I am so sorry for the delay! I know I promised this almost two weeks ago (yikes), but I kinda hit a snack-sized bit of panic about my story then. But I still have enough wonderful readers that I'm gladly posting this next chapter. Unfortunately, even after that little crisis, a series of unrelated events kept me from my story until just recently.
This chapter kinda exploded on me. I'm going to post it anyway, even though I know I'll regret not revising (tightening) it. Hope no one's forgotten my story, because it'd be a heck of a long fic to review!
This fic should've been beta'ed, but it isn't. All errors, typos, grammar mistakes, interpretations, and misinformation are mine.
Also, I changed the summary. So if you're someone who came in to read the "good parts", you might want to start at the very end of Chapter 20 and see how far you get.
Sam waited until the nurse came in to check up on his brother. She checked his vitals, gave Sam a reassuring smile, and then left.
Sam, his insides swimming, slowly went up to the bed. He studied his brother for a long moment before he finally forced himself to reach down. For a second his trembling hand hovered over Dean's shoulder. Then he dropped it and gave Dean a gentle shake.
"Dean," he said softly, hating himself. "Hey, Dean."
Dean slowly came awake, and Sam watched his expressions changed as he struggled with consciousness. "Sam?" he asked, his eyebrows drawn together.
"Hey, Dean," Sam replied, swallowing. "How are you feeling?"
He groaned, his face twisting. "Like crap," he replied hoarsely.
Sam nodded just to stall, unable to stand the weakness he heard in his voice. "Dad…Dad thinks we should leave."
It took a moment for his words to sink in, and he hoped they would be dismissed. But then Dean's eyes widened. "We left a body, didn't we?" Immediately he started to move, struggling to push himself up.
"Dean, do you really think…" Sam said hesitantly, thinking he should stop him from moving.
Dean cut him off sharply. "Sam, just help me get out of here," he replied in between pants.
"You can barely move," argued Sam, this time more confidently, as he watched his brother grimace in pain. "You'll rip something open," he warned, feeling sick.
"I'll be fine," Dean grumbled.
Sam gave up watching him struggle, knowing he wouldn't stop even with all the pain. He slid an arm behind him, and Dean didn't protest as he helped him sit up.
As Dean sucked in air from his new position, Sam surveyed him critically. "So, what--you're planning on walking—stumbling—out of here, just like that? In your hospital gown?"
Dean paused at that, and Sam had a brief flash of hope. "You're right," he admitted. "Is the car here? Go grab me some clothes."
"Dean!"
Dean cocked his head, unperturbed. "Get some for yourself, too. You look pretty scary, dude."
Sam almost refused, but somehow he found himself walking through the parking lot to the car and pulling out a change of clothes from their bags. It was the middle of the night, and he was alone rummaging through the Impala by the light from an overhead street lamp.
While he was there, he quickly pulled off his own shirt and replaced it with clean sweatshirt. He wanted to get Dean's blood off of him.
Once he was back in the room, he helped Dean into the button-down shirt and sweatpants. "They don't match," Dean complained, but Sam ignored him.
It was Dean who pulled the IVs out of his arm. Sam couldn't get himself to do it, but Dean didn't even hesitate. "You know how to turn off the monitor," Dean said, and Sam nodded, doing just that with a heavy feeling in his stomach.
"All right, let's get out of here," Dean announced. He pivoted, swinging his legs off the bed. Then he seemed to steel himself, and Sam didn't want to watch the look of pain he knew would pass over his face.
Sam stood beside him, wrapping an arm around his back. His brother didn't shrug him off, much to his worry and relief. He helped him stand, and Dean's knees buckled instantly.
But he quickly recovered, and Sam had to guide him to the door even as he was thinking he should push him back into the bed. Dean told him to check to see if the coast was clear. At that moment, no one was in sight, although the nurses' station stood only a few feet away.
Dean shook Sam off of him then, and Sam looked at him in alarm. "I can't look like a patient," Dean told him, rolling his eyes.
And then they slipped out of the room, stepping softly so their shoes didn't squeak against the tile. Dean refused help, but Sam made sure he stood next to him only inches away, just in case. Neither of them risked a glance at the nurses' desk as they passed.
Somehow they made it outside. Instantly Sam's arm went around Dean's back again and he walked him to the car. Dean looked even more pale underneath the lights of the parking lot, and his face was dotted with sweat by the time Sam helped him into the passenger side. "We can go back," Sam suggested, feeling helpless.
Dean shook his head and rested his head back against the seat. He was unconscious by the time Sam pulled out from the parking lot.
ooOOoo
Sam checked into a hotel fifteen miles away, the first he found outside of town. Dean was half-conscious as Sam half-supported, half-carried him into the room, but he was out again the moment his body was stretched out across the bed.
And while Dean slept, Sam paced the room, unable to ignore the fear that had been coursing through his veins since the moment he raced into the basement.
Eventually exhaustion overcame him and he crawled into the second bed. He hadn't slept since two nights ago, he realized. The night before their father had called after their vampire hunt, before they could get to sleep, and they'd been up ever since.
He slept fitfully, but still it was late morning before he woke. Dean remained asleep.
Sam tried to call their dad, but he got his voice mail instead.
Dean was pale, still in the bed next to him, and Sam was angry. Vibrating. The hotel room was too small, the television programming too maddening, the laptop too useless. And he could almost understand why John left. But only almost.
Dean woke up sometime mid-afternoon. Sam noticed the moment he rolled his head to the side and cracked an eyelid open. "Aw, goddammit," his brother hissed under his breath.
Sam helped him sit up and handed him two painkillers from Dean's emergency stash. It wasn't as good as the stuff they would've given him at the hospital, but Sam didn't want his thoughts to go down that path again. Dean gratefully took them from him, as well as the glass of water Sam had kept by his bedside.
"Where's Dad?" Dean asked after he swallowed the water.
Sam froze.
"Is he going to meet us here?" Dean went on.
Sam's heart sank, becoming a heavy weight in his chest. He knew he would ask, but he hadn't expected it so quickly. So…instantly.
"No," he told him.
Even though he didn't want to see the emotions he knew would strike Dean then, he watched his older brother carefully anyway.
But Dean only lifted his chin slightly. "Oh." A hand slowly came up to scratch the bandages surrounding his middle. "So…Where'd he go?"
"Um…" Sam stalled. He knew how weak the words would sound, but the only explanation he had was the one John gave him. "He--He said he needed some time. He just needs…to reflect."
