Chapter 2
The smile dies instantly on Dean's lips as his brother's blood hits them. The touch burns straight to his soul, which feels like it is about to explode, blinding him from the inside as it sheds the last traces of demonic taint. The evil in his system stands no chance against the purity and selflessness of his brother's sacrifice, and Dean feels his humanity return in earnest.
His sight kicks in just in time for him to see his brother collapse, and he catches Sam before he hits the ground. He eases them down, letting Sam's head rest against his chest. He feels his brother's neck for a pulse that he knows isn't there, and sobs rack his body when his fingers are met with stillness. He wipes away the trail of blood from Sam's mouth that is the only outward evidence that something is wrong. Then he just pulls his brother close and buries his face in the younger man's shoulder to stifle the noise that no one else is around to hear anyway.
He has been here before, holding Sam's lifeless body, but that does not make it any less painful now. And he knows that it is final this time, knows about the arrangement that Sam had with Death. He knows that there will be no deal or spell or angel to reverse this. And it hurts. Good God, does it hurt.
"This should've been me," he whispers. "This always should've been me."
He does not know how things went so horribly wrong. He does know when they hit rock bottom though.
He was surrounded by oppressive darkness, lost and confused and hurting. He did not know what had happened, where he was, or even who he was, and that scared him. Then he heard a voice speaking to him, drawing him back towards something. As he began to be aware of his body, his fingers tightened on whatever they were holding.
The first blade, he thought. My blade.
The blade grounded him, filled him with confidence and power and purpose. He knew who he was now. He was a killer, but more than that, he was the best killer.
When the voice that had been talking to him told him to open his eyes, he obeyed. He thought he recognized the man standing over him, and knew somehow that he should feel hatred towards him, but there was nothing but curiosity.
"Oh, Dean," the man said, smiling. "You are a specimen, aren't you?"
So his name was Dean. That sounded right, though he did not really care.
Dean sat up and looked down at the blade that he had been holding to his chest. He ran his fingers tenderly over the weathered bone, and he felt a smile stretch across his lips. He was already imagining all the things he could do with that blade, and he could not wait to get started.
"You're not even the least bit bothered by this, are you?" the other man asked, sounding amused.
Dean looked at him, confused. Why should he be bothered?
Something nudged at the back of his mind. He poked at the errant thought, and suddenly all of his memories came tumbling loose. He frowned as he sorted through them, remembering his life as a hunter and everything that had brought him here. All he felt was disgust at how weak he had been in his life, how blinded, and though he knew that his reaction should have unsettled him, he could not bring himself to care.
"I feel…better," he said to the demon he now knew was Crowley. "I feel perfect."
Crowley smiled, but before he could say anything, they both heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
"I think I'll leave you to deal with Moose," Crowley said. "Try not to make too much of a mess. Bloodstains are so difficult to get out of carpets."
Before Dean could reply, the king of hell had vanished. Dean glanced around, but he froze as he heard a familiar voice gasp his name. Dean turned to see Sam standing in the doorway, his mouth hanging open and his face white.
The demon was surprised by the force of the reaction that hit him when he laid eyes on the man he had called his brother. He still had the memories of the overpowering love that he'd had for Sam, but the emotion had been replaced by hatred of equal vehemence.
Dean winces at the memory of that powerful loathing. Even though he lived through it, he still does not understand how he ever could have felt that way about Sam. Although he supposes that's what being a demon means; all of the good and pure emotions are twisted into evil ones. He is just glad that he was able to tell his brother how he really felt.
After a while, when other sensations begin to trickle in through the grief, Dean realizes just how different he feels. He had not really had time to adjust to being a demon, but he had been dealing with the effects of the mark of Cain for months. He realizes that he no longer feels the alarming bloodlust, the battle rage that has been stirring his blood since he first held the blade. He looks down at his arm, and sees that Sam has given him another gift.
The mark of Cain is gone, leaving smooth, unblemished skin in its wake. Yesterday, the thought of losing the mark would have been abhorrent, like losing one of his hands, but now that it is gone, Dean knows that it is a blessing. He feels truly human again for the first time since shaking hands with Cain, and it feels better than he could have imagined.
