THEN: Bobby and Sam initiate the plan to get Dean's soul back. Sam summons the Demon to Bobby's house and challenges him; if Sam can kill the demon in this ritual known as chud, then he gets back Dean's soul. If not, the Demon gets to take Sam's soul. The Demon agrees, not knowing that the entire ritual is a diversion. After Sam and the Demon start the ritual, Bobby comes back in and performs a spell to restore Dean's soul.
NOW:
"No one's going to take me alive.
The time has come to make things right.
You and I must fight for our rights.
You and I must fight to survive."
-Muse, "Knights of Cydonia"
I.
Before, when he had been researching Chud, Sam had imagined some sort of shapeless, colorless plane. Like, not an actual place or anything, just darkness and energy colliding into one another, human will and demonic force clashing together in some unimaginable, chaotic battle.
In reality, Sam was standing in some old Western town, wearing probably the worst cowboy outfit he'd ever seen in his life. The Demon, standing twenty paces away from him, was similarly dressed. Of course, Yellow Eyes was wearing a black hat. The bad guys always wore black hats.
It was an old-fashioned, John Wayne-esque showdown. Only without the guns. They had guns, of course, but those were mostly for show.
Sam and the Demon stared at each other, throwing will at one another, never moving, never touching. They didn't need to get any closer—their attack was motionless and mostly silent, and the blood dripping down his fingers meant that Sam was losing.
Sam knew that this place wasn't real, that he hadn't been transported to some set from an old Western flick. It was just a way of understanding the place, of giving him something to work with so that he could fight. He was a little embarrassed about it, though; spaghetti westerns were really not his thing. Dean was huge on Clint Eastwood, of course—but Sam preferred his heroes with more than one stoic, all-encompassing emotion.
He had never been able to get Dean to understand that, though. Dean idolized Clint Eastwood; Sam idolized Dean. His big brother was stoic as all hell—but there was more to him than that. Sam saw it, even if Dean couldn't.
Maybe it was fitting that they were here, facing off in some dried up ghost town. It was a 23 year old showdown—where else do you go, for something like that?
Still. Sam could have done without the fringe.
"By the way," the Demon said without saying anything—the words seemed to be flung at Sam, the same way the Demon's energy was, and the words hurt just as much—"I've got to tell you—I just love the cowboy boots."
Sam grimaced and tried to ignore him—he focused on keeping his energy up, shielding himself from attack, because at first he'd attacked without defending himself and look what that had gotten him. The best offense is a good defense, Dean-In-His-Head thought, and then snorted. Jesus, I don't even believe that bullshit. Just attack the fucker with everything you got.
And what Sam had at his disposal was Dean, the Dean-In-His-Head, goading him, pushing him through. Self-sacrificing Dean, smart ass Dean, the Dean he had grown up idolizing and following around like a puppy. Sam threw the essence of Dean at the Demon and smirked in satisfaction when the Demon staggered.
Yellow Eyes lifted a hand to his nose, which had begun to drip blood, and flicked the drops away in a disgusted, offhand manner. "That brother is dead," the Demon reminded him. "This is the only brother you have left."
And Sam was overwhelmed, bombarded by new images—Dean grinning with blood on his fingers, Sam crucified to a wall, hallelujah, hallelujah, Ryan tied to a chair in a motel closet, Ryan with his tongue cut out, Ryan desperately trying to scream, hallelujah, Dean shoving a knife in Sam's side, hallelujah, HALLELUJAH—
Sam screamed and fell to one knee, the side of his stomach a sudden agony. The pain had so completely overwhelmed him that, at first, he didn't realize the images had receded. Sam pushed himself back to his feet and looked around in confusion. Why had the Demon backed off his attack? Sam certainly hadn't pushed him away.
He looked to the Demon to see the bastard on his knees, some kind of strange glow being torn from him, pulled by some invisible hand through his open mouth. The Demon screamed, a deep, trapped animal sound, and the ball of light zoomed away, into the open sky where it disappeared.
And Sam knew what it was. "That's Dean, isn't it?" Sam asked, although not really asking—he could feel it, somehow. He could almost sense Dean, back in the motel room, although he had no sense of his own body there. He felt it the very second Dean's soul returned to his body, the very instant Dean's soul was once again complete.
