A Little More Tequila, A Little Less Demon Hunting

– – Chapter Seven – –

Love

In the present, Dean groaned and turned off the shower. He may have been clean of dirt and grime and sweat, but he didn't feel clean at all.

He got out of the shower, trying to wipe his mind of the past moments he had just dwelt on. He hated thinking about the past, the majority of it at least, because it always left him feeling angry, sad, frustrated, scared, and exhausted.

He dried off, wrapped the towel around his waist, and headed toward his room to change. He pulled on a comfortable pair of boxers and a T-shirt and headed toward the kitchen, his mind still reeling with images from the past.

Most days, Dean was able to keep his mind off of the bad times in his past and focus on the good. Years of living alone with Sam had helped. He had to keep up a front, had to make sure that Sam thought everything was okay with him, even on those days when the weight of the past threatened to crush him.

Dean knew he hid behind masks. He knew he used sarcasm, jokes, and attitude to hide how he really felt.

To hide the pain.

But he did it because he had to. He did it for Sam. Because Sam needed him; needed him to be the big brother, the strong one, the ever present, ever constant, ever flowing source of everything he needed. He needed Dean to be happy. Because if Sam was to ever have any sense of normalcy, any sense of happiness in his life, Dean would need to be happy with him.

So on those occasions when he couldn't be happy – when the past, present, and future brought him down – Dean put on his mask. And when the mask was on, when Dean pretended to be happy and used the mask to hide any pain and fear, Sam could be happy.

And in that small way, Dean could almost be happy, too.

Dean sighed when he finally reached the kitchen. He grabbed a soda out of the fridge, took his cell phone off the counter, and headed toward the living room, collapsing on the couch. He put his cell phone down on the table next to him. He held onto his drink, but he didn't open it. Instead, he stared at the wall, and soon he had drifted off into his thoughts.

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Dean woke with a jerk. He looked out the window and noticed that at some point the sun had gone down. It was pitch dark in the room, and Dean looked at the clock on the TV to see what time it was.

Then he realized that his phone was ringing loudly on the table next to him. That must have been what had woken him up.

He reached over and picked it up, and he saw Sam's name glowing on the screen. He was probably on his way home and wanted to know if Dean wanted him to get anything for him before he left. Working in the grocery store had its advantages.

He flicked on the switch next to the couch, and the room lit up with a bright, warm light. Dean blinked as he opened up his phone and put it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Dean, you have to get out of the house. Now! Dad's coming. I don't know how he found us, but he's coming."

Dean felt his heart skip a few beats and then start pumping faster. His muscles tensed up, and he worked past the sudden dryness in his throat. "What do you-"

"I saw it, Dean. I had a vision. I was awake, and all of a sudden I felt like my head was going to explode, and then I saw it. Dad knows where we are, Dean. He's coming to get us. He's so angry, Dean. You have to get out of there now. Please!"

Dean heard the desperation in his brother's voice, and he didn't protest as he stood up from the couch. "All right, Sammy. I'm leaving. Where are you?"

"I'm heading home. I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Sam, listen to me. You know the drill. Turn around and head over to Gene's place. Right now."

"Gene's place" was really a code name for a bar that they had only been to once. It was located in New Jersey, and it was the place that, many years ago, when they had first moved away from their father, they had agreed upon as their meeting place. If something ever happened, if somehow Dad found them and they were not together, they were to met each other there. It was a place only they knew about.

Dean ran toward his room and threw on the first pair of pants he could find and went to his closet for the jar of money he kept hidden in there for this occasion.

"Dean, I'm not leaving without you."

"Yes you are, Sam," Dean replied, yanking the money out of the jar and stuffing it in his pocket.

"No, I'm not."

"Sam, this is not a discussion we are going to have," Dean said angrily.

"Dean-"

"Sammy, go! I'll meet you there. I promise."

"Dean…." Dean could hear the frustration and despair in his brother's voice as he headed back toward the living room.

