AN: Just a quick note to say how much I appreciate everyone's kind words. I had a hard time getting the last chapter onto the page, so I am even more grateful than usual for the support.
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God hangs the greatest weights upon the smallest wires.
– Sir Francis Bacon
Dean was grateful for the simplicity of getting back to the town of...Goodies? Gorgon?...whatever it was. He just had to keep the river on his right. And stay on the road. That took more focus than it should have, but fortunately Dean had a lot of experience driving while injured or half-awake or concussed or...huh. That wasn't a life skill he should be especially proud of, probably. Useful though.
He couldn't exactly take the time to rest and recuperate. It had been more than three days since Sam had been turned, more than two since Dean had laid eyes on him.
Even his growing lethargy couldn't distract Dean from two things. First, he couldn't shake Baako's words. What if he hadn't been lying and giving Sam the wrong vamp blood would turn him forever? What would Dean do then? He knew with absolute certainty what he wouldn't do – he wouldn't kill his brother. That was something he wasn't capable of, whether it was Dad or angels or Sam himself saying that he should. He supposed he'd bring the Sampire back to the bunker and do more research, keeping the guy in the dungeon and feeding stolen or animal blood until he figured something out. Or until Sam gained control of himself, at which time Dean would take Christopher's blood and turn himself. That way, there was no way he could be turned back either. What would happen after that Dean wasn't sadistic enough to imagine. Maybe they could be literal vampire Hunters.
Of course, most people would say that there was no reason for Dean to change just because Sam was a vampire. But that would mean that Dean would age and die and ultimately leave Sam alone, and that was unthinkable. No, they would be human together or they'd be vampires together.
None of it would happen, though. There was no way the arrogant bastard had let anyone but himself turn Sam. He cared about prestige. He'd planned on Sam being a prize, his prize, Dean was certain of it. Almost certain of it.
The other thing that Dean couldn't get out of his head was the nagging sense in the back of mind that something was wrong and Sam needed him right now. It was the feeling that had drawn him back to Sam and Jessica's apartment when the fire broke out. The same feeling that had made him hurry back to the little church where Sam was working on curing Crowley. The one that had proved correct over and over and over. It wasn't paranoia or ordinary fear or worry, but something deeper, something that Dean had never tried to explain and had long ago learned not to ignore.
Dean was far too weary to enjoy driving the skidder this time, not to mention far too keyed up. He hadn't been able to reach Cas since the angel had admitted to leaving Sam behind, so Dean had no idea what condition his brother was in.
His eyes trained on the stupid oversized house on the hill, Dean almost missed seeing motion out of the corner of his eye. He squinted in the dusk. Was that pile of rubble there before? And what had he seen? A woodchuck? No. A...hand. There was a pale hand pushing its way through the pile of concrete bricks.
Dean slammed the engine into park so hard that it whined in protest. He didn't even hear it as he ran as fast as his battered body allowed through the cold mud. He was almost to the pile when he registered the torn tan sleeve on the arm that was now visible up to the elbow. Cas. The knowledge didn't reduce Dean's anxiety one iota.
He slowed as he approached the pile, unsure of where he could step without putting even more pressure on his friend. "Cas? I'm here, man. I'm don't know if you can hear me, but I'm gonna try to shift some of these bricks. Hang on."
Dean tossed away a brick from as high on the pile as he could reach. The motion made him suck in a breath as it pulled on his bad rib. It didn't stop him, though. He braced his left hand against his side and pulled down and tossed aside another brick in a single motion. That was better. A little.
By the time Dean had moved four blocks, Cas' other hand had emerged. His head turtled out a moment later.
"Cas! You okay? What the hell happened?" Dean asked, hoping he didn't sound quite as breathless as he felt.
Cas blinked and pushed a few more bricks out of his way. He looked better than he should have if the entire pile of wood and concrete had fallen on him, but was still beat to hell. There were at least a few broken fingers, maybe a busted arm, and abrasions everywhere. Dean wasn't sure how the guy could even move, but even powered down, he was still an angel and tougher than he looked. Cas wormed his way the rest of the way out before answering, then his eyes glowed blue for a few moments. When it died down, he was as neat and tidy as if he'd never seen a drop of mud or a concrete brick in his life. He staggered from the expenditure of power for a second, then straightened.
