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: Well, here's the 2nd to last chapter! And it is a long one! Love to hear your thoughts about it!
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Chapter 9: Setting Things Straight
Promises. Bitterly, Sam had come to understand that his father welded promises like another weapon in his arsenal. They were a means to an end, a con devised to placate and divert. 'I promise, Sammy, I'll be back in time for your birthday.' 'You have my word, son, we'll stay in this town for awhile.' 'I know your brother is still hurt but this hunt is an easy one, and I swear to you, I'll make sure he's safe.' Lies…all of them.
But for all the lies that came out of Dean Winchester's mouth in the pursuit of evil, he never gave a promise he didn't intend to keep. It was the reason his promises were rare, and one of the most precious things Sam had been able to cling to in his turbulent childhood. It was Dean's steadfast promises that inspired trust in Sam where there easily could have been none.
Now, once again, Sam found himself clinging with an unyielding two fisted grip onto one of his brother's promises. 'Dean would never break a promise to me,' repeated in his head again and again as his legs raced across the motel's walkway, as he bounded down the stairs two at a time.
With his thoughts firmly fixed on his brother, Sam never recalled that one of the steps was missing until his foot was aiming for that open space. Forced at the last second to alter his momentum into a record three stairs leap, he cleared the gaping hole only to loose his balance when his foot twisted on its landing. Unbalanced, Sam slammed into the railing. It was only his grip on the handrail that ensured he didn't pitch over the side. 'Good one Sam! You ending up sprawled out on the asphalt will really help Dean! Calm down and act like a Winchester! You've seen Dean hurt worse.' That thought, however, did nothing to quell his rising panic because, though Dean had been hurt worse before, Sam had never truly believed that he had lost his brother forever, not like today.
Reaching the Impala, Sam unlocked the trunk with trembling hands, unable to stop his eyes from flickering up to their room. Yes, Dean's promise had given him the courage to leave his brother's side but now, apart from Dean, with the bitter knowledge that it was not yet dusk, that the danger to his brother had not passed, his bravery was slipping away.
Opening the trunk, Sam, shadowed in the Impala's presence, sagged against the car, his head bowed, and his eyes clenched tightly shut. It felt like a thousand emotions were crashing onto his chest, joy that he was with Dean again, relief that Dean wasn't dead, concern about his brother's injures, guilt that he hadn't protected Dean better and then there was the emotion that had him by the throat: terror. Terror that dusk was too far away, that something yet would happen, that Dean might still die that day.
Without his permissionSam's breath hitched in his throat in a quiet sob. The day's events had indelibly proven one thing to him: he couldn't bear to lose his brother. He had lost his mother before he knew her, Jess before he could make her his wife but losing Dean would break him in ways nothing else ever could. Dean was the cornerstone of everything he was, everything he hoped to be. Brother, mother, father, friend, protector, teacher, advocate, Dean had been them all for Sam as he grew up, without complaint, without regret. And what was inconceivable to Sam was the knowledge that, regardless of how far or how harshly he had pushed Dean away in the past, his brother was still willing to be all those things for him, now and forever.
'How do I repay someone for being every good thing that I've known in this world? Certainly not by letting some curse take him out! Get your crap together! Be Sam, not Sammy. Protect Dean like he's spent his whole life protecting you.' But Sam found he couldn't move, couldn't quite dissolve the sob in his chest.
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It was not the first time Dean Winchester knew the tightening of the noose of death around his neck, its constriction sometimes slow and sometimes swift, but always unmerciful and sure. In his line of work, death was an occupational hazard, always a possibility, and one heck of an incentive to not screw up. It was that understanding that had allowed him to be so accepting of his fate after his electrocution. It was almost a relief that it was finally upon him, that it was his fate and not Sam's or those two kids in that house.
But today, now, he didn't feel that relief. More was at stake than before, he owed a greater debt, had a greater responsibility, to Marshall Hall, to Layla, to Roy LeGrange, maybe even to God. Much had been sacrificed so he could live, could fight another day, could finish the "important job" Roy had mentioned. He couldn't let those sacrifices be in vain.
Attempting to sit up was a futile effort. His ribs ricocheted pain through his body and his right arm threatened to sever from his shoulder, sending him crashing back onto the mattress, a cry of pain ripping through the room. He couldn't do it, he couldn't ward off any more of the curse's onslaughts, found he didn't want to. It was too much weight to bear, trying to make his life worth Marshal's life, Layla's life, even Sue Ellen's life. He could never make it right, never make it a worthwhile trade. His soul was too tarnished for redemption, it certainly never warranted the sacrifice of three lives.
Sam didn't understand that, didn't want to understand that. Dean knew that by the look in his brother's eyes when he had told Sam he was going to die and he couldn't stop it, when he woke up in Sam's arms in Roy LeGrange's tent and even more strongly when Sam had insisted that Marshall Hall's death wasn't his fault, that Marshall would have still died, just for someone else. Each time, Sam had practically been broadcasting from the Sears Tower that there was nothing he wouldn't sacrifice to save Dean, nothing that wasn't worthy to be sacrificed for his brother's life…even someone else's life.
