Author:Mirrordance
Title: Home Road
Summary:The brothers were so different sometimes.Dean after Sam died was lethal silence and a sense of suicide-Let the world end.Leave me alone.That loudly unspoken I wish I was dead.Sam was different.He had murder in his eyes.Post-3.16 and Sam finds a way.
" " "
Home Road
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9
" " "
Hell
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"I want to stay a bit," Bela said, pausing by the mouth of the cave just as the three odd-ball companions were setting out. She looked contemplative, making Ruby's eyes widen to saucers in irritation and Dean, having had a long history of Bela Talbot at her most resourceful, feel a little nervous.
"What?" Dean asked.
Bela shrugged, "Well you didn't want me around to begin with, did you?"
"Now I do," snapped Ruby, "What's going on in that head of yours?"
Bela jerked her thumb in the direction of the Watcher's cave. "There are things I want to know, and he owns objects that interest me."
"A word to the wise, Abby," Dean asked, wryly, trying to mask his unease, "He probably already knows you have sticky fingers so... it might not be so wise going up there to steal something."
"I'm not--"
"Dean, I'm not letting her out of my sight!" Ruby snapped.
"What could I possibly do?" Bela retorted, "Besides, I can plant myself here and you absolutely would not be able to do anything to make me come short of dragging or carrying me, and therefore bothering yourselves infinitely more. I am staying."
Dean's eyes narrowed at Bela's face in suspicion, "What are you up to?"
"Nothing--"
"It's never nothing," Dean pointed out.
"There are things I want to know," Bela said, "Isn't that enough? You're not the only one with questions." She turned to Ruby, "You don't want me out of your sight? Then wait two minutes. But since I'm here, there are things I want to know."
"Why don't I just break your face and drag you out?" Ruby murmured, coolly threateningly.
"I'm staying," Bela said, definitively, walking back into the cave.
Dean watched her walk away for a long moment, before glancing at Ruby.
"She's up to something," Ruby said, "I'm not comfortable staying in one place too long. We apparently can't get out of hell, but if we can keep hiding from the worst of it, I'd rather be running around."
"Maybe we--" Dean was saying, before he was, again, assaulted by the vision of his father burning in hell.
" " "
There was always something devastating about watching a parent cry.
Parents... these are the guys who got your back. They're the safety net. The absolute final wall that stood between you and the sucky world. If you see your folks cry, it just brings you to your knees with the realization that you must be royally fucked now. If they're crying, it must mean that the lot of you are in a shitload of trouble.
Dean doesn't see his father cry at least, not a lot. Though he must cry, because god knew sometimes the situations they ended up in could tear a man apart. Maybe that was why he went off on his own a lot. Mom's birthday. His wedding anniversary. Christmas. Her death anniversary. Dean was more than relieved he didn't have to see his father on those days, it really would have hurt like a bitch to watch him cry. John Winchester probably knew that too; he was Dean's rock, and on those Mary-days, he could barely stand on his own much less be strong enough to hold up his sons too. So he'd walk out awhile, come home slightly inebriated to a new day, a new hunt. And then the years rolled on.
The only time Dean could remember his father crying in recent memory was their last conversation together. There hadn't been much of a mention of his mom, that time. John's spiel had been all about Dean, and what he had done for their family. Dean was both suffused and shit-scared. Recovering in the hospital, he didn't understand, until that very moment he saw his father's tears fall, how close he had come to dying. Sam had said a reaper was after him but his dad's tears, that was the real clincher. John had only ever cried for Mary, and now Dean too.
His father's tears molded his world. They told him when things were rough, the same way his father's crinkly, quietly laughing eyes told him when things were going to be okay.
Dean had the same power over Sam. Even when his perceptive kid-brother could see through his mask and his lies, San still always found some semblance of comfort in them. He wasn't sure how he maintained his credibility with Sammy all these years but there it was... right down to a few hours before dying and singing Bon Jovi, Sam found that things could be okay, as long as Dean said so.
