Chapter 12
Dean ran his fingers furiously through his soaked hair, flicking the excess droplets of water from the short spikes and letting them fall where they pleased. He wiped the ratty towel quickly over his bare chest, before quickly bringing it to his mouth to stifle another round of wet coughs.
Taking a deep breath, he wiped the steamy mist off the tiny mirror and gripped the edge of the sink for support as he took in his appearance with half-lidded eyes. A grimace clouded his pale face as he studied the sunken features, an outward sign of his current ailment. Dean brushed his hand over the protruding jaw line laced with coarse two-day stubble before lowering his hand and pulling on the waistband of his sagging jeans.
The elder attempted a sigh, but it came out as more of a ragged, halting breath as he slowly lowered his aching body to rest on the edge of the tub. Dean dropped his head in annoyance, in reaction to both his health condition and the piercing fluorescents whose dull light seemed to intensify each passing second.
Dean shifted on the porcelain edge, hitching up his pants a little and cursing under his breath for not remembering to grab a belt since his jeans had been riding low for the past three days. He scoffed and blamed the meds for his confusion. He hadn't owned a belt for almost five years. They weren't really "him".
Sam owned belts. Dean tried to muster a small laugh from his aching throat at the memory of helping his little brother with his collection as he liked to call it when he'd helped him pack up from Stanford. At the time, he'd wondered exactly what Sam did with all of those, and had even entertained the idea his little brother was "in to that kind of thing" although knowing it was all part of the "normalcy" Sam craved.
The entire stash was down to all but two. Dean had watched as each of the worn leather straps had been tightened into a makeshift tourniquet or used to steady a bandage slickwithfresh crimson. The haunting, clenching feeling that laid hold of his stomach every time Sam's face scrunched in concentration and a hint of sadness flickered in his eyes before resigning to take another belt from his bag and fastening it tightly to whatever bleeding appendage demanded it, literally, sickened him and brought a fresh wave of guilt for not having the courage to just find Dad on his own instead of forcefully dragging his little brother with him. What word had Sam used? Luggage.
Dean let out a raspy breath and brought his stiff fingers to his temples working futilely to quell the pounding migraine forming behind them. No matter what Sam said about wanting to find their father, or ranted about revenge, Dean couldn't help but notice that whole ordeal was draining the life out of his brother, not to mention trying to end it in the process.
Sam didn't smile anymore. Not that he had one permanently plastered on his face as a kid, but he'd reveal big, goofy grins more than not. Dean could vividly remember a time when Sam couldn't portray seriousness without cracking a small hint of a smirk or shooting off a witty response to the elder's dirty comments. He was more…laidback.
Not in everything. Certainly not when it came to big hunts or final exams, but in down time when their family was just lounging and waiting for the next job, he was. At Stanford, he was. Dean knew that because he'd witnessed it firsthand. He'd seen Sam with his friends and his new life, a life that didn't include him in the smallest portion but still managed to bring that smile to his brother's face.
But now, Sam's once young face was filled with worry lines or contorted in pain. But smiles, smiles were rare. When they did appear they were tight, trembling and quick, never meeting Sam's eyes. Dean had to resort to pulling pranks again just to see them and assure himself that his little brother still could do that simple, natural thing. But more so, that he hadn't been the one that stole Sam's ability to simply smile.
It wasn't just the smile, it was Sam's eyes as well. Dean huffed because that's how he knew the Sam that sat behind the chipped wooden door was not his Sam. It was someone, something, manipulating or pretending to be him although unable to wear the worn mask of his little brother.
The light that once had illuminated Sam's eyes had fainted and dulled. Dean wondered every day if he'd ever see his brother truly happy again, but then couldn't recall a time when Sam actually was. Even when Sam talked about going back to school and living out his dream, the words felt empty. The slow swallow and pained flicker in the pools of brown betraying the hopeful sentences. Because they both knew it wouldn't be.
But the light was back. Or had been back before he'd slammed the bathroom door, and Dean reprimanded himself for being glad to see it because it wasn't the same. The gaze Sam had given him was playful yet incredibly cold. And his eyes had followed every movement Dean had made with calculation and intense study. The elder was convinced that even if Sam hadn't have given him a taste of mood swings on speed, he would've known somehow by just looking at his younger brother's eyes.
Whatever entity he'd pissed off, Dean wasn't sure, but why they felt his family needed to be pummeled and ripped to shreds would be a mystery for the ages. He'd lost his father. Well, Dad was still alive but AWOL, and that's worse. At least in his book, although he would never admit it to Sam or anyone else for that matter. And now this thing is doing it's damned best to steal his brother, and has already taken part of him.
It was complete. The mark was complete, fully etched into Sam's skin. A sign of certain death, so the research declared. Dean dropped his head into his hands and shut his eyes tightly to prevent the burning wetness from escaping the heavy lids. Dying. Sam was dying.
If he was the realist he claimed so adamantly to be, then Death was final. The one thing in life that was absolutely guaranteed and plagued everyone regardless of race, age, or sex and all the extra research he'd looked intothrough pure desperation alone about resurrection and bringing back the dead was nothing but pointless idle thoughts and void possibilities.
Dean bit his lip hard in frustration and rage. It wasn't fair. It wasn't. There was no way anyone could make this whole thing seem rational and ordained. No possibility existed for someone to tell him it was Sam's "time" or that the whole crap-load of circumstances were all part of some entity's, thathe didn't believe in, idea of a plan.
It wasn't going to happen, simply because he wasn't going to let it. Whatever it took, he was going to give it. An exchange seemed a possibility and he was prepared for that if the situation presented itself. If he needed to kill something, someone, he wouldn't give it a second thought. Screw logic, screw morals, and screw ethics. This wasn't any of those things. This was Sam.
The person he'd been instructed, no, ordered to save over 22 years ago. A command he'd kept for that entire length of time, only failing a couple of times, but never wavering or shirking his responsibility. It was his purpose in life--his reason to get up in the morning and fight, as pathetic as that sounded.
Sam didn't understand, he never had, but his constant protective shield wasn't something their father had forcefully instilled. It was something that Dean had wholeheartedly embraced, despite the challenges the thankless position held. Dad had revenge, and now Sam had it too, but Dean had only them. That was it, no friends to go back to or lovers to embrace once more. Just Sam. Just Dad.
His fight and tenacity flowed from that fact alone. The battle waged in vengeance was fought in hope that his family would emerge unscathed and strong. Dean had sworn himself to quit, to lay down the sword and stop, if ever the surviving members of that heated night were to join the world of his mother.
But the battle wasn't fair. It wasn't equally matched in any way, and it was snatching away Dean's entire existence in rapid succession and forcing his hand. He wanted it over. Just over and done. But while he could almost resign himself to allow other countless people to experience pain and suffering, he could never allow it to his brother. He'd rather die first. Dean figured he probably would, but not until he killed whatever son-of-a-bitchwho was trying to take Sammy.
Rubbing at his burning throat, Dean stood and shuffled back to door, halting in front of it. He knew his enemy, his scattered research and the "new" Sam's insistence on seeing him confirmed it, now he had just to confront it. Dean opened the door slowly, pleased and tormented to see that his brother hadn't moved and still sat on the edge of the bed, his sparkling eyes watching.
Dean turned his head abruptly, coughing into his shoulder, and trudged over to his bag to gather a fresh shirt, silently preparing himself for the war at hand.
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Alright there ya go. Lemme know what you think. I thought an introspection chapter was needed to a point cause i focused on Sam's POV last time. Feel free to comment on that decision. Thanx to HT and carocali for the go ahead and have a great day/night! And thanx for reading and reviewing--it is much appreciated.