His brother swallowed hard, but his face remained impassive. Sam noticed how he wasn't letting him see his eyes. Then he dropped his head and looked down at his lap. Sam didn't know what to say, so he remained quiet.
"Heh," Dean said after a moment, giving a small snort. He looked back up again, glancing at Sam. "Big tough guy needs to meditate. Our father's gone soft, Sammy."
Sam wanted to call him on his bullshit. But he didn't. Neither of them had the energy for it. "Yeah," he replied half-heartedly. "I guess he did."
ooOOoo
Dean slept through the rest of the day and most of the next, only stirring to stumble into the bathroom or to throw a couple of pills into his mouth. Neither of the brothers said much to each other during those brief moments. Sam still didn't know what to say, and Dean didn't look like he wanted to talk.
The rest of the time, while Dean was unconscious, Sam was left with only himself for company. It wasn't long before he was certain he'd go completely crazy. There was never anything interesting on the hotel's limited TV channels and his laptop gave him little to do since they no longer had any hunt to research. Even though he wasn't hungry, he ordered food just to have something to do - but two days and five meals later, he was sick of pizza and Chinese.
The constant anger that had been keeping him company refused to leave him. It made his veins hum and his temples throb. He found himself standing up and pacing more often than not because his limbs refused to stop moving. He was so angry, but he had nowhere to vent.
The demon that had destroyed their lives was gone now. Just like that. At one point during the day, Sam took a couple of swings through the air with an imaginary sword, trying to remember the feel of the demon's flesh giving way underneath the blade.
He'd been in the hotel room for 48 hours straight when he finally decided he needed to get out. It was five in the morning, but he had gone to bed early the night before just because he couldn't stand the sight of the flickering television screen.
Dean was still asleep on the other bed and hadn't moved even after Sam took a shower. Sam checked him to make sure he was all right, immensely grateful for the sound of small breaths that filled the room. Once he was satisfied that Dean would be fine, Sam grabbed his wallet and headed out of the door.
It was impossible to not worry, so Sam wasn't gone for very long. He bypassed Dean's car, instead heading down the street on foot. He decided he would walk to the convenience store located just a few buildings over, figuring it would be one of the few places open.
It was a quiet morning, and the early sunlight softened the edges of the neglected neighborhood and bathed everything in a orange glow. The fresh, circulating air energized him after the stale air that filled in their room, and he took in deep lungfuls, unsure of when he'd get to breathe it again. The breeze seemed to wipe the thoughts clear from his mind, and Sam gratefully let them go.
Even though the road had no sidewalks, there was very little traffic, and he had no problems reaching the store. He walked through every aisle, even though he only planned on buying breakfast. Then he filled two cups of coffee and grabbed a couple of wrapped breakfast sandwiches, a bottle of orange juice, and some donuts. He also found a microwavable container of soup, which he had to heat up in the store's microwave since their room didn't have one. He didn't know when or what Dean would be able to eat, but the moment he was ready, Sam wanted to make sure he had something to put in his stomach.
As an afterthought, he grabbed a couple of magazines and paperback books without even looking at the covers. He needed something to do in the hotel room, and reading was as good as anything else.
Even with the unnecessary aisle time, the entire visit only took him ten minutes. With a coffee cup in each hand, the soup balancing on the top of one, and the bag of food and reading material hanging off his fingers, Sam strolled carefully back to the motel. Each step that brought him closer sent another thought flying back into his mind, taking the same spot it had been lingering in for the past two days.
He thought about their father, he thought about his own stupidity and mistakes, he thought about Dean stretched out on the bed with his pale face and sunken eyes. He thought about the demon that needed to die, and the satisfaction he should have felt. If only circumstances had been different, if only their obsession hadn't nearly gotten Dean killed.
All of these thoughts were over two days old, but Sam knew they would plague him for the rest of his life.
As the door to room 127 loomed before him, he found himself reluctant to go back to their new reality. He wondered if Dean had stirred yet, or if he still looked too much like a corpse.
But as he walked through the door, he found Dean sitting up in bed, yellowish under the light of the bedside lamp. His face was pale, and sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, but his eyes were alert, and they flicked over to Sam as he nudged the door close behind him.
Sam set his purchases on the desk, wishing he didn't suddenly feel bad for leaving. "Hey, I just went out for a moment," he found himself rushing to explain. "Just needed to stretch my legs, decided to pick up some breakfast."
"Yeah, I know."
That struck Sam as an odd statement, and Dean's tone sounded strange to him. "You know?" Sam repeated, bewildered. He hadn't told him what he was doing, hadn't even left a note.
"I mean, I knew you had a reason to be gone."
Sam wanted to curse, but he kept it to himself. "Yeah, I did," he said instead, pulling the food from the bag as he avoided Dean's gaze. "Do you think you can handle a sandwich?" he asked him. "I also heated up some soup. It might be lukewarm by now, but…"
"I'll take both," Dean replied. "I'm starving."
"I bet," Sam remarked, handing him the sandwich and bottle of orange juice. He also set coffee and the soup on the bedside table next to him. "How are you feeling?"
Dean shrugged. "Fine, as long as the painkillers kick in."
Sam wanted to ask more, but in all the years he'd spent with his brother, he still hadn't figured out how to get him to open up. "Is there anything you'd like to talk about?" he asked. "Anything you need to say?"
"Like what?"
Sam sighed. He hadn't expected anything more. "Is there anything you need to talk about?" Dean asked him pointedly. Sam frowned and shook his head.
"No," he replied resignedly.
They ate in relative silence, and Sam decided to focus on the food. The sandwich was just as bland as he suspected it would be, but it filled his stomach and gave him something to do. He glanced over at Dean, looking to see if the food was making him nauseous. His sandwich lay abandoned on its wrapper, but he was relieved it looked at least halfway eaten, and that Dean was now drinking the soup. With any luck, all of it would stay down.
Once they were finished, as Sam gathered their trash, he opened his mouth to ask Dean something. But he lost his nerve and closed it again. There wasn't any rush; he could ask later.
Dean noticed though. "Yeah?" he asked.
Sam hesitated. Then he shifted uncomfortably, giving Dean a helpless, apologetic look. It wasn't his original intention, but it was necessary. "I should change your bandages," he told him, trying to keep the nervousness from his voice.
He'd done it before, but this would be the first time Dean would be awake for it. The first time he'd have to do it under unforgiving daylight instead of in the soft glow from the bathroom.
Dean grumbled a token protest, but Sam knew he understood how important it was to keep infection away. After washing his hands, Sam took out their supplies and sat on the bed next to his brother. Dean turned around obligingly and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the white bandages underneath.