His Dean. His Dean was back.
"You lost him!" Sam yelled at the Demon, so overwhelmed and happy that he was actually crying. "You lost him, you sonofabitch! You lost him! You lost him!"
The Demon grunted and struggled slowly back to his feet, the air around him actually crackling with frustration and anger. "He wasn't worth anything, anyhow," the Demon snarled. "The soul I want is yours." The Demon flexed his hands, as if they were talons, and Sam felt pain screaming down every inch of his body. This time when Sam went down to both knees, he couldn't get himself back up again.
"I . . . I saved Dean," Sam managed to say, panting harsh breaths and tasting blood in his mouth. "That's . . . that's what's important. That's . . . all that matters."
The Demon grinned at him and fire seemed to erupt all over Sam's body. "If that's what you need to tell yourself," the Demon said, and Sam screamed again.
II.
Dean opened his eyes. He looked over at Bobby. He looked over at Sam and the Demon. He looked over at Sam.
Sam crucified on the wall . . . Dean sticking his knife in Sam's side . . . "You were always such a martyr, Sam. I really think you should be remembered that way . . ."
Dean turned his head to the side and promptly threw up.
It was good, that he had time to turn his head away, because tied up men were only hot when they weren't covered in their own vomit. So, yeah, that was good, only except for, y'know, everything else. Sam . . . and I killed . . . oh god . . . those girls . . . and Ryan . . . and I . . . Sam . . . SAM . . .
Dean started throwing up again. He didn't have a lot of food to come back, but he was pretty sure he was yarking up pieces of his internal organs.
Good.
"Dean." Bobby's voice, and Dean turned his head back to Bobby. Bobby looked at him gravely, almost impassively, his book at the ready in case this wasn't over.
Bobby didn't ask the question. He didn't have to.
Dean looked at him, tear marks tracking down his roughened cheeks. "Bobby," he whispered. "Bobby."
Bobby looked at him for a long moment and then dropped the book to the ground. He quickly untied Dean's arms and legs; Dean tried to help him but ended up mostly focusing on not hyperventilating. Bobby tossed the last of the rope aside and hugged Dean without preamble. Dean didn't even think about pulling back. He held Bobby tighter than Bobby held him.
"I should throttle you," Bobby said thickly, "but I guess that can wait till you're feeling a mite better."
Dean sobbed once, only once, into Bobby's shoulder, and then pulled back, rubbing the tears away roughly off his face. His eyes found Sam again almost immediately, standing a foot or so away from the Demon, frozen and bleeding. There was blood coming from a lot of places, his nose, his mouth, his side. His face was slack, without expression, but Dean could feel the (fire) pain running through his body.
"Sam," Dean said (choked, maybe) and started to crawl over to him, feeling too weak and light-headed to stand. Bobby grabbed him by the arm and pulled him both up and back from his brother.
"It's too late now," Bobby said. "This one's up to your brother, Dean. Once the ritual has started, there's no way to enter into it or to pull someone out."
Dean didn't accept that. "I can do it," he said. He started to move forward again, and this time Bobby pulled him back so hard Dean stumbled and fell on his ass. "You can't help him!" Bobby said harshly, helping Dean back up off the ground again. "Listen to me, Dean. You can't fight this one for Sam."
And that feeling that he couldn't breathe before, that tightening around his heart, like someone's hand was crushing things within his chest—it was at least twenty times worse now, with Bobby standing between him and his brother. "You—you don't understand," Dean said between gasps of air and Bobby coaching him to breathe normally. "You don't know—you didn't see—what I did—what I—Sam—"
Bobby shook Dean by the shoulders, trying to force him to calm down. "Listen to me!" Bobby yelled, and it was so reminiscent of John Winchester that Dean swallowed his jerky efforts to speak. "You can't enter that field, Dean. You'll get yourself killed trying. Look." Bobby reached out and barely grazed the shimmering air with his fingers. He pulled his hand back quickly to reveal the cuts deep into each finger.
