AN: Here's the last chapter of this epic (bar the epilogue). Once again, my heartfelt thanks go to my beta and friend Em (A-blackwinged-bird) for all that she does. Now, without further ado...
ENTITY (Chapter Twenty)
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Dean sat on a step in a dark stairwell. Water lapped beneath his feet. Crept slowly upwards to soak the cuff of his jeans where they sat against the bottom step. He sidled up one rung, a cold sensation wiring through him as the water matched his movement. He repeated the action and once again the water clung to his ankles. He looked down. Blood laced in curdled circles around his feet. His eyes widened as he recognized the viscous fluid. He twisted and clambered, pistoning up the stairs on all fours. Higher and deeper into the darkness. Light at the head of the stairwell urged him on.
"Sam," he called urgently. "Sammy."
He reached the top of the stairs. Stumbled into a large room, sunset orange light bathed the unfurnished floor. The brick walls shone red and dust motes danced like fireflies in the shadows. The sense of déjà vu unnerved him. Something had happened here – something bad.
Dean's stomach fluttered. Water lapped against his ankles. Blood swirled through the clear liquid – bloodied fingers through cream. He heard a thud, a gurgled, gasped sound and the water ran red.
Dean lifted his head and hugged his arms around himself. Sam lay unconscious on the floor. Eyes closed, chest bare, limbs misshapen. Blood stained the younger boy's left shoulder, an open wound that pulsed blood down his side in thick rivulets. Bone protruded from the meat of his left thigh. Dean gagged and fell to his knees. Water spun webs around his fingers, caressed the back of his hands. Blood trails traced molecular paths between the digits.
He scrambled to his brother and grunted with the effort to pull the limp form against his chest. Sam's head lolled back to rest against Dean's shoulder. The movement exposed Sam's throat and Dean saw the blood then, dark and fresh on his brother's upper lip. Dean tensed, not quite understanding. Sam's heart-rate increased. Within seconds it thumped out a desperate, panicked staccato against his own. A tortured, gurgling sound emitted from the wounded boy's too pale lips.
"Oh God, Sammy." Muscles burned as Dean sought to realign Sam's neck to allow him to breathe. Despite the neural commands, his arms did not move. Panic surged as Sam suffocated. Helpless to prevent it, Dean began keening as the younger man's breath became gurgles, then not even that. The water rose higher, red and dark with blood. So much blood.
The scene changed and the air grew impossibly colder. Sam walked ahead, his lanky form and broad shoulders paving the way. Dean struggled to keep up. He needed to be ahead of Sam, protecting him, but the air had become quicksand and his limbs failed to keep the pace. Sam seemed unable to hear Dean's plaintive cries to slow down. Dean's heart pounded wildly, his skin slick with sweat, the iced air making him shudder. He peered into the grey surroundings but saw nothing. Absolutely nothing.
The cold intensified. Dean's pulse accelerated. He reached through the formless quagmire for his brother. Too far away. He called. Sam turned, wide eyed, confused… vulnerable.
Shadows formed behind Sam. Coalesced and took shape. Dean screamed a warning as a beast erupted from the void. Coal black with burning orange eyes. Talons flashed and Sam fell.
Dean pitched forward, screaming. Held back by an unseen force. Rendered ineffectual. Weaponless.
Sam let out a blood curdling yell. It cut off at mid point – violently severed. Blood sprayed Dean's face, coppery and warm. Sam's blood. It filled his mouth, stung his nostrils and drenched his hair and face.
The creature stepped to the side then morphed into the form of a faceless man. It pulled the mortally wounded hunter upright, held him against gravity as his blood stained the floor red. Sam's arms hung limp at his sides and his stomach…. Oh God, his stomach.
Dean whimpered. The faceless figure fisted a hand in Sam's hair and wrenched his head back. Sam's pain dulled eyes met his and Dean saw the light fade as death claimed its prize.
Dean burst awake, panting a numbing monologue of apology. He twisted in the sheets, then fell, landing hard on his side. The brightness of the room momentarily blinded him and he blinked stupidly. He felt a touch on arm and jerked back, breathing hard as he stared up at his brother – his very much alive brother.
"Oh God, Sammy." Dean wilted, the vestiges of the nightmare still raw and fresh.
"You wanna—"
"Talk. No."
Sam frowned, his lips tightened and he nodded. "I'm gonna get a workout in before the Hansen's get up. Want to join me?"
Dean ran a treacherously shaky hand across his face and squinted at the clock. "Yeah, give me a minute."