As Sam unwrapped the gauze, he tried to steel himself for the sight of Dean's injury. But as he peeled the last of the bandages away, his breath still caught in his throat.
The wound, the slash the demon had sliced across his middle, was red and ugly and…huge.
The image of Dean on the ceiling flashed unyielding through his mind. The wide eyes, the pale skin, the gaping wound that seemed to have swallowed his entire abdomen. That gaping wound, the one that would forever haunt his mind, superimposed itself over the stitched cut Sam was now staring at. As hard as he tried, he couldn't blink that image away.
"How are you not dead?" he whispered under his breath.
He hadn't meant to say that out loud, and he heard the words come from his mouth the same instant Dean did.
It sent them both into an uncomfortable silence. After a moment, Dean finally shrugged in response. "Guess my family has good instincts. You guys got there just in time, didn't you."
Just in time? Sam thought bitterly. Just in time would have been right before the demon slashed Dean across the stomach and pinned him to the ceiling. There never should have been a "just in time." They should have researched more, should have known the demon's strengths as well as they knew its weaknesses so just-in-times never would've happened.
Sam wondered if Jessica had been still alive that moment he saw her pinned. He wondered if she had died instantly, or if she was forced to stare down at the bed as her life slowly leaked out of her. He wondered how long she had been up there, and if a just-in-time could have been possible.
He wondered how close he had come to seeing Dean swallowed by the same flames that took Jessica.
"And, I don't know, maybe Miss Valerie helped."
When Dean spoke, his words brought Sam from his thoughts. He tore his gaze from Dean's abdomen, suddenly realizing he'd been quiet for too long, and he recognized Dean's awkward attempt at filling the silence.
His statement, though, made no sense to him. "Who's Miss Valerie?" he asked. The change in conversation spurred him into action, and as he spoke, he started to work on redressing Dean's wound.
Dean shrugged lightly. "She's a voodoo priestess I helped out once, right before I came and took you from Stanford." Sam nodded once, remembering that Dean had mentioned something about New Orleans that night.
Dean flinched as Sam applied an antibiotic ointment, but he went on as if nothing had happened. "Anyway, she placed some kind of protection spell around me. It's not foolproof or anything, more like a buffer. But who knows, maybe that was enough to make a difference."
Sam looked up from his task, cocking an eyebrow. "You let her put a spell on you?" He never thought Dean would've believed in that kind of thing, let alone risk it.
"Yeah, I trust her. She's a good person, knew what she was doing." He smirked. "I had her place one on you, too, you know."
Sam gaped at him. "What? When?"
"After the whole Bloody Mary thing. Stole a couple of your hairs from the bathroom, sent it to her." He saw Sam's expression. "Hey, it's just a simple spell, no big deal."
Sam snorted. "You could have at least told me."
"It didn't seem worth mentioning. I don't know how effective it is, or if it even works." He shrugged again. "And besides, I felt kinda stupid stuffing hair into an envelope and sending it to some chick in New Orleans."
"But you did anyway."
"Hey, it was worth a shot," he replied, pressing his lips together in a sardonic way.
The image of Dean hanging above him flashed through Sam's mind again, and Sam found himself nodding in agreement. They needed all the help they could get. They've escaped death too many times.
ooOOoo
The next several days passed by dully, especially compared to their usual lifestyle. The hotel room, like many before it, became their temporary home as Dean slowly recovered.
He could move on his own, but only barely, and he preferred to stay wherever he ended up, usually at some position in his bed. A few times, for example, he moved to the end of his bed to watch TV, and when sitting up without support grew to be too much for him, he'd let himself fall backwards, merely twisting his head around so he could still see the screen.
Sam refused to leave him alone, remaining inside in the room the entire time. He wasn't exactly sure why. Even Dean tried to convince him to get some fresh air, but he didn't want to leave. He was afraid of the cheerful sun and fresh air that lay outside their room. The temptation was too great.
Just as he had before, Sam changed the bandages on Dean's wound regularly, checking carefully for signs of infection.
But each time, Dean caught him staring a little too long at the long, thick gash, found Sam's stressed expression to be a little too disturbing, and within a couple of days he insisted on changing them himself. Sam tried to change his mind, told him it was easier if he just let him do it, but Dean disagreed with his usual stubbornness and refused to be convinced otherwise. He also stopped changing in front of him, Sam realized after a while.
Even with Dean as company, Sam still found himself slowly drifting towards insanity. He knew his pacing made Dean nervous and irritated, but he couldn't stop the blood from racing through his veins. When he couldn't stand it anymore, he tried to distract himself with the books and magazines he bought, and it worked, but only for short periods of time.
He went on his laptop whenever he could think of a way to kill time with it. The very first thing he did was look for a way to replace their dwindling supply of painkillers. After some searching, he found an online website that offered drugs without a prescription, and he ordered a refill with express delivery. He wouldn't have been surprised if it turned out to be a scam to get his credit card number, but they never paid their bills anyway. Fortunately, three days later the mailman arrived with a special delivery.
Just as Sam turned from the door, package in hand, he found Dean pressing his cell phone against his ear. Startled, Sam set the small box on the desk, but in his distraction he set it too close to the edge and it toppled to the carpeted floor.
Dean's voice filled the room in a sudden rush. "Hey, Dad, it's Dean. Just wanted to let you know I'm all right, and so's Sam."
Sam frowned as he picked the package from the floor.
"Um, where are you? Sam mentioned you needed some time, but…I'd really like to hear from you--you know, make sure everything's okay. So just…give me a call or whatever." He hesitated for a second before he slid the phone from his ear and snapped it shut.
Sam was watching him, but Dean didn't seem to notice.
"Hey, uh," Sam coughed awkwardly. He didn't like the emotionless look Dean was wearing. "I got you some goodies," he said, shaking the package in the air. "Painkillers."
"Oh, Sam," Dean replied, turning his head to look at him. Sam was relieved to see a smile start to form. "You really are my hero."
ooOOoo
Sam finally asked later that day. He figured it was time.
"Hey, Dean," he started. "You remember Rebecca?"
Dean looked at him with mild surprise. "Yeah, of course I remember Little Becky."
Sam raised an eyebrow, surprised he remembered that. Dean paid more attention than Sam would have thought, even to as small of a thing as a nickname. Apparently that was important enough to Dean in one way or another.
Sam took in a deep breath, steeling himself. "I was thinking maybe we could crash with her for a while," he said, keeping his voice casual and light.
Dean shook his head, openly confused. "Why would we do that?"
