Sanctuary

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Thank you so much for the wonderful support I got for last chapter and all of the suggestions, votes and outpouring of trust you showed in me. I can't tell you how much I appreciated every single word of every single review!

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Chapter 8: Promises Made

Witnessing the bullets strike Dean, seeing his invincible brother fall and not get up, not move, Sam implored, 'God let me wake up! Let this just be some sick nightmare!' A nightmare that would end like so many before had, with Dean shaking him awake, with his brother's concerned green eyes offering him comfort, with Dean's very presence lending him the strength to break the crippling hold of the nightmares, of even the visions.

With cruel clarity Sam knew the Impala's steering wheel felt too real in his tight grip, that the anguish ripping through his chest was too sharp to simply be a triggered reaction to some conjured tragedy. This was not just a trick of his merciless mind, able to be banished by strong but gentle hands jarring him back to reality, by a look from eyes that anchored his soul.

Even with the truth cutting off his breath, Sam wanted to feel those strong but gentle hands wrap around his arms. Needed that touched, now more than ever. But the owner of those hands was not hovering by his side, was not on the brink of dispelling his terror. And the thought that those hands would never perform those tasks ever again, that Sam would never again be immersed in the rightness, in the joy of having Dean at his side…it was the end of Sam's world, the end of the life he had known, the end of the life he hoped to have in the future.

Now, with every second that the Impala sped determinedly but seemingly without success toward its owner, with every second Dean didn't move, more of Sam's soul flickered out. Its very foundation shuddering, unable to endure the prospect that an integrate part of its whole could be stolen away. A part deeply and intricately fused into his soul, the stake that was Dean's, had always been Dean's. Even when Sam was at college, he had fiercely clung to the part of Dean he kept within him, hidden, guarded, cherished. The memories, the laughter, the bond, it all lay nestled in Sam's heart, untarnished by separation or time or words spoken in anger, seemingly shatterproof. Like Dean.

In Sam's soul, the unbreakable was breaking. Glass was raining from the heavens.

When only a few hundred feet separated him from Dean, Sam sent the Impala careening across the street. Impassively, he watched the boy wiggle out from under the dead weight of his brother and run away. Only when the front tires of the Chevy crested the sidewalk did the vehicle come to an abrupt halt. Mechanically cutting the engine, Sam vaulted from the car, uncaring that the door was left open. Nothing mattered but Dean, getting to Dean, saving Dean.

His long legs ate up the distance between him and his unmoving brother but all the while his head was screaming, 'Too late! You're too late! You weren't fast enough!' Sam dropped to his knees beside Dean's still body. His brother's face was turned from him, hidden, his back was not. The two bullet holes were brutally unmistakable. A choked shriek of "No!" ruptured from the younger brother.

Sam's trembling right hand ghosted over the holes but settled on Dean's hair, tenderly, possessively. Sam let his heart's agony blaze away his ability to snap into medic mode because he knew, on some deeper level, a level he refused to acknowledge, what his medical training was telling him, what his heart refused to hear. Two bullets, their placement, Dean's utter stillness…traitorous tears were slipping down Sam's face.

"No," the word shattered as Sam shook his head. "Dean, no!" he denied, pleaded, begged. "I'm not leaving town without you!" he growled, eyes blazing with resolve as he forced his hands to be logical, to be sure of themselves, to put their medical skills into practice, to save Dean, even if that meant ripping him from another reaper's tainted grasp.

Sliding his badly shaking hand down Dean's hair to the side of his neck, Sam felt for his brother's pulse, his own heartbeat thumping painfully in his chest. He nearly sobbed when his brother's pulse tapped against his fingers. Hope sprang into his soul and he latched onto it tenaciously. Dean was not leaving him!

Gripping the bottom of Dean's shirt, Sam braced himself for the sight of his brother's wounds. Then, when he felt in control, he ripped the fabric to gain better access to his brother's back. Surprise and confusion and hope tangled in his brain. The bullet holes through his brother's outer shirt and even his t-shirt underneath were irrefutable. But there was no blood, anywhere.