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Sam led his brother into the gym. The first patrons there. The place to themselves. The manager nodded at them, considering them regulars. Sam hit the free weights while Dean took one of the bikes. They worked through a cardio and weight routine with barely a shared word, but Sam sensed a break in his brother's routine at the same time as his own gaze drew to the empty spare of floor at the end of the gym.
"You up for it?" Sam said.
Dean shrugged. "No one else here so might as well."
Sam toed off his shoes and socks and moved to the far end of the gym. Dean followed. Interconnected mats tiled the floor, slightly resistant to pressure and cool against his bare feet. Sam paced the floor, testing it, getting a feel for the space, the distance, the surface. Dean did the same. They worked in silence, each seeking their own inner balance and calm.
Sam overtly watched his brother as Dean prowled with a raw energy and adrenaline, claiming the floor as his own. It reassured Sam, made him want to believe that Dean's nightmares would end once they hit the road. If vivid dreams had been the only clue, Sam could have remained in the slurry of denial. But they were not. Dean had become increasingly protective – almost locked at his hip – a quiet, suffocating presence. Annoying, but tolerable. However, one subtle difference evidenced an inherent transformation. Ever since the entity's destruction Dean looked at him differently – or not at all. The shared glances and silent communication that defined their bond had gone. Of all the things that Sam imagined the entity could destroy, that had not been one.
Sam absently clutched at his cotton t-shirt. It hung loose on his frame, soft and worn. His fingers twisted in the fabric, the long digits prickled with a chilled urgency. Dean had shut down all attempts to talk about it. Whatever it was. Dean reassured him that nothing was wrong bar the broken sleep. Physically, Sam agreed. Psychologically, Dean was anything but. They could not return to hunting like this and with Dean's insistence to leave Missouri's the following day, Sam had only one possible solution left: sparring.
Sparring had always been their leather couch – psychological re-wiring when emotions ran out of control and words gave no comfort or resolution. Aggression and confusion beat out in the safety of an open floor and inherent trust. When they went hard – equally matched and not holding back – they reconnected. Now more than ever they needed to reconnect.
Dean moved to the centre of the mat. He flexed and stretched – corded muscle tight within tanned forearms. He took up the initiating stance, off-centre, left hip forward and feet firmly locked. Sam did the same. Their eyes met. Dean's skipped away, unable to hold, unwilling to lock.
"Go hard," Sam said, his voice firm while his insides churned.
Dean stiffened and acknowledged the words with a curt nod. Sam rubbed one handed at his gut, trying to massage out the knotted tension. His heart-rate picked up as he shifted into stance.
They began – a fumbled dance of strength and power that lacked the synchronicity that usually defined them. Kicks and punches fell too short. Shadow boxing without the grace and fluidity born of practice and shared understanding.
Sam's muscles warmed and his anxiousness heightened. He instigated tighter moves, sharper actions with increased force in an attempt to get the response he needed. Dean blocked – defense after defense that begged an offensive attack. It never came.
Sam backed out, circled and bought a momentary reprieve. "Don't hold back," he reminded. He wiped his palms on his thighs, slicked off cold nervous sweat. Dean nodded, again accepted Sam's words, though he kept his eyes lowered. Not submissive – Dean would never be that – but changed. It roiled Sam's gut.
They moved back in, graceful and powerful – but the dynamic remained unchanged. Sam shunted forward, aimed a jab at Dean's face that missed. He deliberately foiled his retreat and left himself wide open. Dean ceded the opportunity and Sam's skin crawled. His last ditch effort began sparking with embers of impending catastrophe. He kept in motion, barely breaking a sweat as their dance of denial continued. The greasy wheels in Sam's mind slithered toward bitter acceptance of the truth: his brother had become a stranger – a loyal, courageous, gut-wrenchingly overprotective stranger.
Sam clenched his jaw, shifted his weight and launched a forward kick to his brother's chest that punched the older man to the floor. Dean went down hard, splayed like a doomed turtle on its back. His head hit the mat with a soft thud. Sam fisted his hands and backed up. Dean should kick his ass for that. He breathed hard and waited.
The older man wordlessly gathered himself up, his expression neutral, lips tight, gaze averted. Sam's gut twisted as Dean made no effort to retaliate. Stranger. Sam's pulse raced and his mind screamed a banshee's cry of bitter denial. He slid back into stance, his body thrumming with barely restrained panic. He ploughed a fist toward Dean's face. It met loose air as Dean lurched back. Sam tensed for the counter strike. It did not come.
