Supernatural isn't mine.
Many thanks to JazzyIrish, Allegra, StillAwesome2009, ParallelVerse, ziggy.uk, Nimrodel Lorellin, carocali, Nina, SciFiNutTX, friendly, MistyEyes, StarlitEyes17, byteme27886, Lucian32, may7fic, Nana56 and Hilz72 for their kind reviews :). Glad you guys are having fun with the gratuitous hurt-comfort :D.
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When You Put Your Arms Around Me, Chapter Three
So the witch hasn't even had the good sense to get the hell out of Dodge, which is crazy because she had to have known Dean would be coming after her, but then that makes sense because witches – real, honest-to-God blood-and-chicken-entrails witches – pretty much are crazy as a rule. Why anyone would want to mess about with eye of newt and toe of whatever just to get their neighbour's cows to explode is beyond Dean, but apparently that's how they get their kicks back in the old country. Anyway, she's still in the house where they found her last time, muttering to herself like a nutjob (oh yeah, Dean's already been through that loop) and shoving something that smells honestly foul into a little hemp sack. Dean has no idea what that's for, and he doesn't want to know. All he wants to do is shove his fist into that old bitch's chest and squeeze her heart until she begs him to stop.
He's not going to do that. For one, he needs to get her to reverse the spell. For another, it actually sounds kind of disgusting, and he thinks it might also be physically impossible.
He's got her shoved up against the wall before she even sees him, and man, of all the women he could have been up against a wall with today, it had to be a crazy old cat-lady whose breath smells of freakin ketchup (which, what the hell?) She doesn't look scared, though, just grins at him, and he sees that she's really acting the part, down to only having three teeth in her head.
"I wondered when you'd come back," she says.
Normally right now Dean'd come up with some smartass remark about breath-mints or dentists or some such shit, but Sam's almost died more than once in the last forty-eight hours, and he's not in the mood for pleasantries. Or, you know, unpleasantries. Whatever.
"Reverse the spell, or you're not gonna have to worry about whether your pension's gonna last," Dean says (and oh yeah, that's why he's not going for the smartass remarks right now, because he's freakin sucks at them when Sam's in trouble).
She raises her eyebrows. "Hey, boy, you like burning stuff so much? I figure you like this. What, you don't enjoy burning people so much, huh?"
"Jesus Christ, lady," Dean snarls, and smashes her back against the wall. "Just reverse the goddamn thing or I'm gonna see how much I like burning you."
She doesn't look scared, just shrugs. "I can't reverse it."
Dean feels like someone's just poured cold water down his back. "You're lying."
"No, not lying." She grins at him some more, and man, he really wishes dental hygiene had been better in Bulgaria or wherever when this bitch was young, if she ever was. "You burn my altar. Can't do spells no more. That's what you wanted, yes?"
Dean stares. And it's fucked up, because she's right, of course, he knows she's not lying because that was the whole freakin point, no way she could build up enough power to do a decent spell for a few years at least, and now it's blown up in Dean's face and there's nothing he can do and it's his fault.
The witch's grin widens, and Dean wants to smash it in, get rid of those last few teeth and make it a perfect smile, but he doesn't. She's fucked him up, him and Sam both, but she's still human, and Sam's still alive, and if it was just for him, Dean would have killed her three freakin times by now, but he knows what Sam would say, and he knows he can't.
And goddamn, Dean's having a bad couple of days.
----
When Sam calls, Dean's been staring into space for a while. In fact, he has no idea how long he's been sitting there, but his ass cheeks have gone numb, so he figures it's really longer than it should have been.
"Dude," says Sam, "what the hell?"
Dean's not sure what to say. "You OK? Where are you?"
"Don't change the subject," Sam says, and he sounds tired and ill and pissed, and OK, fair enough, maybe he's got reason. "What, you leave me a note? Where the hell are you? What the hell was so urgent you couldn't even come and tell me where you were going?"
Dean closes his eyes. His arm feels heavy, it's almost too much effort to hold up the phone, and he lies back on the bed. "I, uh. Listen, you OK to find yourself a motel? You got the car key, right?"
Sam exhales loudly, and it sounds like a hurricane on the line. Kid always did have a set of lungs on him. "Yeah, I got the key. I'm in the car now. But I need you come pick me up."
Dean frowns. "Why?"
"Well, you know that part they always say about not operating heavy machinery?" Sam says. "Turns out cars are heavy."
