Chapter Two
Sam opened the door to the dingy motel. Dean followed behind him, both of them appeared to be dumbfounded on their recent encounter, not knowing what to say or even how to get their thoughts around the occurrence. Dean sat on his bed and the mattress drooped heavily. Dean sighed slightly. Lousy, cheap, flimsy mattress, he thought, trying to get his hind area comfortable. Sam, on the other hand, flopped his entire body over his bed, the headboard shaking for an unusually long period of time. His lanky arm covered his eyes immediately and he lay still, trying to take everything in.
"Dude," Dean tried to start.
"She was an angel, Dean." Sam stated sternly, not wanting to fight about this.
Dean shook his head, still not unscrambling everything. "How, how can that be? You prayed and God sent down an angel to help us?" He paused. "What is this? Some bassackward scene from It's a Wonderful Life?"
Sam sat up and rested his bony elbows on his knees, making fists with his hands so his head could perch. He looked over at the table and lamp combinations which was beyond it's fashioned days. He traced the golden leafed picture on the lamp, it seemed to be a flower. "I don't know, Dean… I just know, time is running out. We've tried everything. We're running out of options." He was silent for a moment, feeling the aggravation from his brother's body vapor across the bed. "I don't know what else to do," he sounded desperate. "Pray, I know it doesn't sound like much to you, but there is a power behind it. I believe that." He watched Dean hang his head down. He could see his words were reaching him, somewhere deep inside, making a bit of sense. "Two days. Dean, I can't…" Sam's voice broke but her recovered quickly, "I'm gonna be alone. I'm…" searching for the right word, it hit him, "I'm scared, Dean."
Well, Dean couldn't have that. He looked out into the dusty air of the motel room and nodded his head slowly. "Okay," he agreed. "It can't hurt, right?"
Sam breathed air of relief, filling his lungs. "Right."
They sat for a few moments, both fidgeting, at different times, with the bed spread, with keeping their bodies from sliding from the feeble mattresses, with their hands and their hair. Both fidgeted constantly inwardly, at their hearts, words unspoken eating at both of them. Uncomfortable, embarrassed looks between each other, quickly looking away if the other's eyes fell upon the other. Sighs meant for no one, glances which went beyond the walls that contained them.
Dean stood up and walked to the vanity, meeting his own tired orbs in the mirror hanging above the sink. He caught a glare from the medallion around his neck and his fingers reached up to lightly graze it. Sammy. He turned around to look at his brother, still sitting oddly on the bed. "Dude, do you think she could see us naked?"
Sam let out a chuckle. "I don't know, maybe just you."
"Well," Dean rubbed his calloused hand roughly on his face, "in that case, she'll show up tomorrow night."
Night had came rather quickly, the boys had noted, neither of them expressing the observation to the other. It seemed they were always longing for one more hour lately. Sam had made the decision to stay where they were, it may make it easier for an entity to locate them. Bobby had called and suggested Sam take Dean to a cemetery to renounce Satan on deathly grounds, burning black magic art and attempting to seal it with Dean's blood. Sam shook his head, but agreed. He was ready for anything that would work.
He and Dean had retreated back to the cozy diner for dinner. They had ate in deep silence. Dean had country-fried steak while Sam chose the beef pot roast. The food was perfectly prepared, mouthwatering from the first bite, they each had a couple of Flat Tire's to wash it down, tasted smooth going down their throats and they knew it would taste vile when it came back up. Everything was getting so close, neither one of them could barely breathe.
They walked back to the hotel, the café had only been down the street from where they had parked the night before. The wind kicked up every block they crossed, sending a chill through the air that finished under their jackets, against their skin. It seemed to burn Sam's eyes as they continued their quiet walk, wondering if it was from the dust punting at them or something else that they couldn't quite see yet. He inhaled the air, but only smelled the sweet outdoors of a small Iowan town… Heaven.
"I don't know, Sam," Dean finally said. "I don't think this is going to work."
"Why don't you try not to think, then," Sam replied, sarcastically.
"It's so hard to believe…"
Sam sped his walking up, leaving Dean panting to keep up with him. "Do me a favor, Dean, and… shut the hell up."
Dean increased his strides. "I just don't want you to be disappointed."
Sam reeled around, glaring at his brother. "Shit, Dean! Disappointed? Disapp… Jesus, you don't even know what you're saying." He put his hands against his brother's chest and shoved him, hard, sending Dean suddenly stepping back a few steps in the opposite direction. Dean's body twitched, starting for Sam and then he stopped. The younger Winchester was ready and Dean knew he was no match for him. Not then. Sam snorted at him for a few seconds and then turned, walking with his hands crammed in his jacket pockets back to the motel.