"Fight me," Sam said, his tone a low growl. Gravel over glass – it hurt just as much.
Partway through yet another unchallenging rally, Sam took his brother down. Left wrist, a sharp twist and Sam forced Dean to his knees, his left arm tight behind his back. The acrid scent of the older man's sweat, fear and desperation almost made Sam vomit. "Fight me like you mean it."
"It's a workout," Dean stated flatly.
Sam's breath caught as Dean made no effort to retaliate. Frustrated, he exerted a fraction more pressure to the trapped arm and Dean went rigid. "What are you afraid of?"
"Getting my freakin' arm broken. I don't need a matching set, dude. Seriously. Ease up."
Sam released his brother and shoved him to the floor. He backed away, clenching and opening his fists. "It has to stop."
Dean came around slowly. He nursed his left arm then absently rubbed at his shoulder. Confusion darkened his eyes and furrowed his brow. He slowly rose to his feet. "What has to stop?"
"Nightmares. Your nightmares. This. All of it." He waved one arm in a wide frenzied arc as though that could encompass everything that the entity had done to them. It came nowhere close.
"Oh." Dean folded his arms over his chest and stared at Sam. The visual contact held, but Dean's gaze held a distant focus. It broke a moment later. "This is over", he said as he turned on his heel and headed toward the bench.
Sam hurriedly caught his arm. "Why didn't you fight back? You know how it works. We don't hold back."
"Not in the mood. I'll be at the car." Dean tried to yank his arm free.
Sam tightened his grip. "You leave now and it's over. I won't come with you."
"I'm having a few nightmares. Don't turn it into a freakin' Oprah moment."
"You wake screaming my name, Dean. Begging you to forgive me for God knows what. You expect me to hit the road with you like you're not a nervous breakdown waiting for somewhere to happen. You know, I get that you won't tell me what it is you dream about. I don't need to know, man. But it has to stop. All of it. Jesus, Dean, you look at me sometimes as though I'm a freakin' ghost."
Dean's face paled, he gaped like a fish out of water then the shutters slammed down. Sam nearly landed on his butt as Dean shoved him out of the way and stalked to the bench.
Sam's knees weakened. "Jesus, what happened?"
"Fuck you, Sam." Dean ripped his keys and towel from the bench and stalked toward the door.
"Don't," Sam called. Dean hesitated and Sam choked on his own breath as memories slithered through his mind. The look in Dean's eyes, the smothering protectiveness, the nightmares… the pool. Something had happened in that pool, something that had pushed Dean over the edge. Sam did not remember it all, but he remembered the helplessness and the absolute physical reliance on Dean. He moaned softly as the implication hit home. Dean no longer considered him a physical equal – rather a victim – helpless and in need of protection. The realization struck Sam like a lump of two-by-four to the back of the head. Inequality between brothers led to resentment – inequality between hunters led to death.
Sparring would not fix it. Only physically defeating his brother would. If he took Dean down in a fair fight – proved his physical worth – he could rewire Dean's tortured psyche. He would get his brother back.
He sprinted across the gym and wrenched his brother around. He deftly snagged the keys. "You're not leaving."
"Sam—"
"We finish it here. Now."
"Give me the keys."
"No."
"Sam," Dean said, his voice a low, warning growl.
"No."
"You don't want to push me."
Sam swallowed hard then raised his chin defiantly. "Oh yeah, I do."
Dean's eyes flashed. "You—" He bit off and stepped back, his chest heaving. His gaze fell to the keys.
The desperation in the older boy's eyes made Sam ache. He swallowed hard and jingled the keys. He forced a lilting, taunting tone to his voice. "Come and get 'em, little brother."
Dean's lips curved into a sneer. His hands flexed and the corded muscles in his forearms pushed tight against the tanned skin. Lethal – Panther fast and vicious when cornered. Sam swallowed hard and jangled the keys again. Dean licked his lips. Uncertainty rallied and rattled, displacing the longing that had been Dean's expression a moment before.
Sam pitched forward, shoved the keys in Dean's face and raked them sharply across the bridge of his nose. Dean took a swipe for them. Sam moved faster. He held them high, just out of reach and laughed, high pitched and slightly manic, as Dean snatched at them and missed. "Bit short there, Dean. Growth spurt let you down?"
