I own nothing. Except the way these words are put together.
In the weeks leading up to Dean's death at the hands of Metatron, Sam noticed his eyes more often than usual. And it was something he'd been noticing for years. Particularly when he thought Sam wasn't looking. He'd run a hand down his face, he'd sigh a silent sigh, and the light in his eyes would flicker out as he stopped pouring fuel onto the flames in a desperate bid to keep Sammy from worrying.
For so many years he was so tired, and he was so good at hiding it that Sam often forgot, but every once in a while those moments would come, and Sam would see him for what he really was, and he would lie awake at night paralyzed with helplessness.
The only demons he's never found a way to kill are the ones inside Dean.
And now that has become so much more literal than his darkest nightmares could ever have conceived.
He flees from the door as it becomes clear that Dean is breaking it down no matter what he says. He needs more time to think of a way to restrain him. Because his brother-turned-monster is right—if either of them is going to kill the other, it'll be Dean who sees the light of another day. Sam knows that it's his responsibility to keep the demon from being unleashed on the world.
But if it comes to a decision between killing Dean and putting strangers' lives on the line, that responsibility is going to crush him.
Coward, hisses that voice in the back of his mind that always says what he doesn't want to hear but needs to.
He creeps down the hallway, heart pounding so hard he fears Dean might hear it, wherever he is. His brother's voice echoes around him, taunting him—"I'm tired of playing; let's finish this game"—and you know, he really can buy that this is just a game to Dean. Or the thing that used to be Dean, anyway.
If Dean kills me, will he ever come to regret it?
Will he live long enough to?
Will Cas let him?
With every new question the knot in his gut twists his insides with exponentially increasing force, sharp and merciless. And all the while he's trying to breathe as quietly as possible, and his heart will not calm down, and the long hallways that used to be almost familiar enough to call "home"—something he thought he'd never find again—suddenly appear as huge, threatening structures hiding, somewhere, someone who also isn't as familiar as he should be.
He can't die at Dean's hands; he would be avoiding killing his brother, sure, but far worse things would come after.
But if it comes to making an impossible choice, how—
He's thinking more than he's paying attention as he turns around and that's never a good thing. All he sees is the hammer about to bury itself into the side of his head, and he loses track of his heartbeat as he ducks, and his hand shoots out of its own accord, knowing what to do after years of experience, and he finds himself holding a knife to his brother's throat.
The hammer instead embeds itself into the wall right next to where his head just was, and Dean releases it conciliatorily. His mouth stretches to the sides in what appears to be a smile, but there's no emotion behind it. Some subhuman brand of amusement, perhaps, but no actual happiness.
It's too similar to the expression Sam saw him wear time and time again even back when he was himself. It's damn near identical. Just… more careless.
"Well," murmurs his brother, holding his hand out nonthreateningly, flippantly. "Look at you."
Stop, Dean, screams the side of his brain he's charged with holding onto hope, no matter how irrational it is. Just stop. You think I want this?
"Do it," Dean goads, even as his eyes broadcast loud and clear what his expectations are. For a moment he clenches his teeth, jaw tightening, and Sam can hear what he doesn't say loud and clear: Man up, Sammy. Your excuse not to is gone. You have no reason to hold back. Don't disappoint me again.
"It's all you," he urges, and he's right, and all of a sudden, for what feels like the first time, it occurs to Sam that he could. Just shove this blade forward into his brother's throat an inch or so and watch the pale glow spread all under his skin, flooding every single blood vessel, until the remains of Dean Winchester are no more and the body crumples and his pain is over and the world is safe from him.
And the last flicker of light in his eyes dies out forever.
The demon is staring him down, and no fear is apparent in his features, nor any indication of the outcome he's hoping for. Only the one in whose certainty he rests. But not because the other is technically impossible.
Sam could.
Of course, he never would.
He lets the knife drop from under Dean's chin, feeling stupid for ever thinking he could do it, hating everything about what is happening, just wanting it to be over, even if it means making the worst choice in the world: to do nothing.
In the moment between his submission and his certain death, he meets the once-dead eyes of his brother.
Those eyes are burning now. Awash in the anticipated triumph just before the kill. And this is so far off what Sam actually wanted that he's sure it's the universe purposely screwing him over.
He hasn't even raised a finger yet before Cas is wrapping his arms around him from behind like a clamp, and Sam is left standing there watching, mind going blank, knees going weak.
"It's over," Cas tells Dean firmly, but the words sound hollow to Sam. All he can see are the two black holes in his brother's face.
Dean's grunting in surprise and frustration, and he struggles against the angel, but angels have always been stronger than demons and that's not about to change.
So Dean tilts back his head, opening his mouth wide, and lets out a guttural bellow that carries something underneath his voice more characteristic of a beast than a man.
And a plume of black smoke issues from his lips.
"Dean," Sam hears himself scream, but his uninjured hand is going up to shield himself, as everyone's hands always do when they behold the true noncorporeal form of a demon, because they know on an instinctive level that they are in the presence of true evil. Pure evil. There is. No. Good. In. Them.
How Sam managed to make himself forget that is no mystery at all, but never mind that—because before him looms the shadowy form of his brother, his big brother who is supposed to be human, who is only not human because he was good. He was so good that he put even his own soul on the line, no questions asked, and now he is effectively gone and everyone who cares about him is paying the price.
Sam bolts down the hall after the retreating cloud of ashen smoke, his emotional and physical exhaustion forgotten. Cas is calling his name behind him, but he doesn't care.
He has never attempted to chase a demon that's unburdened by a body before, and he doesn't even have the beginning of a plan in the event of him actually catching up to it, but quite unsurprisingly, it turns out that not having a body is a distinct advantage as far as speed. Sam skids around a corner and glimpses the last wisps of black smoke vanishing into a ventilation shaft a hundred feet down the hall.
He stands there, shoulders heaving, every muscle itching to keep running even though it was ludicrous to even start. And then there are footsteps behind him. Cas's voice saying his name again.
Sam turns, his feet like deadweights. He doesn't want to see this. He doesn't want to see this at all.
Just a few steps bring him within sight of Dean's empty body lying loosely on the hard floor, one arm lain awkwardly across his chest, head rolled to the side. Sam unconsciously picks up the pace as he approaches. When he's standing right next to his brother's head is when he finally lets himself sink to his knees. His legs have done enough holding him up for one day. He's not looking far enough ahead to know when he'll stand up again.
Dean's eyes are closed, just like those of every victim of possession who turns out to be dead post-exorcism. Except this body isn't dead or damaged at all. Just vacant.
"I'm so sorry," Cas says behind him, obvious regret thick in his voice. "I should have covered his mouth. I wasn't thinking."
Sam grasps Dean's body by the shoulders and pulls it to his chest, holding it close without being held in return, like he's done too many times in his life. Hell, this is the second time he's done it since the last time Dean died.
This challenge may be the most complex he's ever faced, and he hesitates even to call it that—"challenge" implies he has a game plan. Like he has the first idea where to go from here.
But this utter cluelessness would still be totally manageable if he just had Dean. They always find a way. All they really need is each other, and they've always known that. Agreed upon it.
He clutches the empty shell of his broken brother, silence enveloping him on all sides except within.
He wills that to settle down too.
It's simpler, healthier, in this moment, to tell himself that Dean's only dead.
There is a fair chance that I'll continue this. Depends on its reception I guess. If I could trouble you for a review on the way out that would be much appreciated.