"She and Zach just moved back to Stanford, into this new, huge apartment," Sam explained. "They have an extra bedroom, and they offered it to me. To us. It'd be the perfect place for you to recuperate."
Irritation immediately flashed in Dean's eyes. "You were talking about us?" he said angrily. "So she thinks I'm some kind of invalid now?"
"No," Sam replied, exasperated. "This was a couple of weeks ago. She wanted to give me her new address, told me she had an empty bedroom if I ever needed a place."
"And what did you say?" Although Sam could tell he was holding back, his tone was close to accusatory.
Sam shrugged it off. "Nothing—much. The truth. That I wasn't coming back until we found the thing that killed Jessica."
"Which we just did." Once again Dean's voice had changed, this time sounding resigned and tightly constrained.
"We can stay there until we get settled," Sam went on quickly. "I could go back to school, you could find a job…"
Dean's reaction was instant. "What?" he sputtered.
"What else would we do?" Sam pointed out, spreading his arms out.
"What do you mean? We'll do what we've always done."
"But…" Sam shook his head. "It's over, Dean."
"Sam, it's never over."
Sam was afraid he'd say that. In fact, he knew he would say that. "This is, Dean. What we've been looking for our entire lives – it's finished now." And they almost lost Dean in the process. "We've done our part, we've made our sacrifices."
Dean's eyes narrowed and he looked away. "It's never over," he repeated.
ooOOoo
"Dammit, Dean."
Sam's mind was full with dark thoughts. With each passing moment, his feelings turned blacker, and since the conversation they had the day before, the deterioration only accelerated.
He continued trying to convince Dean, but his brother refused to listen to him. He wouldn't even talk to him. Instead, whenever Sam mentioned Stanford or hunting or their father, those walls slammed up.
And Sam found his own shell thickening. His jaw was perpetually clenched, and his eyeballs seemed to have hardened. His emotions ran the entire negative end of the spectrum. He went through anger, where he'd rail about the room with harsh shouts, and irritation as he bit out clipped words, and depression, when he'd barely speak at all, and desperation as all those other emotions melted together.
He just wanted Dean to talk to him. To tell him what the hell he was feeling. They hadn't discussed that night with the demon, even though it was almost a week ago, and they were still only fifteen miles away from where it happened. Dean never mentioned John either. That night, everything had changed - but he was acting as if it were all the same.
Wasn't Dean mad at their father?
Was he mad at Sam?
Was he disappointed? Did he blame them? Or did he accept it, maybe even expect it of them? While he was pinned to the ceiling, did he wonder where they were?
Didn't he see how this life was ruining them?
"Hey, Sam?" Dean asked suddenly, sounding hesitant. He was staring hard at himself in the mirror, and his eyes never left his own reflection. Even from his angle, Sam could see that his face still hadn't regained its full color. "Can I ask you a serious question?"
Sam looked at him with surprise. "Yeah, sure," he replied quickly, straightening up. "Of course."
Dean swiveled to face him, and Sam gave him what he hoped was a supportive look. "My scar…" he started. Then the corner of his lip twisted upwards. "Turn on or turn off?"
Sam blinked at him twice, and then his eyebrows came together. "W-What?"
"My scar, it's gonna look pretty damn ugly," Dean told him. "But I'm thinking, there's gotta be some chicks out there who dig that kinda thing, right?" Sam gaped at him as he continued thoughtfully. "I mean, as long as I have a cool back story, they shou-"
Sam jumped to his feet. "Dean," he exclaimed, interrupted angrily. "Come on!"
"What?" He seemed genuinely surprised by Sam's response. Sam realized he probably overreacted, and his tone had been more harsh than he intended.
But he had thought Dean was finally going to open up. When Dean wanted to ask a serious question, he had thought Dean would finally give him some clue about how he felt about everything that had happened. But instead, he'd just given him one of his usual jokes.
Sam scowled and looked away. "What's wrong with you?" Dean asked.
"What's wrong with you?" Sam shot back.
"Hey, I'm not the one who let a bug crawl up my butt and gave it an extended stay."
Sam slowly drew in several long, deep breaths. "Why are we still here, Dean?"
A moment passed as Dean seemed to consider his question. "You're right, Sam," he said, nodding. "We shouldn't be."
But Sam knew Dean didn't mean what he wanted him to mean – and he was right. Dean made his way to the desk and sat down in front of the laptop.
"What are you doing?" Sam asked warily.
"Finally getting off my lazy ass."
Sam protested immediately. "Dean, you're healing." But Dean's fingers were already flying over the keyboard.
Thirty minutes later, over Sam's continued arguments, he found a hunt in a town near Death Valley, only a few hours away. Sam listened as he explained, and his words throbbed through Sam's ears, a dull, annoying force Sam couldn't escape.
For the past several years, something had been digging up fresh graves and stealing bodies. Later, the bones of those bodies would be found scattered out in the wilderness somewhere. Authorities suspected coyotes or wolves. But recently, people had started to disappear from the outskirts of the same town, their mangled remains turning up later. And while they still blamed desperate wild dogs, the attacks seemed too vicious and the prey too large for typical coyote behavior.
The case was made stranger by statements made by two separate witnesses. The first came from a man, Laurence, who had been hiking with a friend. His friend had sprained an ankle, and as Laurence helped him make his way back, they heard a horse whinny somewhere off of the trail. His friend hobbled to investigate while Laurence stayed behind, uninterested and exhausted after supporting his friend. He never saw his friend again.
The second statement came from a young lady named Audrey. She and her sister, Gina, had also been hiking when they saw a golden retriever playing just off of the trail. Audrey hated dogs, but her sister, who instantly felt sorry for the dog all alone in the middle of nowhere, chased after it even as it ran out of sight. Gina's remains were found two days later.
"Eater of the dead, picking off weary desert travels, maybe even shapeshifting abilities…" Dean listed with a grim-but-triumphant raised eyebrow.
Sam sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Sounds like some kind of a ghoul type creature," he admitted despite himself.
"If we hurry, we can get there before nightfall."
"Tonight?" Sam sputtered. "Dean, you're not exactly in the right condition-"
"What am I supposed to do?" Dean retorted, cutting him off. "Sit around 'healing' while it kills another innocent person?"
Sam shook his head when Dean stood up, unable to hide a grimace. "This is insane, Dean," he said. "You can't expect us to jump right into another hunt so soon after—" But he stopped himself when Dean shot him a look. "You're hurt," Sam said evenly. "You're not at a hundred percent."
He knew he had offended Dean, who took any insinuation that he couldn't do his job as an insult to his manhood. Dean couldn't argue his point, so he stubbornly refused to say anything.