To Sam, Dean was still some mythical hero, too valuable to lose, worth the sacrifice of an army in the defense of his safety. It was some kickback to their childhood, Dean rationalized, some ingrained little brother response that had yet to completely fade away. But Dean knew it would, the longer Sam stayed by his side, the more Sam discerned his true character, Sam would see how wrong he was about his brother. And to Dean, that was worse than dying, maybe even worse than letting those strangers' deaths be in vain.
His heroic exploits retold in his father's journal…. they weren't the only way he found value in his life, in himself. Sam was another large part of his perceived self worth, Sam and his father, the people that knew him best.
A croak that was a cross between a laugh and a sob escaped Dean at that thought. His father had ditched him and hadn't even made a guest reappearance when he was dying of heart failure! And Sam…Sam had happily unloaded a shotgun blast of rock salt into his chest, had determinedly leveled a .45 Magnum at his head and pulled the trigger three times, only to have it disappointingly click on empty chambers.
By those standards, his self worth should have registered in the negative numbers. But it didn't. Because even in his most self depreciative moments, Dean had always known the value of the lives of the people he had saved, known that he earned worth by not letting them be lost. And then there was Sammy. Regardless of the time that he and Sam had spent apart, or all the hurtful things they said to one another, or the new found differences in each of them that make their footing clumsy and defensive, Sam still gave him that look, that smile, that laugh that said they were brothers and he wouldn't change that for the world.
But now, with his life possibly ticking down, Dean accepted that Sam and that look of his were temporary things in his life, things that would disappear when vengeance was achieved. And Dean wondered where John Winchester would go when his revenge was sated, where his sons would fit into his life once they were no longer needed as soldiers.
Like a thousand nights before, Dean's eyes settled on the cracked, water stained ceiling of the dilapidated motel room. Tears burned in his eyes. Suddenly he wanted the hunting to be over, wanted his "important job" to be finished, was ready, for the first time, to accept the truth that his family was never going to be what he wanted it to be, needed it to be. That no matter how many lives he saved, no matter how many families he spared the loss he felt, it would never mend what was broken in him.
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Having resolutely wiped the anguish from his all too open face, Sam hurriedly entered the room, the first aid kit in his hand, his eyes instantly latching onto his brother's prone figure. Only when Dean rolled his head toward him and those green eyes met his anxious look, could Sam draw in a breath, feel his chest expand in relief. Dean hadn't gone anywhere, hadn't broken his promise. 'Yet,' the unbidden doubt sprang into his head.
Quelling the cruel cynical internal taunts that sought to unravel him from the soul outward, Sam vowed to be a strong steady presence for Dean like his brother had always been for him. Decisively, he dragged the only chair in the room to the side of Dean's bed. Though Sam sensed Dean was watching his every move, his brother remained uncharacteristically silent, leaving this prime opening for protesting, whining and complaints against Sam's ministrations painfully unclaimed.
Skittering his eyes up to Dean's face, worried at what he would find in his brother's expression, Sam felt disappointment hum through him when he found Dean's eyes were no longer fastened upon him. Instead his brother's pain dulled green eyes sought comfort from the sight of the ceiling of the room.
Sam knew it had taken him a few minutes to get to the Impala, to retrieve the first aid kit, longer still as his emotions slipped their reign and he herded them back behind the brave façade he erected to wear around Dean. All in all, ten minutes might have passed…and yet, in the short time he was absent from his brother's side, Sam realized that something had changed within Dean. Dean had made a decision, had chosen a path, without Sam's knowledge and without his consent and something inside of Sam was howling out 'No!' in blind but nevertheless anguished protest.
Knowing only too well that uttering his protests to whatever scheme was pinballing around his brother's head would only make Dean more resolute, Sam forced himself to focus on the task at hand. Pulling a bottle of pain reliever from the kit, his eyes took in Dean's every facial muscle as he tentatively asked, "Do you want something for the pain awhile or…" His voice dropped off, knowing the answer even as Dean's head rolled on the pillow with a negative minuscule shake, his eyes still on the ceiling. The answer was not unexpected. Dean rarely accepted any drugs if a hunt was still on, if the danger was still fogging up their back windows. 'Sharp reflexes, Sammy. It's all about sharp reflexes,' was Dean's usual comeback, a comeback that markedly didn't come this time.
But the silence wasn't the worst of it. No what pierced fiercely into Sam was the loss of his connection with Dean. It was a connection that resonated along any looks that passed between them, their eyes linking them even when they were coming at things from opposite angles, even bitter corners. It was always in Dean's eyes, his love for Sam, his trust of Sam, his faith in Sam, eyes that now refused to shift to the younger man even for a flickering second.
And Sam didn't know how to get that connection back, what words to speak. In the end, he decided to say nothing, to let silence wrap itself in the room as he began his ministrations.