Suddenly, Dean heard Sam scream in pain over the phone, and he stopped.

"Sam? Sam!"

All he heard was his brother gasping and moaning in pain in the background, and Dean felt helpless.

"Sammy, talk to me, dude. Say something. Sam!"

Finally, the horrible moaning stopped, and Dean heard Sam gasp loudly. He could practically feel Sam's rapid heartbeat pulsing through the phone in his hand.

"Dean, get out. Now!"

"I'm going, Sammy," he replied, walking into the living room.

"Going where?"

Dean's blood froze in his veins. He hadn't heard that voice in ten years.

"I said where are you going?" it asked again.

"Dean?" Dean heard his brother call out to him over the phone, but Dean had lost his voice.

Slowly, he lifted his head, and found himself face to face with his father.

"Long time no see," his father said, his voice dripping with malice, an evil grin spreading across his face.

"Dean! Dean!" Dean heard Sam call for him again, and he finally found his voice.

"It's okay, Sammy. I'm out the door. I'll meet you later. I promise."

He closed the phone, ignoring his brother crying out for him, and he knew that that was one promise he might not be able to keep.

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Dean slowly put the phone in his pocket. He stared at his father and took in his appearance. He had never looked so horrible, and that was saying something. He looked like he hadn't bathed in years. His body was coated in dirt and dust and grime, and Dean could smell him from where he stood a few feet away. He looked like he'd been living in his clothes for years. He noticed his father swaying on his feet, and he knew he was drunk yet again.

He had to get out now, but his father was blocking the only exit out of the room.

Dean took a small step forward and to the side to gauge his father's footing, to see if he could slip past him, but as drunk as he was sure his father was, he was surprisingly steady, and he repositioned himself in front of Dean.

Dean didn't know if he could take him on. His father was still taller than he was, much heavier and stronger, and he knew that he was even stronger when he was drunk like this. He was stronger most especially when he had the desire to hurt someone in mind…

Dean decided to try talking to his father in order to get him unfocused.

"How'd you find us, Dad?" he asked, his voice filled with anger. He would not let his father see just how scared he really felt. If he did, he'd be done for.

"I did a bit of searching. Asked around, showed some pictures. Did a few…spells."

Dean was slightly surprised at this last bit.

"I even heard rumors about some woman in New York who'd been saved from the spirit of her dead boyfriend. I wasn't positive it was you, but I had a hunch. But does it really matter how I found you? The point is I'm here now. Daddy's home!" he said, spreading his arms out wide, and Dean cringed when he heard his father's deranged laugh.

"I've come to take you home, boy. To teach you a lesson. Both of you."

"You'll never get Sam," Dean said, his voice dripping with rage and determination. "Sam's not coming back here. You'll never find him."

"I'll find him eventually. I found you once, I can do it again."

His father took a step toward him, and Dean took one back.

"What's the matter son? Afraid of your old man?"

"No," Dean replied, trying hard to make it sound like he wasn't lying through his teeth.

"You should be," he said. And before Dean could blink or move or do anything, his father flew at him and punched him hard across the face. Dean stumbled backward and somehow managed to keep his footing. His Dad still moved fast for a drunk. He lifted his head. He was prepared to fight back now. Ever since that fight with the spirit, Dean had found himself more willing to do whatever it took to protect himself.

He drew back his hand to hit his father back, but before he could he got a second hit in the face, and the blow was so fierce the impact sent him flying against the wall. As his father started toward him, Dean quickly shook off the pain of the impact, and before his father could touch him again, he pulled back his fist and punched his father hard across the face.

He watched him stumble, a look of surprise on his face as he touched the spot where Dean had hit him. He laughed harshly.

"Looks like you finally learned to fight back after all."

His father reached for him, but Dean was quicker. He hit him in the face again, and when he stumbled backward on his swaying feet, Dean took the opportunity to kick his father in the legs as hard as he could, sending him tumbling to the ground.