With desperate motions, Sam lifted up Dean's t-shirt. His hands fisted in his brother's shirt, a sob burst from Sam, ripping his insides apart. And then he bowed over Dean, his forehead coming to rest on his brother's head.

A Kevlar vest, Dean was wearing a Kevlar vest. The two bullets lodged in the bullet proof vest vivid evidence of how close he had truly come to losing his brother. Another sob of relief, of near hysteria, of anguish to near the surface wracked Sam before he choked it off, envisioning Dean's reaction if he should awake then, his brother practically lying on him, blubbering like a baby. The thought put a bittersweet smile on Sam's lips as he sat up, his hands refusing to release their death grip on Dean's shirt.

The sound of a siren brought the rest of the world into focus for Sam. Sirens, cops, interrogations, hospitals, it spurred Sam into motion. Wrapping his right hand around Dean's shoulder, Sam, with tender care, rolled Dean unto his back, careful to brace his brother's neck with his still trembling left hand. Presented with his brother's all too pale face again marred with blood, and callously denied the sight of the green gaze that could make him believe everything would always be alright, Sam's breath caught.

"Stay with me, Dean," he entreated, his voice drenched in yearning desperation as he gripped Dean's arms and levered his brother into a sitting position. When Dean's head limply fell to the side, Sam nearly shattered. It was too reminiscent to what had happened in that basement after his electrocution, the way Dean had folded in his arms, limp, broken, nearly lifeless.

Pushing down the emotions that threatened to drown him, Sam pulled Dean over his shoulder, rose with his precious burden and used his long legs to return quickly to the Impala. Opening the passenger door, he leaned over and deposited his fragile cargo into the car, tenderly settling his brother's head back on the seat. Slamming the door, Sam ran to the driver's side, leaped in and had the car barreling down the street an instant later.

Feeling the impending presence of the police cruiser whose siren still rent the air, Sam swung the car into a street to the right, causing Dean to toppled over towards him. Sam flung his right arm out to brace Dean, resulting in his brother's ashen face coming to rest in the crook of his bent arm. That sight crumbled more of Sam's barriers and he had to swallow to keep himself locked down. Tearing his look from his brother back to the road, Sam didn't attempt to reposition Dean. Instead the fingers of his right hand stroked Dean's hair, reassuring himself that Dean was still here, that he hadn't left him, wouldn't be leaving him. Hoping his touch registered with Dean, that his brother knew he was there for him, Sam softly pledged, "You're safe now, Dean." His brother was safe and was going to continue to be safe, Sam would make certain of that.

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Afraid he would jar Dean from his slumped position against him, Sam turned the Impala into the motel parking lot with more care than he had even exercised during his driver's license test. It felt fitting to pull into the parking spot he had sat in hours ago, wanting his brother with him so badly that it had physically hurt. Cutting the engine, Sam supported Dean's neck with one hand while his other hand latched onto his brother's arm and reluctantly he eased Dean away from him. When he was certain Dean would stay upright in the seat, Sam slid his hands free of Dean, bolted from the driver's side and ran for the passenger side.

Opening the Impala's other door, Sam leaned into the car, pulled his brother onto his shoulders and with a firm hold on Dean's legs and the left arm that dangled over his chest, Sam eased Dean from the car. Pushing the door shut with his knee, Sam headed for the stairs, carrying his brother on his shoulders, his white knuckled grip on Dean's left arm and legs as they limply draped over him hard enough to bruise. But that didn't register with Sam. Coiled terror still tethered itself to his soul. Dean was not supposed to be this still, ever. He was not supposed to feel so…..so fragile in his baby brother's grasp. In fact, his baby brother was never supposed to do the carrying in the relationship, or the protecting. Dean would have said that was an unwritten rule of their brotherhood.

It was all wrong! It wasn't right that Dean wasn't conscious to gripe at the broken rule. How desperately Sam needed to hear his brother's voice, to hear him demand to be put down, even a moan from Dean would lighten his heart.