Sam, though, he held that power over no one. For all his smarts and toughness and wondrous psychic self, he was still Dean's baby brother through and through: open face, earnest eyes, unapologetic tears. He screamed when he was angry, cried when he was sad.
Brat, Dean had always thought, fondly.
He admired and loved openly too, so Dean figured he at least had some of the good along with the bad.
The last time he saw Sam cry was before he died.
What am I supposed to do...? Sam had asked, and his eyes were going to drown the world. It wrenched at Dean's heart, making his own eyes swell with tears.
I'm proud of you, he had thought.
Keep fighting.
I know you can...
In afterthought, that kinda felt like dad, saying goodbye to Dean. This family must really be cursed.
Vaguely, he wondered if, when Sam had been dying in his arms, if there was a part of his brother that had known Dean was crying for him.
Sam!
If he had known, would he have come back, fought harder?
Tears molded other people's worlds, he'd been thinking that. He started thinking about that because his father was crying and screaming in hell. Crying and screaming. In hell.
None of this is real, Dean tried to tell himself, Or it was but it's all done now. Dad went to the fricking light. Off to a nice party somewhere with lots of sun...
None of this is real anymore...
So why does it still hurt like a bitch?
The play went on, and on, and on...
His father's tears in streaks and rivulets and stagnant buttons over clouded, sightless eyes. Tears down the cheeks, tears drying on his shirt. Tears mixing with sweat, tears lost in blood. Tears over his mouth, sliding to his ears, around his nose. Tears everywhere. Hemorrhaging. Not running out, just running through and through, as if the ocean was getting squeezed out of dad. Sweat and tears, the only water in hell.
He watched his father burn, and they screamed and cried together.
They screamed and cried together so much that, at some point, Dean randomly reflected that the voices had become one.
I am you, he thought, replacing his father's image with his own.
Finding a strange comfort in that.
It should have been me, he thought, All this time it should have been me instead of you.
And then John Winchester was gone, and Dean burned and screamed and cried alone.
" " "
Indiana
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Fistful of pills, and no lost guts or lost stomach this time. He seldom ever did things halfway, after all. He had picked up a bottle of rum and chugged half. And then had the glorious marble bath tub (god, Dean was right, these suburban houses were hooked up...) filled up with nice cold water, just enough to fall asleep and drown in.
He removed his jacket and his polo, trailed it with his undershirt as he kicked off his shoes and tore off his socks. There was still a level of shyness that prompted him to keep on the boxers. If he knew what he knew of his very capable friends, people will be happily barging in here to save his life, after all.
He was beginning to feel... loopy.
He wondered if he was scared, somewhere beneath the distracting process of his body failing and his raw determination to do this and his utter desperation to save his brother (that was a lot to have to feel... would he have any room?). The last time he died, he couldn't remember a thing.
The room was... dancing. Not spin, no, just a lethargic kind of revolution. Dying... this part he sort of remembered. How life narrowed down to you, spinning slowly inward, like a narrowing tunnel of shrinking light. There wasn't anything in the world but you, and you were running out...
He stumbled toward the tub, let himself sink to his rump as he stretched out beneath the water, leaned back, and... just... waited.
" " "
Hell
" " "
Dean thought he may have come upon a brilliant solution to his problems.
It hurt, but not quite as bad, seeing himself suffering in his father's place, owning his misfortune. Screaming and crying in hell alone still felt vastly less painful than watching the same thing happen to his father.
He thought about it a step further... when the visions of Sammy dying come along, he could do the same thing. Cold Oak would be Dean stabbed in the back, and Sam screaming for him to look out. It would hurt far, far less painful to die like that than to hold your baby brother in your arms as he faded away.
Come to think of it... maybe he should have been the one burning on the ceiling too, instead of mom. Him, right from the very beginning. He'll take it, he'll take it all. It would be better. Better than walking around half-dead because everyone else was full-dead. Maybe that was his place, to take their place. Because there was no other room for him. Mom died on the ceiling, Dad died on the floor, and Sam died on his knees somewhere in between. Where was Dean supposed to go?
I'll take it, I'll take it all...