And he ran for it.

He ran out of the living room and down the hallway.

He made it all the way to the kitchen before he felt his legs give way under him as a strong force hit him hard in the back. He went tumbling to the floor, grunting in pain from the sudden impact and the heavy weight above him. He struggled, trying to get out from under his father, but unfortunately, after all these years, his father was still stronger. Before he knew what was happening, he was on his back, his father pinning him down. He tried to buck him off, but his father was immobile. He was a giant, heavy, drunken stone, and Dean tried to hit him again, but his father caught his wrist and pinned his arms down.

Dean struggled for his life, struggled harder than he ever had before.

But his father was quick; too quick. The alcohol, while it made him tipsy, also made him strong…and angry.

Before Dean could stop him, his father had his hands around his throat.

"You can't run off and leave me this time," his father growled above him, and Dean beat on his father's arms; pulled on them, clawed at them, struggled beneath his father's weight as his vision started to blur.

"You'll never leave me again."

Dean gasped for air, and his father only held on tighter. Dean continued to fight him as best as he could, but he was slowing down and he knew it. His hits turned to smacks, his legs stopped kicking, and eventually his arms lost their strength. His hands fell from his father's arms, and he used what little strength he had left to move them to the hands around his throat. But he couldn't do anything. He had no energy left, no air. The room was spinning around him.

Then the room started fading. Dean lost the feeling in his hands. The room bleed together, and Dean gasped, but there was no air left.

Tears welled up in his eyes. This was it. This was the end.

He was going to die in this kitchen and there was no one to stop it.

Sam would be alone.

He had failed his little brother.

The room started to fade to black.

Then suddenly, the pressure on his neck and his body lifted. The hands left his neck, and Dean wasn't gone yet. He felt air enter his mouth and he gasped, and he nearly cried with joy as air rushed into his lungs. He vaguely heard someone calling his name beside him, someone touching him gently on the chest, running his hand through his hair. He still couldn't see; everything was too blurry.

And finally, the room cleared. Dean continued gasping, breathing in glorious air, his throat sore and aching but working.

Finally, he recognized the voice talking to him.

"Sam," he tried to choke out, but it came out as a meaningless gasp, and he felt his brother's hand tighten in his shirt, and he moaned in relief when he heard his brother's voice.

"I'm here, Dean. It's okay," and Dean could hear the tears in his voice. He turned toward his brother, taking in the scared look on his face, the haunted look in his eyes, a few tears leaking out of them.

"What…." He tried to talk, but his throat was still raw.

Sam knew what he wanted though.

"I didn't touch him, Dean. I came in and I saw him killing you and I just…I don't know what happened. I called your name and he looked up, and I was so angry, Dean, so upset. I saw it happening before, I had another vision. And it was playing out right in front of me. And then I just…something snapped, and Dad just kind of flew across the room and hit the wall. Dean…." Sam stopped, and Dean turned his head slowly away from his brother, and he saw his father slumped on the floor, a bright patch of blood growing on the wall behind him.

"I was so scared, Dean," and he turned his head back toward his brother. "I was so afraid you were gonna…I couldn't leave without you, Dean. I was going to come back here. And then I saw…and then I came faster. I didn't know if I'd get here in time. I thought…." Sam broke off, and Dean heard him gasp and turn his gaze to the floor, wiping at his eyes.

"I'm okay," Dean said, and he was glad when the words came out this time, a bit raspy and breathy, but there.

Sam looked back up at him and smiled.

They sat like that for a moment, Sam staring at his brother like he couldn't believe he was still there, and Dean breathing heavily, feeding his lungs with wonderful, life giving air.

Finally, Sam spoke.