Retrieving the ice bucket of water and washcloth from the nightstand and slipping into the bathroom to return with a full sized towel, Sam claimed the chair beside Dean again. Gently Sam lifted Dean's arm to slide the towel onto the bed, his jaw clenching tightly as his brother's whole body tensed in agony his face creased with pain at the slightest movement to the injured limb.
Settling Dean's arm back onto the towel, Sam doused the washcloth in the water. His eyes flickered again to his brother's face only to still be deprived of that connection he so desperately needed, wanted, his brother's inspection of the ceiling resuming. With hands that trembled too much for their experience in tending terrible wounds, Sam drew the washcloth across the ragged hole in the flesh of his brother's arm.
Hissing in agony, Dean brutally clenched the bed under his hands, his eyes tightly closed, his body rigid to give the pain no outlet for release. Each stroke of the washcloth was like sandpaper, scouring off a layer of skin, each drop of water that seeped into the bullet wound was like acid. And this was the easy part. He nearly jumped as Sam's soft, anguished, choked voice broke the silence.
"The bullet went straight through."
"Great," Dean growled through clenched teeth, "break out the mariachi band." It wasn't a response he had planned to make, hadn't planned to say anything, it had simply fallen from his lips. But it was worth his break in the silence to hear Sam's startled snort of laughter. Opening his eyes, he sought out the sight of his brother's eyes, unable to miss a chance to see the spark of humor in the brown depths. He wasn't disappointed …sort of, for the humor was there in Sam's eyes. But it was the pain, the fear in his brother's shimmering eyes that secured a tenacious hold on Dean's heart.
Instinctively, Dean wanted to soothe Sam's fears to ease his pain but found he didn't have the means. Not really. This day was out of his control, was out of Sam's control. He had already made an oath he wasn't sure he could uphold, he wouldn't hurt Sam more by making another. False promises were John Winchester's specialties. Long ago Dean had sworn they would never become his. The last minutes of his life would be a crappy time to falter in a "life long" oath.
At Dean's sarcastic grumble, hope had flared in Sam's heart, hope that Dean, his Dean, his bigger than life, 'no-curse-is-going-to-get-the-best-of-me' brother was back. Though Dean's eyes had finally sought him out, the look in them smothered Sam's hope and stole his very breath away. It left him choking out his brother's name, "Dean," pleading for something he couldn't verbalize, couldn't even grasp himself. All he knew was he wanted Dean to tell him what a crappy doctor he was making, to make all of this alright, to promise him again that he wasn't going anywhere.
Pulling his gaze from Sam's pleading eyes and pretending his name in Sam's broken voice didn't rip his heart out, Dean looked down to his wounded arm and quietly instructed, "You'll need to drown the wound in antiseptic wash but at least we can skip the holy water this time." And then Dean's eyes met Sam's, his look serious, focused, detached.
Able only to nod, words impossible around the lump climbing up his throat, Sam gripped the antiseptic wash and screwed off the lid. Out of all the things he hated about their lifestyle, this was always the worst…Dean being hurt, Sam needing to patch him up, Sam forced to hurt his brother in order to help him. It was one of the reasons Stanford had been so appealing, knowing that this part of his life would end….he dared not dwell on the fact that it wouldn't end for Dean, didn't. Now Sam accepted the truth, it hadn't ended for Dean, the wounds, the patching up, the pain on top of pain…it all continued…but who was there to help Dean, to patch him up, to hurt him to save him. 'I'm sorry, Dean. I am so sorry I wasn't there!' ran through his head over and over as he lifted the bottle, his trembling hand hovering above the bullet wound.
"It's alright, Sammy. Just do it and get it over with," Dean soothed quietly, his voice rough with emotions that Sam's obvious reluctance to hurt him generated. When Sam's tear filled eyes settled on him, Dean cursed himself for putting Sam through this, for not insisting before this that he could tend to his own wounds. Lifting his right hand toward the bottle, he began, "I'll do it, Sa…"
"No," Sam intended to growl but it came out a croak and he shook his head. "I'll do it." And then his uncertain look solidified into that determined Winchester gleam, leaving only his eyes to scream out to Dean's steady gaze, 'I'm sorry! I'm sorry for the pain I'm about to cause you Dean!' "You ready?" his voice low, controlled, forced.
"Yeah," Dean acknowledged and his whole body tensed for the agony he knew was headed his way. A moment before the antiseptic burned across his every nerve like acid, before pain was the only thing he registered, Dean felt Sam's right hand slip into his hand, felt the strength, the desperation, the anchor of that grip, and it was enough to see him through the agony.
Dean's cry of pain, the way his brother nearly came off the bed in reaction, the bone crushing grip of Dean's hand in his was almost enough to break Sam's already faltering emotional walls. The thought that Dean needed him, that Dean's life was in his hands, that he was the guardian today, gave him the strength to pour another measure of the antiseptic into the bullet wound, to do what must be done to keep Dean safe, his own feelings be damned.