Fuck. Dean's an idiot, but he already knew that. He thought Sam would be OK if he had the car, and now his brother's sitting in the freakin hospital parking lot and he's still sick, and Dean's miles away and can't help him.
"Dean?" Sam says. "So you gonna tell me what's going on now or when you come get me?"
"I can't pick you up," says Dean, and every word feels like it's a freakin lump of coal coming up his windpipe. He doesn't wait for Sam to demand an explanation, starts in on it anyway. When he's done, there's silence on the line.
"OK," Sam says finally. "But you've worked out how to reverse it, right?"
Dean digs the nails of his left hand into his thighs, which is pointless because his nails are really freakin short and his thighs are covered in denim, but hey, you can't blame him for trying. "There's no way to reverse it," he says.
"Come on, man, there's always a way," says Sam, but he sounds worried.
"No," says Dean, louder than he meant to. "We burned the altar, Sammy. I burned it. I called Joshua, and he said that's it."
There's silence again, then Sam says, "What, so you're just giving up?"
Dean would have closed his eyes at this point, but the little fuckers are already closed, so he settles for covering them with his hand, since it's not doing much good with the whole thigh thing. Jeez, he can't even get melodramatic gestures right today (and he's never going to be in the same room as his brother again). "We can," he says, and it fucking hurts, talking about this, thinking about it, all of it makes him feel like he's trying to breathe underwater. "We can work something out," he says, trying to sound like he's got it all under control, when actually he's dropping like a stone and the ground's coming up fast. "We've just gotta… adjust." He's been telling himself that all day, but it doesn't sound any more convincing now than it did however many hours ago it was that he finally got off the phone with Joshua.
"Screw that," says Sam, and hangs up.
An hour later, Dean's still lying in the same position with the phone in his hand when Sam calls back, which is lucky because he figures if he had to move he'd find out first hand whether he's actually got any muscles left in his body at all, and OK, so his life's just basically circling the drain right now, and he's alone in the motel room, but even so, he's got enough pride left not to want to fall on his ass, because maybe God's watching or something and Dean doesn't want to be a laughing stock in the afterlife. "Yeah," he says, and is almost embarrassed at how pathetic his voice sounds, except he doesn't have the energy.
"You son of a bitch," says Sam.
OK, Dean's not really expecting that, but on the other hand, this mess kinda is his fault, so maybe he deserves it.
"Did you think I wouldn't bother to call Joshua too?" Sam spits, and then Dean works out why he's pissed. "Jesus, Dean, you weren't even going to let me make my own decision?"
"It's not your decision, it's mine," says Dean. "It's not an alternative, Sam."
"The hell it isn't," says Sam. "Joshua said it wasn't a huge risk..."
"Joshua said you could die," Dean says. "No, scratch that, Joshua said you would die, that was the whole freakin point."
"Temporarily, Dean!" Sam says, and he starts to add something else, but then he starts coughing harshly, and Dean feels like he's swallowed a lump of lead.
"Jesus," Dean says. "Jesus, you OK?"
Sam gasps and splutters a little, then seems to recover himself. "I'm fine," he says. "Still a little sore from the intubation, is all. Look, where are you? I'm not talking about this over the phone."
"Goddammit, Sam!" Dean knows Sam's been sick and all, but is he really that dumb? And at the same time, his brain's still stuttering over the word intubation, Sam said it like he might say breakfast or shower, but he didn't have to watch the goddamn machine that was the only thing keeping his brother alive. "What part of you'll die if you come near me don't you understand?"
"The part where you don't want to try and fix it," Sam says, and he's trying to yell but he sounds out of breath and scratchy. "For Christ's sake, man, just tell me where you are."
"No," says Dean. "No way." And to be honest, he's not entirely sure where he is, doesn't even really remember how he got here from the witch's house with Joshua's words still ringing in his ears.
Sam's quiet for a moment, then he says "OK, fine," and Dean hears the sound of an engine starting up.
"What's that?" he asks, which is dumb, because he'd know the roar of the Impala anywhere, but Sam just freakin said no heavy machinery and Dean's gonna fucking kill him (except he might, he actually goddamn might).
"You think I can't find you?" Sam says. "I'm not letting you run away from this, man."
"Fuck," says Dean, sitting up and running a hand through his hair, and suddenly all his muscles seem to be working again, like Sam being an asshole is what powers them or something, and Dean has the sudden vision of anger (worry) crackling through his veins instead of blood and thinks that would explain a hell of a lot. "Do not drive the car, Sam, or I swear to God I'll come right down there and make you regret it."