"It's not our responsibility," Sam went on, ignoring his glare. Immediately he knew that was the wrong thing to say.
"It became our responsibility the moment we found out about it," Dean replied. At Sam's glare, he went on. "Dad raised us to fight these evils, to protect others."
Sam spoke slowly and deliberately. "Dad's not here anymore."
"Don't you think I know that?" Dean shot back, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. "But there's an evil out there, and people who need protecting. I don't have any other choice. I gotta keep up the good fight, no matter what."
Sam stood up then. "And how many choices do you think I have?"
A weird, ill look came over Dean's face, and Sam wasn't sure which nerve he struck. "That's not funny, Sam," he said. "Don't even start with that."
So Sam didn't.
He didn't explain how everything had changed, how his options had narrowed sharply into a single point. He didn't explain how Dean was his only choice.
"I'm going," Dean said. "With or without you."
ooOOoo
Sam couldn't believe they were back to hunting so soon. He couldn't believe he was back to hunting at all.
From the moment he first slammed the Impala trunk shut after Jessica's death, even if it wasn't explicit, Sam had planned on returning to school as soon as they killed the demon once and for all. He'd only hunted to get closer to that objective, and even though he had some good times with his brother, and even though he felt as if he had done some real good for a lot of people, he couldn't wait to get out of that world again.
But they screwed it up. The one thing they had been preparing for their whole lives, and they screwed it up. And now their father was gone, and it was only Sam and Dean. And if Sam left, there would only be Dean.
Sam hated himself. If only he had insisted on researching more. After all, he was the scholarly one, wasn't he? The reasonable, level-headed one? He should have known better.
If they hadn't been completely coldcocked by the demon like they had, their dad wouldn't have left them alone, and Sam would have been free to leave the two behind. And if John had gone away anyway, Sam at least would have known Dean could take care of himself. He knew that the two of them could make their own decisions, and if Dean wanted to continue hunting after Sam went back to school, that was his choice. He knew what he was doing. Sam had been prepared for that, even back when he suspected his father might have been dead.
But that night changed everything.
Now…
Sam was absolutely terrified that Dean would end up on that ceiling again. That if he left, one day he'd get a call telling him Dean had been found mauled to death or completely drained of blood or slashed to pieces or any other of a number horrible, bloody, painful deaths they'd come across in all their years.
So when Dean packed up and threw his things in the Impala, Sam had no choice but to follow. He found himself behind the wheel – he insisted – taking the two of them to small town near the outskirts of Death Valley so they could stop a ghoul from devouring human flesh.
When they arrived a few hours later, they found the trail where the most people had disappeared. It was night by the time the two Winchesters started walking it, but the moon provided enough light for them to see. They had to go at night, since all the attacks had occurred around sundown or later.
Dean should have more sense, Sam thought. He knew better than to go into a hunt at less than full capacity. But that knowledge seemed to have disappeared. "Ghouls tend to pick off the weak and injured," Dean reasoned. "That's why I'm perfect for the job."
Sam walked at his side, unable to watch him shuffle along the trail but unwilling to let him out of his sight. He knew Dean was emphasizing his pained expression and suffering walk to attract the creature - but he couldn't stand knowing his show was based in truth.
To kill the ghoul, it had to be completely destroyed, through such means as decapitation or fire. Sam carried a sword that looked like a walking cane, and Dean had the flare gun. By all means it should be a simple kill – ghouls sometimes possessed supernatural strength and speed as well as the ability to change into animal guises, but they were generally mindless and easy to overwhelm if as long as one knew what they were doing – and if anyone knew what he was doing, it was a Winchester.
But when Sam heard the barking of an injured dog, he froze.
The sound came from Dean's side of the trail, and Sam couldn't move as Dean started towards it. He saw Dean move away from, watched his back as Dean marched calmly towards battle. The only thing he could hear was the barking dog, the call of a vicious ghoul that had been terrorizing the area. With each step that took Dean closer towards the sound, the bark echoed more loudly, more harshly in Sam's ear.
Then Dean's foot slipped against a loose rock, and he yelped in pain as his middle was jostled from the sudden jolt. It ripped Sam from his seized thoughts, spurring him to action.
Sam jogged to catch up, quickly coming to Dean's side. By then Dean had recovered and was continuing on his way, acknowledging Sam with an exasperated glance.
They stepped through the scraggy brush that littered the dusty ground, following the sound of barking down a shallow embankment.
Eventually Sam could make out the shadowy form of a golden retriever, standing out in the open, its head cocked in an innocent manner. At once, Sam slid his sword from his cane and Dean pulled out the flare gun.
The dog reacted just as quickly. In a flash, it had turned into a gangly form, a haggard, corpse-like man. A ghoul, after all. Before either of them could react, it leapt at them, targeting Dean who was half a step closer.
Dean jumped back just in time, and its claws slashed through only air. But Dean lost his footing and stumbled backwards, falling to the ground on his backside. He quickly lifted his flare gun and aimed it at the ghoul's chest, but the creature swiped at him, knocking the weapon out of his hands.
The entire sequence only took a couple of seconds, but while Sam was watching it happen, while he saw his brother sprawled on the ground, gasping with fresh pain, he felt his blood rise into a explosive crescendo inside him, and he burst forward through a haze of red.
He had his sword in his hand, yet he used his free arm and shoulder to ram into the ghoul and yank it to the ground.
Something came over Sam as he stood looking down at its inhuman, ghoulish face. With rage coursing through, Sam kicked the thrashing creature hard, sending his boot crashing into its ribs. He heard them crack under his blow, and he rammed his foot into the side again. The ghoul let out an inhuman shriek, lifting its arms to slash razorlike claws at Sam. Sam easily avoided them, ramming the heel of his boot into its chest.
Then Sam took a hold of his sword and started whaling blows on the ghoul, swinging his sword through the air again and again. Each twick as the sword sliced through flesh had Sam sending his blade through the air again, desperate to hear that sound again. The sword swung faster and faster.
"Sam!" But Sam ignored Dean's voice, lashing at the demon below him, his blade flashing against the moonlight with each frantic pass. Sam kept hacking at the body, his muscles straining from the force of his blows, but it was an ache he needed more of.
"Sam!"
And then arms were threading through his, restraining him, pulling him backwards. "Sam!" Dean said again, his voice breathless and harsh near Sam's ear. "It's okay! You got him!"
Sam panted and dropped his sword, breaking away from Dean's grip. He ignored Dean's concerned expression. The ghoul was now only a mangled body, and Sam had to look away.