As the second wave of burning heat slowly died down to embers, Dean's breath came in gasps, his body was slicked with sweat, his throat was raw from the cry of pain he unleashed and the bellow of agony he had managed to keep trapped in his throat. Swallowing with some discomfort, Dean watched his little brother dab at the bullet wound with extreme care, the determined look on Sam's face like a neon sign. With love and sick dread, Dean knew Sam would do whatever was necessary to protect him..and that was what Dean dreaded most in the world.
Sensing Dean's look upon him, Sam switched his inspection from the wound to Dean. A brief flash of sadness flared in Dean's eyes before they slipped back into their unreadable spectrum, effectively shutting Sam out. "I'm not going to stitch it today, in case infection tries to set in," Sam said, unable to prevent his tone from seeking Dean's consent, for his soul from craving his brother's approval at every turn.
"Alright," Dean managed to breathe out, his tone low with all too fresh agony. It was only then that he became aware that his hand still desperately gripped Sam's. Uncurling his fingers from their possessive hold on Sam's hand, Dean almost shut his hand again to capture Sam's hand as it slid slowly from his grasp, leaving him feeling suddenly alone.
Knowing that Dean would not tolerate his continued hold on his hand, Sam slid his hand free but purposefully didn't look at Dean, certain that his bereavement at the lost connection would beam from his eyes. Putting his freed hand to good use, he began to wrap a sterile bandage around Dean's arm, mercifully concealing his brother's ravaged flesh from Sam's sight. His voice was barely audible in the quiet room, "What time is dusk tonight?" his focus remaining on the bandage now unsteady in his hands.
Lulled by the easing pain, Dean blinked a few times before he could decipher Sam's words. Then he cleared his throat and flippantly answered, "7:04, if those bozos at the weather channel are correct."
Sam twisted his wrist enough to see his watch face and he wasn't sure if he should scowl or rejoice as it revealed the time as 6:45. Nineteen minutes to go. Longer than it had taken Sam to stop the car in Indiana, throw out some hurtful words and walk away from Dean, shorter than the time it took to get an electrocuted Dean to the hospital, which took into account the soul crushing minutes the paramedics had spent resuscitating Dean in the basement of that deserted house. Of course it could also be gauged as less time than it took for Dean to finally drop his protective watch over Sam after one of his nightmares, and more time than it had taken Sam, as he settled in the passenger seat of the Impala after a two year absence, to remember why he loved his brother so much. The crux of the matter was that, good, bad, happy, sad, joyous, tragic, it all could fit into nineteen minutes. 'Normal nineteen minutes,' Sam bitterly pointed out, knowing that the minutes to come were decidedly not normal, that what time lay ahead was predestined to carve out a certain fate for Dean.
Victory, defeat, life or death, the battle would be waged in the next nineteen minutes, minutes which the curse would mercilessly seek to steal his brother away from him. A battle Sam felt defenseless against. Useless were all the weapons in his arsenal, his treasured college education folly in the face of this evil. Salt could not deter the destructive touch of the curse from making the room its playground, his brother its toy. Latin chants would fall on empty space, ineffectual and a waste of breath.
With despair beginning to wrap its talons into his soul, Sam finally discerned that there was only one thing that had the power to withstand this evil; his fierce love for his brother. His love for Dean was stronger than any curse, more tenacious than some old crone's hate, more deep seated than even Sam's desire to take another breath. It was then that Sam experienced the true weight of protecting someone that he loved better than himself. In truth it didn't even shock him to realize that he was willing to risk anything, everything, to go to whatever lengths necessary to keep his brother safe. For in that moment, Sam knew his brother better than ever, understood what prompted Dean's big brother protective motives, found himself ready to emulate Dean's reckless methods to ensure that his brother was safe, was going to remain safe. He and Dean were not so different after all.
Sam's face told Dean everything. His brother's worry, his brother's fear, his brother's love for him and finally his resolve to save him. It was all there in his eyes, in the sight of his teeth biting into his lower lip, in the crease in that strong brow. And other things spoke just as loudly, the tender way Sam tied off the bandage on his arm, the hitch in Sam's breath, the fact that Sam was still there, ready to defend him against anything this curse would unleash. The knowledge gave Dean the strength to do what he must.
"Help me up, Sam," Dean ordered, forcing strength into a voice still raw from pain and ravaged emotions, lifting his head from the pillow. To his surprise, Sam's strong hands quickly supported his neck and slid behind his back, aiding him to sit up. Sitting on the left side of the bed, his head feeling like it was in danger of rolling off his shoulders, Dean clenched tightly to the bed under his hands as Sam slipped in front of him, gripping his shoulders supportively. Dean could see the glimmer of hope in his brother's eyes, could tell his show of "strength" was an encouraging sign to Sam, could feel the love Sam had for him. It made his next words inordinately hard and inescapably necessary…but that was nothing new, really. Protecting Sam had always been an undeserving honor that sometimes came with an immeasurably hard price.
