Chapter 17
If I Go Crazy Then Will You Still Call Me Superman?
Dean stood on the sidewalk, staring up into the sky at his brother's shrinking form, his mouth hanging open in shock. Of all the things he'd expected to come from rifling through their father's storage locker, Sam flying off into the sunset had definitely been at the bottom of his list.
Actually, it hadn't even been on the list.
Sighing, Dean resigned himself to the fact that he was going to have to go after his brother, and the easiest way was to fly. Sure, it would have been nice to know how Sam had even come across the ability to defy gravity, but Dean figured that was an explanation that only his brother could give, and his brother had disappeared.
Gulping back his fear for the second time in five minutes, Dean closed his eyes and jumped…and landed firmly back on the ground. "Just couldn't be easy, could it?" he muttered to himself.
"Don't think." Dean spun around, half expecting to see his brother standing behind him. The only thing inhabiting the spot of sidewalk by which Dean had face-planted, though, were shadows. He strained his ears to see if he could pick up the sound of his brother's voice again. "Just go with it."
"All right," he said under his breath, steeling his nerves for another attempt. He was hard pressed to find a way to not think about it. After all, flying was his one great fear, next to abandonment. Sam wasn't giving him much of a choice, though.
And he still couldn't figure out why he was trying to chase his brother though the rapidly darkening sky when an innocent girl was about to be blown to bits. Even if Sam had said she was safe, how would really know? It wasn't like they'd found the killer. Unless…
Dean's eyes went wide as a sickening thought hit him. He and Sam had never been together when the murders were committed. What if…?
It was the only possibility he'd never thought of, the only person he hadn't considered. Sam would never turn on him, not of his own free will, anyway. Of course, there was a curse at work.
His heart sinking in his chest as a fear stronger than any flight could cause gripped him, Dean concentrated on his brother, on what had happened, on what he'd done, and took off into the sky.
His stomach recoiled almost as soon as his feet left the ground, his baser instincts screaming at him to find another way to follow his brother. Unfortunately, it was getting darker and it would be incredibly hard to see the sky from the ground as scenery rushed past at blinding speed. He was kind of out of options.
So he was floating. Which was a start, as Sam had said.
Ah, yes, Sam. The reason that Dean was even attempting to defy gravity in the first place. Little Mr. Luthor was out of sight, but Supes had a feeling that he would stick around in the shadows long enough to make sure that he was being followed.
Taking a deep breath, Dean tried to force himself to go in the direction that Sam had disappeared into, but his body was being stubborn. "Don't think about it, right?" he muttered, "how the hell do you not think about this?"
Which was, apparently, the answer to his question, as cool air blew in his face, ruffling his hair, sending his jacket flapping out behind him like… well, like a cape. Up, up, and away.
He tried to steady his breathing, tried to prevent hyperventilation, tried to calm his nerves. He closed his eyes, concentrating on his brother, on what he had done to his brother.
When Dean opened his eyes again, he was looking down on the world from an entirely new vantage point. Everything looked so small, so unimportant, so unthreatening. As long as he was up there, it was like he was carefree, like nothing mattered but how he happened to be feeling that day.
And then he saw Sam. His brother was hovering over a tall building that jutted conspicuously into the sky. The younger man had crossed his arms over his chest and was wearing what could possibly have been the biggest grin Dean had ever seen on his face.
"Incredible, isn't it?" Sam asked, "it's like a whole different world up here."
"It's you, isn't it?" Dean asked, unable to think of anything else to say, "it was you the whole time."
"What are you talking about?" Sam asked, floating back a couple of feet, making Dean fly a little closer just to keep him from melting into the shadows.
"You killed those people. All of them."
Sam shook his head. "You don't understand, Dean. Look, just let me explain." But he had already started to fly off into the night, trying to avoid his brother's questions. "Just give me a couple of months, and then we can talk."
"We don't have a couple of months, Sammy," Dean said, "we need to talk now." Before he even knew what he was doing, he was flying at his brother, the air cutting sharply at his face, hurting his eyes, freezing his nose and ears. He angled downward as soon as he'd hit the younger man, sending them spiraling toward the roof of the building and realizing all too late what that meant.
As they fell toward the roof, Dean twisted around, wrapping strong arms around Sam, who surprisingly didn't struggle, putting himself between his little brother and the concrete that was rushing ever closer.
They broke through, falling fast into whatever building Sam had stopped above. Dean's back connected firmly with the floor. The concrete cracked underneath him, once again making him thankful for his current situation, for spine-saving invincibility.
Sam was off him in an instant, grabbing his arm, pulling him back to his feet, asking if he was all right. "You care?" Dean asked, glancing up at the hole in the ceiling before turning to the large dent that he'd left in the concrete floor, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"Of course I care," Sam said, his gaze flickering from his brother to something just behind him and lingering. "I'm not heartless."
"Just a killer," Dean replied, his heart aching at the words. That pain only intensified when he saw no remorse in his brother's eyes.