Dean stood on the sidewalk, breathing, he looked down and noticed his own hands were clutched in fists of rage. He was immediately horrified at himself and opened his palms, stretching his fingers out. He took a deep breath, looked around to see if anyone had noticed what might have been and then felt relief when he realized they were alone on the street. Dean waited and then followed behind Sam, sullen.
By the time they had reentered their motel room, both men were exhausted. Sam slumped down in the corner chair and held his forehead to his two fingers. He rubbed at his temple trying to bring himself back to the here and now.
Dean had walked by him and straight into the bathroom. He stripped off all his clothes and turned the water on, stepping inside without hesitation. He aimed his face directly under the sprayer, the wetness cascading like a small waterfall down his scarred body. He reached up with the soap and started washing himself, his chest, his arms, his armpits and then repeated the same areas. Over and over again. His strokes increased with vigor as the suds spilled down him, tickling his legs, his inner thighs. He scrubbed until his hands started to cramp from the decreasing size of the soap and wearily he pressed his forehead against the wall of the shower. He let in a breath and then he trembled. He felt his legs start to give, his knees buckling, the water mixing with sweat from the top of his head, felt like it was suddenly crashing down on him. I'm dying, he thought with a shudder. It had came so fast.
"Dean?" Sam knocked on the bathroom door, shocking Dean back to the shower. He immediately stood and pushed the lever to the off position.
"I'm okay!" I called out to his little brother. "Just… I'm okay."
There was a pause from the other side of the door and then a weak, "Okay," returned back to him.
Jesus Christ, Dean thought. Sammy. He put his wet hand over his heart and breathed. It was for certain broken. He couldn't believe he could still feel it beat.
Boom-boom, the feeling ached inside of him as he climbed out of the shower stall and dried off, preparing for the last-ditch effort (that he was for certain to be unsuccessful) to save his own life.
By the time he had exited the bathroom, steam rolling out behind him, Sam was already in position, already started without his brother, maybe saying things he didn't want to him to hear. Dean threw his towel in the corner and glanced over at Sam, kneeling in front of his bed. His head bent down as his shaggy brown hair wisped at his knuckles, clutched tightly together. Sam quietly spoke. So quiet it wasn't even a whisper and Dean found himself leaning his body closer in his brother's direction in case he could catch a phrase, a word or a syllable. But Sam spoke too softly for him to make anything out. Guarding each word that he prayed even from this person he hoped it would protect.
Dean leaned his back against the motel's old wall and let a sigh out, a bit loud for just the two of them in the room. He felt what he thought was anger – or maybe even frustration - mustering deep inside himself, not realizing it was sadness that he had buried there long ago. He watched as Sam's shoulders sunk, his back arched and his head bowed down even further. Dean scratched his barefoot against the old plaster wall and suddenly found himself walking in a huff towards his brother, going down on one knee next to him.
Sam looked over in his direction and stopped his precious speech. "What're you doing, Dean?"
Dean shrugged. "If you can't beat 'em..." he let out a nervous chuckle.
Sam sighed heavily and looked away from his big brother, concentrating back to his folded hands. He closed his eyes and seemed to start praying again, but this time there were no words, just the slight movement of his lips parting every now and then.
Dean watched him. He shifted his weight next to him, bringing both knees onto the floor, raising his tired arms to rest on the mild softness of the bed and brought his hands together. First, he pointed his fingers up towards the ceiling. He glanced up to where they were pointing and not sure why, he decided intertwining them might be a better choice. He locked them together and brought his forehead down to rest on them. He waited. Not wanting to be the first person to ever start a conversation, Dean remained silent awaiting somebody to start for him. Divine intervention? Was the voice of an angel going to enter his head and coach him along? He wasn't sure of the next step. What was he suppose to say? And slowly it dawned on him that he didn't even know one prayer. How was someone supposed to go home and pray when he didn't know the magic words?
"Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name…" the words sliced through Dean's ears and he looked to his left. "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done…" Divine intervention. "Give us this day, our daily bread…" The voice of an angel. "And forgive us our trespasses…" His brother. "And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil…" Dean gulped. Deliver us from evil. Not into the evil, not into death. Not yet.
"That was the Lord's Prayer," Sam said mater of factly after a short pause between them.
Dean frowned. "Yeah. I know that." At least he recognized it.
Sam looked at his brother in disbelief. "You've really never have prayed, have you?"