He wondered at life's alternate realities.
If he had died in the fire instead of his mother, would his father feel the same level of obsession to find his killer? He tried to imagine his mom and dad and Sam hunting together. His mom could rock a leather jacket too, he bet, looking angstier and blonder and cooler, driving the Impala while her husband drove the truck. Sammy shuttling in between, depending on his mood. Or maybe the three of them would just... re-build the house and go on with their lives? Visiting his grave once a year? Mostly forget about him?
If he had died in that hospital instead of his father, would John and Sam Winchester have carried on the fight together? The Impala would have been left to scrap and sold for parts. Sam and John would work together for a little while, avenging Mary, Jess and the freshest dead inspiration of the bunch, Dean himself. He suspected the two driven Winchesters would have succeeded sooner, hunting the yellow-eyed-demon down. God knows they held absolutely nothing back. But the sooner the job is done, the sooner they'd part, simply because they were just so different sometimes...
If he had died in Cold Oak instead of his brother... god, Cold Oak. He abhorred that place to an unimaginable level. He wished it were him instead, him dying on his knees, instead of Sam. But then again... if he had died, Sam would have sold his soul to save him too, right? Which would put Sam in hell shortly after. So scratch that. Dean wanted to be the one dying on his knees. He also wanted to be the one crying. Just as he wanted to be the one making the demon deal, and the one burning in hell.
He wanted to be the one burning on the ceiling and the one grieving it. He wanted to be the one dying in the hospital and the one screaming, finding the body. He wanted to be the one dying on his knees in stupid middle-of-nowhere, just as he wanted to be the one who sold his soul and went to hell.
It hurt infinitely less, if it were all him.
I'll take it, I'll take it all...
" " "
Sam opened his eyes to a dull-orange-lit hall made of rough, red-brown rock in the few spots he could see the make, from beneath row after row after row of a long length of knickknacks.
Did I miss something?, he wondered, running his hands along the nearest row, and frowning at the sight of something very, very misplaced.
Frayed, bloodied, black leather strap, holding an all-too-familiar dull-gold amulet. He reached for it blindly, knocking back a few of the other strange pieces in the display. Two horns, spiral engraving, prominent nose, coffee-bean eyes, elongated, sagging ears, pouting mouth. He gripped it tightly, knew precisely what it was and that it was not supposed to be here, without the man who owned it...
"Dean?!" he called out, his heart thumping in his chest as his voice carried down the impossibly long hallway, "Dean!"
He pursed his lips, just listening. If his brother was hurt, or hidden somewhere, he had to be quiet. But god, he wanted to scream. He wanted to scream and tear this place down.
This place...
Hell, he remembered. Right. Because that's where a guy like him might go if his last memory before waking was of a fistful of pills and a bottle of rum and a freezing, full-bath and a nap that will take him to forever, mind drowned in drugs and head underwater.
He bit his lip, tried to think.
This was, for very obvious reasons, unsafe territory. If he wanted to help his brother, he had to keep from making his presence known; i.e., he had to shut his trap, even if he wanted to tear the goddamn place down and scream his brother's name at every turn.
He stood stock-still, straining his ears, waiting for a breeze, any sign at all that there was something beyond the maze of junk. The spot where he stood was dimly lit overhead by a dying candle inside an old glass lamp. Its radius was small; a few feet to his left and there was already inky blackness, and the same went for his right side, except, to the right, the blackness was broken a good few feet down by another lamp with a small glowing radius of light.
Toward the dark, toward the light? The answer was theoretically obvious except, Sam thought, if he owned this place, he would be lighting up the deeper parts of the maze that was further from natural light sources, not the ones nearer the outside world.
He stepped toward the inky blackness, tentatively at first, and then with more resolve. He walked and groped in the dark, Dean's necklace wound in a randomly complex knot in his right fist.
The light vanished behind him completely and for a panicked moment, he began to berate himself over his choice. Sometimes, a light was just a light, right? Why did he have to assign his own logic to whoever owned this place anyway? He was obviously a psycho. What if he was going deeper and deeper and deeper to nowhere?