"The ritual is only between Sam and the Demon. There's no breaking through that kind of magic. To get through, you'd have to be part Sam or something—and I don't just mean close!" Bobby shut down the hope he must have seen instantly spring up into Dean's face. "Lord knows you boys are closer than anything, but this is different, boy; this is something else. You'd have to share a soul with your brother to get where he's gone to, and I'm sorry, Dean; it's just not the same."
Bobby sounded more desperate than Dean had ever heard him, like he'd already lost Sam and was determined not to lose Dean too. "Sam wouldn't want you to get yourself killed, Dean, not when he worked this hard to get you better. Like it or not, this is his fight, son. This is his fight today. You have to let him fight it."
No, Mental Sammy said—and Jesus, he never thought he'd be so glad to hear his little, annoying brother's voice bitching in the corner of his mind. Because that's what he took from me. When he took a bit of my soul—he took the part with Sam in it. He took SAMMY. Sam had always been his foundation, the thing keeping him from the realm of sociopath. Sam was the only part of him worth anything—and that's why the Demon took it.
I can't let him fight this all alone, Dean thought. I don't care if this is Sam's fight—is THIS even Sam's fight?
No, Mental Sammy said again, patient and firm from the corner of his mind. This isn't my fight and it isn't your fight—this is OUR fight, Dean. It's been our fight from the beginning. That's the problem, don't you see? Don't you finally get it, Dean? We need to stop sacrificing ourselves for the other and just start WORKING with each another.
. . . you'd have to share a soul with your brother, to get where he's gone too . . .
"I'm Dean!" "Are you sure? Are you really SURE about that?"
No, Dean thought, maybe out loud. I'm not really sure about anything anymore.
He had felt like he could feel Sam, even when he was tied up in a motel bed before they were driving to South Dakota. It wasn't like he was reading Sam's thoughts, more like he was a part of Sam Like Sam was another part of his body or something, some kind of demented third arm growing out of his back. Dean could just feel him, know where he was, how Sam was feeling without even thinking about it. Like Dean wasn't just Dean anymore.
I'm Dean . . . are you really SURE about that?
. . . you'd have to share a soul . . .
. . . you'd have to share a soul . . .
I can't let him fight this all alone . . .
. . . he took a bit of my soul . . . the part with Sam in it . . .
. . . like Dean wasn't just Dean anymore . . .
"Maybe," Dean said slowly. "Maybe I'm not."
Bobby blinked at him. "Dean—"
"No, Bobby, wait a minute. Listen. Something's—something's happened to us, to Sam and me. When Sam did that spell, when he took the abilities back—something changed, man. We changed."
Bobby looked at him doubtfully. "He said it was like you two were connected," he allowed slowly.
Dean nodded. "We are," he said. "We're—we're different, Bobby. Man, I can feel it. Even before, even when I was—" a monster, "—before, it was like, it was like being able to feel him wherever he was, like, like knowing where your leg is or something without looking. It's—it's like he's a part of me, Bobby. It's like I'm not even just me anymore." The admission was as hopeful as it was frightened; Dean couldn't think too much about its consequences, just what it meant for now. "Sam's always, well, he's always been in my head, in a way, but this is different, man. Maybe—maybe we did mix up parts of our soul."
"Aw, hell, Dean—"
"No, dude, it's not that out there . . . okay. Okay, yeah, it's totally out there, but look, I didn't give up my whole soul to the Demon, right? He only had a piece; he only had—" Sam, "—a part of me. So, so maybe, maybe Sam and I, we—we switched another piece or something. Maybe we're sharing a piece of our souls, or maybe it's interlocking, or, fuck, man, I don't know. I just know that . . . that he's my brother. Sam's my brother, Bobby, and I can't just let him die. Look at him, Bobby. He's dying. I can feel it."
Bobby looked at him suddenly then, a close, guarded sort of look. "You can feel him?"
"Well, yeah," Dean said. "He's—he's—" burning, Mental Sammy filled in, but Dean didn't have the heart to do it. "I can feel what he's feeling, like it's . . . right outside my skin, you know?"
By the look on Bobby's face, he didn't know, but Dean had no other way to describe it, and at the moment? Not exactly the issue. "I can't let this be his fight," he said instead. "I can't. I won't." Dean shrugged helplessly, the tears still drying on his face. "He's my brother, Bobby. He's all I got. I'll die without him."