"I don't want you here, Sam," Dean's voice was gruff, pained, exasperated even as he hoped that his eyes were not conveying all the things he wanted to say instead.
His brother's order was unexpected, delivering a painful strike to Sam's unprotected heart. But it could not dislodge his love, he was convinced nothing could. "I'm not leaving you, Dean," the declaration more filled with desperation than strength.
"I called Dad," Dean's words were quiet but they jolted Sam, sent surprise, wariness and panic into the brown eyes that met Dean's. Pulling on a small sad smirk, Dean continued, "Course I just had to leave a message." No matching smirk lurked in Sam's tight mouth, clenched jaw, so Dean dropped the pretenses and let his resolve tighten his own mouth, darken his eyes, steady his voice. "I told him you would meet him at Caleb's place at midnight tonight." Sam's emotions crashed into Dean as if they were his own, causing him to look away.
But Dean couldn't ignore the screaming in his head, 'Finish this! Now! You don't have time to be weak!' Pointedly he looked down to his watch before he coldly advised, "You should leave now," wishing they were better words, kinder words. With a smirk strategically hinged on his handsome face, Dean raised his eyes to hold Sam's wounded gaze, "You know Dad hates when you're late."
A vise was crushing Sam's heart as he choked out his accusation, "You're lying!" But as the fake smirk faded from his brother's face, and Dean's eyes became unguarded, Sam's doubts were swept away. Even still, he vainly tried for one more denial, "You don't have your cell phone…"
A tired honest smirk eased on Dean's features. "Maybe you're too young to remember them, but there is such a thing as a payphone, Sammy."
With betrayal, hurt and fear wrestling for domination, Sam drew in a gasping breath as he shook his head, not in denial but refusal. He was confused about a lot of things but whether or not he should be with Dean wasn't one of them. Not anymore, not after the events of this day. "No, Dean!" he shouted, shooting to his feet, preparing himself to win any form of battle that was about to be waged.
With his emotions lending him strength, Dean came to his feet, growling, "Yes, Sam!" Again his world lapsed into white hues but he refused to anchor onto Sam to keep his feet. He'd been on the floor before in his life, he knew how to get back up. But Sam refused him that choice.
His hands flying out to latch onto Dean's arms as the older man swayed, Sam took a step closer to better support his brother's overtaxed body. He was surprised when Dean's hands pushed weakly against his chest, trying to extract him from Sam's increasingly tenacious hold.
Raising his green eyes to blaze into Sam's across the inches that separated them, Dean commanded, "You have to let me go," his voice rough, anxious, demanding as he assimilated more strength, reinforced his stance and shoved harder on Sam's chest.
"No!" Sam brokenly rebelled as if the word was torn from his very soul, his hands tightening their hold on Dean's biceps. He wouldn't let go, couldn't, because he knew Dean wasn't talking about the physical hold he held him in, that it went deeper than that, cut more brutally than that.Because he knew those words, they were his words, from Chicago, 'You have to let me go'. Swallowing convulsively, Sam fought the urge to be sick as he came to understand, first hand, the pain an appeal like that could inflict, the pain that his appeal had inflicted on Dean. Pain that had the power to shred a soul, to sever the bonds that made he and Dean brothers.
Locked in his brother's hold, seeing the pain flash in Sam's eyes, Dean knew he had to make his escape now, before he lost his nerve. His words were nearly a shout, though he was almost close enough for his breath to move Sam's hair, "Sam, if you want me to let you go, it's time, alright! I can do it now! If it has to be done, then let me do it, Sam. Now, Sam. Right now!"
Now or Never, Sam realized Dean was leaving unsaid but he could see the truth in his brother's gaze. Stunned, Sam unconsciously loosened his grip on Dean. The words had come so easily in Chicago, the thought of returning to a normal life so appealing, believing he could put all this warped stuff away forever an anticipated joy. But he had not reconciled even then that that would mean severing his ties with Dean all over again, maybe forever. Now he understand what sacrifice would have to be made, understood it the way Dean had always understood it. Stanford had been a leave of absence, it had not been a final goodbye to the life he had known, though he had fooled himself into thinking it had been.
Today, now, it was the real deal. It was his exit, if not from this hunting life it was his exit from the ties Dean had on him, had always had on him, ties that had tethered him to their family. Even if he hooked up with their Dad, even if Dad, Dean and he fought and defeated what had killed Jess, it would not be the goodbye then between the brothers that hung in the air, right in this motel room. Now or never: Sever the ties with Dean or seal them forever.
"Dean…" Sam pleaded brokenly. For what? He wasn't sure.
As if Sam hadn't spoken, Dean gently reassured with that confidence Sam always relied upon, "You and Dad will find some middle ground, Sam. You need each other, maybe more now than ever before. I should have recognized that in Chicago, sent you with Dad then. I guess.." breaking off before his voice revealed the emotions he wouldn't expose, Dean looked away. When he spoke again, his voice was distant, far away, like he was telling a story from his past that could no longer affect him. "I was content, you know, with you and me on the road." Snorting in self disgust, he again met Sam's stunned expression and offered up a tight smirk. "I was just being selfish."