"I did it for you," Sam said, taking a step toward Dean and to the right, causing the older man to step to the left in response. "For us. Don't you get it, Dean? We can save you now."
"We've been over this." The older man retreated another step as Sam approached. "I'm gonna die. You can't stop it."
"No, you're not," Sam insisted, taking yet another step, forcing his brother back again. "You're Superman, Dean. You can't die."
Dean swallowed hard, moving away again, realizing that they were circling each other, like in an old western or a corny action movie. The thing was, though, that it wasn't corny. It was very real.
"I'm going to Hell, Sam."
"But you can't. You can't because you can't die. Do you know what happens to a body that can't die when the devil takes its soul, Dean? Because I looked into it. The body keeps living. Without a soul."
The older hunter felt the bottom of his stomach drop out. He hadn't thought of that. He'd never imagined-
"I'm not gonna let that happen," Sam said softly, taking another step. They were standing across from each other, standing in the spot where the other had started, and Dean could see what had captured his brother's attention before: their father's storage locker.
"Sam," he said slowly, taking another step along the circular path, forcing his brother to move back, as if they were magnets with opposite polarities, "you can't. You'll die."
"Why do you think I put on the cape?" Sammy asked.
Dean glanced back into his father's locker, barely taking his eyes from Sam. He couldn't see the cape. He couldn't imagine that someone who had gone off the deep end into villainy would have cared much about what happened to the mystical item once its usefulness had ended, but it seemed that Sam had put it back in its place.
"Looking for this?" the younger man asked, reaching inside his jacket pocket and pulling out a red, folded-up piece of cloth.
"It didn't turn black?"
"That's Spiderman, Dean," Sam clarified, "but I guess you missed that movie. It's ok. I think that whole power-responsibility thing might have been lost on you. I'm proof of that."
Dean shook his head as Sam slipped the cape back into his jacket. "Why? Why do it?"
"I told you. I wanted to save you. I wanted you to want to save yourself."
"I can't-"
"Because I'll die, yeah. But, Dean, I can't die. And neither can you. Don't you get it?"
"I get the immortality," Dean said, "but why the murders? Did you just figure you were the other one that cape put the whammy on and decided to go with it? Huh? Because that's not like you. More like Gordon, if you ask me." They were still circling slowly, walking with smooth, calculated steps.
"I'm not like Gordon. I just needed a distraction. I needed to keep you busy until I could get away to grab the cape."
"You killed those people to distract me?"
Sam sighed, an exasperated sound that seemed to bubble forth from his recently blackened soul. "I can't die," he reiterated, "we can save you now. And then we can go off and be done with all of this. We can settle down. Or we could keep saving people. Whatever you want, just help me."
"Those people we innocent, Sam-"
"No, they weren't. I did my digging. They all had their dirty little secrets. I did the world a favor, Dean. I took scum off the streets to save a good person."
"What about the bus driver?"
Sam shrugged. "Convenient."
"How'd you plan 'em, though? I mean, they al fit that pattern. You couldn't have known, unless-"
"It was Jessica's favorite show," Sam said softly, "she made me watch it with her. Guess I kind of got into it. After she died, I couldn't really find an excuse to watch it. I only caught the hundredth episode because you were out."
"That's why Erica was stabbed after you finished the DVDs."
"Exactly." He smiled. "Now, come on. Let's get back to the room and start packing. I've got a plan."
"That's it? You want to tell me that you killed seven people because of me for me, and then just go home and drink a couple beers, maybe play some Uno? You don't do that, Sam. You're sick and it's my fault. But I can fix it. Give me the cape."
"Not yet. Look, I've already got a plan."
"We're not gonna do it."
"That's the beauty of superpowers, Dean. I don't need you to help me. I wish you would, but only if you want to."
"And what is this master plan?" Dean asked, disgusted at Sam, at himself, at the evil and death and destruction he'd caused.
"We go back to Wyoming and kick open the gates to Hell. With our strength, we can do it easy. Then, we do what you promised Meg you would. We march in there and kill every evil son of a bitch we can find. I figure that one of them has to have your soul."
"What about the ones that escape? The ones that rush past when we open the gates, huh?"
"We'll hunt them down later- after we save you."
"What of they find us before we find them?"
"What are they gonna do, Dean? Kill us?"
"No. But they can kill other people. Innocent people."
"I thought I made it clear to you," Sam said through clenched teeth, "that I only care about what happens to you."
Dean hung his head. "I'm so sorry. But I'm gonna fix this." He never saw his brother lift off the ground and rush toward him, only felt the wind knocked from his lungs as Sam sent him through the metal grating and into his father's locker.
He hit the floor hard (again), and slid into the chest that had once held the cape. Shaking his head to try and clear it, Dean propped himself up on his elbows and gave Sam a wide-eyed stare as dust fell from his head into his eyes.
"I'm sorry, too," Sam said, "but I can't let you do that. Not yet. Not until I save you."
"This is ridiculous," Dean grunted as he climbed to his feet, "Sam, this isn't you."
