Author Note: This is a repost of a tag for "Advanced Thanatology" that was written/posted after the ep aired. Nova42 (who has just reopened her bangin' epic "Providence," so if y'all were reading that, you should make sure you're still following the story, and if you're not, you really, really should) and I were discussing 13.05 the other night, and trying to settle on a head-canon for when exactly Dean got those syringes. So there is some story and dialogue in this version that is much changed from the original posting, and a plotty thread woven through the rest. Also ramped up the H/C a little more. I'd love to know what you think.
Beginning of the End
Stupid, stubborn asshole.
Sam spends the first minute fretting, heart pounding as he sets a timer on his watch and lays a thick circle of salt around his prone brother, in case one of these ghosts gets grabby hands.
The next minute is an exercise in pure fucking panic. It feels like an hour has passed since Dean stopped breathing, the seconds ticking by at an excruciatingly slow pace as he waits to bring his brother back to life.
He's muttering to himself by minute three, gripping the syringe in a sweaty fist and preparing to rip Dean a new one over this as soon as his heart is beating again. If not for the way he didn't even blink before throwing down his own life like it was just another weapon he'd pulled from the trunk, then for putting Sam through these three agonizing minutes.
That's where the emotional roulette wheel has settled – on anger and indignation – when the timer goes off. Sam clenches his jaw and feels out the right spot on his brother's chest, swiftly delivers the shot. He winces as the needle pierces fabric, skin, and muscle, and holds his breath.
And nothing happens.
"Dean." Sam stares at his brother's lax face, pats his shoulder. "Dean."
Nothing. Dean remains eerily still, frighteningly pale.
No. No, nononononono.
"Hey!" he chokes out. "Dean!"
A violent, mixed wave of emotions crashes into Sam, until he can't separate any single one from a rising din that leaves his head buzzing and his ears ringing. He shakes his brother roughly and desperately, his voice pitched with hysteria. "No, no, no…come on, Dean."
This can't be happening. Not now. Not after everything he's done to keep them from getting here. Sam played it safe. He followed all the rules.
The past couple of days, Sam wasn't just being nice to his brother, he was fucking terrified for him.
A beer with breakfast was an easy compromise, given the circumstances. Hell, they could embark on a tour of every seedy strip club from here to the Mississippi, and Sam would listen to nothing but Zeppelin and Van Halen for the rest of his goddamn lifewithout a word of complaint if that's what it took for Dean to dig himself out of the hole he'd fallen into. He could easily accommodate all of that. Because it's annoying, cringe-worthy behavior, but infinitely better than the alternative.
Another bolt of lightning rips past the stained-glass window over Sam's head, illuminating Dean's unmoving body, his shockingly white face.
This was the alternative, had been from the jump.
Because when Dean's feeling low, it's not just bullets, bacon, and booze that make an appearance, but also a brazen disregard for his own wellbeing. He's always thrown himself into hunting like it's some kind of ridiculously violent therapy, lifting the weight from his shoulders – from his heart – piece by piece, blow by blow, and counting each life saved as a reason to tough it out at least one more day. He's always been the kind of guy who would fling himself into the fire to save just one person, but this particular sacrifice wasn't about savingpeople.
This was…it was…
"Come on, Dean," Sam pleads with his unresponsive brother, voice cracking.
I just need three minutes.
Like it was a goddamned guarantee.
Or like he didn't care either way.
This wasn't about saving people. It was just an excuse.
No.
No matter what the niggling little voice in his head says, Sam won't believe it. He can't. "Come on, Dean."
The seconds continue to tick by, and Dean grows colder with each one. Sam thumps at his brother's chest, pats his cool cheek, and refuses to acknowledge the gnawing pit of fear widening in his own chest.
Then Dean comes back, eyes blowing open as he arches up from the dusty rug with a loud, violent inhale.
Sam melts a little with the relief of hearing that desperate breath, feeling light-headed as he paws at his brother's heaving shoulders. "Hey." He can't even think straight, starts in with the stupid questions right away. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Dean rasps, an entirely unconvincing sound of struggle and discomfort. He folds over, presses a hand to his undoubtedly aching chest. He's not okay. He's really, really not.
"You're okay," Sam says anyway, mostly to reassure himself. His voice shakes and his own heart continues to race as he falls back against the wall and puts a hand to his pounding head.
Dean is still white as a sheet, gasping and spluttering as his boot heels scuff against the rug. He's making noises like a fish stranded on a dock as he struggles to work lungs that haven't inflated in nearly five minutes.
GOD, Dean. What the hell were you thinking?
The lecture he'd prepared is on the tip of his tongue, but Sam swallows it back, because he's pretty sure he doesn't want to know what Dean was thinking. Or maybe he's just afraid that he already knows. He shoves away from the wall and puts a firm hand on his brother's heaving chest, comforts himself with the presence of a heartbeat tripping beneath his palm, though its uneven and dangerously fast.