The thought of leaving Dean, now or even in Chicago, nearly closed up Sam's throat. Possessively, he tightened his hold on Dean. "I'm not leaving you, Dean," his voice husky with gathering resolve, his eyes daring Dean to object, "and I wouldn't have gone with Dad in Chicago, not without you."
Struggling for his words to not reflect his hurt, Dean reiterated Sam's own accusations back at him. "Come on, Sam! Before we even left Chicago you kept telling me that letting Dad go was a mistake. Well," swallowing, Dean looked to the floor, "maybe it was…for you." Forcing himself to watch Sam's face, to read whatever emotions sprang to the dark eyes, Dean faced Sam before softly continuing, "I don't know how you feel about losing Jess, right? Well, Dad does. That was another reason I wanted to hook up with Dad, so you two could….talk, work through things, from before Stanford and …after."
Dean's words were like the impact of a baseball bat to Sam's chest, making his every breath painful. How could his own words wound him so badly! He barely remembered some of them, had, no doubt, purposefully wiped them from his memory because guilt at hurting Dean wasn't something he endured well. Dean had no such memory failings. 'How old were you when Mom died? Four! Jess died six months ago Dean. How the hell would you know how I feel!' And Dean had taken the attack without retaliation, without defending himself, without unburying his own agony and sorrow, had let Sam win the battle without offering up a defense, had let Sam's needs overshadow his own, again, always.
In retrospect, Sam realized that, when he met his Dad in Chicago, out of the all the things he felt and all the things he needed from his Dad, his Dad commiserating with his loss of Jess had not even been a consideration. For his aching despair had already been treated, tempered, eased …by someone who he had cursed for not knowing the sorrow, someone he condemned because he wasn't drowning in the same pain, someone who he brutally deemed not worthy to empathize with him: Dean.
Unable to label the emotions shifting in Sam's features, Dean quietly counseled, "You need to be with Dad, Sam." Sharply, Dean remembered Sam's broken confession in the woods of Black Creek. 'I gotta find Dad…it's the only thing I can think about.' "It's what you've been trying to tell me from the start but I …I just wasn't listening," his voice thick and deep with emotions clawing through his chest.
"I meant for all three of us to be together, Dean!" Sam countered, stunned that Dean could get it so wrong, be so blind to what he wanted, what he needed.
His eyes turning hard as granite, Dean harshly refuted, "You don't want things to go back the way they were, remember Sam."
Sam opened his mouth to deny the accusation but no words would come. Lying to Dean wasn't something he did.
Drawing in a steadying breath, his gaze intently meeting Sam's, Dean announced, "I'm letting you go, Sam, just like you wanted me to."
Sam's eyes suddenly swam with tears that didn't fall as he croaked out, "I don't want that, Dean."
"I need to end things with us on my terms this time Sam. Not yours," Dean stated, almost in apology, his left hand coming up to latch onto Sam's wrist to dislodge his brother's hold on his left arm.
"End things…" Sam stammered, his left hand clutching more desperately onto Dean's arm in defiance of Dean's prying hand and cutting words.
Dean nearly sighed as he dropped his hand from its futile mission. Sam always had a killer grip, even as a baby. In exasperation, Dean explained what he thought was so obvious, "You know, 'let you go', help pack your bags for the train back to normal, conveniently erase your number from my cell phone."
Now Sam used his brother's name as a protest, "Dean!"
But Dean never gave him the chance to say more. With his eyes conveying how deeply he meant what he was about to say, he quietly, even tenderly spoke to his brother. "I want to do it now, Sam, not over the burning corpse of the demon, not at some airport terminal, and not with one of us standing beside the other's gravesite. I don't want it to end like it has before, with screaming and cursing and saying things we wished we hadn't said. You're all for normal, right?" And he forced a smile on his lips even as his eyes looked sadder than Sam had ever been allowed to see them. "I want to part ways the normal way. So how does that go, Sam? A pat on the back, a firm handshake and a 'take care of yourself' and then we walk away, nice and civilized. So here," he said, reaching his left hand up to tenderly cup the side of Sam's neck and extending his right hand out for a handshake.
"You bastard!" Sam choked out nearly letting the sob escape as he released his left hand from Dean's arm and used the appendage to viciously knock Dean's right hand away. But even as he rejected Dean's handshake, Sam prayed that Dean would not release his hold on his neck because he couldn't bear the disconnection, not right then.
Biting back a cry of pain at his wounded arm's cruel treatment, Dean dropped his hand from Sam's neck and latched it around his left wrist, sheltering his injured arm against his chest. "You're pretty ungrateful for getting what you want!" he shot back, pain tinting his angry words.