Dean looked down, somewhat ashamed of himself. His shoulders sagged and he looked up at Sam with his sharp green eyes and simply shook his head. Sam turned and looked ahead of himself, staring at the 1970's table and lamp set, all meshed together. He stared at the golden floral design and traced it with his eyes. Funny to him now that it looked like it wasn't a flower at all, but maybe a heart or… wings. He looked back down and towards his big brother.
"I can help you."
Dean's mouth turned to the side as he pondered the request. "Well, I'm here, ain't I, Mother Theresa?"
Sam grinned. He gripped his hands closer together and sat silently apparently in thought, Dean noticed, but he wasn't for certain. Sam's eyes were closed, his lashes falling gently on his cheeks. Dean turned and tried to mimic Sam, tried to find an inner peace. All he found was the hum of the old heater kicking in, warming the room. His eyes opened and he shifted his knees further apart. He just couldn't get… comfortable. He rolled his neck, adjusted himself up front and when he reached back to pull on his underwear, Sam looked at Dean out of the corner of his eye. Disgust.
"What?" he snapped. "What is it?"
Dean let his butt fall on his back haunches and he spread his arms out. "Is this it?"
"Yes, Dean, this is praying. This is what you do." Sam explained, irritated. He took in a breath and let it escape his body, feeling the strained distance between him and the body he was kneeling along with. Wanting so badly to tell him this was it. This was their last chance. They had no other options available. Faith. Faith was it. And Sam had to have enough of it to save them both.
Dean shook his head. He let a snicker out and looked over at Sam. "What happens next? No one ever answers so it's just… what? A good feeling inside?" His tone was sarcastic and sharp, wanting to convince Sam that this truly was not the answer. There was something else out there. There had to be. Angels, God, Heaven. It was simple – they did not exist.
Sam rubbed his clasped hands with his thumb and felt his skin prickle at how aggravated he was with his brother. Deep down he had known Dean wouldn't be receptive to this. He knew it would take convincing, take time but they were short on seconds and Sam felt it in every muscle in his body. His internal clock ticked every single second, filling his ears with the realization that he would soon be alone. And that was something he could not accept.
"Listen, Dean…" he began not sure where he was heading, "when you pray, you say prayers and then you, you know… talk."
Dean sat up on his knees again, joining his little brother. "Talk? Talk to God?"
"Yeah, that's kind of the idea."
Dean paused a moment, bringing his hands back together and after briefly looking at Sam, he turned to stare straight ahead, just as his brother. Sam closed his eyes, Dean closed his. Sam took a deep breath in and exhaled, as did Dean. There was a moment of silence and then Sam said in a voice so gentle and soft it hummed at Dean's ears. "Dear God, please bless my Mom and my Dad. Please watch over them and keep them as safe as you possibly can. Please bless Jess. I miss her every day. Please let her feel that I care, that I love her always." Dean opened his eyes and focused on his baby brother. He found himself swallowing hard as Sam continued his tender request. "God, please, please, I beg you, please… please bless Dean. Please help him. Please let him see. Please, God, don't take him from me. Please, I beg you, let him live. We need help. Every day of his life he has done battle with evil. Every day he fights for others. And now… now he needs help. He needs the help of something we've never needed help from before, from you. Please, God, please help us…" Sam's voice cracked and he took a shaky breath into his lungs. "Because I have… a really great brother and I need…" Sam's voice trailed off and his head bowed down low to his hands. "him…with…me…please." Dean watched as his brother's shoulder bounced in a rhythmic motion and collapsed onto the mattress. No sound came from him, no words, just the silent jostle of his body.
Dean knelt, feeling an overwhelming fear come over him. He was scared to be there. Maybe this was too sacred of a place to be all of a sudden. He'd been cracking jokes and throwing disbelief at Sam ever since the café and now, seeing Sam, he realized he felt guilty. He reached his hand over to place on his brother and found himself hesitating, hovering above his spine, not sure what to do or where to even put his hand if he tried. He sighed and casually brought his hand back and clutched them back to his chest. He looked ahead at the same wall he'd been staring at and the same 1970's lamp with it's gold design. Funny, he thought, maybe it isn't a flower. It looks like a dove.