He gripped Dean's necklace tighter, and walked some more.
He wasn't sure how long it took for the pitch black to soften to a a kind of dark, heavy gray. Or was this him imagining things?
No, he decided, when the gray softened to a mild purple. Then to a sick brown. A dull orange. There was a light at the end of the tunnel and there really was. He was considering a feeling of slight triumph, when he heard the voices.
"We have an accord then, Lucian," a familiarly accented voice was saying.
In the name of god and all that is holy, of all the places in the world and beyond it, did he really have to run into Bela Talbot here?
"Bela, Bela, Bela," someone tsked, voice calm and even, "Most people come in here asking questions, not bartering for things. You have a quick eye, spotting that talking board. And a quick mind, deciding to sell out your companions."
"Seems only fair, doesn't it?" she asked, "Apparently, I am a mercenary. The same thing that got me in here is the same thing that's gonna get me out."
"Nothing in life," said the person with whom she was speaking with, "Is ever fair. You know that. Why you would expect otherwise is a wonder to me. You know... if I were you... and I had a chance to be here with me, I would be asking something else entirely."
"What's that?" came the impatient and slightly nervous retort, "Or are you to demand something in return for this also?"
"This one is free," the man replied, "I would ask The Watcher, 'Will I regret what I am about to do?'"
"Will I?"
"Now that," chuckled the man, "You have to pay for."
"Wily bastard," she said, under her breath, "They should be here soon, ya?"
"There is no prize more coveted than Sam Winchester's brother, after all," the man said, making Sam step out of the shadows.
The man – a middle-aged looking fellow with crooked teeth, glasses and a rumpled suit – was facing Sam's direction, and had a knowing smile on his face. Bela's back was to Sam.
"What are you smiling about?" Bela asked, turning in Sam's direction. Her eyes widened at the sight of him. "Sam--"
He ignored her, as he looked beyond the two of them at the mouth of the cave. He didn't understand what was happening here. He didn't know who the goofy man was or what Bela was doing with him. He had stepped out of the darkness upon hearing his name and the reference to his brother, not really expecting to see Dean himself, sprawled on the ground just outside, and the familiar form of Ruby hovering over him.
"Get the hell away from him!" Sam exclaimed, shooting forward, pushing past Bela, wanting to push Ruby away too and, strangely enough, even before he could take two steps toward Dean, he watched Ruby's body being tossed away from his brother by an invisible force. He might have wondered if the power had come from him except he slid to his knees next to his brother and could think of nothing else.
"Oh god," he breathed, taking in the sight of Dean before him – beaten and bloodied, sweating, eyes shut tight and tears leaking. His body was just taut, tight like a wire stretched to its limit. His jaws and fists were clenched, his body jerking randomly and violently, his mouth making pinched, growling noises, his breaths coming in and out short and fast and inadequate.
"What have you done with him?" he asked, looking up at a stunned Ruby darkly. She was on her ass on the floor, just trying to make her way up to a sitting position.
"Nothing," she snapped, "I was trying to help him, you dumb-ass."
"Oh god," he murmured, hands hovering over his brother's body, shifting, jerking, not knowing where to go, "Oh, god..." He decided on grabbing Dean by the shoulders and pressing him close in an embrace. He buried his face in his brother's neck.
Ruby gathered her feet with a wince and walked warily toward the brothers.
"He gets visions," she explained, quietly, "This is hell, it's the place of your nightmares. He'll pull himself out..." she hesitated, "Eventually." She glanced up at Bela and the Watcher, who also moved toward Sam.
"Stop," Sam told them all, voice ragged. God, he didn't know what to do right now. Dean in his arms, that was the plan, that was the plan but that was also all that there was to the plan. He didn't even know if any of this was real or imagined, he didn't know what Dean was doing walking around hell with Ruby and Bela and this other character.
"Step back," Sam said, gravely, raising up a hand. Ruby was going to ignore it, but she stopped mid-step, and held up her hand in wonder at an invisible barrier that was raised between her and the Winchesters.
