"I touch you knowing we weren't born tomorrow,
and somehow, each of us will help the other live,
and somewhere, each of us must help the other die."
-Adrienne Rich
Death vanishes when Sam opens his eyes.
He'd been there mere seconds before, whispered something in Sam's ear, the smell of smoke and dirt clouding his thoughts, clouding the air that cocooned the two of them. Don't forget, he warned, once and then again. Don't forget.
Sam opens his eyes and can't remember. Nothing more than the sensation of waking from a bad dream, of something slipping unwilling between his fingers. Lost and gone and vanishing too fast to remember let alone catch hold of its fading coattails. The world around him is quiet, holds its breath.
Sam is alone when he lifts his head to look around, bones strangely stiff and aching in their joints. A sharp pain throbs in the small of his back, drawing his attention like a bull's eye. A new injury that's dug in deep and made itself a home.
Sam is a creature of habit, instincts honed in by a life full of running and surviving so he stills and takes stock.
A cabin that looks vaguely familiar creaks around him. Sharp wind whistles between the roof's timbers. In the corner is a fireplace, nothing more than dying embers. It's bitterly cold and Sam has nothing more than the blanket someone draped across him. The blood burns its way through his vents, feeling brand new. Painful birth.
A half eaten pizza sit on the table amidst scattered weapons. He recognizes his and Dean's guns and knives. Broken glass against the far wall like someone had hurled one of the empty bottles that litter the floor. Sam feels a swift sinking in his gut, dizzy.
The memories return slowly, a small trickle. Ava and Jake, the Yellow-Eyed demon, the ghost town.
Falling and suddenly Dean had been there to catch him.
Dean whose green eyes had darkened with worry.
Dean whose deep voice pitched in panic.
Dean who'd tried not to show how terrified he was and utterly failed.
Dean making promises that Sam hadn't caught, ones that he could never keep.
He'd been dying and now- his fingers shove his shirt up, find the aching place at the small of his back. A thick scar, worn smooth and bone pale.
"Dean." He calls, voice weak, barely anything more than a harsh whisper. "Dean." He tries again, swings his legs over the side of the bed, settles then on the floor, struggles to his feet when the room stops spinning.
Nothing. He stumbles around the room, looking for a cellphone, their hunting log, anything with a date.
Because that is the only explanation. Time must have passed, a lot of time, judging by the fact that he is breathing at all. A coma, maybe. A coma that had lasted so long they'd allowed Dean to take him home.
Sam flinches at the sound of the front door slamming shut. Fast, heavy footsteps eat up the ground between here and there and Sam can't move because there he is. Close enough to touch. Sam only has time to rasp out his name before he is jerked forward into a crushing hug.
Dean warm and alive, who pulls back too fast for Sam's liking, eyes scanning Sam up and down, hands gripping his arms tight enough to leave traces of bruises behind. Undiluted relief and a burning victory. Like he hadn't dared to hope…
It was that more than anything else that brought it all crashing to a sudden halt. And Sam should have known that Dean would do something, that he would owe it to Dean. The floor tilts. Dean keeps him upright. Sam can't find it within himself to pull away.
"How long has it been?" His voice creaks from disuse.
His brother opens his mouth, a lie at the tip of his tongue. Ready to lie for Sam. Nothing he wouldn't do for Sam and at the moment, it sparks a white hot heat inside his chest.
"Dean, what did you do?" He demands, stomach lurching.
Stupid stupid loyal Dean. Sam wants to beat the loyalty out of him. Wants to undo the deal because he can see the awful truth if it in Dean's eyes. Dean whose done something bad, something that put that sad sort of acceptance in his eyes.
A man walking towards the gallows. Lamb led to slaughter.
A bizarre sound escapes from his throat, twisted laughter or a sob. Because this would only happen to them. The universe doesn't give them breaks and Dean did something. Dean did something.
He moves before he even realizes it, swings. Dean doesn't even try to avoid it, doesn't duck, doesn't so much as blink. And when Sam's fist connects, he stumbles back but doesn't make a sound. There is blood on Sam's hands. Dean's blood.
"Oh God." He pants, breath growing more erratic until he's sure his heart is trying to jam its way between his ribs. His knees shake. Dean did something. Just like dad.
Sam stumbles away, ignoring Dean's worried call after him- stupid bastard, his mind chants- and wrenches the door open. The cool air outside helps a little but it isn't a few seconds before Sam bends over and vomits into the grass. Nothing to come up because he's been dead, just a cold corpse for days and days, and his stomach is empty but that doesn't stop it from trying to force its way up his throat. A full moon breaks up the darkness, lets Sam know which way is up and down.
Sam feels like he's about to pass out. Everything is coming too fast and he can't keep up. And there there is a warm palm smoothing over the back of his neck, keeping him bent over. Another clutching onto his shoulder. Sam leans into Dean, body bowed and trembling.
"Tell me you didn't Dean." He's all but begging in a way that Dean could never stand. "Tell me you didn't." It escapes as a sob, enough for Dean to tighten his grip until it's a shade shy of painful. But it helps to ground Sam. A few minutes more and he is able to straighten without the world threatening to throw him back down.
"It's all right Sammy." Dean soothes, still hasn't let go of Sam. Dean's hands are still on him, digging into his skin, as familiar as his own. Dean is looking at him with concern and that is nothing new either.
"We'll fix it." He tells him, promises, holds Dean still so he has to face the burning intention. "Whatever it takes. I'll do it. I can save you still."
Dean doesn't answer. There is a smudge of red on his lip, razor thin cut that Sam put there. "I'll save you." He doesn't realize he's begun chanting it over and over again until the buzzing at the back of his head fades, until Dean's warm calloused hands grasp the side of his neck, bowing it forward, letting Sam bury his face in Dean's neck, inhale his scent.
Dean doesn't believe him but he nods and soothes and agrees anyway. All for Sam. The anger is gone now and all that's left is an empty sort of loss, an aching hole in his chest. He's glad when the shock falls down and numbs him.
Dean with a ticking bomb inside his chest, Dean who looks lighter and happier. Happy despite the smudges beneath his edges and the alcohol on his jacket.
A happy dying man.
Sam starts counting down the days.
An hourglass is turned on its head.
Sand trickles down.