"We gotta get out of here," he said, and the hand that was still on Dean's head moved away and pushed itself under his back toward his shoulder. The hand on his shirt moved toward his right hand, and Dean grasped it as firmly as he could in his own. He felt Sam lift him up into a sitting position, and he went with him, swaying slightly. Sam waited a second, then pulled on his hand, and Dean held on tight as Sam pulled him to his feet. He stumbled a bit, but Sam was there to catch him, putting his other hand on his shoulder and steadying him. Dean gasped a bit, his throat still hurting and his chest on fire from the sudden influx of air. He breathed heavily, staring at his brother.

Sam shouldn't have come back for him. He should have listened to him. But he hadn't. Dean wanted to yell at him, wanted to tell him off for coming back when he had told him to go.

But he couldn't. Sam wanted to save him, and he had.

And Dean was grateful.

"Thanks," he said, and he was happy when it came out stronger than before.

Sam smiled at him.

"You're welcome," he replied.

The brothers turned to the door and took a step toward it, Sam's hands still on Dean's shoulders.

Suddenly, Sam's hands left his shoulders, and Dean heard his brother moan in pain, panting, clutching his head.

"Sam? Sam!" Dean called, grabbing Sam's shoulder. "Talk to me, Sammy."

"No…no, not again…no…" Sam moaned, and his legs gave way underneath him. Dean tried to catch him but he was too late, and Dean crashed to the floor next to Sam. Sam continued to clutch at his head, sitting on his knees and rocking slowly back and forth.

"Sam, come on dude, talk to me," Dean said, gripping his shoulders tighter.

Suddenly, Sam's eyes flew open, and Dean was horrified at the fear he saw in them.

"Run," Sam gasped, still clutching his head and wincing.

Dean didn't even have time to ask him what he was talking about.

"You're not running away anymore."

Dean felt his heart stop for the dozenth time that day. He turned slowly toward the voice, and he saw his father standing on the other side of the room. He was holding a gun, and it was pointed right at Sam's chest.

"No more running," his father repeated.

Dean knew he didn't have enough time to get the gun from his father before he fired it. He was too far away, and if he left Sam's side…

Dean looked quickly at Sam, and he made a decision. The same decision he had made all his life.

He got off his feet, and he stood up in front of Sam, who was still on the ground, moaning in pain.

He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. His father knew what he was doing. He had done this all his life.

Dean would not let Sam get hurt. Ever.

He would die first.

Dean stood his ground, not flinching, feeling not an ounce of fear. All he felt was love, an overwhelming feeling that he was doing the right thing, and a feeling of guilt at the thought that he would be leaving Sam alone.

But he would never regret what he was doing.

"Fine," his father growled at him, and he cocked the gun. "You can't protect your brother anymore. Not if you're dead."

The next few seconds passed in a blur, yet they felt like an eternity. One minute Dean was facing down his father and the gun. The next, he was on the floor on his hands and knees.

But there was no pain. No bleeding hole in his body.

Dean looked up, and the world was moving in slow motion. He saw his father with a smoking gun in his hand, a smile plastered on his face.

Dean turned toward where he had been standing moments ago, and the world fell out from under his feet.

Sam was leaning against the wall, gazing at a gaping hole in his chest that was slowly oozing blood. Dean's mouth fell open, and he cried out in horror and pain and agony.

Sam turned to him and smiled before he crashed to the floor.

Suddenly, the world was moving faster. Too fast. He turned toward his father and got to his feet. His father cocked the gun, and by the time he had it pointed at him, Dean was on top of him. He grabbed the gun, but his father was strong and he held on to it. Dean pulled hard, fighting his father for the gun.

Things blurred together again.

They were on the floor.

He was pinning his father to the ground.

And for the first time in his life, Dean was stronger than his father. Hatred and rage and anger and fear and sadness and pain warred through him, and he twisted his father's wrist. The gun turned away from him toward his father's chest, and in the struggle, the gun went off.

He saw his father's eyes open wide, a look of surprise in them.