He grunted as Dean whacked him in the side. His arm instinctively dropped. Dean snagged his wrist and wrenched it forward. Sam clenched his fingers as Dean struggled to pry them apart. The silver band of Chevy Impala…. Dean's freedom, his escape, cinched between the long digits. Sam's breath hitched as he took in the unbridled longing in his brother's eyes. Dean's grip on his wrist tightened, crushing, and Sam stifled a gasp. Dean's eyes flashed back to him and the grip loosened.
"No." Sam lashed out with his free hand, an open handed smack to Dean's face. The sound echoed, harsh and loud against the muted sounds of the gym. Sam froze as Dean's eyes widened in shock. Bitch-slap: the worst possible insult. Sam took a step back, as though that could distance him from what he had done… of what he had to do. Dean's grasp loosened. Sam pulled free. He forced a laugh, a nervous terrified sound that rattled from his lungs. Dean's eyes narrowed and their gaze held. The visual connection thrummed with anger and the barest thread of contempt. He could use that. Make Dean angry. Make him fight. Sam's queasy gut warned him of all the ways it could go horribly wrong.
He jangled the keys and forced a nauseating smirk. "Come and get me, Deanie." He spun and ran, aware that Dean followed and sickened that he did. He hit the mat and threw himself into a controlled roll. He came to his feet. Dean reached the mat and skidded to a stop less than three feet from him, feet braced, balance slightly forward – poised. Sam admired and relied on his brother's strength – he trusted it – and now he had to break it.
Sam rattled the keys then threw them to the side. Dean's eyes followed them.
"No," Sam said sharply. His brother's attention jerked back. "We spar. As equals."
He gave Dean less than a split second to process his words before he launched his first assault. Dean shifted into defense instinctively and blocked.
"Don't hold back," Sam grunted.
He threw a kick that Dean predictably reacted to. Dean held the advantage, but let it slide. Sam made him pay. He slammed the older man backwards with a kick and pitched forward with a jab that split Dean's lip and sent him to the floor. Sam shifted back, chest heaving, knuckles burning and his heart aching with a pain so deep that it seemed the organ would actually cease to function.
"Get up."
Dean stayed on all fours. He wiped at his lip, his hand shaking as it came away bloody.
"Dean, get up."
"It's over."
"No." Sam grabbed his brother's shoulder and wrenched him to his knees. "Fight me. Give me a fucking chance, Dean."
Dean stared up at him. Dark eyed and resistant. Unmoved.
Sam's desperation drove out logic and reason. His arm drew taut, the muscles burned. The limb powered forward and Sam's fear addled brain processed it all in slow motion. Dean, still on his knees, had no defense. He had to dodge the blow. Sam knew he could. But for a split second Dean did not move. The potential outcome froze Sam's blood. Recent head injuries – solid connection to the temple – the fading scar still evident. If it connected….
What happened next became a nauseating blur as Sam found himself on his back, lungs paralyzed, his brother crouched over him. Head butted, his foggy mind provided. Dean had head butted him in the stomach. He fought to draw in a breath, wheezing as his shocked diaphragm struggled to recover.
"You done?" Dean said coldly.
Sam grimaced, unable to respond. He stared up at his brother, encouraged by the burning pain through his chest. Dean had protected himself, used a move that took Sam down. If he could do that, then he could spar. Maybe they had a chance.
Sam sucked in a pained breath and came upright with a start. He wrenched out of Dean's too loose grip, bounced to his feet and used his weight to tackle Dean to the floor. The move caught the older man off guard, and by the time Sam felt him tense to fight back, he had him pinned. "Too easy," Sam said breathlessly, a thin smirk on his lips. "You can do better."
Challenge issued, Sam rapidly retreated. Moments later they circled again. Equally matched. Hunter against hunter.
Sam doggedly kept up the offensive. As it wore on, Sam's body screamed to give in. Sweat drenched clothes clung to his body, his hair plastered to his face and his recently injured thigh ached and cramped. Every time Dean landed one on him, he took a little longer to recover. No part of him seemed immune to pain and he clamped his jaw in an attempt to manage it. It both sickened and comforted him that Dean looked just as wrecked as he felt. Drenched in sweat, his chin garishly bloodied, hunched shoulders and locked elbows betrayed bruised ribs. His eyes held a distant focus and Sam knew his brother's primitive mind had taken over. The nightmares, the exhaustion… the guilt had worn Dean down. He now fought on auto-pilot, instinctual and unkempt. Still efficient and hard to match, but Sam had to. He had no choice but to win.