"Sam..." she said tentatively, tilting her head at him, "Look at what--"
"Shut up," he said, tightening his grip around his brother, trying to think, "Wake up, Dean. Wake up, damn it."
" " "
Indiana
" " "
Missouri stood at the landing of the steps, looking up at the stairwell thoughtfully.
"The boy sure likes his bath," she murmured to Bobby beside her.
"Probably picked it up from Dean," Bobby said, gruffly, "Kid was like a fish. Couldn't stay in there long enough. Not something he picked up from John, that's for certain sure."
Missouri smiled a little. "Those boys."
"Yeah," Bobby grimaced, "You ah... what do you make of all this, huh?"
"Any man has the right to push the limit for his brother," she replied, tentatively.
Bobby shrugged. "These two keep pushing and pushing huh? Something's gonna push back. Then something's gonna give."
"But you can't just stop," she pointed out.
"No," Bobby agreed with a wince, "I guess not." He made for the first step up the stairwell, "I guess I'd best knock on that door and see what he's thought of, huh?"
Missouri's eyes narrowed, thoughtfully, "Give him a minute more."
"Huh?" Bobby asked, brows rising, before just shrugging in agreement, "I guess I could. Probably the first taste of hot water he's had in awhile. His idiot brother's usually a hog."
" " "
Hell
" " "
Dean's body arched from the ground, and mouth opened in a primal cry, as he returned once again to his slightly-more-bearable hell.
"God," he gasped, struggling to catch his breath. For a long moment he lay in that reclaimed shell, breathing, trying to get a grip, trying to find the guts to open his eyes.
"It's okay, it's okay, I'm here..."
And his eyes snapped open with the realization that he was being held, and that the damn voice belonged to the person whom he least and most wanted to see here.
Sam...
SAM?!
His mouth formed breathless, wordless words. Just a grunts, really, as he jerked away from the arms that held him in a desperate, vice-like grip. The arms refused to yield, and he cried out again, desperate for release from this non-Sam Sam, because for hell to give him a vision of his brother meant only that they would soon take him away; make Dean relive Cold Oak, or make him hope he was saved before they take the illusion away. But these damn bastards won't play him, no.
No.
The arms gave way, his brother looking hurt and confused, exactly the way the real Sam would, as Dean dragged his ass and scurried toward the now-weirdly assuring figure of Ruby. 'Sam''s head shot up to the demon's in accusation.
"I know, ironic, right?" she told him, dryly.
"He's not here," Dean whispered, staring at his brother's form, and pointing, making him look and sound painfully young. He moved away, and his back touched Sam's most recently acquired talent, the invisible barrier that protected him and his brother from Ruby, Bela and the Watcher.
"Take this down, Sammy," Ruby told him, mildly, fingering the barrier playfully.
"It's Sam," Sam told her automatically and distractedly, though with a flash of realization in his eyes. Only people who had considerable exposure to his yapping brother slipped to call him that so casually.
The barrier fell, along with some of Sam's resolve and Ruby stepped toward Dean and crouched beside him.
"If he's not real, Winchester," she said, "Then we're both dreaming."
He looked at her with wide eyes, gulping, disbelieving, not wanting to hope, fearing to be wrong.
"Besides," she said, "What would it hurt, huh? You got anything better to do than give him a few minutes?"
"He's gonna die," Dean rasped, licking his lips, "He's gonna die in front of me. He's gonna die in front of me."
"Not today, bro," Sam said, earnestly, "I promise. Not today."
Dean stared at him, inched back when Sam made a move forward. "Stay back. Just... please. I... I just... lemme think."
"Are you getting him out?" Bela asked, shifting uneasily from leg to leg, "Did you find a way to get him out?"
All eyes turned Sam's way, expectantly. It was Dean's wounded, searching and still painfully uncertain gaze that he held.
"I'm sorry, Dean," he said, softly, "I don't know how to save you. I saved your body. If you get out of here, you'll have something to come back to. But I don't know how--"
"How did you get here?" Ruby asked him.