"I am fine now, Dean." Cas frowned as he clambered down, ignoring the hand Dean reached out to help him. "But you are hurt." He was looking at the arm Dean held carefully against himself.
"Yeah, whatever. Where's Sam?"
"He –" Cas broke off, eyes widening. Dean spun around fast enough that he almost ended up on his ass. The last of the day's light lingered just over the horizon, minutes from disappearing entirely. Silhouetted perfectly against the orange stripe of the sun's farewell, an unmistakable figure crouched in a way that didn't look quite human. In fact, it reminded Dean of the giant spiders he'd feared before they'd discovered that they were up against vampires. Right before this job went all to shit.
Sam was perched at the very tip of an artificial promontory over the river that Dean had followed all the way back here, the same one that had chased away the denizens of Gordes. Sam's roost had been the roof of a large brick building, perhaps a school gym. Now, just one and a half walls still stood to hold it up, the rest bitten away by the water, leaving the narrow remnants of the roof curving over the water like a burdened fishing pole. It looked impossibly flimsy. If it fell or Sam lost his balance, he would plummet 40 feet. If he fell toward Dean and Cas, Sam would land on the ground. If he fell away from them, he'd land in the river.
Curses fell from Dean's mouth as he rushed that way. He hardly noticed when Cas took his duffel for him. "Sam!" he yelled as soon as he was at the base of the wall. Cas' hand grabbed a handful of the back of Dean's shirt as he almost slipped down the bank of the slowly churning river in his haste. And, yes, he might be a tad dizzy. "Sam!" Dean yelled again, mind desperately casting about for some way to get him down safely. He didn't trust the precarious ruins to hold two of them.
Almost sinuously, Sam's head swiveled so Dean could see his face. There was nothing human in his gaze.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Sam could think or he could feel. He couldn't do both at the same time. And there was so much to feel right now. Though it flowed slowly, the water below him sounded loud to his oversensitive ears as it moved along its banks. The night insects and frogs were beginning to make noise, too, and it was all so clear to Sam. If he focused, he could almost forget the pain he was in. His hands and wrists hurt, and his torso, but most of all, his stomach. He was so hungry that it didn't feel like hunger anymore, just a yawning, gnawing emptiness that threatened to swallow him completely.
There was something down below that smelled wonderful. Two somethings, but he knew that one of them meant death if he tasted. But the other…
Sam somehow remembered that he wasn't supposed to eat, but the why of it had long since faded. Warring instincts had brought him here, where he crouched carelessly above the water that could almost cover the sound of heartbeats. Being up high was a good hunting strategy. His position also put him out of reach of the other two, though that seemed backwards. He wanted to bite them, but he couldn't bite them. So he stayed out here, out of reach.
The water drew Sam, but he couldn't have put his finger on the why of that either. Maybe just jumping into the water would be better than this tearing hunger. He leaned forward and hissed as a bright pain flared across the palm of his left hand. When he'd accidentally cut it earlier, it had reminded him of something, let him remember, just for a little while. Stone number one. It had brought to himself for a time, let him think more clearly, actually talk to Cas like a vaguely rational being before everything had collapsed around him. Literally. Sam stared at his hand again, but this time the memory was too slippery to grab hold of.
The prey (people) below were calling to Sam, but he didn't bother to listen. Instead, he studied the items he'd taken off and laid out on the roof next to himself. They were...weapons, that was it. He knew he'd picked them up after he broke out of the cage and put them various places on himself like it was second nature, but now they looked completely alien to him. He was a weapon, predatory and dangerous in his own right. Why would he carry a human's tools? Yet he could remember how comfortable he'd felt with them. How he'd felt naked without them. With a groan, he put both hands against his head. It felt like there were two of him, warring it out inside his brain. Horrifyingly, he thought he should know exactly how that felt.
Human or vampire? Pain or hunger? Let the water wash him away or sink his teeth into the throat of one of the two who stood below? Sam groaned again, fisting his hands in his hair. He went up on his toes, drawn to the water so far below, water that maybe could wash away his pain and confusion.
"Sammy!"