And then they closed. Dean felt his father go limp underneath him, his eyes rolling back in his head. Dean kneeled on top of him, panting, and he reached out a shaking hand to feel his neck for a pulse.

He was dead.

Dean stared at his father's body, his mind unable to wrap itself around what had just happened.

"Dean…."

Dean's head shot up.

"Sammy," he moaned, his voice breaking. Sam was lying on the floor where he had fallen, clutching his bleeding chest, watching him from across the room.

Dean got up quickly and was at his brother's side in an instant.

"Sam…oh god….Sam…." Dean stared at his brother, at the gaping hole in his chest, and the blood slowly pouring from his wound.

"Dean…I saved you," Sam said, smiling softly.

"Yeah, you did, Sammy. You did," Dean said, and he didn't fight the tears he felt rising in his eyes. He put one hand on Sam's chest, pushing away Sam's hand and replacing it with his own, pressing down hard on the wound. Sam moaned in pain, and Dean whispered words of comfort, telling him it was going to be okay. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, flipping it open and dialing 911. He told the dispatcher where they were, what had happened, and he could hardly pay attention as she told him she was sending someone and they'd be there soon. He missed her tell him to stay on the line. At the words "be there soon," Dean closed the phone and dropped it.

His eyes hadn't left Sam's during the entire conversation.

Sam lay there and looked at him, his breathing slow, his chest rising slowly and shakily, and Dean could practically hear the blood gurgling in his throat it was so quiet in the room.

"Sammy, hang in there buddy, it's gonna be okay."

"Dean…Dad's…."

"He's dead. I…I shot him, Sam."

Sam didn't respond, but Dean saw him swallow deeply and look away for a second before turning his gaze back to him, and Dean knew he had at least heard him.

"Come on, Sam," Dean said, and he took his now free hand and pressed it over the one already on Sam's chest, pressing down harder, and he nearly cried out when he felt the blood continue to pour out under his hand despite his efforts.

The room got quiet again. Dean didn't know what to say. His brother was dying. Dean had spent his whole life trying to protect him, and he had failed.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Dean finally bit out, his eyes welling with tears. "I'm sorry. I wanted to protect you. I'm the big brother, I'm supposed to protect you, Sam. I-"

"Dean…you did. You did. But…it was my turn to protect you."

"Sammy…" Dean said, his voice breaking. "You shouldn't have…you shouldn't…you saw it didn't you? You had a vision?"

Dean saw Sam struggle to answer him, and he quickly made him stop. "It's okay, don't talk, Sam. Save your strength."

Sam stopped trying to answer, and Dean saw his chest hitch a couple of times, and he tried hard not to cry as Sam struggled. The hitching finally stopped, and Sam could breath again, but he was breathing slower than before, and Dean saw a small trail of blood start to ooze out of the corner of Sam's mouth.

"Oh god," Dean whispered. "Sam…." He was at a loss. There was so much he wanted to tell Sam; so much he wanted to do for him. But he couldn't do anything. He couldn't think, he'd forgotten how to talk.

"Dean." Sam struggled to talk, and Dean took his left hand off of his right, and he reached across Sam and grabbed his hand, holding onto it tightly. He squeezed, and he felt relieved when Sam squeezed back.

"It's okay, Sam, I know."

"I…I saw it," Sam said, slowly, and Dean could see it was taking effort for him to speak. "I…I couldn't let it happen. Not after…everything. You…protected me all my life. It was my turn," Sam said, and Dean moaned when he saw Sam arch his head back. Blood started pouring faster out of his mouth, his body started to shake, and his hand tensed in Dean's.

"Come on, Sam. Fight it. You can do it, Sammy. I know you, you're strong. You're better than this. You shouldn't have to die this way. I'm not gonna let you. It wasn't supposed to be you, Sam."

Sam arched his head back again, and his hand loosened. But it loosened too much. And the shaking didn't stop. Sam's breathing was even shallower.