As Sam began to climb the stairs, he struggled to correctly distribute his altered weight for the task. He was in the middle of a round of silent curses at having a second floor room when the step under his right foot broke free of its foundation. Sam toppled forward. Even as he fell, he refused to relinquish even one of his hand holds on his brother, determined that no more harm would come to Dean. With the metal stairs rushing towards his face, Sam lifted his bent arms forward, forcing the triceps of his arms to take the brunt of the impact. He yelped in startled pain as his right knee made harsh contact with a lower step.

Sprawled out on the stairs, his unconscious, injured brother draped over his shoulders, Sam fought to repress the scream that was building in his chest. Perceiving this latest incident was just more of the curse's handiwork, he raged, 'Just STOP! Leave him alone! He doesn't deserve this!' Clenching his jaw and tightening his grip on Dean, Sam pushed off the stairs, made it to his feet and forged ahead. Coming to the second floor landing, he kept to the inside of the open walkway, not wanting to risk…well anything that would send them over the ineffectual railing bordering the walkway.

Reaching their room, Sam realized his room key was tucked neatly in his jeans' pocket. For a fleeting moment, he contemplated kicking the door in but logic prevailed. There was no telling what trouble might come knocking on their door before the day was over, it would be stupid to make the lock useless. With hesitation and regret, Sam pried his right hand from Dean's upper arm and sent it digging into his pocket for the key.

He tried to not take notice of the way his hand shook as he slid the key into the lock. Turning the key, Sam opened the door. Again his hand latched onto Dean's arm as he crossed into the room. Coming to the first bed, Sam leaned over to ease Dean unto the mattress, his hand sliding to brace his brother's head and position it comfortably on the pillow. Finding that he was unable to move, Sam, his whole focus on Dean, leaned over and rested his right hand on Dean's chest, his other gripping the bedspread tightly.

The light of the late afternoon sun slipped through the still open door to caress Dean's blood stained, slack face. To Sam it felt like a mocking threat. Today the sunlight was their enemy, its touch a sharp reminder that the day was not over, dusk had yet to fall. The curse still had over an hour to make good on its threat. The thought broke Sam from his frozen stance by Dean's bed. Pulling his hand from Dean's chest, he crossed the room and snapped the door shut, banishing the sunlight. Immediately he flicked on the light switch, the low watt light bulbs deceptively softening the harsh appearance of his brother.

With his jaw set, he headed for the bathroom, hastily grabbing the supplies he would need. Coming to the bedside stand on Dean's left side, he ruthlessly shoved the alarm clock radio, the free writing pad embossed with the motel's logo, the menus of the local restaurants that delivered and the free guide to the city unto the floor and strategically lined up his meager, inadequate supplies. He cursed lowly as he realized what was missing off the stand, the lamp, the lamp he had thrown across the room, the lamp whose cord was still plugged in and was buried in between the headboard and the mattress, leading to the shattered lamp on the floor by the door.

Deciding that the overhead lights would have to be enough to work by, Sam focused on his next move. With trepidation, he knew it required him to leave Dean's side, to make a trip to the car to retrieve the first aid kit. Leaving Dean, even if it were for mere moments, was the very last thing Sam wanted to do. Not with the curse still unswerving in its desire to kill his brother, and not with Dean so still, looking so fragile, being so vulnerable.

'I can't do it. I can't leave him, not now, not yet. I can wait to tend properly to his injuries, until dusk falls, until he is safe from the curse's manipulations.' His decision made, Sam carefully perched on the bed by Dean's hip. Soaking a washcloth in the water he had put in the ice bucket, he leaned over Dean and gently dabbed at his brother's bloody temple, attempting to uncover the true source of the blood caked onto Dean's face.