Dean doesn't attempt to shake him away, just sits and stares blankly at the floor as his strained breathing begins to even out. With a tug of his collar, Sam confirms two neat holes marking his brother's chest, already ringed with dark bruising. One is the size of a dime, the first injection delivered hard and fast so Dean couldn't second-guess himself. Couldn't stop himself.
And so Sam couldn't stop him.
God, Dean.
What the hell were you thinking?
Dean's died a hundred different ways and not all of them were bloody, but with this one he has hardly a scratch on him. Instead, it's Sam who feels brutalized.
They call in the bodies. There's no need for paramedics but they come anyway, in the first wave of response vehicles, an ambulance pulling silently and without ceremony up the gravel drive behind the state troopers.
From the porch, Sam watches the caravan approach with a painfully clenched jaw. "You should let them check you out." He doesn't even want to think about the trauma his brother's just put his heart through, the serious, potentially permanent damage Dean might have inflicted on himself. But that doesn't mean he can ignore it.
Especially since this isn't the first time Dean's done something like this. Far from it.
His brother doesn't straighten from his lean against the railing. Dean's throat works around a swallow, and he manages a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. "What am I supposed to tell them, Sam?"
"I know. I just…" He just needs someone to tell him that his brother is going to be okay. Because from where he's standing, Dean looks about as bad, about as not fucking okay as he ever has. And that's not even taking into consideration wherever the hell his head may be.
His big brother's eyes are hooded and dull and his color is appalling, but not so bad, Sam supposes, for a man who was DEAD less than an hour ago. Dean looks exhausted and sick and in a decent amount of pain, leaning heavily on the railing like he'd be in a heap on the floor without it. Sam had to help him out of the house, a steadying, precautionary hand at his brother's elbow as Dean limped along. There's no real rhythm to his breathing, which is shallow and audible from across the porch, and every few minutes a spasm racks his hunched frame.
They've done this song and dance before, not too damn long ago, and Sam knows this is a precarious situation, and there's not much he can do for Dean. Knows it's likely going to be a rough night, for them both.
Right on cue, Dean sucks in a breath, squeezes his eyes shut and presses a hand to his chest. He frowns as he folds over the railing, and what pitifully little color is left in his face drains out.
Sam's own abused heart hiccups. "Dean?"
"I'm good." He straightens, mostly, and jerks his chin toward the arriving officers. "We should do this."
Sam holds out a hand, pinning his brother in place before he face-plants onto the boards. "I got it. You just…stay back. Take it easy." He trots down the porch steps just as a large black vehicle takes the turn into the long driveway, fishing his badge out of his jacket pocket.
His breath catches at the sight of the coroner's van, remembering the eerie stillness of his brother on that landing upstairs, and he can't believe this is where they are.
Dean probably shouldn't be driving.
Sam had just been so thrown by the desolation in his brother's words that when Dean pulled the keys from his pocket and dropped behind the wheel of the Impala, he'd moved somewhat robotically to the passenger side of the car. His head had been swimming with such emotional turmoil, there wasn't any room left for rational thought.
So now you don't believe anymore?
I just need a win. I just need a damn win.
Sam knows that feeling well, and he also knows that Dean definitely shouldn't be driving right now.
His brother grunts, fingers tightening around the steering wheel as he absorbs the obvious flare of pain in his chest.
Sam feels a flare of his own, of sympathy, because Dean really must feel like shit, but there's also a red-hot anger building inside. He's furious with his brother, at what he's done, and there's a lot he wants to say to the man. To demand of him.
Where the hell did you get that crap?
How long have you been packing a suicide kit in the weapons bag?
And then there are the things he needs to say, that he should have said when he last found himself with this gruesome opportunity.
You can't ever do this again.
There's a lot of information for Sam to process: Billie as Death, and her statement – or possibly threat – that he and his brother are important and have work to do. But he also has an obligation to his brother, a responsibility to make sure this moment doesn't get away from him like the last one did. Sam has a horrible habit of speaking up too late, but that's not a luxury he has now. Not when he's just watched his brother kill himself like it was the only option they had on a flavor-of-the-week ghost hunt. Dean's heart has been through the wringer, emotionally and very much literally, and he really will be lucky if there's no permanent damage done from whatever was in those needles.
They drive ten miles or so in silence, and each passing minute takes an obvious toll on Sam's big brother. Fine lines appear and deepen at the corners on Dean's eyes, and his shoulders sag in exhaustion. In the late morning light, his complexion is atrocious, verging on gray.
Sam shifts on the bench seat and exhales, rubs a hand down the thigh of his jeans. "Dean."
"I'm good, Sam."
"No, you're not. But that's not what I was gonna say."
"Okay." His brother doesn't look over, visibly stiffening in anticipation. Because Dean might not know for sure what's coming, but he knows he's not going to like it. "What were you going to say?"
"What you did back there, Dean…you can't do that again." Sam swallows, staring at the side of his brother's head. "You can't make a habit out of this. Like dying, even for a few minutes, isn't a big deal." He says it all knowing full-well that Dean already has.