The voice was so loud and insistent and familiar that Sam couldn't resist its call. He lifted his face slowly. The sun was below the horizon now, and the darkness sharpened Sam's vision. The man that Sam's mind screamed would be death to bite (though he smelled so freaking good) had moved away and seemed to be studying the base of the wall that was just barely holding up the roof Sam perched on. The other man, the one who was calling him (and who smelled just as delicious) was waving his arms, standing on the very edge of the river bank as close as he could possibly get to Sam.
"Sam, you gotta come down. I can fix this. Just come down and let me.Sam?"
Sam hesitated, feeling conflicting pulls again. Eat. Jump into the river. Go to the man. Give into the madness.
Behind the man, an arm emerged slowly from the dark water, elbow pointing to the sky. A hand gripped the mud and silently heaved until a shoulder appeared, then a head held low. The Maker screamed Sam's shredded mind. His Maker. That's why he was so drawn to the water. The Maker's other hand gripped the earth and pulled the upper half of his body from the water, the sound lost in the river's sussurations. His head was cocked to the side, blood dark on his neck and other places too, but his teeth gleamed. He was barely alive, but he was going to kill the man who still called Sam so desperately.
A memory battered Sam's mind.
The summer he turned 12, Sam wasn't allowed to put down the two weapons he'd chosen. Literally, never. He learned to shower with one hand stuck out of the water to hold the Taurus and Ka-Bar knife he preferred and get dressed and undressed while holding them. He had to run an extra mile every time he set one down.
"They need to become an extension of you," Dad said, and Dean gleefully tattled any time he caught Sam breaking the rules. Just as Sam had gleefully done to Dean four years earlier, when he'd undergone the same training regimen.
Just when the weapons started feeling like they actually were a part of Sam, Dad and Dean started trying to steal them or knock them from his hands randomly. The third time Sam woke up to find himself holding the knife at Dad's throat instead of relinquishing one of his weapons, Dad decided he was ready for the next step.
"We aren't Hunters who happen to be working a case together," Dad explained. "We're partners. We're family. So, when we are Hunting together, every weapon you are carrying is for all of us. You need to know what everyone's carrying and how to use it all. And how to get your weapons to one of your partners if we need it."
That led to practice tossing and catching weapons. The throw and the catch both had to be perfect so the weapon was immediately in usable position and nobody lost any fingers. Knowing that at any time of the night or day, Sam might hear a single whistle and find a gun or knife flying toward him should have been scary, but he found it exhilarating. It came instinctively, too, especially when it was Dean tossing a weapon to him and vice versa. It wasn't long before the brothers were testing out their skills with other weapons.
This didn't stop when Dad got a call he said he couldn't ignore and dropped them at Uncle Bobby's. Bobby for his part rolled his eyes and told them to not be "real idjits" and end up hurt but didn't even try to stop them.
By the time Dad came to pick them up a few days later, Sam and Dean were proficient tossing just about every weapon Bobby owned back and forth with ease. Bobby even let them keep a wickedly curved parang machete that they loved.
The memory didn't play out clearly enough for Sam to truly understand it, but he knew that this same weapon was in front of him and he knew instinctively that he could pick up and throw it to reach the man below handle first. And he knew that this man was the boy from the memory. While half of him screamed that he needed to go to The Maker, a bigger part of him said that he couldn't let the man die...couldn't let Dean die.
A single, clear whistle flew from Sam's lips before he'd consciously made a decision, and the parang flew in a smooth arc. It gently rotated as it flew, and Sam wondered if it would come all the way around to land in the man's hand hilt first. The Maker rose to his feet slowly behind the man and reached for his neck, mouth opened too wide to be merely human.
Sam shuffled forward unintentionally, no longer needing the pain in his palm to remind of him of who he really was. Needing to be sure the man was safe. No, not just some man. "Dean!" he called and he could swear that Dean smiled in the split second before the hilt of the heavy parang landed perfectly in his hand.
Dean spun, using the machete's momentum to add power behind the swing. The blade didn't even slow as it sliced through The Maker's upraised hand. Sam heard the impact, then everyone was falling.