Bobby just looked at him. There was something on his face there (anguish) and it awed Dean a little, knowing that someone other than his brother could feel that deeply about him. "Son," Bobby said, shaking his head a little. "I can't bury two bodies today."
Dean shrugged one shoulder at that. "If you don't let me go," he promised softly, "you'll have to."
Bobby looked away for a minute, swallowing hard at the reflection of the morning sun. Finally, after what seemed like forever, he turned back to Dean and nodded.
"All right," Bobby said with just slightly bright eyes. "Go on then and save your brother, you idgit."
Dean smiled a little, his throat tightening inexplicably. "Thanks, Bobby," he said hoarsely. "Just—you know. Thanks, for it all."
Then he looked at the air surrounding his brother, the bubble that had been created, and walked straight into it without allowing himself time for thought.
III.
Sam knew the nightmare he was trapped in wasn't real—his body was back at Bobby's house somewhere (so far away, it felt, so long ago, as if he'd been playing out this ritual for years now). His body was back at Bobby's house and the rest of him was—somewhere else—some other plane, the spaghetti western movie set—but he couldn't see either of those places at the moment.
Instead, he was lying on a motel bed, his hands nailed into the wooden bed posts. Crucified again, Jesus. At least you only went through it once—and that was exactly why he was going through Hell, thinking things like that. It was the Demon, he knew, the Demon throwing images at him, so many painful thoughts and memories that Sam was losing himself, but he couldn't get back to the set from High Noon. Instead, he was trapped on the bed staring at the ceiling.
Jessica screaming his name silently. Jessica burning, screaming in pain.
C'mon, Sammy, Dean-In-His-Head said. You gotta focus, man. She ain't real. None of this is real, man, none of it. Lift your arms. There's nothing tying you down.
He couldn't, though. He could feel the blood dripping backwards down his wrists. His mother was on the ceiling now, asking why she had to die for him. Her and Jess, in their matching white nightgowns.
Why me, Jess screamed. Why
did I have to die? Mom finished.
"I'm sorry," Sam whispered. "I'm sorry."
Jesus, Sam, Dean-In-His-Head said. C'mon, you gotta snap out of this. It's killing you, man, you know that, right? All that anger and guilt—the Demon's killing you with it.
And that, at least, Sam knew. He didn't think he'd ever hurt so much in his whole life. Every inch of his body felt like it was slowly burning, burning with Jess and Mom—but he still couldn't break free.
Dean was looming over him, a blade in his hands. Blood in his hands. I did it for you, Sammy.
He's fixed now. That's over with. He's back to Dean again. You saved him, Sam, come on now. Use some of that giant brain power and save yourself.
Dean smiled above him, the blood from his knife dripping on Sam's forehead. You so sure about that, Sammy? he asked. Maybe that's just what you wanted to believe.
"No," Sam said. "No. I felt it. I saw it."
You can feel this, Sammy, can't you? Dean sliced the knife gently up Sam's cheek. Sam tried not to scream, had to bite hard into his lip to avoid it. You keep saying this isn't real. Maybe that wasn't real, either.
"No," Sam whispered, but his conviction was lost. Maybe something had gone wrong. Maybe Dean had gotten free.
Bobby stepped up next to Dean, blood spilling from where his throat had been slit. I want to thank you there, Sam. Always wanted to be another person to die for Sam Winchester.
Sam closed his eyes tightly. "You're not real. You're not real."
Sam?
"You're not real. You're not real!"
Sam? Sammy? SAMMY?
Sam jerked against the sound of his brother's voice. He opened his eyes, but there was no one there. Just Dad, drunk and kicking an eleven year old Dean around. Little Dean looked at him with wide eyes. I did everything he ever asked. Why didn't he ever hurt YOU?
Sammy, godammit, you answer me! Where the hell are you?
"I'm here," Sam whispered as he closed his eyes. This had to be over soon. Let this be over soon.
"Sammy?"
Sam didn't open his eyes, didn't want to see another fake Dean trying to hurt him, trying to bleed him dry. Not real not real not real. Jessica screamed and Sam felt tears escape his closed eyes.