Sam doesn't answer for a second, and Dean can hear from the sound of the engine that he hasn't pulled out yet. "So come," he says finally, and hangs up on Dean for the second time that day.
Dean runs through his entire inventory of curses, invents a couple of new ones, vaguely recalls from six months spent in Texas that chinga tu madre means something obscene in Spanish, and hauls ass outside to find out where the hell he is.
----
Turns out he's in the same town as Sam, which is weird because the witch lives six hours away, and also, he discovers when he passes a newstand, it's actually tomorrow. Or, you know, it's the day after he thought it was. Which makes himwonder what the hell he's been doing for the last twenty-four hours, but whatever it was, he's still got all the cash and condoms he had in his wallet when he left the witch's house, so it doesn't look like he missed out on anything fun. When he gets to the hospital parking lot, Sam's in the driver's seat of the Impala with his eyes shut, and Dean thinks he's asleep, wonders how to wake him up without getting anywhere near him, thinks about phoning him (Jesus Christ, phoning him, he's right there), and then Sam suddenly opens his eyes and starts getting out of the car.
Dean backs away hurriedly. He has no idea what the range of the curse is, but he can't forget the way Sam looked when he wasn't breathing, and he doesn't want to see that again ever. Sam clings onto the car door. He looks like shit, face pale and tight, like his skin's too thin and brittle. He eyes Dean and says, "You look like crap."
Dean laughs in amazement. "You ever try looking in a mirror? You're not exactly Brad Pitt yourself."
Sam sort of grins. "Well, shoot, guess I need to fire my stylist," he says.
Dean's about ready to grin back, but then Sam sways slightly and that's enough to wipe the smile right off his face. In fact, it's enough to rip it off his face, chop it into tiny pieces, and then jump on them, but, you know, Sam always did tend towards overkill.
Sam sighs. "So you gonna get in the car or what?"
Dean shakes his head slowly. "You know I can't."
Sam rolls his eyes. "Listen, doofus, my temperature's normal, I'm just a little tired, is all. Last time it took hours for it to get up to dangerous levels, so driving me to a damn motel isn't going to be a problem, OK?"
Dean chews his lip, because Sam's right, and he's not sure what other options they have right now. He needs to work it out, needs to find a solution to this, because now that he's back with Sam, he's pretty sure that just accepting their fate isn't going to do it for him (and it's not like he's really an accepting fate kinda guy, anyway, right?) But for right now, he needs to get Sam sitting down before he falls down. "OK," he says.
Sam grins in relief, and starts sliding into the passenger seat. "Hey," Dean calls (because he's still standing a good thirty feet away, and this is kind of weird, he feels like he's in a surrealist play or something). "In the back," he says as Sam looks up.
Sam scowls, but Dean's not having this argument. "You're lucky I'm not making you ride in the trunk," he says, or, you know, shouts, which kind of takes off some of the impact, but it's not like he's gonna win any prizes for that bit of banter anyway. He holds Sam's gaze, and finally Sam shrugs and clambers into the back seat.
----
The drive to the motel that Dean seems to have a room at is only about ten minutes, and Sam seems fine, or at least no worse than he did when Dean arrived, but it doesn't stop Dean's stomach twisting like he's eaten something he really shouldn't have (like, you know, shrimp. Dean fucking hates shrimp). When they get there, he's out of the car practically before the engine's shut off, and back to the whole thirty feet thing. Sam's slower, but he makes it OK and stands, leaning against the Impala. Dean tosses him the room key, and Sam makes a grab for it and overbalances, almost falls, and Dean's darting forward to catch him before he can think, pulls himself up short so fast he's surprised his boots don't leave skid marks on the asphalt. Sam rights himself, takes a long look at Dean, and just before Dean's about to start backing away, he lunges forward and grabs Dean's wrist.
"Shit!" says Dean, trying to drag Sam's hand off him. "What the hell, Jesus!"
"Did you actually listen to what Joshua said?" Sam asks, and his fingers are like fucking steel, which is so unfair because Sam's supposed to be sick dammit and Dean's always been really kind of pissed off by the way Sam can just lock those freakishly long fingers round anything and not let go.
"Get off me," Dean says, and he wants to push on Sam's chest, try and push him away, but that would be even more contact so he settles for twisting his wrist, trying to wrench it out of Sam's grip.