"Thank you, Sammy," he tells his brother.
He is filled with a sudden determination to make himself worthy of heaven once he gets it reopened. Sam wiped Dean's slate clean, and he will do whatever it takes to keep it that way. He will see his brother again, even if he has to give up alcohol and volunteer in a homeless shelter every day for the rest of his life.
Unable to bear the thought of moving on from this moment, Dean looses track of how much time is passing. It could have been minutes or hours, but eventually he hears footsteps, so he raises his head dully to see Castiel appear in the doorway to the dungeon. The angel stops short when he sees Dean, and an astonished smile flashes across his face. It only lasts for a fraction of a second though. Dean watches as Cas takes in the rest of the scene, staring at Sam's body, the devil's trap, the fragments of broken syringe lying in a pool of congealing blood.
"Oh, Dean," the angel says, his face falling into lines of horrified grief.
"He saved me, Cas," Dean whispers. "He shouldn't have, but he did."
Castiel walks over to crouch beside Dean. He rests a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder, his head bowed with sorrow. When he looks up at Dean, his eyes are gleaming with tears, but his expression is awed.
"It's not just you he saved, Dean," he says quietly. "The gates of hell are closed. I felt it earlier and didn't understand, but now I do. It's over, my friend. Not a single demon walks the earth."
His tears have dried by this point, but fresh ones begin to fall as Dean realizes the magnitude of what has happened.
"You saved the world, Sammy," he whispers into his brother's ear. "I guess once just wasn't enough for you, huh?"
He is proud, so proud, and though he knows that he will miss his brother every day for the rest of his life, he cannot bring himself to wish that Sam had not done this. He knows that it is what his brother wanted, knows that Sam deserves this kind of legacy.
Castiel lets him cry without offering empty words of comfort, but he stays by Dean's side, and the hunter is grateful for his presence. It takes a long time, but eventually Dean's tears stop again, and he looks up at his friend.
"I want to bury him," he says.
He knows that Sam's spirit cannot be put to rest until heaven is reopened, so a typical salt and burn would be pointless. He also knows that Sam always liked the idea of a traditional burial. It is what he gave Dean all those years ago.
"Where?" Castiel asks simply.
Dean thinks about it for a moment. Sam would have wanted to be with family, and they only have one family member buried in the ground. The rest are lost to ash and hellfire.
"The Men of Letters have a cemetery not far from here," he tells Cas. "Our grandfather is buried there. I think…I think that's where Sam would want to be."
Castiel nods, and gently lifts Sam's body from Dean's arms. The hunter wants to protest, but his body is trembling from more than just grief, and he knows that he is too weak from his ordeal to carry his brother. So he stands and follows the angel to the garage, making a detour to grab a clean shirt. When they reach the impala, Cas lays Sam in the backseat. His eyes are closed and his hands are resting on his chest, and he looks so much like he is just sleeping that Dean has to look away, the lump in his throat suffocating him.
"Would you like me to drive, Dean?" Castiel offers, and though it takes a monumental effort, Dean manages to bark out a laugh.
"It'll be a cold day in hell before I let you get behind the wheel of my baby," he tells his friend.
Cas rolls his eyes and climbs into the passenger seat. The drive is somber and silent. Dean knows that there are many things to address, but taking care of Sam takes precedent, like always.
The cemetery is locked for the night when they arrive, but that has never stopped Dean. He picks the lock with ease and gets two shovels from the trunk while Cas carries Sam into the field of tombstones and lays him on the grass in front of the simple wooden cross that marks Henry Winchester's grave. They start digging, and the hole is almost complete before Dean realizes what he has forgotten.
"We don't have a casket," he says.
Castiel looks thoughtfully around at the walls of the hole that they have dug.
"I have an idea," he says, boosting himself out.
He reaches a hand down to help Dean to the surface as well, and soon they are both peering into the grave. Kneeling, Castiel stretches out a hand, and Dean's eyes widen as he watches the roots that line the sides of the hole begin to grow. The tendrils of wood weave themselves into an open box, and Dean knows by looking at it that it is the perfect size for Sam.
"He should have a living casket," Castiel says, sounding tired but satisfied with his work.
