A/N: I won't babble a lot this time--we need to see if Sam does what we think he's going to do and if Dean can run as fast as we hope he can. I don't want you to keep calling me evil or anything... :)
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dean ran. He ran faster than when a ghost was chasing him, faster than when a possessed animal was nipping at his feet, faster than he ever had before.
He could hear himself saying it, hear the confidence dripping in his voice as victory was so imminent."You won't lay a hand on Sammy again."
But the demon didn't give him the satisfaction of gloating. Dean could still see the sinister, amused smirk. "I won't have to."
What would Sam do? What would he be led to do? Dean knew his brother's mental state had been tenuous at best, but that didn't mean--
All Sam had done was imagine things, hear a few voices, see a person, a building that wasn't really there, attack one unlucky man, but that was it. Sam was acting a little bit crazy, not totally connected with reality--sure, his kid brother had even attacked him, but that didn't mean--
If only the demon hadn't been so cocky. If only it hadn't been so convincing, so pervasive, so persuasive.
Dean had only been in contact with the demon for a short while and it had easily pushed his buttons. Sam's exposure had been much more prolonged. But it was dead now. Sam would be safe. He would just sleep it all off. After all, what else would Sam do?
Sam wouldn't--
Dean increased his pace as his stomach dropped.
He had taken the weapons. What could Sam do locked in a motel room?
But they had been raised to be resourceful, and Dean knew that was a lesson Sam hadn't forgotten.
If only he had believed Sam sooner.
Terror numbed him, spreading from his gut to his extremities, making him feel lightheaded as he sprinted.
His legs burned, felt like rubber by the time the trees thinned and he saw the motel. But he didn't stop, just kept running until he stumbled into the door. He cursed as he fumbled for his key, pounding the door as he retrieved it. "Sammy!"
He didn't wait for a reply, but slid the key card in and panted impatiently for his electronic beep. He burst in and fell silent, overtaken by the stifling calm that greeted him.
For a moment, all he could hear was the sound of his own breathing in the stale air. "Sam?"
The emptiness reverberated with his voice. He moved in. The bathroom door was ajar and Dean's heart skipped a beat, remembering the last time he'd found his brother in the bathroom. "Sammy?"
He nudged the door open. "Sam," he gasped, gaping at the scene before him.
Broken glass spilled off the countertop, littering the tiled floor. There were bright red smudges smeared throughout the bathroom, creating a grotesque mosaic of glass and blood.
Sam cowered in the corner, beside the toilet. He was holding a piece of glass in his bloody hand and it was poised over his wrist.
Damn. Not good. Whatever effect the demon had had on Sam, it certainly hadn't vanished with the demon's death.
Dean forced himself to calm, trying to slow his breathing and still his shaking hands. He approached Sam as though he were a wounded animal--slowly, deliberately, his hands raised in a gesture of supplication.
"Sammy, what are you doing?" Dean managed to keep his voice low, patient, as though the question was innocent, not a matter of life and death--Sam's life or death. He licked his lips and tried to swallow the fear that nearly overwhelmed him.
Sam merely pushed himself back farther, pressing his body as far from Dean as he could. He still didn't look at Dean. "Stay back. Just--stay away from me. I have to..." Sam's words tapered off and he shook his head, over and over.
Dean obeyed, pausing where he was, ignoring the fact that everything in him just wanted to reach out and grab the glass away from Sam, to pull Sam to him, to make Sam safe. "It's okay," he said gently. "It's okay. I'll just stay right here, okay?"
But Sam's head was still moving, back and forth without ceasing.
Dean bit back a sigh of frustration. "Sam, listen to me. It's over now, okay? The demon's dead." Dean's voice was quiet, gentle.
"It's never over." Sam didn't look at Dean; his eyes were wildly searching the walls, straying to the corners of the room. "There's always something else. There'll always be something else. It will never stop until it gets me, until it gets you, Dean. I can't let it get you. I can't."
"Sam," he was begging. He edged closer. "It's not going to get me. It's dead already."