Dean threw a wild punch, uncoordinated and random. Sam feinted to the left and ploughed a fist into Dean's right side. Dean let out a pain filled grunt and Sam backed up, made it only one step before his knee gave out in a sudden nauseating surge of pain. Sam bit back a cry and twisted, taken down as a solid, uncompromising bulk careened into his back and smashed him to the mat. Dean's full weight came down on him. Pain exploded through his leg. It stole his breath. His pulse rocketed and adrenaline flooded his brain. He struggled against the blackness that scaled his vision, only the realization that what he had started, had to be finished, gave him the strength to fight back.
Sam violently snapped his head back and slammed the back of his skull into Dean's face. His vision momentarily blackened. He fought it off, frenziedly wrenched his caught wrist free and wedged an elbow into Dean's ribs. Dean let out a sharp grunt and the tight restriction weakened further. Sam broke free, twisted to face his sibling and shoved him off balance. As Dean fell back, Sam tackled him to the floor.
He pinned his brother, straddled him and grasped the older man's forearms in a tight lock, forcing them against his chest. Dean snarled and bucked. The jolt through Sam's still healing thigh and hip blackened his mind. His muscles trembled with exhaustion and he panted, barely getting enough oxygen to keep him functioning. "You had… enough?"
Dean struggled, his face reddening. Muscles in his biceps and forearms corded as he fought to break free. The movement jolted Sam, pushed him to the edge of nausea and then beyond.
"Give… up," Sam said, his tone desperate and raw.
"Screw you."
Sam bowed his head and tightened his grasp, eliciting a strangled gasp from his sibling. "I'm not defenseless," Sam said thickly. "I beat that fucking thing. And I sure as hell have nailed you."
Dean snarled and tried to bring his head up. Sam pushed a forearm against his chest, pinning his arms and forcing him down. Their faces were inches apart.
"We're not children," Sam gasped raggedly. "I can look after myself."
Sam blinked moisture from his eyes. Sweat he hoped, though he suspected tears. He needed this to end. Now.
"Do you get it?" Sam's voice broke and he dropped his chin to his chest. Beneath him, Dean stilled, no longer fighting.
"Sam."
"Do you get it?"
"Let me go."
"You have never failed me. You never will. You carry too much… you can't.… Don't carry this. It'll destroy us both."
"Sam…. Let me go."
Sam felt his brother tense – interpreted it as continued resistance. He applied further pressure, sickened when Dean's face paled and his eyes squinted closed.
"Sam, stop. Stop."
Sam let go immediately. He haphazardly scrambled to the side and dry retched. Tears blurred his vision. Pain drilled through his thigh and hip with a brutal and unforgiving intensity. He frantically gouged at his leg in a futile attempt to break the spasm. He took a further step, crying out as his leg collapsed beneath him. He went down on all fours, head hanging before he sank to the floor and curled on his side, fingers cinched against the spasm-locked muscle. The tight pain clouded his thoughts and muddled his vision. The spasm tightened and Sam's breaths became choked. He writhed, whimpering as he felt pressure against his shoulder that pushed him onto his back. He opened his eyes to find his brother crouched beside him.
"Jesus, Sammy. What's wrong with you?"
"Leg… cramp."
He grimaced as Dean touched his thigh. Gentle and exploratory. Sam stared up at the rafters, the horizontal steel beams shimmering and shifting as his vision blurred. Pain burned through his chest, clutched around his heart. He had to leave. To stay would get Dean killed. It had never been more obvious than now. He tried to get his trembling lips to form the words he needed to say. Nothing came out. Just ragged sobs from burning lungs.
"Sam?" The touch lifted away.
"No. Don't stop," Sam said hoarsely. He twisted his neck so he could see his brother. "I'm sorry."
Dean frowned, he still seemed afraid to touch him. "For what?"
"This.. the nightmares… it'll kill you. If I'm not… here… they'll stop."
"No."
"I'll be… okay. I can protect… myself." He clenched his jaw and pushed up onto his elbows, grimacing as the pain stretched. Needled fingers burned through his hip and into his spine. He must have gone white because Dean pushed him back and crouched beside him.
"Sam. Talk to me. What's wrong?"
"Charley… Horse," he said through clenched teeth. He again tried to reach for his leg. He met resistance, Dean's palm against his shoulder.
"Are you sure, you're… you don't look so good."
"Hmm… I'm sure."
Dean hesitated, his gaze searching. Sam held it and tried for a reassuring grin but the cramp made his lips tighten and he again tried to sit up. "Dean, please—"
"Okay, okay. Lay back. But if you've torn something."