"Dean…you're my brother. I'd die for you. I…."

"Sam, don't," Dean said, shaking his head as a few tears finally fell down his cheeks.

"I love you," Sam said, and he continued to look at Dean, his gaze burning through Dean's eyes, and Sam gripped his hand slightly. Dean could feel the love and sadness in Sam's eyes and his touch, and Dean gripped Sam's hand hard, trying to convey to Sam how much he loved him back.

He smiled around his tears, not letting go of his tight hold on Sam's hand. "I love you, too, Sammy. You know I do. Always."

A small smile spread over Sam's face, and Dean saw tears falling from his eyes as he blinked them slowly.

"Thank you," Sam said. "For everything. You've…you've always been there for me."

"And I'll always be there. You're gonna make it through this, Sam. I know you are. I'm just sorry I couldn't protect you, Sam. I'm sorry-"

"Don't…don't blame yourself," Sam said slowly, and Dean noticed the fierceness in his voice. "Don't-"

Sam was cut off as he started coughing loudly and harshly. Dean held Sam's hand tighter, tightening his hold on Sam's chest, and he whispered words of nothing to him, trying to coax him through the coughing spell, praying that this wasn't it. This couldn't be the end.

Finally, Sam stopped coughing. More blood poured out of his mouth.

"Dean!" Sam gasped out suddenly.

"It's okay, Sammy. I'm right here."

"Promise…promise me…you won't…blame yourself. Please…."

"Sam-"

"Promise me," Sam practically whimpered as he was cut off by a moan of pain.

"I promise, Sam. I promise. Stay with me, dude. I can hear the sirens. They're coming. They're almost here."

He squeezed Sam's hand and Sam squeezed it back, and Dean was disheartened at how he could barely feel the pressure. He could hear the ambulances coming down the street. They were so close.

"Sam…remember when I promised you we'd get away? It's real now. We can be a family. Just you and me."

"We've always been a family, Dean," Sam said quietly, his body shaking slightly. "Always."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, realizing that he was right. He was always right. "You're right. Sam…Sam, you gotta stay with me okay? The ambulances are here. They'll be here any second."

"I'm sorry." Sam said it so quietly that Dean could barely hear him, but he did, and suddenly it was the loudest thing he had ever heard in his life.

"Sam?" Dean asked, and he watched Sam's eyes close, his breathing slowing to almost nothing. "Sam!" Dean yelled, gripping his hand, willing him to come back. "Sam!"

Sam's eyes opened slowly.

"Tell me…tell me about Mom," Sam said, and Dean practically whimpered at the sad begging sound of his brother's voice.

He could hear a door closing outside the window, the sirens blaring loudly.

"Mom loved you, Sam. She loved you so much. Every night before you went to bed, she used to kiss you on the forehead. She taught me how to do it once, and I did it with her every night after that. She used to sing to you. She…"

Dean told him what he remembered about their mother; all the good things he could remember about their life when they were young.

He heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and he looked toward the door.

"They're here, Sam," he told his brother, and he looked back down at him. "Sam?"

Sam's eyes were closed.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, and he squeezed his hand, willing him to squeeze back.

He didn't.

"Sam! Don't do this to me, Sam! Sam! Don't you fucking die on me, Sammy. Sam!"

The world slowed down around him. He vaguely heard the door open, felt hands grab his shoulders and pull him away from his brother. He struggled with the hands on him, screaming for Sam, yelling at him, telling him that he wasn't allowed to die, begging him not to die.

He screamed at the world; screamed at God; screamed at his father, the people around him, anyone, and no one.

The last thing he remembered was calling out his little brother's name before the world faded to black.

TBC...

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I'm sorry if that was the mushiest BS you've ever read in your life. I couldn't help it. Anyone who read my last story will know that I just can't go without the mush.

Hope you enjoyed it, don't forget to review, and expect the epilogue up in (hopefully) a few days. :)