Sam's hand tensed on the glass and he looked up, meeting Dean's eyes. "I can't let it hurt you. I can't let me hurt you."
It took every ounce of control Dean had not to reach out for Sam. "You'd never hurt me, Sammy."
Sam's lower jaw trembled and a tear trickled down his face. "I've already betrayed you once, Dean. You know I'll do it again. I can't let that happen."
"No, you didn't—"
Sam's eyes wandered again, this time finding the glass-strewn floor. "I pulled the trigger four times."
"It wasn't loaded, Sam."
Sam's voice was quiet, almost a whisper. "Not this time."
Dean shook his head, trying to speak, trying to quell the look in his brother's eyes.
"You're my brother and I'd die for you," Sam said, his voice drifting in the stillness of the bathroom.
"You don't have to die for me," Dean said, inching closer.
Sam's hand jerked and the glass scraped against his exposed wrist.
Dean stopped himself with a stifled curse. "This isn't real. What you're feeling—it's not real."
Trembling, Sam raised his head, staring at him through tears. "I can't take that chance," he said. "Max was right."
Dean's mind raced. If he could keep Sam talking, keep Sam thinking--he had to keep Sam from doing anything with the glass pressed to his wrist. "What was he right about?"
"That there's only one real way to fix it, to stop things from happening because of what I am. You can kill everything around you to try to fix it, but it doesn't do anything. He was right when he turned the gun on himself--because that's the only real way to end it, once and for all.
"That's not true. You're not like him--"
"I'm just like him!" Sam voice pitched brokenly, tears streaming in rivulets down his cheeks. "It doesn't matter how it happens, but we both destroyed the people around us. I killed Mom, Jess, Dean--I'll kill you too, eventually and I can't--I won't--I can't--"
Dean felt his breath hitching and panic tingling in his fingers.
"I'm sorry," Sam said, miserable and dejected. "I don't know…I can't tell…This is the only way."
Dean saw it happening, saw Sam's hand moving hard and sure on the already damaged wrist, and he didn't hesitate. He surged forward, hands gripping Sam's forearms.
There was a struggle, but it was brief, and ended with Sam on the floor against the wall and Dean squeezing his hands with a vice-like grip.
For a moment, Dean just held him, relieved that Sam's days of not eating and not sleeping had left him weakened enough for Dean to so quickly overpower him.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to find the words, the right thing to say or do that would finally break the nightmare's hold over his brother.
He didn't have anything to offer but himself.
"This, Sam," he said, carefully pulling Sam's fingers away from the glass. It clattered to the tile and he entangled his brother's hand in his own. "This is real," he said in a hoarse whisper.
Sam trembled, his chest heaving. He could feel the warmth in Dean's rough hands, the way his fingers curled over his own. He could feel Dean's pulse throbbing against his own. Is this a dream?
"Sammy, don't you forget this," Dean said, pulling Sam into his embrace. "This is what's real. This is what matters. Just you and me. Just us. That's what's real and you have to remember that."
Sam couldn't find his voice, couldn't feel his body, just the sudden, undeniable presence of his brother.
They were rocking now, Sam's head tucked under Dean's chin. "Just us, Sammy. Just us."
Sam felt disconnected, trying to make Dean's voice mesh with the voice of the demon, the voice in his head. Part of him wanted to pull away, to try to figure this out, but he couldn't bring his body to work, and something inside him did not want to break the embrace that held him.
Sam could still feel the fear, the need tugging at him. Fear that none of this was real. Fear that he would hurt Dean, that he would lose him, that all his nightmares would come to pass. The need to to protect Dean--from this demon, from the demon, from everything--but most of all from himself.
He shivered. The images, the emotions, the images--they assaulted him still, replaying in his mind vividly. What was real? How could he know what was real?
The demon--the demon had been real. It had to be real. It had been here--blaming him, telling him he was the betrayer, enforcing the certainty that Sam would destroy everything he had left in life as surely as he had destroyed his mother, Jess, Max...as surely as he would destroy Dean.