Dean does not know what to say, and does not think that he could get the words out even if he did, so he settles for clapping a hand on the angel's shoulder before going to his brother's side. Dean gathers Sam into his arms one last time, holding him close before lifting him up to carry him to his grave. It is not easy to lower Sam into the casket, for any number of reasons, but Cas helps him, and soon Sam is resting in his living nest of roots.
Dean wishes that he has something to give his brother, some token to bury him with. Theirs was a life that did not center around material possessions though, and he can think of nothing meaningful. Nothing that he still has, anyway. Seeming to sense his intent, Cas shrugs out of his trench coat and tucks it around Sam's body like a blanket. He looks up at Dean for confirmation that this is okay, and the hunter can only nod.
"Would you like to say something?" the angel asks as they stand side by side, gazing down into the grave.
Dean shakes his head.
"He already knows," he says with quiet confidence. "But you can say something, if you want."
Castiel nods, and clears his throat.
"Sam…" he says softly, trailing off and shaking his head. "Sam, when I first met you, I saw you as little more than the boy with the demon blood, the troublesome younger brother of my charge. I used to think myself above you, but I know now that nothing could have been further from the truth."
He pauses again and sighs, and suddenly Dean feels a hand slipping into his own. He glances over at Cas in surprise, but the angel is still staring down at Sam. The tears gathering in the corners of his eyes tell Dean that his friend is in need of support, so he says nothing, just returning the pressure that Cas is exerting on his hand. He finds that it helps him as well.
"You taught me that everyone is worth saving, and that it is possible to overcome even the most seemingly insurmountable of challenges," he continues eventually. "Your strength and selflessness never ceased to amaze me, and your capacity for forgiveness…"
Castiel has to stop again, and Dean squeezes his hand, fighting tears of his own. He knows all about that forgiveness, the blessing that it was.
"You put me to shame," Cas says when he can speak. "You were the best of humanity, Sam, and I will forever be grateful that I got the chance to call you a friend. So rest now, my friend, and know that you have earned it."
He looks over at Dean, who nods through the tears that he can no longer hold back. The angel extends his hand again, and a lid begins to weave itself over Sam's body. His head is last to be covered, and Dean takes a small measure of comfort in the peaceful expression on his brother's face before it vanishes beneath the roots.
Tossing the first shovel of dirt into Sam's grave is harder than Dean would have thought possible. The second is no easier. Eventually though, he and Cas fill the hole, and the angel coaxes a carpet of grass from the dirt, until Sam's grave blends seamlessly into the earth around it.
Dean glances at the cross that acts as his grandfather's headstone. He knows that Sam deserves something similar, but he dreads making another one. Henry's was hard enough, and Dean had only known him for two days. Cas saves him again though. The angel places a hand on the ground at the head of Sam's grave, and a seedling shoots up between his fingers. The tiny plant quickly grows into a sturdy sapling that twists itself into another cross. Dean watches as words appear in the soft bark, and he leans closer to read them.
Samuel Winchester
1983 – 2014
A hero in every sense of the word
"It's perfect, Cas," Dean chokes out when the angel glances at him for approval.
"It's still not as much as he deserves," Castiel says, standing.
"No, but it's what he would want," Dean tell him.
Cas gives him a sad smile. Dean cannot meet his gaze, knowing that it will undo every scrap of composure he has left.
"I'll wait for you in the car," Cas says in understanding.
He touches Dean's shoulder reassuringly before walking away, leaving Dean to face this final goodbye with his brother. The hunter stares at Sam's new grave marker, side by side with Henry's.
"They're proud of you, Sammy," Dean tells his brother. "Henry, Mom, Dad, Bobby…wherever they are, they're proud. And so am I."
Dean is just about out of tears at this point, but he knows that he still will not be able to get through a longer speech. So he just kneels in the grass over Sam's final resting place, placing a palm in the dirt.
"Goodbye, little brother," he says, head bowed. "Thank you."
Knowing that he cannot stay here forever, Dean stands and strides out of the quiet little graveyard, the rosy glow of dawn lighting his path.
A/N: Thanks for reading! We have one more chapter to go, and then an epilogue. I would really love to hear your thoughts!