Baako's head fell back and landed in the river. His body collapsed sideways in an almost leisurely way before it tumbled back into the water too. Dean dropped the machete and fell to his knees, clutching his side. The mud beneath him slithered down toward the river, carrying the injured man with it. Under Sam's toes, the worn shingles let go of each other with a sigh, then Sam was falling too.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Castiel was an angel...even if not of the Lord, still an angel. And he didn't swear, but he was starting to understand the appeal. He had walked fifteen little feet away. Fifteen damned feet. He wanted to study the wall that was holding up the precarious, crumbling stretch of roof that Sam was on. He also thought Dean had a better chance of getting through to his brother without Cas right there in Sam's eyeline.
Naturally, that was when a vampire with a ghastly wound in its neck had crawled out of the river behind Dean. Cas felt his mouth drop open, and he tried to run toward them as Sam whistled then yelled his brother's name. The vamp got to its feet, but Sam had thrown his machete, and Dean caught it and smoothly sliced off the vampire's head in one motion like some action hero in the movies he liked so much. But that was the only good news. Cas was still too far away, too damn far away, when the vampire's body fell into the water and Dean went to his knees in pain and fell after him. And at the same time, the inevitable happened and Sam's perch crumbled beneath him, sending him hurtling down too.
Too slow. Too late. Too damn slow and late.
Except he wasn't, not for Dean. Cas dove forward and caught his friend's ankle. He heard Dean's pained cry as he crashed harder against the murky bank, his arms actually landing in the water nearly to his elbows. Cas couldn't worry about that just yet, like he couldn't worry about the gut-wrenching thud of Sam's landing and the complete absence of sounds from him afterward.
Cas pulled Dean up the bank and turned him over. There was so much muck stuck to his face that Cas couldn't tell if Dean was conscious or not. He flattened his entire palm over Dean's forehead and centered all of his focus on heal repair restore. Cas channeled his frustration and worries of the last hours into the need to just fix everything. Every damn thing.
It was possible that Cas overdid it. Based on the way Dean gasped and jackknifed to a sitting position. And the way that the only mud left on him was on his back where he'd been against the ground. And the way even the tear in the sleeve of the jacket that was tied around him was fixed. Cas hadn't used more power than necessary like that in at least a thousand years. Maybe swearing was helpful after all.
"Damn, Cas," huffed Dean, and it would have been funny, given Cas' internal dialogue, if the angel hadn't known what Dean was about to catch sight of.
"Sam?!"
"He fell," Cas explained unnecessarily, hurrying after Dean, who was pulling off the jacket he'd tied around himself.
Sam was lying on his face in the mud and didn't move at all when Dean turned him over except to let out a shallow breath. Dean pulled his jacket loosely around Sam's upper body and used the sleeve of his flannel shirt to wipe the worst of the sludge off his face, taking extra care with his eyes. Cas winced at the sight of Sam's obviously broken forearms. Actually, the softness of the ubiquitous mire was probably the only reason he hadn't broken every bone in his body.
Sam's vampirism was a mixed blessing here. It had kept him alive after the fall and all of the other injuries he'd incurred both before and after his turning, but it also prevented Cas from healing him. "I will need to heal him as soon as he'd cured," he said softly, interrupting the soft platitudes that were falling from Dean's lips as he tried to assess Sam's condition. Dean didn't respond, his face granite as he identified injury after injury.
"Dean, you have the cure, right?" Cas tried again.
Dean shook himself. "Let's get him...well, more or less inside," he responded, working his way over so Sam's head rested against his shoulder and getting his hands under Sam's armpits. Dean tilted his head toward the erstwhile gym, and Cas moved to pick up Sam's legs and Dean's duffel, knowing what was required of him. It made more sense to have Cas carry the stricken man, but he knew better than to suggest it, settling for being glad he was allowed to help at all.
While going "inside" the gym was a little reckless given its instability and the fact that it still left them mostly exposed to the night, it wasn't the worst possible choice. Its floor was tilted far enough that near the standing wall it was mostly mud-free, and that and its proximity made it better than any other choice Cas could see.
Dean sat against the wall so he could prop Sam against himself and keep at least his upper body off the cold floor. He pulled Sam so the younger man's head again rested on Dean's shoulder, with Dean's arm banded across his chest to keep him upright. When he briefly lowered his forehead to the crown of Sam's head, mud and all, Cas thought, not for the first time, that Dean sometimes acted more like a parent than an older brother.