To be sure, Dean lit a match and tossed it down. The orange flames spread quickly, drawing Sam's attention and filling his vision entirely, and he watched with dulled senses as they consumed the ghoul's dead body. Sam wondered how many tongues of fire he had seen in his life. He wondered how many more he would see.
ooOOoo
That night, Jessica hung above him, just as she had many nights before. Her eyes were wide, gaping, horrified, the last look she would ever wear. The last emotion she would ever experience. Her face was lifeless, her body bloodied along the middle.
Sam stared up at her, calmly. He was used to this by now. This was what was given to him. This tragedy, this horror – his life was full of them. That was his life.
And he shouldn't have been surprised when Jessica's image was replaced with Dean's. Her eyes became his. Frozen with the same horror. But this time, his lips didn't move because Sam was too late.
"You did this, Sam," he heard his father say. "You fix this, Sam." John stood somewhere behind him, unseen, but Sam didn't turn to him. He couldn't. Dean was hanging above him.
"I don't know how," Sam replied. "Dad, help."
But his dad was no longer there. His footsteps echoed with hollow thuds until they slowly faded away. The two brothers were left alone.
"Goddamn, this hurts," Dean suddenly said. His eyes were still frozen wide, the look of terror still plastered to his face, but his voice was the same tone Sam had heard countless times before. "Sam, gimme my shotgun and holy water."
Sam stared up him, unable to move. Dean's blood dripped on his forehead.
And finally Sam was ripped from his nightmare, coming awake with a gasp.
But a bright image of Dean was still hovering before him, somewhere passed the foot of his bed, and for a long, disorienting moment, he thought he was still trapped inside his dream. In the dark hotel room, Dean was strangely illuminated against the wall. He was bent over, his face twisted in pain, one arm bracing him upright, the other one holding his shirt open so that his wound was bared.
The image burned itself into Sam's mind, and he couldn't look away. And then he realized he was looking at the wall mirror reflecting the mirror in the bathroom, where Dean was standing, braced against the sink, his back hunched and tense. His face twisted in pain. And it was real and Sam still couldn't look away.
The image swam and blurred before him as Sam felt his eyes begin to fill, and the water grew too heavy and broke away into tears.
He hunched over then himself, grabbing handfuls of the bedspread and dragging them towards him, just to get himself to stop shaking. His chest heaved as the air in his lungs exploded outwards, and his throat tried to hold it back. But the sob escaped with an abrupt gasp, and it somehow released all the snot and tears that had gathered in his nose and in the next moment he tried to sniff it back, and the air he drew in left through his mouth in another shaky gasp.
But he couldn't stop. He clenched his eyes shut, but still he couldn't escape his nightmare.
"Oh, Jesus, Sam, what is it?" Dean asked, his voice suddenly beside him. "What's wrong? What is it?"
But the short, sudden sprint from the bathroom left his brother panting, and though he tried to suppress it, Sam could hear the pain in his voice. And Sam shook his head, unable to speak, his throat and chest constricting, and his face wet and full.
"Sam, it's okay. You hear me? Everything's all right."
He didn't want to do this, not in front of Dean, not at all, but he couldn't stop, and the harder he tried, the worse the hiccups became. Maybe the room was too dark and suffocating, maybe he was too exhausted and helpless. Maybe he'd been clinging to his anger for so long, the despair he'd been ignoring finally broke through. So he let it out, unable to look at Dean, forcing himself to focus on his breathing, but unable to force the images from his mind.
His voice came out as a wet gasp, a broken sob. "When will this be over?" he asked Dean.
ooOOoo
Dean was quiet the next day, and his face unusually pale. He seemed to drift away for long periods, his eyes focused on some faraway object, his back tense and his arms wrapped loosely but protectively around his middle.
At one point, he locked himself away in the bathroom, but he apparently forgot how thin the walls were. Sam could hear the low tone of his voice, and as the closer he crept, the more words he could make out. Dean had called their father, he realized, and by the one-sided conversation Sam was hearing, he knew Dean was forced to leave a message. Sam walked back to his bed and let himself fall backwards, his body bouncing against the mattress. After a moment, Dean came back out, but neither of them mentioned the phone call.
"Why are you still here, Sam?" Dean finally asked around midday. It was the first thing he said to Sam since he'd woken up that morning. From any other person, his tone would have sounded casual. But from Dean, it sounded hesitant, almost timid.
"Why do you think?"
Sam winced at his own words, at the tired desperation he let show, but he couldn't find the energy to apologize, so he sighed instead.
He blamed Dean, and he blamed himself, and he blamed their father. And at the same time, he couldn't blame anyone.
"Why do you do this, Dean?" he tried asking, treading on achingly familiar ground. "What do you really want?"
"Why can't you understand this is what I want?"
ooOOoo
Later that day, Dean, stubborn as always, found rumors of a goatman running around in Idaho. The new hunt seemed to shake him awake, shake off the cloud that had muffled him and made him gray. "Scientific experiment gone awry," he told Sam, his voice finding life for the first time that day. His lips even twisted into his usual smirk.
"A scientific experiment gone awry?" Sam echoed dubiously.
"Scientific experiment gone awry," Dean confirmed, his smirk widening into a mischievous grin. "C'mon Sam, this sounds like a fun one."
It made Sam mad. It made him mad because his brother couldn't find happiness anywhere else. Because what he saw in his brother's face at that moment couldn't be true happiness. Because his brother went on doing the only thing he'd ever done, refusing to change. Because his brother thought he needed this hunt. Because his brother was still in pain.
Because the hunt sounded ridiculous. Sam closed his eyes briefly. "We're going to Idaho for a…goatman?"
"Yep," Dean said, nodding. "You know how goats like to eat tin cans and rubber tires?"
Sam snorted in spite of himself. "I've seen cartoons…"
"Yeah, well, this goatman's developed a taste for human flesh."
Sam felt like banging his head against something, or maybe his fist. Or maybe he just wanted to laugh. The same crazy, unbelievable insanity. The same mortal dangers. The same freaky mess. "Don't you realize how stupid that sounds?" he asked him.
Dean cocked a shoulder. "Stupid or not, someone has to put a stop to it."
"But why does that have to be you?"
Dean's lighthearted demeanor instantly changed when he realized Sam still hadn't let go of his earlier protests. Sam felt somewhat bad, but this was more important than Dean's ruined good mood.
Dean's arms went around his middle again, a habit he had quickly formed. "What other choice do I have?"