"What I want? That …this is not what I want, Dean!" Sam exploded, almost releasing Dean from his hold before he remembered he was practically the only thing keeping Dean on his feet. That reality caused him to replace his left hand's position back onto his brother's arm. Then, taking in a steadying deep breath, Sam shook his head and looked away from Dean, scrambling to figure out the right words to say to make this all better, to get Dean to see he couldn't go anywhere, that he didn't want him to, that in fact, he wouldn't let him go anywhere.
Sensing Sam's hurt and frayed nerves, Dean did what he always did. He tried to ease Sam's pain. Sighing, he gently confessed, "Sam, I'm not looking for our last words to be in anger."
Sam flinched as if Dean had struck him, his eyes flying to Dean's instantly. It was that sharp reaction that caused Dean to realize what he had said, what he had implied. "Dean!" Sam gasped, his fingers digging into his brother's arms with desperate strength.
"Don't go all Oprah on me, Sam! I didn't mean.." Dean emphatically denied but Sam cut him off.
"Yes you did," Sam quietly accused in stunned disbelief. Then fury seized control and his voice took on that low base sound that heralded one heck of a battle was in progress. "Yes you did! You think you're gonna die and you're ok with that!"
"I bought the freakin' bullet proof vest last week, didn't I? I wore it today, didn't I!" Dean shouted back, angrily shoving Sam away. To the surprise of both brothers, Dean had managed to jar Sam's hold enough to achieve his freedom. "I'm not suicidal!" Dean said darkly, uncertain if his body was trembling more from his emotions than from his weakness.
"I saw you, Dean!" Sam accused heatedly, his finger pointing at Dean. "I saw you! I saw you leap in front of that kid, take the bullets meant for him!"
"I had a vest on Sam!" Dean countered, his voice louder than before.
"And would it have mattered if you didn't?" Sam snarled and it was the silence that answered for him, the set look on his brother's face that snapped Sam's control. Before Dean could guess his intentions, before Sam knew his own intentions, Sam cleared the distance between him and Dean to violently grip Dean by the shirt. Yanking Dean forward a step, Sam shook Dean before he growled, "You would have done the same thing even if you didn't have the vest on, wouldn't you?" When Dean didn't answer immediately, he shook him harder and yelled, "Wouldn't you?"
Even in the face of his nearly unhinged brother, Dean couldn't help but snort, wouldn't deny himself the twist of his lips. "To tell you the truth Sam, I kinda forgot I was wearing the vest today."
Sam found himself gasping for breath, his fists gripping more desperately to Dean's shirt because the truth was like a sword in his chest. It was that simple for Dean, that easy for him to give up his life for a stranger. It was without thought, without regret. And Sam painfully remembered what it felt like, kneeling on that sidewalk beside his too still brother, thinking, believing Dean was dead, dead because he valued some kid's life more than his own.
The revelation of Dean's casual disregard for his own life, of his lack of concern that there were two bullets lodged in the bullet proof vest he wore, in places that would have ended his life, places like his lungs, his heart, was too much for Sam's formidable barriers to withstand. Snaking his arms around Dean, he wrapped Dean into a desperate hug, his hands fisted into the back of this brother's shirt as his sob broke free from its mooring. His desperation to keep Dean there, with him, safe, had no bounds. For today, if not for the Kevlar vest, as it was, a forgotten Kevlar vest, he would have lost his brother. And there was nothing that could destroy him more than that.
Instinctively, Dean wrapped his arms around his brother's trembling body, caught off guard by Sam's emotions, by his own emotions. Finding that he needed to swallow, hard, twice before he could speak, Dean's tone was thick and wavering. "Sam, it's alright." But Sam drew him tighter into his hold and Dean took another stab at saying what Sam wanted to hear. "I'm alright." There was some level of shook that went through Dean as Sam's sob died down, as the hands fisted in his shirt loosed marginally, as his brother's tense body uncoiled. It was irrefutable proof that he had said what Sam wanted to hear most: that his brother was OK.
And then it was Dean who was fighting down a sob, whose emotions were slipping their reign. In true Dean Winchester fashion, he quickly extracted himself from Sam's hold and turned his back on his brother, unwilling to falter under his brother's stare.
There were a thousand things Sam wanted to say, needed to say to his brother. But this was not the end, was not going to be goodbye, wasn't his last chance to tell Dean how much he loved him, needed him. There would be another time, another place, another day because his brother wasn't going to die today. Now he only needed to say what applied to the here and now, what Dean needed to understand, to accept.
With a few steps, Sam came to stand before Dean, pained to see his brother's head bowed, cocked to the side, as if the weight of what he bore was too heavy to bare and too horrible to see. Swallowing his own emotions, Sam tenderly put his hand under Dean's chin and levered his brother's head up, torn apart at the sorrow in the green eyes that hesitantly met his. "I'm not leaving you, Dean," and Sam's voice had never been stronger, held more resolve, nor had his eyes ever blazed hotter with his love for his brother.
His eyes flickering to the clock, Dean felt panic constrict around his chest. Refocusing on Sam, he began in protest, "Sam, the curse…"
Sam didn't let Dean finish. "It has to go through me to get to you." It was a statement, an oath, a simple fact that came as easily to Sam as breathing.