Cas considered mentioning that the position put an incipient vampire inches from Dean's jugular and dismissed it. Dean wouldn't care about the danger. Not when Sam was hurt.
"The cure, Dean?" Cas asked again, concerned at the way Dean had avoided answering before.
"I have...I have everything I need here. I just need to add the blood. But Cas, I don't know which vamp's blood changed Sam, and they wouldn't tell me, no matter what I did."
A chill touched Cas' blood at the last phrase. He had an idea of what Dean had had to do to try to get the information.
Dean wasn't finished. "And, uh, I think it was probably Baako's blood that turned him, but Butthead said that if I give Sam the wrong blood, he'll turn in to a vamp forever. I have blood from everyone in the nest, but how do I risk that?"
Cas crouched next to the brothers. Sometimes, he really hated the way the universe seemed to conspire against them. "What do your instincts tell you, Dean?" he asked instead of offering comfort he knew would be rejected.
Dean tipped his head back against the wall. "I don't know."
"Yes, you do. I know your Hunting instincts are telling you something. You need to trust yourself, Dean," Cas insisted. "I do. Sam does. I believe you'll choose the correctly."
"And if I don't?" Dean pressed with uncharacteristic insecurity. He scowled and Cas knew the man hated showing weakness, even to a friend. When Cas didn't answer, Dean's jaw worked a few times. "I think Baako was lying. And I think he wouldn't pass up the chance to have a Winchester or two as his 'children.' But Cas, he also said it might be too late for Sam, that he might already be too far gone to save. And his injuries...damn."
Cas took a chance. He leaned forward and set his hand so the fingers rested on Dean's arm and the palm touched Sam's chest right over his heart. "Do you know anyone stronger than Sam?" he asked quietly.
"No." Equally quietly, but without any doubt.
"And isn't a vampire supposed to be unable to act against their own maker? I'd say Sam throwing you his machete is pretty good proof that he's still in there."
"I killed my maker," Dean said, injecting a hint of pouting in his tone.
Cas knew it was put on, but the attempt at humor was a good sign. "Of course you did, Dean," he answered, taking his hand away, knowing better than to push Dean's limits of what he called touchy-feely crap.
Dean responded by pulling a small metal cylinder out of his duffel. He handed the former to Cas, then took a deep breath and fished a flask out of the coat that was still draped over Sam. "The, uh, recipe, doesn't specify how much blood, so just pour it all in, then we'll get him to drink it," he directed, his voice gravelly but certain. "Starts to work pretty fast, so be ready to heal him."
Cas nodded, feeling Dean's tension like the prickle in the air right before a lightning strike. He uncapped the cylinder and poured in the flaskful of thick, viscous blood. The result was a truly vile concoction, but Cas could feel the power in it. Working together, he and Dean tipped Sam's head back and carefully poured small amounts into Sam's mouth, each time waiting until he swallowed. Finally, all of it was gone.
Dean used his cleaner sleeve to wipe away a trickle that had escaped the corner of Sam's mouth. He eased Sam down onto his side with the duffel as a pillow. Cas recalled Dean telling him that the cure involved a lot of vomiting.
When nothing happened for five long minutes, Cas moved to sit next to Dean leaning against the wall. He watched the dark river and listened to Sam's uneven breaths and Dean's only slightly smoother ones. He wondered how many things the river had carried away and if the decollated corpse of an ancient monster would one day be part of its silt. And he wondered what Dean would do if the cure didn't work.
Five more minutes passed, then ten. Dean's quiet had turned from worry and determination to something colder and darker. The uncaring night stretched on, and Cas wished so hard it was nearly a prayer.
Sam thrashed suddenly, startling both the other men. Dean steadied him, such naked hope on his face that Cas couldn't look at him. Though he was exhausted from healing himself and Dean, the angel allowed a meager tendril of grace out into Sam's body.
"Something is happening," he said slowly, uncertainly. "I can't tell what. His injuries may be starting to heal. Maybe."
"Is the cure working? Or is he becoming fully turned?" Dean demanded.
"I can't tell," Cas had to admit. "Because whatever it is, it's happening very slowly, probably because he is so weak and injured."