Sam bit his lip, glanced Dean's way nervously.
Now Dean knew this was his brother, through and through. He took a deep, shaky breath, wanting to be stronger, wanting to be tougher, wanting to return to the man his brother knew, not this ridiculous, shit-scared character.
"Aw, Sammy," he groaned, "What the hell did you do?"
Even in hell and with all his power and the weight of the last few days, Sam's instinct was to react the way a kid brother would, knowing he had done something very, very bad and was about to get ragged on.
"What was I supposed to do?" he snapped, "No one knew where your stupid ass was! Escaping to hell, what were you thinking, huh, I should be pissed at you."
"What did you do?" Dean asked, voice dangerously low as he struggled to his feet and stalked toward his brother angrily.
"Pills," Sam muttered, "Rum. Bath tub. I knew I could find you--"
"Oh for god's--"
"Bobby's covering me," Sam said, hastily, "I swear."
Dean's eyes narrowed in suspicion, "He'd never go for it," he growled.
"He'd have to when he finds me," Sam offered, lamely, wincing.
"I'm gonna kill you," Dean declared, squatting in front of his brother, eyes searching, "Sam... how long we gonna do this, huh?"
"What do you mean?"
"You dying, me following," Dean said, lowering his voice, "Me dying, you following? We wanna go at the same time, 's that it? We're not fricking siam-con-conjoined twins, huh?"
Sam smiled a little, catching Dean's self-correction, as Sam had corrected him not too long ago.
"I know that," Sam said, mildly, "I understand that. But this is different. This is hell, bro. I am not letting you rot here. I promised."
"I don't expect you to--"
"You do," Sam told him, boldly, adding more quietly, "You should. I want you to."
"Sam," Dean said, eyes softening, voice strained, as he reached for his brother's neck, clutching at his collar. "Sam..."
What am I gonna do with you?
What am I gonna do without you?
"I'm fighting for you up there, bro," Sam said, "You just gotta keep fighting down here too."
"There's a way you can save him," Ruby said.
"Shut up," Dean muttered at her. She ignored him and stepped toward Sam.
"How?" Sam asked.
"Shut up," Dean said again, more insistently now. He rose to his feet and grabbed her by the arm.
"Let her say it and then get out of here," Bela said abruptly.
"What?" Dean asked.
"What the hell did you do?!" Ruby asked, incredulously.
"Just tell him and then go," Bela said again, her eyes taking on panic. The Watcher was living by his name, just watching things unfold with an appreciative glint in his eyes, devouring the situation.
"Colt's gate was made—" Ruby began.
"Ruby--" Dean growled.
"You think this is gonna be worse than your brother committing fucking suicide to try to find you?" Ruby snapped, "Colt's gate was made with a spell and the blood of a being part-man and part-demon. If you make another gate, you can go through it and pull Dean out, and seal it before anything else gets out. Since it's a new gate, no one else is gonna know about it, everyone's piled high on Colt's gate. If you're careful, nothing else will get out."
"What spell?" Sam asked, urgently.
"I won't let you--" Dean said, but he was being ignored by the fucking demon in-crowd, apparently.
"I don't know," Ruby said, "But he will," she jerked her thumb at the Watcher.
"No time," Bela insisted, "They're coming--"
And then the world around them felt as if it just exploded.
" " "
Indiana
" " "
"Sam?" Bobby knocked on the bathroom door, and pressed his ears against it to listen for a response. The water was running, and he could hear it overflowing and sloshing a little. Even the floor near his feet was getting wet.
"Sam," he called, knocking more insistently, "Get the goddamn water out yer ears and open this door."
His blood started to run cold.
Mind knocking on my door if I take too long? I lose track of time in there...
Promise...
You stupid idiot, Bobby thought, unsure if he meant Sam or himself, You crazy son-of-a-gun. I thought you were supposed to be the smartest one of the stupid idiot, pit-loving Winchester clan--
"You'd better have some clothes on, boy," Bobby muttered under his breath, as he kicked the door open.
To be continued...