Dean's breath hitched in his throat, his face became shadowed with fear, "Don't you get it Sam. That's what scares me the most."
'I know the feeling,' came to Sam but he didn't verbalize it, didn't admit that he almost shattered apart every time Dean put his life on the line to save him. Instead he said what Dean would best respond to, "After all we've faced off against, we can withstand the best this curse has to offer," and his eyes held Dean's intently, fervently as he spoke the only truth that mattered, "as long as we're together, Dean."
Dean felt his heart skip a beat at Sam's words. Wasn't that what he wanted to believe with every fiber in his soul, that everything would be OK if they were together, him and Sam? That happiness lurked somewhere just out of his reach and if he could get his family together and keep them together, that happiness would wash over him, would start to mend him in ways nothing else ever could?
Just when he was ready to give up, when he was ready to abandon his delusions of family and happiness and wholeness, Sam had to go and say the one thing that kept him from slipping over the edge. 'You're always twisting things around, Sam. Forcing me to feel, making me want things just out of my reach…giving me the strength to fight a little harder, a little longer…forever, just so I don't have to see that gut wrenching sad look in your eyes you had when I told you I was dying..when I told you now that I didn't want you with me.'
A light rekindled in Dean's eyes as an honest to goodness smile broke across his face. "I hope you're right, Sammy, cause I'ld really hate to give that old crone the satisfaction of winning."
"We won't, Dean," Sam brashly vowed before a teasing gleam entered his eyes. "Because satisfying old crones is even below your standards," he wisecracked, causing Dean to snort and shake his head.
"Sick jokes at a time like this," Dean reproved with a laugh in his tone and his eyes gleaming with pride, "you've slowly becoming my hero Sammy."
"Learned from the best," Sam accredited before he shook off the mantle of little brother and pulled on the full armor of Dean Winchester's bodyguard. A bodyguard who was nearing his end with his charge. "Now, you stupid jerk, stop giving me heart attacks today. And get it through that thick head of yours: You're stuck with me Dean. Forever. So get over it! And clean out your ears while you're at it! I said "You're going to have to let me go my own way," Dean. Like back to college or to a paying job, I never meant I was going to go away from you. Because whether I go back to college or get a 9 to 5 job somewhere, you're still stuck with me, dude. We're going to call each other, you're going to come and hang out with me for a few weeks a year, I'll help you with some poltergeist during my vacation time…."
There was a renewed light glimmering in Dean's eyes as he taunted, " Sammy, don't make some death bed promises to me that you have no intention of keeping….cause you know what?" and Sam was blessed with his brother's full cocky smile, "I might screw over the old crone and you by surviving today."
Sam's hand shot out to playfully shove Dean's jaw to the right, causing Dean to laugh over his brother's insults of "You stupid, dumb…."
A cracking pop halted Sam's words and for a moment the two brother's eyes met in confusion and dread. Then, at the same time their heads swiveled toward the door and watched as flames shot up from the shattered lamp on the floor, streaked across the floor like they were lapping up gasoline and erupted in a seven foot wall, right in front of the door.
"Ah crap!" came simultaneously from both Winchesters.
Then their survival instincts took over, counterpoint to the brothers' well honed partnership. Instantly Dean was stripping the blanket off the nearest bed and Sam was already dashing for the bathroom. "Hurry Sam!" Dean bellowed, gripping the blanket in his grip but knowing there was no way he could smother the flames that towered over his head, not before Sam arrived with their first line of defense.
Running from the bathroom, water sloshing from the trash can, Sam gained Dean's side and threw the water on the flames directly before the door. The reaction was like an explosion, a wall of heat hit Sam and Dean, causing them to stumble back, even as the flames expanded, shooting higher and wider. It was like they were dealing with Greek fire, water a combustible element instead of a retardant.
"Son of a …" Dean harshly breathed, his lungs struggling against the oppressive heat and the gathering smoke, barely even registering that Sam was pulling him backwards.
His hand tightly latched onto Dean's arm, ensuring that his brother wouldn't try and confront the flames like he did so many other things that threatened their lives, Sam swept his eyes around the room. His search came up with four cement walls, without windows, and a small windowless bathroom. 'A freakin' death trap! I brought Dean into a freakin' death trap!'
TBC
Ah…my latest cliffie of this story! It is a bitter sweet moment. See, as promised, this was a nice long chapter and the final chapter is turning out to be pretty long as well.
Hope this chapter was enjoyable and didn't mangle the boys' tough exteriors too badly. I just couldn't miss the chance for mush and a brotherly hug. Thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter and gave me free license to play the emotional scenes as I wanted to.
I would love to hear your thoughts on the chapter!
As always, I truly am grateful to everyone who has taken the time to read this chapter and to those who review…you guys are the steam that keeps this story going, keeps me taking that risky leap of faith to post another chapter! Without your support, this story would have simply remained buried on my laptop, unfinished and forgotten.
Cheryl W.