"No," says Sam. "Not until you tell me that you listened."
Oh, that's it, Dean's good and pissed now. "Of course I freakin listened, Sam!" he yells. "I listened right up to the point where he said I'd have to fucking kill you, and then, you know, I figured I'd heard that one before."
"Jesus," Sam says, running his hand over his face. "You didn't think you should maybe listen to the rest of it?"
Dean's going to punch Sam, and it's going to serve him the hell right for being a goddamn asshole, and is it Dean's imagination or is Sam starting to breathe faster? Dean closes his eyes against the memory of Sam gasping and crying in the freezing water and twists his wrist as hard as he can. "If you don't get the fuck off me..." he starts, and Sam spins himround suddenly so his back is against the car and Sam's got his other hand on Dean's shoulder and fuck, his hand is warm, is it warmer than it should be?
"No, you listen," says Sam. "And don't interrupt because the longer I have to talk for, the longer I'm going to be this close to you."
Dean opens his eyes, and he doesn't think he's ever been this pissed at Sam before, but Sam doesn't flinch back, he just stands there, face mutinous. "You don't get to decide everything," he says, and Dean shakes his head.
"Just fucking say what you've got to say," he says.
Sam looks unsure for just a second, then tightens his grip on Dean's wrist. "Joshua says it's not just the fever that's dangerous, that there's a build-up of mystical energy--" he pauses as Dean snorts (because no matter how many times he hears it, mystical energy still makes him think of people who bathe in patchouli oil and talk about auras), but Dean doesn't interrupt so Sam carries on. "Anyway, the only way to break the spell is to bring it to its natural conclusion... To kill me," he says the last part fast, like he's hoping Dean won't notice, and carries straight on. "But if the mystical energy does the job before the fever, then my body won't be damaged, and all you need to do is resuscitate me and I'll be OK," he gabbles, like he's been practising.
Dean's pretty much speechless, because OK, it's not the first time someone's asked him to kill Sam (hell, it's not even the first time Sam's asked him to kill Sam), and he's getting pretty sick of it as it is, but this, this is just too much. "You done?" he says, moving to try and push Sam away, but Sam shakes his head.
"No, look," he says, "normally the fever's the most dangerous thing, anything over one-oh-seven-point-six for too long and it can cause organ damage--" and there's that phrase again, and Dean's pretty sure he's either going to be throwing up or throwing a punch any goddamn minute "--but if we can get to an area of mystical convergence, the energy will build up way faster until it overloads, and then it'll dissipate once the spell's broken. Dean," he says, and Dean realises he's not even paying attention any more, he's still on the organ damage and resuscitation and all of the things that could go wrong and all of the things that have already gone wrong and the fact that Sam's the only thing he's got left and he can never be near him again, that he's standing right here with Sam closer than he'll probably ever get again and all he can think about is how to get away.
Sam's face softens. "Look, man, I know it's scary. It's a risk. But you're my brother, OK? I'm not leaving you. And I'm not letting you leave me."
It hurts, like Sam's just ripped the skin off the inside of Dean's throat. Letting you leave me. Dean needs to make sure Sam doesn't die, he needs to save Sam, and Sam's going to think of it as Dean leaving him? "Fuck you," he croaks, and pushes Sam away, and Sam lets go this time, staggers back (oh Jesus, he's sweating), and Dean's moving as fast as he can, not looking back.
Half an hour later, his cell rings, and it's Sam, of course.
"I booked you another room," he says, and he sounds exhausted, and Dean can't help but think it serves him goddamn right. "It's at the other end of the motel from mine, should be OK."
Dean grunts, but he's already on his feet and heading back to the motel, which fucking sucks, stupid goddamn body. "We're not doing this, Sam," he says.
"Whatever," says Sam, and Dean knows he hasn't given up. "If I wake up and you've bailed on me, I'm hunting you down and hugging you."
Dean feels the corners of his mouth twitch (stupid goddamn mouth), and says "No, please, anything but that." And it's weird, because the threat is serious, given their situation, and he still has no idea how to fix it, has no idea what he's going to do with the rest of his life if it's unfixable, but somehow, with Sam awake and ready to back him up (even if it is from way, way back), the whole thing doesn't seem quite so hopeless. He doesn't even remember where he was this morning, what he was doing, and OK, he doesn't really know what he's doing now, but he knows what he is. He's a brother, and he's not letting some goddamn extra from The Craft take that away from him without a fight.