Dean's throat works, but he doesn't speak.
And that's fine, because Sam is resigned, and settled in for the long haul. He's not going to push Dean, but he's not going to let this conversation die, either.
Dean fidgets, from the silence, or from the pain. He rolls his neck and clucks his tongue, then shifts the Impala to the side of the road, eases the car to a stop on the gravel berm. The engine pings, and the faint rasping whistle of Dean's breath is audible in the small space.
"You were dead, Sam," he finally says, voice low and hoarse. "I thought you were dead."
When you thought I was dead? What did you do?
I, uh…I knew you weren't dead.
Sam had been hurting plenty when they left the clinic, but not so badly to not notice his brother looking like shit. He had a hard time believing the words as they were coming out of Dean's mouth. Werewolves are strong but Dean had gone down way too easily when Corbin attacked, and he kept wincing when he thought Sam wasn't looking. It took all of three hours to call his brother on that particular load of bullshit. Or for Dean to call his own bullshit, when he all but collapsed in a gas station parking lot.
"I know." Sam drops his gaze, picks at a loose thread in his jeans.
"And twice isn't a habit," Dean adds, after a moment. He's trying to be funny, might even be forcing a tired, pained grin around the words, but it's lost on Sam.
A muscle in his jaw jumps, and he grinds his teeth. "Three."
His brother's eye twitches. "What?"
"Three times," Sam grits. He's venturing into uncharted territory here. This is one of those taboo topics they've never really chanced talking about, for obvious reasons. Well, fuck that. He can't hold his tongue any longer. "You've done this to yourself three times, Dean."
"What are you – "
"My soul?" Sam rotates on the seat to better face his brother, and doesn't pull his punches. "Death putting the wall in my head? Any of this ringing a bell?"
Dean's gaze darts over and back. He taps the pad of his thump against the wheel, slowly at first, then picking up tempo as he speaks. "Cas told you?"
"You should have told me, Dean. That you died. Again."
His brother tolls his eyes, looking drained and in a fair amount of pain. "Give me a break, Sam. Isn't there some kind of statute of limitations on you riding my ass?"
Sam shakes his head. "Not about this. Not about your life."
Dean thumps his palm lightly on the wheel. "We needed to know where those bodies were buried, Sam."
"We could have found another way," Sam argues. "One that didn't involve killing yourself." The words feel thick and choking on his tongue. He shakes his head, disgusted. "Where the hell did you even get that crap?"
Dean's fingers tighten once more around the steering wheel, knuckles whitening as he weighs the truth against Sam's expected reaction. "Doc Roberts."
Sam's no medical expert, but he's a collector of information, and knows a little bit about a lot of things. The incident in question – Dean's first foray into self-inflicted death – was nearly seven years ago, and that's well beyond the shelf-life of anything that could have been in those syringes. Even his dumbass brother isn't that stupid.
Right?
"When?" he forces through clenched teeth.
Dean sniffs, stalling as he once more does his dance with the internal weights. "'Bout a year."
Of course.
Grangeville. The werewolves in the woods. A phantom pain flares in Sam's belly.
God, Dean.
He thought they'd had it out then, in the aftermath of Dean's fucking overdose. When Sam was forced to ignore his own injury – which was nothing to make light of – to get his brother through the aftereffects of a shot of naloxone. Those twenty-four hours are a hazy blur, but it had been touch-and-go, a few times. He'd had to wrestle the details of how the hell did this happen from his brother between bouts of painful vomiting and short stretches of distressed, feverish rest. Sam still isn't sure he knows exactly how the day went down, but he knows enough.
He shakes his head, props his elbow on the door and chews a fingernail. After all of that, Dean had gone and secured himself a little insurance policy. A surefire way to force a conversation with a reaper, if the need ever arose again.
An eighteen-wheeler blows past, rocking the car. Dean turns his head, gaze blank and steady in a startlingly white face. He looks about two seconds away from melting into a puddle on the floorboards "What do you want me to say, Sam?"
He'd throttle the stupid son of a bitch if it wasn't the absolute last thing Dean needed. "I want you to promise me that this is done. That you won't do anything this stupid again."
Dean shakes his head, turns his attention back to the windshield. "I can't promise that, Sam," he says in a low, raw voice.
You have to, Sam's mouth drops open to argue, but he hears what his brother isn't saying, what that unbelievably frustrating statement really means. Because Dean's been in a bad place lately, but if he's still willing to put his own life on the line, not to save his brother but just to put a random handful of ghosts at peace, then there might yet be a light at the end of this horribly bleak tunnel.
Sam cocks his head, sighs. "Dude, you're a mess."
Dean offers a maybe-smile, a pained twist of his lips that only serves to highlight the exhaustion sharpening his features. "I'm not arguing with you."
"Yeah." Sam throws open the car door, sticks a leg out onto the berm. "You're not driving anymore, either."
I need you to keep the faith, for both of us, Deanhad said. He might not believe in much, but maybe there's a chance he still believes in Sam.
And that just might be enough.