Cured. Cured, Sam said.
Was he?
Could he be?
His brain was running at lightspeed, and faster, faster yet. He couldn't truly settle on a thought. All such things danced out of his view, avoided his grasp, dodged any kind of capture. He was grains of salt poured, dropped upon the floor, bouncing in all directions. No purchase . . . no purchase anywhere upon any kind of thought. He was here, there, and everywhere . . . fractured pixels.
Sam had freed him from the chair. Had released all the iron, the bindings upon him. The blood, the Latin, had done its work. He was human again.
Yes?
Am I?
Or not.
Sam had freed him from the chair. But he could not exit it, not at first. He sat within its confines. Felt the trembling of his limbs.
"Dean. It's over."
Sam's voice. He registered that it sounded raw, weary, but also comforting in some strange way he could not truly grasp.
"It's over," Sam had said once, locking sigil-etched cuffs around his wrists behind the bar where a soldier lay bleeding.
You're my brother, and I've come to take you home.
Freed from iron, from the confines of the chair, he had been gifted the capacity to rise, to walk among them again as a human.
But was he?
Crowley had said: "Pick a bloody side!"
And he had—he knew, remembered-said to that war vet who'd braced him, hoping to punish him: "I'm a demon."
But Crowley had planted doubts. Crowley, who had invited him to the dance when the Mark of Cain reignited his body with life.
Not life as he had known. But as he had embraced, knowing not what else he might do other than die.
The Mark. The First Blade. Crowley.
He had fully intended to destroy Metatron. It was worth the sacrifice. But God, heaven, fate . . . conspiracies against him, wrought by so many others. He remembered losing his grip upon the world. Remembered Sam half-carrying him, urging him onward. Remembered his final blurted words about being proud, and the dying of the light.
Blackness replaced it. He had come up from the depths untethered, disconnected, knowing only Crowley's voice. So much blackness.
"Let's go howl at that moon."
And he had.
"I'm a demon," he shouted now, as he had told the soldier.
And Sam said, simply, "Not anymore."
Not? Was he not?
"Dean."
Against the chair, he trembled.
"Let it go. Dean-let it go. It's over."
It was not. He knew it. Nothing was over.
A little Latin, a lot of blood.
He remembered the burning. Holy water was acid against his skin. Remembered the handcuffs locked down, and his brother's words: "Stop! It's over. It's over, Dean."
Remembered the visceral growl that had risen from his throat.
And everything else that followed upon those heels.
Sammy.
Upon his arm a conflagration bloomed. The Mark wasn't happy. The Mark was displeased.
He had lost the First Blade. The Mark did not approve.
As his bones caught fire, Dean Winchester screamed.
# # #
He came to understand that a man knelt before him, that his wrists were gripped in the man's hands. And he heard what was said.
"You're my brother. You always were, and always will be. Nothing more, nothing less. Hear me, Dean. You're my brother."
It made no sense.
"When I was a baby, you saved my life. You kept me from burning alive. Dad pushed me into your arms and sent you outside. Ever since that moment, all you've ever done is protect me. Saved me. You went to hell for me. I'll never give up on you, Dean. Never. You're my brother. Hear me? You're my brother. It doesn't matter about the Mark, or the First Blade, or whatever Crowley did to you. You have always been, first and foremost, my brother."
In hell, he'd had no brother. In purgatory, none. Here . . . none, too?
"We'll get through this, Dean. We've gotten through everything else, and this won't change that. You're still you. I won't give up on that. I won't give up on my brother."
He could focus on nothing. His mind was a massive tumbling of images, one after another/another/another, none of which made sense.
"Dean. Listen to me. You're okay. We'll get through this."
He tried to speak, but the only sound he made was half growl, half moan. Even as his hands flexed into fists, the other man's hands remained closed on his wrists.
"Listen to me, Dean. I'm Sam. I'm your brother. We're brothers."
Finally he managed a single word. "—home?"
"I brought you home, Dean. You're here, you're safe, and I'll make sure of it. Once upon a time you promised to look after me. You swore it. I swear it now, to you: I will look after you. None of this matters, Dean. You're here, I'm here—you're safe, now. You're you again. Let it go, Dean. The Mark does not define you. Neither does the Blade. Neither does Crowley. You're a human, Dean."
"—demon."
"No. No. Listen to me." The hands gripped more tightly yet. "You're you. Just you. Just a man. Just a human. A pretty amazing human, but no more than that. Hear me, Dean. A little Latin, a lot of blood. It's done. No more black eyes. You're human."
He tried to trigger the eyes, to feel the blackness that filled pupils and sclera. Failed.
"Human, Dean. I promise. You're my brother. You're my brother."
He wanted to deny it. Shouldn't he deny it?
"This is now. This is real. Let go of what you were. Remember what you are."
A shudder wracked him from head to toe, but the hands on his wrists did not relinquish their grip.
"Pick a bloody side!"
But he hadn't. It had been chosen for him. By the man who knelt before him.
Breath ran hard and fast. He flexed his hands against the grip on his arms, shutting/opening/shutting/opening.
"Dean, you're here. You're home. You're safe. You're home. I've got you. I've got you. Always. You're my brother."
From the chair, he looked down into the eyes of the man who knelt before him, who gripped his wrists so tightly.
"—Sam-?"
"It's me, Dean. It's me, and always will be. Hear me. Listen. Nothing can ever rob you of me. I'm here."
"—Sam-?"
"You're safe. You're whole. You're human."
"—what did I do-?"
"It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, Dean. You're here, and you're whole, and I'm not leaving you. Listen to me, Dean. We've tried real life, both of us. It just isn't right for us. This is what we're meant to do, what we're meant to be. It truly is our destiny. You and me, saving people, hunting things. It's all we can ever be. All we can ever do. And now—it's time for you to come back. Time for you to realize who you are, what you are, and what you're supposed to do."
He closed his eyes. "—tired, Sammy—"
After a moment, his brother spoke again. His voice sounded tight. "I know. I know. You need to rest. But you need to know that I'm here, and that you're whole, and that it doesn't matter what the Mark, and the Blade, made you do. You're free of both, Dean. All you are is my brother."
Once upon a time, that had been enough. Was it now?
He opened his eyes and looked down upon the man who knelt before him, who gripped his wrists. He knew those eyes, the all-too-human eyes. Saw the world within them, and the promises.
Safety. Wholeness.
"You've looked after me my whole life," Sam said. "Now it's my turn. Let me take the burden, until you're feeling better. And then I'll give it back, because I know you'll demand it. It's what Dad wanted . . . and that's never going to change. It's okay, Dean. Just for a little while, let me be the big brother."
He frowned. "But you're not, Sammy."
Sam smiled up at him. "Just for a little while."
He considered it. "That's not what Dad would want."
Sam's smile broadened. "Maybe not. But he's not here. It's just you and me, Dean. Brothers against the world."
He frowned again, stirred against the chair. Looked down into the eyes, the so-familiar eyes, of the man who knelt before him. "—Sam-?"
The other nodded. "Yes."
"It's over?"
"It's over."
Relief was overwhelming. Tension ran out of his body. He sagged against the chair.
"Okay," Sam said, "let's get you out of here. There's pie waiting for you."
And he said, "—pie's good."
"Yup," Sam agreed. "Pie is always good."
And his brother pulled him up from the chair, steadied him, and helped him walk again. Helped him to be himself.
To be Dean. Not demon.
~ end ~