Dean nodded and leaned forward so he was crouched over his brother. "Fight, Sam," he encouraged, giving no quarter. "You aren't going out like this, you hear me? The vamps are all dead, and my memory foam is callin'. If you see a reaper, you punch 'em in the nose and get the hell back here. You know Winchester rule number four, dude."
Dean paused, his voice going ragged at the end. Cas cleared his throat. He hated that he had to say it, but if he was their brother, that meant he had to always be there for Sam and Dean, even in ways he hated. Even when it was hard. Even when it stunk worse than all of the river slurry.
"Dean, Sam told me...he doesn't want to be a monster. He doesn't want to become a vampire. If he...if this doesn't work, and you can't…" He couldn't finish. He couldn't make the offer any more than he could agree when Sam had tried to get him to promise.
"There's more of everything in the Impala," Dean said in lieu of a reply, his voice so low and scratchy Cas hardly understood the words. "We'll give it another 20 minutes, then head to the car to try again."
"Dean." The rest of the words died in Cas' throat at the look on Dean's face. Cas set a hand on Sam's shoulder and turned back toward the river and reminded himself that this good man, his friend, his brother, had made it very clear that he would far rather die than live as a vampire. "Dean," Cas tried again, his own voice going deeper than usual. "What will you do if this doesn't work?"
Dean didn't answer.
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AN: Did I really do a whole chapter with no cultural references? Weird.
BruisedBloodyBroken: I actually suck at reviews myself, so never worry about that. I'm so glad you like the characterization of Cas. I got all sappy writing about him in this story.
Timelady66: The Cas whump didn't last terriblylong, but it was definitely there. I haven't whumped on him much, but I was feeling very equal opportunity here. Heh. And there you go, predicting what I'm going to do again. So glad you liked the stairs of stairing. Sam's my bebe, but I find it very easy to write Dean, for whatever that means.
Bagelcat1: Aw! More Cas (and the boys) schmoop here, with a heavy dose of angst. I so enjoy that you notice and like my quirky little touches, from Baby as moral support to Die Hard references to Hope and Wishes having it out for the Winchesters. I've probably said it before, but you and I also seem to have a somewhat similar sense of humor. The WBGoEB is one of my favorite things about this story, personally, and it was just kind of an afterthought at first, since I needed Dean to have a good way to hurt Baako, but it's become like the ghost bear in the Hungry House story...my own, weird, favorite thing.
Christine: Yay! Is it bad that I'm so excited that the note touched you? I thought it would be very late-season Sam to not take away Dean's crutch but leave him a reminder that somebody cares about his well-being. Cas really shows his value in this story. I don't write him often, but I do consider him an honorary Winchester.
sylvia37: Erp. Yes? I torture all my friends. It's how I show love. *g* Comfort and schmoop yet to come, I promise.
radpineapple: You're so nice, even when I'm not a very nice writer. Heh. I struggled with this chapter a ton, so hearing that from a discerning reader means a lot to me!
Colby's girl: I'm glad you're reading! So sorry that RL is being overwhelming. Here's hoping for calm to come your way!
muffinroo: Thanks for persevering, my friend! You are definitely the Winchester of reviewers. I can't stop laughing at the Oprah of SPN fanfiction. Actually, all of your latest reviews made me grin like an idiot. Chapter 12 just didn't want to be written, so the kudos are extra appreciated. Seriously, Janice had to talk me off the virtual ledge twice I think. (Somebody should give that lady a medal!) Glad but not surprised that you enjoyed the whumpage! I promise there will be eventual schmoop.
DearHart: Sam can be so sweet, can't he? And yeah, he's not saved...yet...
Chiiva: Thank you! I do explain Sam's new coherence a little bit in this chapter, hopefully enough to be believable...well, as believable as SPN fics can be. You did get some of Sam's POV here, but there will be more to come, I promise.
Shazza: Janice always has fabulous ideas and suggestions! I couldn't do it without her, and that's not an exaggeration. And yup, everybody got hurt! I should say sorry, but the truth is I'll probably do it again! ;-)
Kathy: I always wondered how Cas felt about his diminishing powers. I remember the look on his face when Hael (I think?) asked him if they were still really angels now that they didn't have wings. (Misha is SUCH a good actor!) Glad you liked the goofy weapon. I always appreciate how detailed you are in your lovely comments. Thank you!!