This again, Sam thought wearily. "You keep saying that," he told him. "You have plenty of choices."
But Dean shook his head. "No, Sam, I don't." As he explained, his voice took on a tremble so slight Sam wasn't sure if it were really there. "My whole life, I've never had a choice. I didn't have a choice when Mom went away. I didn't have a choice when you left for college. I didn't have a choice when Dad decided to leave me—leave us—behind."
Sam's stomach flinched, deeply upset by the emotion in Dean's voice but frustrated with his logic. "None of us had a choice when Mom was killed," he argued, refusing to be deterred by sympathy or guilt. "As for me and Dad leaving, those were our choices to make. And you have that same choice."
"No, Sam," Dean instantly shot back. "I never had a choice. Not since the moment I saw evil take away my mother and destroy my family. There is no choice, not to me."
Sam studied him for a long moment. "I don't have a choice either."
"What the hell?" Dean said, sounding surprised. "Of course you do."
"No, I don't. Not as long as I have to take care of your ass."
Dean's eyes widened and his face became drawn. "What? Is that why—"
He stopped himself with a quick, angry shake and then started over. "Is that what you think? I can take care of myself, dammit."
And Sam knew he could. Dean was strong, was smart when it came to hunting. But it only took one mistake. It only took being blindsided one time with no one providing backup. The way Dean recently insisted on charging into battle even though he was injured did nothing to allay Sam's fears.
And Sam couldn't get rid of the image of Dean on the basement ceiling.
ooOOoo
Sam just wanted it to be over. He wanted to finish it, wanted to be done with it as soon as possible. The whole thing was ridiculous.
"I can't believe we're risking ourselves for a 'scientific experiment gone awry,'" he muttered. And by ourselves, he really meant Dean, although he knew better than to say that out loud.
Dean was lumbering beside him, an arm clenched around his middle as he stepped carefully over tree roots and fallen branches. His other hand held a gun, steady as ever – but he had to compensate for that by going slower. He still didn't have all of his energy or strength, and his forced movements revealed the pain his wound still gave him.
It made Sam sick to see his brother like that. He should have tried harder to stop him. Made him at least wait until he was better. But Dean kept using the same argument, one he knew Sam couldn't deny. "What if this bastard kills someone else while we sit back and do nothing?"
But, Sam pointed out, it wouldn't do anyone any good if Dean ended up dead. Yet Dean was convinced he was invincible. Or that it was worth risking his life. Or some ridiculous crap like that.
All for some freak of nature.
Sam's frustration felt too close to anger for him to tell the difference. He reacted in the same way. While Dean was picking his way carefully through the forest, Sam stomped ahead.
He would finish this before Dean could do anything stupid. He would finish this, kill the bad guy, and they could get back to the hotel room where Sam would try to convince Dean that this was no life and Dean would continue to ignore him. Sam knew it was pointless, but he was sick and tired of it all.
He was sick and tired of walking through the woods, armed and ready for a fight. He was sick and tired of putting his life and his brother in danger. He was sick and tired of wondering which fight would be the end of them.
Sam crashed through the forest towards the suspected lair of the goatman. His training kicked in, and his footsteps were mostly quiet, but still, he thundered through the trees and brush, throwing branches aside and letting them snap back, their tips slapping against him and scratching across his sides.
He knew he was being reckless and foolish, and even though he wasn't ready to die, dying didn't seem quite as bad as it used to – at least he wouldn't have to deal with hunting anymore. And even though he didn't really mean it, the sentiment pushed him forward, made him brash and uncaring.
And as he stormed through the forest, a sudden dip took him off guard, and though he tried to keep his footing, he was going too fast and the sharp decline tripped up his feet and pulled them from under him. He fell forward, crashing to his hands and knees, and the momentum sent him tumbling sideways until he was rolling down the hillside.
As he rolled, his body and limbs slammed against rocks and sharp twigs until the hill spilled him at the bottom. The impact knocked the gun out of his hand and sent it flying out of reach.
Sam groaned and cursed to himself as he gathered himself together so he could push himself up. He was so angry he almost felt like crying. But instead, he got his knees and hands underneath him and managed to climb to his feet. He ached all over, but fortunately, none of it was severe. Bruises and scratches only, he realized after a quick assessment. Nothing broken.
But it hurt like hell and was just so stupid.
Sam stumbled towards where his gun had landed, trying to keep his gasps to himself. Yep, what a pair he and his brother made. Letting themselves get beaten up on a regular basis.
His handgun had skidded out of sight and Sam had to rummage through the brush to find it. Gritting his teeth, he bent over as he ran his eyes over the ground, cursing the hidden weapon all the while. He hoped Dean was still far behind him because the last thing he wanted to hear was whatever remark he knew Dean would come up with.
And then something sharp and solid slammed into his back.
It caught him near his shoulderblade and sent him sprawling to the ground. Sam instantly knew he was in trouble, and he rolled over, ignoring the fresh pain that radiated from his back.
The monster stood snorting over him. It looked almost like a satyr, only its parts weren't as neatly defined. It had the legs of a goat and a hairy torso, but its hands were human, and his face was melted between the two. Two horns gave it a devilish appearance, but it looked more hungry and animalistic than actually evil. The drool streaming from his mouth only added to that.
It lifted one of its hoofed legs and struck downwards. Sam rolled out of the way right before it could pin him. He shot out his arms to his left and right, vainly searching for his gun while keeping his attention on the goatman.
He rolled back as the leg came down again, striking against the dirt next to his neck. Sam gasped, and the stamping leg forced him to roll once more.
But this time brought him wedged against a tree trunk and he had no more room to move. Sam looked up at the goatman helplessly, his arms still searching for steel or even a heavy piece of wood and finding nothing.
But Dean…
On cue, two shots rang out. At least one hit their mark. Sam lay frozen except for his jaw, which alternatively clenched and fell open with shaky convulsions as he tried to get air into his lungs. Above him, the goatman wavered and moaned before it toppled to the side, crashing to the forest floor with one last shudder. As it fell down and out of the way, Sam saw Dean standing behind it, panting, his smoking gun held tightly in his hands.
ooOOoo
"How could you let a goatman get the best of you?" Dean demanded. "Jesus, Sam…"
Sam ignored him, refusing to even hiss as Dean applied disinfectant to his wound. "Look at you. Your back's a mess. You're lucky as hell you didn't break anything." Sam clenched his jaw but didn't say anything.
"What the hell were you thinking, Sam?" Dean went on angrily as he pressed a bandage against his back. "You gotta get it together, or you're going to get yourself killed! I can't always protect you, not when you space out, and not when you run off like that."
