly striking. The younger Winchester could barely hold back a gasp as he caught sight of Dean's newly unveiled features. His brother was grey and stony, expressionless and blank. His eyes were fixed unblinkingly forwards, devoid of all the life and expressiveness that Sam had come to expect and rely upon. Dean looked so...dead that Sam almost moved a hand to check his pulse, but stopped himself as he saw his brother give a slow, bovine blink. He felt tears gathering at the rims of his eyes, terrified that they were already too late; that Dean had gone past the point of no return.
"Dean?" He coaxed softly, nodding at Bobby to start guiding him from behind. But there was nothing, not even a flicker. No sign that his brother had even heard anything at all. The only indications that Dean was processing anything were the shaky grimaces that cascaded in a waterfall of agony down his features. It figured that his brother would get pain and nothing else.
They shuffled forwards, their journey slow as Dean inched along on torn soles. He moved with zombified limbs, Sam and Bobby bearing the brunt of both power and steering. The chill that radiated from his big brother's body had Sam more than a little panicky, and it took every ounce of his restraint not to just throw Dean over his shoulder and haul him back to the Impala. But god only knew what damage such a rash course of action might do to broken ribs, and so Sam forced his patience to round up the flock of dissenting thoughts and cage them away where they couldn't tempt him anymore.
They walked in silence, the only sound penetrating their airless, suffocating bubble the soft whiffling breaths of Sam's catatonic brother. Bobby would glance over at the younger Winchester every so often, but Sam resolutely ignored him, knowing that to speak would be to open the floodgates. He didn't gather the strength to open his mouth until they had Dean finally settled in the passenger seat of the Impala. The elder Winchester continued to stare straight in front of him, out the car's windshield, not even moved by the presence of his beloved car.
Sam swallowed against the ever present constriction in his throat, and turned to face his old friend. "Okay, so how long do you think it'll take?"
Bobby shrugged in response, but there was no sincerity to the gesture, the older man's eyes not leaving Dean's cadaverous form. "Couple hours, give or take."
"Okay," Sam replied, blinking furiously as traitorous tears began to slip down his cheeks. Bobby caught them with kind eyes as he shifted his attention from Dean.
"Take care of Dean," he urged warmly, "get started on that spell and I'll be back soon."
Sam nodded as he inhaled heavily through his nose, willing the tears away.
"Don't give up, son. We'll get him better."
o0o0o
To all who wanted to see Jud get his comeuppance, hope this did the trick! Thanks for reading, I'd love to hear your thoughts...