"Sammy, it's me. Come on, man. Look at me. Open your eyes."
Sam opened his eyes. Dean was standing there next to the bed, not Evil Dean or Little Dean or even the Dean-In-His-Head, but the real Dean. His Dean. Except, that wasn't possible.
Even if Dean's safe, Sam thought, there's no way he can be here.
Another trick then, some kind of nice Dean, who probably would just turn on him in the end.
"Hey," Dean said. "It's me. Not one of these . . . hallucinations, or whatever. It's me. It's your brother, man."
Sam closed his eyes again. There's no way he could be here.
"Dude," Dean said. "You think some pansy little chud ritual is gonna keep me from saving the day? Come on, man. You know me better than that. Open your damn eyes."
It'snotrealnotrealnotreal . . .
"Sam, you look at me, godammit!"
Sam opened his eyes again. Dean was still standing there, smirking at him. The smirk was forced—but it was so Dean in its forcedness—as if somehow by smirking you couldn't see how pale he was or how tired he'd become. "Dude," he said. "We are so Batman and Robin. And I think we both know who you are."
Sam glared at him. "I'm not Robin," he hissed. Then, with a glance to his nailed hands, "Apparently, I'm Jesus again."
Dean winced. He shifted his weight and shrugged off the (guilthorrorpain) discomfort. "Whatever," he said. "Get your lazy ass up. We got things to be wasting, you know what I mean?"
Jessica screamed from the ceiling. Sam! Sam, why did you let me die this way?
Dean glared at her. "Shut up, bitch," he said.
"Jesus, Dean," Sam said, almost automatically. As if this was the time to be worrying about being politically correct in how one spoke to women. Of course, this was Jess . . .
No, it's not, Sam reminded himself. Not real.
Dean just shrugged. "Well," he said, which, for Dean, was about as close to an apology as you got. "Are you gonna get up or what, Robin? Did I mention we've got a time table here?"
Mom screamed this time. The expression on Dean's face flexed when he saw her, but he looked back at Sam. "Come on, Sammy. It's time to get up."
Sam stared at Dean. He wanted so much for him to be real . . . it can't be him, it can't . . . but what if it could, what if this was really his brother? He needed his brother, needed Dean to be Dean again, and it couldn't be him, but could it?
"Are you real?" he asked Dean. "Are you real?"
Dean smirked. "I'm more than real. I'm awesome."
"That doesn't even make sense."
"Whatever, Robin. Makes sense to me."
"Stop calling me Robin."
"Okay, Boy Wonder. Chill out."
"Dude. Seriously. I don't even get Robin. Exactly what is the point of a mask that only covers half your face?"
Jess screamed again. Sam, please, save me!
"Dude, I know. Like, yeah, as long as no one can see the top of your nose, man, you're solid. Gold star for you"
Sam snorted. "And Clark Kent, with the whole glasses thing? What the hell was that all about?"
"That was about Superman being lame. He wore tights. Batman didn't wear tights."
"That's because Batman is awesome."
"And that is why I am Batman."
Sam laughed. He was still crying, a little, tears silently pouring down his face, but he was laughing too. He could feel the nails sliding out of his palms. Dad stood behind Dean. If you had just died instead of your mother . . .
"Give it up," Dean told him. "It's over. Man, it was over the minute I got here." He extended his hand to Sam, giving him a hand up. "You ready to finish this bitch or what?"
Jess screamed again. Please, Sam, don't leave me!
Sam took a breath, swallowed. He gave one last look to his girlfriend on the ceiling.
Then he looked at his brother and took his hand.
"Only if I get to be Batman," he said.
IV.
As Sam took Dean's hand, the room, Jess, everything, it all just faded, until they were back in that ghost town, standing together twenty feet away from the Demon. Dean looked down at his matching white cowboy outfit.
"Dude," Dean said. "Seriously?"
The Demon stared at them in disbelief. "You . . . you can't be here. It—it's not possible."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "Man," he said. "You're a Demon. You'd think you'd have a bigger imagination or something."
The Demon glared at Sam. "You tricked me," he snarled.
"Uh, actually?" Sam said. "I really didn't expect this to happen."
