Author's Note : Season Four is near... I guess that means that this is technically AU.
It also means the pressure is on! I really don't want it to be influenced by the new season's storyline so I've been pushing myself the past week or so. I haven't been updating, but I've been writing, and I have up to chapter 16 written out, with a general plan for the rest.
I hope you're all still interested, because being ahead in chapters and having new Supernatural will no doubt mean faster updates. So thank you for all the wonderful reviews, and as always, enjoy!
--
The fear that gripped him was overwhelming; he had no other word for it. It seeped out from underneath his skin, invisible, but very much real. The air was heavy with the stink of it, and he almost gagged as he breathed in, tasting it in the back of his throat.
He'd had the brief, almost comforting thought that things might be easier now.
The true face of a demon was enough to stop a human heart. Didn't happen often, because demons needed a host, and even when it did they usually weren't alive long enough to even contemplate what they'd seen. Some people got away, but you couldn't really call them lucky to have survived. Some of them went insane. Those who didn't would spend the rest of their lives labeled crazy and trying to convince the world they weren't.
He'd spent the past four years - forever - with the gloves off, so to speak, and he still might never be able to look upon it without his heart skipping a beat. But wasn't that something, at least? To be able to see?
It should mean less uncertainty. It would be even, now. Boom, instant demon detection. No more hiding, assholes, I can see you.
Instead, he found himself wondering why. Why could he still see them?
"We can see you, too..."
The voice whispered to him from the darkness as he sat there on the floor, too afraid to turn on the lights.
Spiders crawled the length of his spine, and he shuddered, swiping with too-short fingers, unable to get the sensation to stop. With a whimper he backed into the cool tile behind him, pressing hard enough that every bone felt the spark of pain.
He hadn't thought there was any fight left in him; that had been beaten out of him years ago. Fear paralyzed him at first, and he'd known that was it, but when Sam hit the ground, it all came rushing back. The only thing he'd ever really known was to keep Sam safe.
It was a knee-jerk reaction, an instinct driven attack that he could barely remember now. He drew his knees to his chest and whimpered, shoving his fist into his mouth and biting down as he tried to muffle the cries. He was curled up in the dark bathroom, not wanting to wake Sammy up, wanting him to wake up more than anything.
Sam had eyed him oddly the whole way home, barely able to drive, but somehow having the presence of mind to put away the milk before he collapsed on the bed.
The last thing he'd said before passing out was, "What did they to you, Dean? What the hell did they do?"
He chewed on his knuckle, trying to stop the strangled sounds he was making and thought maybe he should have let the demon kill him. He'd gotten the jump on Sam because Sam hadn't seen, and he'd had no choice, it was hard wired in his brain to protect his brother no matter what.
He knew he wouldn't have fought if it hadn't been for Sam.
He pulled his fist from his mouth and chewed on his lip.
If it weren't for Sam, he wouldn't be in this situation in the first place but didn't have it in him to resent his brother. He couldn't regret his decision.
It was easy to reason why Sam should live on and he should not. No matter the plans someone might have and the moments he slid too close to the darkness, his brother was good, his brother was kind, his brother deserved to live. Sam's life had been stolen, ripped away before his time. Dean? He should have been dead three times over. It was like restoring a balance.
But as he huddled in the bathroom, he couldn't think about Sam anymore, or the need to protect him. He hadn't checked for signs of a concussion, hadn't woken him up every few hours and bugged him with questions about the date and origin of his injury. He'd checked the salt lines and hidden, was still hiding, wanting only to wake his brother up so Sam could tell him it was all right.
The phantom pain in his chest was sharp and sudden, almost enough to convince him it was real. He gasped, a sharp inhalation that echoed off the tile, and dug the heel of his hand into his chest.
Breathe...
He shivered and wondered if he'd ever be warm again.
--
Sam awoke with a pounding headache, and a taste in his mouth that make him think he'd swallowed a sock. He cracked his eyes open and immediately closed them again when the sunlight proved to be too bright. With a groan, he turned over in bed, regretting it when the movement made the pounding in his head intensify. He tried opened his eyes to slits this time, and tested his reaction. At least the sunlight wasn't so bad anymore, now that it was warming his back and not his retinas.
With another groan he stretched experimentally, finding the rest of his body in much better condition. He ran a hand through his hair to work away at the tangles and thought back.
The moment it hit him he shot up in bed. "Dean?"
He was up and out of bed in seconds, fighting the sway of the room, and heading for the bathroom before he even knew he was doing it. Relief washed over him when he saw Dean looking up from the spot he'd taken up on the floor.