He couldn't deny that. He couldn't make it go away. It was too true, too terrifying, too persistent. It haunted him and always had and he feared it always would
But Dean--Dean was real too. He had to be. Dean was here, like he had always been, solid and comforting and holding him up when he fell. Dean believed in him.
Sam wanted to believe too--wanted to believe so badly. But there were too many questions, too many doubts...he didn't know how to trust himself anymore.
Dean was still rocking him, his hands strong and unyielding, but still somehow tender and caring.
It was so soothing, so peaceful, so real, that the internal debate faded and Sam trusted it above all else. "I didn't know what to believe."
Dean sighed, letting his hand sift through Sam's hair. He hated how broken Sam sounded, how Sam seemed to be shattered all over the bathroom floor with the mirror. "Leave that to me for now, okay?"
Sam didn't respond, but he didn't move, and Dean didn't let go. He felt the tension in Sam's body dissipate as Sam unconsciously surrendered himself to his brother's care.
Overwhelmed by all that he had been through and by the sudden feeling of being safe, of being secure, of being cared for, Sam fell asleep. His weight shifted until Dean held nearly all of it within his secure embrace. For a moment, Dean relished the sensation, the feeling of being Sam's protector as he had been since Sam was a baby.
His legs, which were curled up underneath him, began to numb, and he gently manuevered until he was sitting, Sam still shielded in his arms. As he repositioned, he felt the glass cutting through his pants, and took a good look at the scene around him.
The bathroom was a mess. He would have a terrible time trying to explain it to the manager, and he knew there would be a hefty fine for the shattered mirror. He'd have to clean up the blood, though, to avoid explanations he didn't feel like fabricating.
He felt his heart skip a beat. It wasn't just blood he had to clean up--it was Sam's blood. It surprised him suddenly just how much of it there was, how it was on the counter, on the toilet, on the walls, on the floor...
And on his hands, his clothes, on him. That wasn't something he would ever get used to, wasn't something he ever wanted to get used to.
He could clean up the bathroom, make it nearly spotless before they left, but he had no idea if he could ever put Sam back together again.
OOOOOOO
Sam had virtually collapsed into bed and was asleep before his head hit the pillow. He didn't stir even as Dean tended the cuts on his arms and legs.
Dean was gentle and thorough as he wiped antiseptic on all of them and bandaged the worst, taking his time and tending to each gash singularly. When he was done, he pulled the blankets over Sam and sat back, watching.
Sam looked like hell, pale and drawn and blooded. It was both unnerving and gratifying to see Sam asleep--rest had been so elusive for his kid brother that Dean knew that sleep was the only way Sam would physically recover. But he also knew how much Sam's sleep had been plagued recently. And even though the demon was dead, it was already clear that its effects did not die with it, and Dean fretted that Sam may continue to suffer nightmares until Dean had no choice except to take Sam back to the hospital.
Dean let his hand linger on Sam's chest, letting the even rhythm of Sam's heart calm him. His brother's slackened features looked oddly calm, as though for once the sleep was a refuge, and Dean wished more than anything that he could keep it that way.
When he flopped back onto his own bed, the fatigue he had been holding back in his own body nearly overwhelmed him. The last week came rushing back, and the weight of what had been done and almost lost finally caught up with him. He realized it had been days since he himself had slept well, and it was calling to him deeply.
Dean glanced at his brother again. He sighed, then rolled onto his back, his eyes fluttering. The demon may have attacked Sam, but Dean realized suddenly that it had affected him just as profoundly. It had uncovered their fears, given voice to their pains and hurts. It had left nothing sacred and showed that for all their strength, real vulnerability lay just beneath the surface, just waiting to break through.
Dean wanted to forget, wanted to pretend like it hadn't happened, wanted to let sleep erase all the questions, all the issues, all the fears. But he knew it couldn't. What was there in the dark would still be there in the morning. All he could do was help Sam face it.
He didn't want to fall asleep, didn't want to trust the sleep that had already taken Sam under, but the darkness was so alluring, that he could not stop himself from drifting into it.