"Protect me?" Sam finally spoke. "We protect each other."
He pulled away from Dean, standing up and shrugging into his shirt, pulling it down over his newly-bandaged back.
Dean had been protecting him his whole life, and as soon as Sam was old enough, he started to return the favor. Since their teens, they've watched each other's back, gave each other support, made sure the other was safe. Sometimes they took it for granted that the other person would be fine and they split up when needed. And usually they were right. But sometimes, Dean ended up on the ceiling.
As long as Dean was hunting, Sam would be right there with him.
But it tore him up inside, seeing what it did to his brother. Seeing how his brother clung onto hunting as if it were his only lifeline, holding steadfastly even when it almost ruined him. Refusing to let go even as they were falling apart.
Whatever misguided ideas Dean held on to, it wasn't his duty to do this. To face darkness after every corner, to see loved ones disappear one right after the other – no one should live that. But Dean was forcing himself to, and by process, so was Sam.
"Look at you, Sam!" Dean said, his voice commanding attention. "You could have been killed!"
Sam whirled on him. "God dammit, Dean! Look at us!" he shouted back. "Look at what we've become!"
He had stunned Dean into a brief silence. "What do you mean?" he finally asked, guarded and confused.
"We're a goddam mess!" Sam replied with a force that scratched his throat. "You're crawling around half dead, and I'm following you like some sick puppy. Our life is so screwed up, but instead of changing anything, all you can think about is hunting!"
"Hey, that's not all--" But he stopped when he saw Sam's humorless expression and switched to a defensive tone. "Yeah, well, it's what I do," he said.
"But you talk about nothing else! Or at least, nothing important, nothing about what's really going on!" Sam slapped a hand against the desk top. "What kind of life is that?"
A sudden, stunned look came over Dean and he rose to his feet. "Were you trying to kill yourself?" he asked after a pause.
Sam sighed with frustration. Just like Dean to completely miss the point. "Don't be stupid."
"You didn't answer my question."
"No, Dean, I wasn't trying to kill myself," Sam replied. "The goatman was trying to kill me. Just like Bloody Mary was trying to kill me, and the shapeshifter. Just like the wendigo and the demon and even I tried to kill you. Don't you see how incredibly wrong that is?"
Dean seemed unaffected. "It comes with the territory."
"What 'territory,' Dean? You mean the life we were forced into? The life we need to step away from?"
"Sam, stop being so emotional. You're overreacting, all right? We had a bad gig, and I know that spooked you, but stuff like that happens." Dean had that confident, unruffled air of his, and he lifted his hands in casual supplication. "Just…take a deep breath, okay? Our life—is it really so bad?" He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, obviously expecting Sam to agree with him.
Sam swallowed and licked his lips, knowing what he had to say and already regretting it. "Dad said to move on."
His words hit their mark, causing an instant, physical reaction. Dean took an involuntary step backwards, and his face suddenly went pale. "W-what?" he stammered.
Sam had to clear his suddenly dry throat. "Back at the hospital, right before he left. He said we need to move on."
Dean moved blindly towards the bed before he dropped down onto it. He sat at the edge and hunched over as he stared at the floor, unspoken thoughts flickering across his face. Sam watched him silently and waited, trying to ignore the tears that threatened his own eyes.
"You have a choice now, Dean. Can't you finally realize that?"
But Dean seemed to ignore him. And then after a moment, he started to shake his head. "No," he said.
"No, what?" Sam asked him.
"No." Dean looked up at him, his face determined despite the ashen sheen it had taken on. "We're doing a lot of good, and I can't just stop that, Sam. I don't want to. If you want to say that's my choice, then that's my choice."
Sam felt his stomach twist at Dean's words.
"At what cost, Dean?" he pointed out fiercely, desperately. "Until your soul turns black from all the evil you're exposed to? Until there's nothing left of you? Until you're torn to pieces by some monster? Until your life is sucked dry, or your body broken in half?"
With each fate Sam flung at him, Dean never flinched. "It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make." His words were too smooth, too certain.
Sam shook his head, his lower lip trembling. "But I'm not, Dean."
He wasn't willing to lose another person he loved. He wasn't ready to lose Dean. Sam paused to take in a deep breath. "This has to end," he said firmly, though it came out more as a desperate plea than a command.
It took a moment before Dean responded. He spread his arms out and looked up at him. "I'm not stopping you," he said, his voice low and rough.
"Yes, you are!" Sam cried instantly. "Why can't you see that?"
Dean's eyes were watering, Sam realized. "Don't, Sam…Please don't do this," he pleaded with him. His voice held a weak tremor, but he pushed through it as if it weren't there. "I can't take this anymore."
Sam ran a hand over his face, suddenly feeling exhausted and drained. He knew he was fighting a losing battle, and he dropped his head in defeat.
"Neither can I," he said, clenching his jaw. "There's no way out of this, is there."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean turn to him and Sam lifted his head to meet his gaze. Dean looked at him squarely in the face, but though he tried, Sam couldn't read his eyes. The silence stretched for so long between them Sam almost said something just to fill it.
And then Dean finally spoke. "Yes, there is."
That took him off guard. "What?" Sam asked, instantly doubting him.
Dean hesitated, and Sam didn't like the look that passed over his face. "I…I'll tell you later."
For the moment, Sam accepted that, too tired to press. They said no more, and after a few minutes, Sam excused himself to the bathroom. It was late, and he was ready for the day to be over.
When he came out, Dean was sitting on the bed, his face stony but his eyes filled with a tormented kind of worry. And as Sam made his way to his own bed, he was suddenly hit with a dizzying wave of fatigue.
Suddenly alarmed and confused, he stumbled to his bed, sitting down heavily on top of it. But that wasn't enough, and his eyelids started to pull themselves close despite his struggles to keep them open.
Dean was watching him, his eyes miserable but knowing.
"Dean? Wha…?"
He couldn't finish as he finally succumbed to his body's demands. He let himself fall completely prone, tumbling bonelessly onto the bedspread. He had just managed to pull his legs up onto the bed when he shut down completely. Then everything went black.
So there it is. I had a hard time putting emotions into words, so I hope it made sense.
I appreciate all of your thoughts and comments!
I'd also like to ask for a specific opinion: I never considered writing this fic without a happy ending. But I've gotten a lot of feedback suggesting that a happy ending isn't possible, that what Dean did (well, what I had him do) is unforgiveable. So I want to know what the rest of you think and whether you would buy a happy ending or not. It's hard for me as the writer to look at this objectively.