Chapter 4

The False Prince and The True

Sam's head lolled to the side, his dirty brown hair brushed Dean's cheek and fell limply into his eyes. Judging by the sun, the younger man had been edging on unconsciousness for nearly an hour. The heat of the fever seemed to roll off his body in waves that burned Dean's skin even through his thick jacket. Sam's feet were dragging the ground, sliding into one another, the toe of one boot catching on the laces of the other. Dean had been supporting his brother's full weight for ten minutes, now, and his arm hurt like it might fall off.

He knew they shouldn't stop, that they had to keep going or risk never escaping this godforsaken forest, but his brother was sick and weighing him down. There was no possible way he could go on hauling Sam around like this, at least not in this position. Gritting his teeth, Dean made a decision and came to a full stop.

"Just for a minute," he whispered to the creature, hoping it was close enough to hear, "Just let me get Sam on my back."

Sam started to slip, almost falling to the ground, but Dean caught his arm and, calling on reserves of strength he didn't know he had, lifted Sam across his shoulders in a somewhat awkward version of the fireman's carry. After a moment, he'd settled Sam's weight just above their backpack of supplies.

"Guess you're not so little anymore, huh, little brother?" he muttered, stooping under the new burden.

Tentatively, he took a step and felt Sam's head bump softly against his side. There was nothing he could do about it now. They had to keep moving.

"Sorry if you're uncomfortable."

A breeze rustled the leaves of the trees and Dean could have sworn he heard a voice whispering, "Go. Go now."

"We are."

Keeping his gaze focused straight ahead, he lined things up in his mind, drawing a mental map of their path, just as Sam had told him to do before they got themselves into this mess. It was easier to do with a compass, but Dean's hands were full and he wasn't sure he'd even be able to read the stupid thing anyway. That was Sam's job, or it had been.

One foot in front of the other, he told himself, one step at a time. They'd make it out of this, they had to.

"Dean…" The voice was familiar, but Dean ignored it. Since leaving that girl to die, he'd forced himself not to hear the sounds of the forest, this was no different.

"Dean … please … can't you hear me?"

"You aren't real."

With his brother on his back, he was unable to turn his head, but a glance to the side showed someone standing just beyond the nearest trees. Someone in a brown coat and bloody jeans. Someone bearing a startling resemblance to Sam.

"What the hell, Dean? I'm your brother. Of course, I'm fucking real." The person matched his slow pace, keeping just beyond his line of sight.

"Not real. Just in my head."

"I'm real, Dean. Just look at me. I'm Sam."

The Sam on his back, groaned softly as his head brushed a tree trunk. Careful, Dean thought angrily at himself, be careful. The last thing Sam needed was a concussion on top of everything else. Just keep walking, one step at a time.

"Dean! Look at me, Dean! I'm your brother, for God's sake. Can't you tell? Can't you see that what you're carrying isn't real?" The voice had a desperate quality that chilled him to the bone.

"No. You aren't real." If he said it enough, it would be true. It had to be true. He was carrying Sam. Sam was on his back, slowly dying from some unearthly fever, suffering from a severely broken leg, struggling for each breath. Dean's hands tightened on his brother's wrist and leg, digging his fingers in until he could feel Sam's quick pulse beating there. Whatever was out in that forest, it wasn't Sam.

"They switched in the night … that thing, it gave you those seeds, remember? Knocked me out completely. They switched. That's not me on your back."

From the corner of his eye, Dean could just make out the thing's form, limping painfully just a few yards away. Its hair was thick with grime and dark red blood stained its clothes. Sometimes, it paused to lean on a tree or gasp loudly for air.

"You aren't Sam. Sam couldn't walk."

There was a sob in its throat, "God, Dean, it fucking hurts. Just put that thing down and help me. Please. I'm gonna die out here if you don't help me."

Clenching his jaw, Dean focused on the familiar heart beat thrumming against the pads of his fingers. It was lying. It had to be lying.

"Go away," he growled, pushing on, making his feet obey him, despite how they ached.

"Dean … please. Help me." It sounded just like Sam. If he closed his eyes, Dean could see the downturned mouth, the shiny, sad eyes and the tell-tale tremble of his brother's lower lip. He wouldn't close his eyes, though, not now, he might lose the way, might stumble and fall, might find that all this was really happening and his brother was struggling to survive with a broken leg and a burning fever while he dragged a stranger through the forest.

"If you're really Sam, come closer." It was a gamble, tempting it like that.

"I can't. Not while you've got that thing on your back. Just drop it, Dean. Drop it and help me … I … I can't keep this up."

"No." He tried to sound certain, tried to make himself believe that it was a lie. He knew his brother, knew every inch of him, right down to the pale birthmark on his left hip bone. It was Sam that he'd shaken awake before the sun rose, the real Sam.