Sam's hand jerked back as Dean winced, drew in a sharp breath, uttered a cough, and then his eyes blinked open. It was so reminiscent to Dean's awakening in the asylum after Sam had shot him with rock salt that Sam's breath caught. Surprised, confused green eyes latched onto him. Having his connection with Dean reestablished, joy and overwhelming relief washed over Sam, causing the pressure in his chest to vanish. His voice soft, trembling, Sam greeted, "Hey," a tremulous smile on his lips.

"Sam?" Dean croaked, his eyes scanning his surrounding, his disorientation growing. "What…? How…?" And then his eyes flew to Sam, recollection beginning to blaze in them. "The boy…the kid on the street! Is he…" and he began to rise from the bed, fear lurking in his eyes and a wince flashing over his face.

Putting his hand to Dean's chest, Sam tenderly yet firmly pressed Dean down onto the mattress. "He's fine, Dean," shocked to hear gruff anger in his own voice. Adopting a more congenial tone, he clarified, "Not a scratch on him if the way he took off down the street after the shooting is any indication." He forced another small smile onto his lips, the warmth of which didn't reach his dark eyes.

With relief, Dean sank back more heavily onto the mattress, closing his eyes and swallowing audibly. 'The kid isn't dead. I did something right today.' When the hand that Sam had on his chest clenched onto his shirt with something akin to desperation and his brother's raw voice croaked, "Dean!" Dean's eyes flew open. The distraught, fearful look in Sam's eyes was like a punch to his gut, igniting his protective instincts. "Sammy, I'm alr.." he began to reassure, intending to reinforce his words by gripping Sam's wrist with his right hand, but a cry of pain decimated his words as agony awakened in his arm. Clamping his jaw shut, he breathed shallowly, his body rigid, his nerves coiled as he willed the pain to dissipate.

Alarmed at Dean's yelp of pain, Sam questioned with the gentle voice he reserved for times when his fear for Dean threatened to overwhelm him, "What is it? What hurts?" His hand tightened more firmly in Dean's shirt while his other hand cupped the side of Dean's neck, his eyes searching Dean's, attempting to gauge his brother's level of pain.

"Arm," Dean breathed through his gritted teeth, looking to the offending limb as he stubbornly began to force it from the bed again. Raising his left arm, Dean intended to clamp his hand around the source of pain like a tourniquet, to do something to minimize the agony.

Catching both of Dean's wrists in his hands, Sam pressed each arm back upon the bed with gentle care. "Just lay still, Dean. Let me have a look," Sam soothed, coming off the bed and quickly scampering to the other side. His breath hitched in his throat. The white sheet under his brother's right arm was turning red. 'I missed something! I didn't notice…' his self recrimination fell silent as he noticed the hole in the jacket's sleeve, right at Dean's right bicep. "Dean.." he choked out, sounding so much like the seven year old he had once been, the child who had burst into tears at the sight of his older brother, lying on a forest floor in Pennsylvania, bleeding profusely, his breath labored. His eyes flying to Dean's, Sam barely kept his voice from cracking apart, "you've been shot."

Through his agony, regardless of his own feelings about having a bullet rip into his arm, Dean coolly retorted, "Yeah well, that's not a new one," attempting to ease the panic nearly overwhelming his brother's level of control. His eyes flicked down to his arm, unable to see the damage but sure able to feel it.

Dean's indifference to the knowledge that he was shot nearly smashed through Sam's emotional flood gates. "Dean! This isn't rock salt!" his trembling hands reaching hesitatingly for the bullet wound.

Without pulling his eyes from his arm, Dean countered lowly, "I'm not talking about rock salt, Sam."

Sam froze, his hands hovering above his brother's bloody sleeve, his shocked look fixed on Dean's face. Sam knew the variety of injuries his brother had endured, could recite them the way some people recited the states of the US. Gunshot wound was not among them…had not been among them four years ago when he left for college. Nausea swept through Sam. 'He was shot before! Dean was shot before! And I wasn't there, I didn't even know about it!'