"Plus," Dean mentioned calmly, "as already previously mentioned, you're a demon. You're all about conning people. You can't really be bitching about duplicitous behavior." Dean blinked and looked over at Sam. "Did I really just say duplicitous?"
Sam raised an eyebrow. "I think I'm rubbing off on you."
Dean tilted his head. "Bitch."
Sam smiled. "Jerk."
"Enough!" The Demon flung his power at them, pain, fire, energy . . . but it barely touched them, just passed through as gentle as a misting rain. Sam maybe felt it a little more than Dean did, but then Dean wasn't bleeding everywhere. The Demon tried again, but it didn't even connect this time. They'd . . .moved beyond that.
"This can't be happening," the Demon said, almost to himself, and for the very first time, Dean and Sam hear the panic in his voice.
"Actually," Sam said. "It can. Because you faced me back when I didn't know what I could do, and you faced me here with only half of my abilities. Half of our abilities, half of our—" he glanced at Dean, "—soul. But now you have both us, which means twice the strength, twice the power."
"Basically, I think he's trying to tell you that you're fucked," Dean added helpfully.
The Demon thrust forward with his power, again and again. And again and again Dean and Sam shrugged it off. Because Dean had to save Sam and Sam had to save Dean and there simply was no other option for either of them.
Neither of them could lose. Not this fight. Not their fight.
So, they won.
Dean and Sam stepped forward together, pushing their minds, their will, their essence together . . . Dean's inappropriate sense of humor and Sam's freakish geeklike knowledge and Dean's unwavering loyalty and Sam's understanding and compassion . . . they threw it together at the Demon.
The Demon staggered to his knees.
"No," he said, blood pouring from his mouth. "No, no. You can't. You can't—"
Yes, Sam thought.
We can, Dean thought.
Sam pulled the Colt from his side, and he and Dean both wrapped their fingers around the trigger.
This is for our Mom.
And our Dad. And for Jess.
And for everyone else—
everyone you took—
you sorry, son of a bitch.
"NO!" The Demon screamed. "NO!"
They pulled the trigger.
V.
There was light, blinding light, everywhere, like the world exploded.
Maybe it did.
For a moment.
Then the light folded back, disappeared entirely, to reveal Bobby's house in South Dakota. Sam and Dean were standing next to each other, their hands wrapped around the real Colt. There was smoke still coming from the barrel. The Demon was on his knees in front of them.
There was a crackling sound and light around the hole in his forehead.
The Demon's mouth opened, like he was trying to speak. He blinked once, twice, and then fell over, dead.
Sam and Dean looked at each other.
For a moment, they didn't speak. They didn't even move. They just looked at one another and thought the same things. The Demon dead, their mother on the ceiling, Jessica avenged, Jessica burning, their father and his orders, their father and that Christmas, a thousand car trips, a thousand hunts, blood, blood everywhere, hospital visits and séances, ghosts, shouts and accusations, arguing over music, arguing over the future, a thousand "bitches" and a thousand "jerks," a million bad jokes, their first time at Uncle Bobby's, Dean telling a reluctant Sam about girls, laughter loud on the open wind, tears rolling silently down faces, hidden hurts, broken bones, CPS, fear, horror, leaving for Stanford, normalcy, loss, a need for vengeance, a need for blood, Ryan in the closet with his tongue cut out, Sam against a wall, Sam crucified, shooting Dean and shooting him again, killing those girls, fucking those girls, all those girls, burying those girls, Bloody Mary, bloody flowing tears, trying to save Sam, trying to save Dean, a thousand miles, a thousand dreams, trying to kill, trying to be—
They fell down to their knees, oblivious to their surroundings. "Sam, Sam, Jesus. I'm so—I'm so sorry—"
"God, Dean, how could you do it, how could you do that, how could you sell your—"
"—so sorry, man, please, I'm so, so godamned—"
"—soul, man, I was so scared. I was so scared—"
"—sorry, Sam, please, please, I'm so—"
"—Dean, I—"
"—Sam, Sam—"
Bobby stepped outside to give them so privacy.
TBC
A/N: Well, that's it. Just an epilogue to go—although, don't fear, it'll be very long, very full epilogue. As always, love to hear your thoughts.