But, what if it wasn't? What if the man on his back wasn't a man at all? It would have been so easy for those monsters to steal his brother in the night. Dean had been so damned tired after moving all those rocks, nothing would have woken him up. Those seeds could have been a trick, something to lull Sam into unconsciousness, to keep him from screaming as they dragged him off into the night, replacing him with … with what?

"If you're Sam, what am I carrying?" He shouldn't be speaking to it at all.

"You can't see?"

"Just tell me."

"It's a rotting log. It's falling apart."

For a split second, Dean thought he could smell the sickly sweet scent of decay. It was gone before he could be sure it was there.

"No. You're not my brother. You aren't real." He pressed his lips together firmly and kept going, boots crunching over dried leaves and twigs.

"Please, Dean. I can't keep … I can't keep up. If you keep going … please …"

That same pulse kept beating against his fingertips, sure and steady, maybe a little fast, but still very real.

It was the same steady rhythm he'd felt that night when they were kids, scrambling through some dark back alley, trying to keep up with their father. Sam should never have gone on that hunt, he should have been at the motel, doing his homework or reading a book, something safe, but he'd insisted and Dean never could say no.

"You keep an eye on him, Dean," John said sternly, giving his sons a meaningful look.

"Yes, sir."

At fourteen, Sam hadn't had his growth spurt yet, the one that would send him shooting up three feet practically over night, and his short legs simply couldn't keep pace with Dean's. They lagged behind, Dean pausing to help Sam over a chain link fence, or through a pile of refuse, eventually they had no idea where they were or how far their father had gone.

"Will Dad come back for us?" Sam asked, glaring at the dingy brick walls of the alley, as though their current predicament could be blamed on an inanimate object.

"Yeah, c'mon. I think he went this way." Gripping Sam's hand tightly in his own, Dean led the way.

Neither of them saw the softly glowing eyes or heard the throaty growl of the creature until it was too late. It leapt from a nearby fire escape, sharp teeth shining the in the darkness. Dean fired his gun, only letting go of Sam's hand long enough to aim and pull the trigger, but he missed, the bullet ricocheting off the rusting fire escape with a shower of sparks. For a split second, the alley was illuminated dimly, the thing knocked Dean's shoulder, spinning him roughly, and in the fading light he saw it land on Sam, knocking his head on the concrete with a sickening crack.

Stunned, Dean stood in the darkness, blinking against the bright spots still lingering before his eyes.

"Sam? Sammy?" he called, stumbling forward.

The thing growled again, its claws clicking across the pavement. It was close. Then there was another noise, the thud of boots on cement, the familiar rasp of his father's breathing. A steady beam of light focused on Dean's face and he shut his eyes against it.

"Dean?" John said, moving the flashlight so it pointed at Sam's limp body.

"Dad … I'm sorry … I didn't see it …"

Breathing hard, the older man pointed at Sam, "Check his pulse and try to get him awake. You watch him until I get back." Shoving the flashlight into his son's hands, John took off into the night, determined to finish the hunt.

Dean knelt by his brother and with two fingers, found the pulse in his thin wrist. Sam's eyelids flickered, but he remained unconscious. Terrified, Dean sat there in the filth of that back alley, counting his brother's heart beats, hoping his father would return.

"Dean! Can't you see … you have to see …" the voice called again, frantic and full of tears.

Dean dragged his mind back to the present, "You aren't my brother."

"I'll show you …" it gasped.

Suddenly the scent of decay was overwhelming, clogging his nostrils, gagging his throat. He coughed against it, spitting into the dirt, scraping his teeth over his tongue, anything to get the taste out of his mouth. On his shoulders, Sam went ridged, limbs straightening, body contorting, stiffening, even the flesh under Dean's fingers became rough like tree bark. Stifling a shout of surprise, he barely managed to keep hold of his brother.

"You see? I'm here, Dean … you have to stop … please."

"No," he whispered, "You aren't Sam."

He pressed his fingers hard against what had been Sam's wrist, searching for the pulse he knew so well. It had to be there.

Minutes passed. There was nothing. Nothing at all. Just as he was giving up, something fluttered there. It came on slow at first, the gentle thud-thud of a heart beat, but soon was strong and true, beating its familiar rhythm, pushing the blood through Sam's battered body.

They trudged on and the thing's voice grew faint, insisting to the end that he was making a mistake, that he'd reach the end and find nothing but a pile of rotting wood and leaves in place of his beloved brother. Eventually, the body on his back relaxed, taking on a much more human form, its head bumping lightly against Dean's side.

"We'll get out of here, Sammy. I swear it," he muttered, and meant every word.