When Sam answered his confession with silence, Dean looked up, his eyes skimming his brother's features. It didn't take much insight to label the emotions running rampant in his brother's mind: guilt and shock. 'Just great. I just sent Sammy on another guilt trip, all expenses paid. I'm really wracking up the 'who's the worst big brother' points today.' Before he could find the words to make things better, Sam was speaking.

Shoving his emotions aside, Sam focused on what was most important, making Dean alright. "We need to get this jacket off you so I can tend to your arm," his voice gentle even as it held resolve. Nothing would stop him from easing Dean's pain, of ensuring his brother was safe and would remain safe.

Relieved when determination overrode his brother's guilt, Dean agreed with Sam's plan of action with a pained, "yeah." Using his left arm, he began to lever himself into a sitting position. Instantly his brother's arm slid behind his shoulders, aiding him in his task. Every part of Dean's body protested the movement, would have opposed any movement. Without warning, piercing pain shot through his chest, cutting off his breath as if a boa constrictor had wrapped itself around his torso. Somewhere his mind diagnosed, cracked ribs, even as his vision abandoned color for a white washed view of the world.

Feeling the jolt of agony sweep through his brother's body, watching Dean's complexion go nearly translucent, Sam let his honed reflexes take over. Quickly, he slid onto the bed, taking up a seated position behind his brother. The next second, Dean's head lolled backward to land on his left shoulder before Dean's body went slack in his grip. "Dean!" Sam exclaimed in shock and terror, wrapping his arms around his brother, his eyes swinging to his brother's face now inches from his own.

"Don't yell, Sammy," Dean mumbled, his eyes closed, his body's pain receptors nearly taking him on that crappy ride to unconsciousness that he had ridden too often that day.

Squeezing his eyes tight in relief, Sam forced himself to loosen his frantic grip on his brother, knowing that Dean's body could not bear such rough handling right now. "I've got you Dean," he vowed gently by Dean's ear, opening his eyes and turning his head to view his brother's white face as his head rested on his shoulder. "You're alright," he reassured, forcing his voice to be firm, certain, unwavering. He watched as a smirk pulled onto his brother's features, the head that rested on his shoulder rolled toward him and green eyes met his.

"Alright?" Dean scoffed, going for incredulous but it came out more a croak of pain. "You have a funny definition of alright. I've been shot, Sammy."

Recognizing his brother's attempt to downplay his pain, Sam forced a matching smirk onto his lips, "It's just a flesh wound."

"Yeah but it's my flesh," Dean forced his voice into a whine and brought his head off Sam's shoulder. For the second time his world turned white. Opting for black over white, he shut his eyes and swallowed hard, determined to not get sick. Sam's hand gently came to brace the left side of his neck and he found his head eased back onto his brother's shoulder.

"Just stay still for a few minutes, Dean," Sam's voice cracked, feeling pain tear through his chest at the sight of a vulnerable, hurting Dean.

A moment later, when Dean broke the silence, his voice held a level of anguished surrender that shredded Sam's soul. "Please tell me it's past dusk, Sam."

It took three swallows before Sam could find his voice, "Soon," its rough quality doing little to mask his raw emotions, his arm unconsciously wrapping tighter around Dean's chest.

Pulling on a grin, Dean snorted, "Soon, huh? You paying me back for all those road trips where I lied and told you we would be there soon?"

"And we drove for another fourteen hours you mean!" Sam rejoined, knowing the reaction was expected, even needed.

"Don't exaggerate, Sammy," and Dean slowly opened his eyes, relieved to see the room stay in color, though the color scheme of greens and browns was nothing to rave about. "It was only twelve hours."

Sam snorted and marginally shook his head, letting his right hand drop away from Dean's neck and settle on Dean's right shoulder. "Can we move now, get your jacket off?" he gently asked.

"What's this 'we' stuff, kemo sabe" Dean groused even as he lifted his head and made to sit up.

Bracing Dean with one hand, Sam worked to slide the jacket sleeve off of Dean's left arm with his other hand. When Dean's breath hitched, Sam felt like a sucker punch had landed into his solar plexus. His jaw clenched, Sam forced himself to accomplish his task amid his brother's pain. Maneuvering the jacket free from Dean's back, Sam quietly said, "I'm going to move so you can lie down, alright?"