"Haven't." He tensed and gasped as Dean felt around the muscle, then pressed down. Sam barely stifled a cry.
"Jesus, Sam."
"Do it."
"The last time you told me—"
"Just do it." His breath snagged in his chest. He held it and pushed his head back.
"Breathe, Sam. Slow and deep, you know the drill."
He did. Too well. He took deep Lamaze type breaths as Dean probed for knots to release the clenched muscle. Sam trusted the older man as he began working through the thin sweat pants. Eventually the spasm weakened and he found he could breathe. He twisted his neck and watched his brother. Dean worked with one hand, the other protectively held against his thigh. Sam licked his lips, not quite catching the significance.
Dean straightened and Sam felt him shift lower, closer to his knee, to the place where the femur had snapped and torn through his flesh. Sam sucked in a breath and caught Dean's wrist.
Dean froze, his gaze questioning. "Enough?"
Sam swallowed against dryness in this mouth. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and regarded the limb. Dean's long fingers spanned Sam's lower thigh, the thumb just over the ragged surgical scar. "Enough," he said thickly.
"You'll need to get this checked out, in case you've torn something."
"Haven't."
"You can't be sure."
"Can. If I had, you'd be unconscious. I'd have knocked you out when you touched me."
Dean fell silent, though he kept his hand on Sam's leg as though grounded by the touch. He looked up and Sam saw tears in his brother's eyes. He fought the urge to look away, instead searching for some way forward, some proof that their violent free-for-all had achieved something. So far, he did not see it. All he saw was pain, fear and loss.
Then Dean ducked his head and retracted his touch and Sam felt his insides rip apart. The distance that had been yawning between them immediately became an insurmountable abyss.
Sam tried to say something but nothing could bridge this. Dean covered his face with one hand the other still lay idle in his lap – the twice broken arm. Sam saw why Dean did not use it – a heavy swollen ring encircled his brother's lower forearm. The shape of a man's hand – his hand. He shrank away and his heart clenched with a tight, cold pain. He had hurt the only person who had ever kept him truly safe.
It had to end. He had to leave.
He struggled to his feet. Batted away Dean's hand and took a step, grimacing as the cramp sparked anew. Another step made it worse and brought fresh tears to his eyes. Yet another almost dropped him to the floor. Dean stopped him, wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. Sam could have easily shrugged away. Instead he stood, head down, arms loose at his sides. He inhaled the sharply bitter scent of sweat and exhaustion: his own and Dean's.
It had all been for naught.
He raised his head, leaned a little away from his brother but did not resist as Dean pulled him back. Several long moments passed. The sound of their breaths, previously singularly harsh, slowly shifted out as other sounds filtered through his aching consciousness: the clink of barbells across the other side of the gym, the muted sound of low conversation. Sam's eyes lazily scanned, hooded and heavy, his pulse slowing as grief and exhaustion weighed him down.
The gym manager stood in the office door, a phone in one hand: poised to call police or ambulance – maybe both. "We need to leave," Sam said quietly. He again tried to shrug away. Dean pulled him back.
"I'll always be your big brother, Sam. I can't help how that makes me feel."
Sam's lips parted. He dug fingernails into the palms of his hands.
"I know you're not defenseless. I've always known that." Dean paused and drew in a shallow breath. "It's hard to see you be hurt. That thing, it… it almost killed you. I can't… I don't…. ."
"I know." And he did. He really did. He flattened his palms, stretched the fingers. He waited – shallow breaths. The moment dragged on. The manager retreated into his office. Sam saw him replace the phone on the desk before he sat down.
"Don't let this go to your head," Dean said, his voice strangely hoarse. "I taught you most of the moves you used on me. So technically I kicked my own ass." He paused then added. "That didn't quite come out right."
Sam huffed, though he did not really understand. He did recognize an underlying note in his brother's voice that reached him at a visceral level. His body physiologically responded with a flooding tingle of warm relief. He tried to sort it through in his mind, to reach a logical, conscious conclusion, but it would not compute. "Are we… okay?"
"Yeah," Dean said, his voice low and breathy. "We will be."
Sam trusted that, though he still did not quite understand. He leaned against his brother and closed his eyes. "God, we're so screwed up. Most people would just sit down and talk."
"We're not most people, Sam. We'll never be most people."
Sam's heart tugged with a need that could never be satisfied. "No," he said wistfully. "We'll never be that."
End Chapter Twenty