"But it is." Sam stepped gingerly through the broken grating and into the locker, grabbing hold of one of the handlebars on a rusted-up old motorcycle and twisting it until it snapped off. "Face it, Dean. I've always had this inside me. Ever since I was a baby."
"You're not evil. I just made you that way. But I can fix it."
Sam shook his head, stepping closer. "I don't blame you. It wasn't your fault. You just don't get it. You think you're Superman, but you're not. Not for everyone. Just for me. You're my Superman, Dean."
The older man had opened his mouth to comment on the pure cheese quality of his brother's last, teary line when Sam swung the metal bar from the bike, connecting cleanly with Dean's jaw and sending him flying backwards through the air to land inside an old wooden coffin.
"You can't ruin this for me," Sam said, sympathy finally clouding his eyes as his brother struggled to regain his feet, "I have to do it. You have to let someone else be the hero, just once. Then everything can go back to normal. I promise. I just can't have you trying to mess everything up."
Dean staggered up out of the wreck of the coffin, not liking the way Sam was swinging the bar, testing it. He gingerly touched his jaw, moving it back and forth. There was no pain, no break. Again, invincibility had been good to him. He hated to see it go.
"Can't just sit aside and wait for you to send yourself to Hell, Sammy," he said.
"I wouldn't stay there. I'd just let myself in and off a few demons. What's so wrong with that?"
"For every one you off, at least ten more with get out, I can guarantee it. People will die and it will be on your head."
"And yours," Sam reminded him, " but it's for the best. Besides, there are other hunters."
"And what are you gonna do if I try to stop you?"
Sam grinned. "Well, I'm not gonna kill you, if that's what you think. I mean, you dying is what got us here in the first place. I'm just gonna test your limits, and when you reach them-"
He never finished the sentence. His body flew backwards and into a shelf, toppling the items that had been precariously perched there and sending them shattering to the floor.
Sam followed soon after, landing in the spray of glass. He lifted his head to see Dean standing by the coffin with a satisfied smirk on his face. "Dude," the younger man muttered, "I thought we had a talk about the onions."
"Didn't know I could do that," Dean said, inhaling deeply before sending a gust of air up toward the ceiling, which crumbled a bit from the force of the blow.
"Really impressive," Sam said, working his way back to his feet. "But surprising. I mean, really, Dean? Giving me a super blow job? I thought you didn't swing that way."
Dean grinned. "Cute. Thought I was the one with the dirty mind." Sam just mimicked his expression. "Look, there's no good way this can end. We can't die- not that we'd want to kill each other anyway. We're both invincible. This is pointless. Just give me the cape and we can burn it and go home, ok? But I'm not fighting you anymore."
The smile faded from Sam's face. "Good point. There really can't be a winner." He pulled the cape from his pocket and gazed down at it, running the soft red fabric through his fingers. "You said that burning the cape wouldn't work?"
"It's got a specific ritual."
Sam nodded, looking back up at his brother. "So, if we had burnt it, it wouldn't have fixed anything? You would still have your powers?"
"And you'd still have yours, I guess," Dean said slowly, finally feeling as if he was getting through to his brother. He took a step forward and held out his hand. "I'd feel a lot better if you'd give that to me, Sam."
The younger man obliged, tossing the cape into the air and blowing a soft stream of air up after it, directing it toward his brother's outstretched hand.
"See," Dean smiled as he plucked the floating cape from the air. "That wasn't so bad." He pulled the cape down by his side and looked back up at Sam, who had fixed him with an odd stare- a mixed look of hurt and determination. "Sammy?"
He felt the heat coming before it actually hit him, and he was almost as thankful for that as he was for the invulnerability. Dean rolled the cape up into a small bundle and shoved it into his coat as he leaned backwards to avoid the steady stream of heat radiating from his little brother's eyes.
He had a moment to realize that the whole thing must have looked ridiculously like the over-parodied scene from The Matrix before the heat hit the landmine that had been sitting on the table behind him. From his upside-down vantage point, Dean saw the whole thing, and reacted without thinking.
He straightened himself out and ran toward Sam, reaching him and wrapping his arms around him before the mine detonated, filling the space with fire. Both brothers were blown out of the locker and thrown to the floor by the blast. Their tangled bodies skidded to a stop below the hole that Dean had made in the ceiling.
The older man stood up first, turning to look back at their father's storage locker. Flames licked at the ceiling, the walls, the shelves of treasured memories and cursed artifacts. Inside the inferno, Dean was sure, a certain sawed-off made by twelve-year-old hands was sending up sparks while an old soccer trophy melted away to nothing.
Heat radiated from the locker, but he didn't feel it. He looked back at Sam, who was still sprawled out on the floor, blood dripping slowly from his mouth. Narrowing his eyes, Dean leaned down and inspected the younger man's still form, opening his mouth to find the source of the crimson liquid. Sam had bitten his lip sometime during the fight, maybe even after setting off the landmine.
Finally seeing a way out of his current nightmare, Dean scooped his brother into his arms and took off through the hole that he'd made. He would let the fire department take care of the rest of the mess. He had Sam to look after.