"God," Dean stopped right away. His voice was quaky and having said the name out loud was enough for him to not recognize his own sound. He cleared his throat and swallowed and tried again. "God, I'm… uh, Dean Winchester." He gave his name? He stopped again and shook his head. Who did he think he was talking to, Santa Claus? It actually kind of felt like he was. "I'm sitting here, with my brother… Sam and I, well, I kind of got myself into a bit of a pickle." He laughed at himself but he noticed that Sam's body had stopped shaking and he seemed to be listening. "I'm not sure what I'm suppose to do. Sam and I have looked into spells and rituals and unbinding ceremonies and… we're all out of ideas. Nothing has worked. My time is coming due and I don't know if I can pay the price, you know? I don't think my work here is done. I think I have more to do, more to give." Sam brought his arms in and slowly sat back up, joining his brother again, his face reddened by tears, his hair and eyebrows messed from suffocating in the bedspread. Sam looked at Dean with tears still in his eyes, sniffled a bit and gave him a small smile. Dean felt the sudden sting in his own eyes, surprised a bit that it was there. He waited, blinking them away, and smiled back at the younger man. "I don't want to leave, God. Please, I don't want to leave my brother." A single tear escaped down his Sam's cheek. Dean kept form, his eyes on Sam. "He's a good hunter, a smart hunter. He's a good man."
Sam took in a sniffled breath and couldn't help himself. The rain poured out of his eyes, falling quickly down his long face. He reached out and grabbed Dean's hand, squeezing. "My brother's a good man," he recited Dean's words back to him, crying, his heart crumbling.
Dean squeezed Sam's fingers hard, holding them tightly. He gave a calming look to his brother, ordering him with only his eyes – deep breaths, Sammy, calm it down, I'm here, I'm not dead, I'm right here, next to you, breathe, baby – and Sam took in a breath, let it out and his tears started to let up.
"What am I gonna do, Dean?" Sam asked him like he was twelve years old and had brought home a "D" on his report card.
"Hopefully this will be enough," Dean replied, not believing it for one minute. But maybe a bit more hopeful then before they knelt in front of this altar built from a mattress.
Sam tilted his head. "But what if it's not?"
"I don't know, Sam," he sighed and let go of his brother's fingers, breaking the bond they temporarily held with one another. Sam looked down at his empty hand as Dean drew his back to him.
No, thought Sam, the next time I grab your hand, it will be cold.
"But you're strong. If it isn't enough, you'll be okay. You're stronger than me." Dean tried to explain this to him, tried to make them both believe it.
Sam shook his head and wetness spilled over again. "No…" he stammered. "No." It was all he could think of to say. Should your brother go to Hell? No. Should your brother die? No. You'll be okay when this is over, Sam, really you will. No! His body started quivering again, not sure how he would ever stop this time. Every shudder he created was another second passing by that he and Dean would never get back ever, ever again. He wanted Dean to reach out and take his hand again, coach him wordlessly to calm down, that it would be okay, but Dean wasn't moving. Dean repositioned his weight and cocked his head a bit, giving Sam a look of defeat. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down every so often, but his body sat guarded.
Sam took in a breath. "I won't stop fighting. I won't let them have you… without a fight."
And Dean knew. He knew he was telling the truth. He knew Sam would put himself in harms way, that he would attack the devil himself with only his body, if he had to. He knew they would beat him bloody and leave him curled in a ball. He knew he would hear Sam call his name and feel the ground rumble as Sam's feet kicked up Earth, running after him until he wasn't able to see anymore. He knew Sam would scoop his body up and hold onto it, try to breath life back in. He knew.
Sam watched as his brother gave him a small nod and looked away for a few seconds. Sam wanted to say more. They were now literally down to hours. Hours, minutes, then seconds. It was fleeting and Sam couldn't take it. The pain. He wished he was dead. He wished Dean had just left well enough alone and that he didn't have to go through this. He extended his back out, hoping Dean would pick it up. But he didn't. Sam brought it back to his own body and put it up to his eyes, not able to stop the tears from falling. He startled when he felt Dean's hand, firm on the back of his neck. He stiffened underneath it's palm as he felt Dean pull him close to him. Sam lunged for his brother, his long arms wrapping around Dean, hugging him tight. His face pressed into the strong shoulder of his older sibling and Sam sobbed.
Dean blinked his eyes, he felt the sting of tears returning, but he willed them away, nothing could show. He would be the strong one, one last time. He was the older brother, holding his baby brother as he slobbered all over him. And he didn't care. Not right now. He grasped his brother's t-shirt in his fists and brought him in as close as he could. "It'll be okay," he said, raspy, whiskey soft.
Sam nodded, twisting his fingers in Dean's shirt.
"This'll work."
Sam nodded, clutching Dean's back.
"Have faith, Sammy."
And Sam cried. And let it flood out of him.