"'kay," was Dean's nearly inaudible agreement, his tone a gasp of air.

Slowly, Sam began to move from behind his brother, his arm bracing Dean until he was out of the way enough to ease Dean back onto the mattress. Looking down at his brother's colorless face, dotted with sweat, his eyes concealed by tightly clamped eyelids, Sam sank his teeth into his lower lip and forced himself to do what was necessary. With as much gentle determination as he could, Sam slid the jacket free from Dean's injured right arm. He hated the moaning growl that slipped through his brother's fortitude, the way his brother's left hand gripped intensely onto the mattress. And even worse still, his brother's eyes were closed. Eyes that usually steadied him, supported him, would usually have conveyed reassurances to Sam that Dean understood that doing this hurt Sam as much as it hurt him.

Ripping his focus from Dean's face, Sam forced his attention to his brother's blood soaked shirt sleeve. Pulling his pocket knife from his jeans, Sam cut the shirt sleeve from cuff to shoulder. With alarm, he saw that blood still seeped from the damaged flesh, almost hiding the hole that ruthlessly bore through his brother's arm. "I…I need the first aid kit from the car" he stammered, his eyes coming again to rest on Dean's face.

"Alright," Dean croaked, but when he felt Sam's still immobile presence at his side, he forced his eyes open. His brother's worry was like a tangible thing, filling the room, making breathing even more difficult. "Go get it, Sam. I'm not going anywhere."

'You promise?' Sam almost said aloud. Instead he bit his lip, nodded his head and had every intention of rushing from the room. Except he couldn't move, couldn't break away from Dean's pained green eyes.

Knowing his brother well enough to read his thoughts without the need of any freaky psychic abilities, Dean vowed, "I promise, Sammy." It humbled Dean to see unwavering trust spark in Sam's eyes, watch as relief dimmed his brother's anguish as he ran from the room, certain in his belief that his big brother would never make a promise he wouldn't keep.

Raising his head from the pillow, Dean read the clock above the tv. Forty two minutes until dusk fell. With bitter knowledge, he knew that the worst had yet to come. This curse would not concede defeat without one final try. It never did.

So close, he had been so close last year, so close to escaping the most ruthless of the curse's manipulations. Three minutes. That was all the time he had had left on the hourglass last year. And foolishly he had dropped his guard, had let false hope seep in, had let cockiness wash over him, had let the tension ease in his nerves…and then the car had struck him. With vivid awareness, he had felt his leg and three ribs break, knew the instant his lung collapsed, could do nothing to prevent his head from bouncing off the windshield. And then he knew nothing but agony, darkness and the bitter belief that the old crone had gotten her way.

Forty two minutes until dusk. Forty two minutes, that was all that stood between him keeping his promise to Sam. A stake of panic drove through Dean's heart. 'It's too much time! Too much could happen! And I'm too weak to ward it off!' With brutal rationale, he acknowledged the truth: 'I might not be able to keep my promise to Sam.'

TBC

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Author's Notes: Once again, I appreciate everyone's wonderful response to my plea for help in the direction I should take to finish this tale. I "think" I've made up my mind but one thing is for certain…it's going to take two long chapters to wrap up all the loose ends I still have flying in the wind. Hope that's Ok with everyone who was voting for 1 long chapter…now you'll get 2 for the price of…well you know what I mean.

Anyway, I'm working hard to get the next chapter together…biting my nails over how deep, how much feeling is an appropriate amount to unleashed in these manly characters (characters that seem to get away with saying the mushiest things on the show and STILL be manly as heck…Talk about terrific actors!)

Thanks again for everyone for taking time out of your real life to read my story and an especially huge thank you to everyone who goes the extra million miles and drops me a review. I am so flattered by the encouraging response I've gotten from everyone for this crazy story. THANK YOU!

Have a great day!

Cheryl