"Man, you gotta start sleeping on the bed," he muttered, despite his doubts that Dean had actually slept.
He yawned again and wondered what to deal with first - Dean's sleeping habits, or the events of the previous night? He stared down at the salt line and decided his bladder and desire for a hot showed won out over either.
He jerked his thumb in the direction of the room. Dean took his signal willingly, climbing to his feet and padding softly from the bathroom.
Sam joined him long enough to grab a change of clothes and his toiletries from his duffle.
"I'm gonna get a shower, okay?" he asked, pausing to grab a bottle of aspirin.
Dean nodded, looking to the side and chewing on his lip.
Still too sleepy and his head too fuzzed to read into the look on his brother's face, Sam headed to the bathroom.
This time around he was pretty confident Dean wasn't going to run off, so he took his time, letting the shower beat down on his back. It did little to alleviate the kinks stress had formed in his muscles, but it felt good, so he stayed there after the cheap soap had swirled down the drain.
Wrapped in a towel, he found he was too much of a worrier not to crack the door while he shaved and brushed his teeth. Dean might not be up for conversation, but that didn't stop him from making small talk in between mouthfuls of toothpaste.
When he rubbed steam from the mirror and found the dull bruising at his temple, he shrugged it off. It wasn't so bad, he decided. And he'd definitely had worse. It was amazing what a shower, shave, and some crappy painkillers could do for your mood.
He dressed and hung the towel to dry before leaving the quiet bathroom, squaring his shoulders in preparation.
Time to face the day.
Dean was sitting on his bed, picking a hole in the knee of his new jeans. Sam furrowed his brow. Unbidden, his father's voice came to mind, and he remembered Dean's penchant for ruining new jeans within the first week of wear. He smiled fondly at the memory and crossed the distance to his own bed, dumping his toiletry bag on the floor by his duffle as he went.
"So," he said, sitting lightly on the disheveled sheets, "I know you're not crazy about it, but how about we get you some breakfast?"
Despite his purposefully easy tone, Dean tensed up and gave Sam a pleading look.
Sam forced himself to stay stern, "And after that, I think you need to try to sleep."
The pleading face flashed something that might have been incredulity. Sam wasn't surprised - he might as well have told his grown brother he was spoon feeding him and sending him off to nap-time whether he liked it or not.
He half wanted Dean to snap at him and say he was not a two year old, he could make his own breakfast, and he did not need a nap. To complete it perfectly, Dean could huff and hold his arms, looking every bit like a petulant child.
But Dean's sigh was only resigned as he slumped forward, still worrying the frayed edge of the hole he was working on.
Sam felt bad, and had to fight not to wrinkle his nose as he made his brother a peanut butter sandwich. It would be easy on Dean's stomach, but Sam could barely stomach the thought. Peanut butter didn't need refrigerated, and bread didn't have a chance to mold with three people eating it at every meal, so they'd relied on generic Jif a lot as kids. Just the sight of one of those industrial sized jars was enough to make his stomach turn even now.
He debated something else to go along with the sandwich, remembering his brother's voracious appetite, but he knew he was pressing his luck as it was. In the end he handed it to Dean on a napkin.
Dean immediately set to picking at the crust and steadfastly ignoring it otherwise.
"Could you just...try?" Sam asked hopefully. "Or do you want something else?"
He frowned, thinking he should have picked up some Ensure or something. Even those Jenny Craig things had nutrition in them, and if Dean's stomach was bothering him this much, he probably didn't need anything solid.
In reply Dean gingerly raised the sandwich to his mouth and took a small bite, chewing slowly.
He'd remembered to pick up Gatorade, so he grabbed a cheap plastic cup from the sink and ripped the cellophane off. He didn't remember which was Dean's favorite flavor, but he knew what to avoid - another throwback to the past. A bad stomach flu had laid Dean up for days, unable to shake it. He'd guzzled Gatorade by the gallon in Dad's desperate attempt to ward off dehydration and as a result he refused to touch anything grape flavored ever again.
He handed the cup of blue liquid over, and Dean abandoned the sandwich to greedily slurp the contents down, wincing as he swallowed but looking to Sam for more.
"Finish the sandwich and you can have more," Sam said, feeling guilty as soon as Dean's face fell. "Okay... half."
Dean must have found the compromise acceptable, because he went back to the sandwich, eating at the slowest pace Sam had ever seen.
He fought back as sigh and went to pour another glass, watching from the corner of his eye as Dean took another bite. He took his time pouring the drink, and two more bites were swallowed by the time he finished.
Half the sandwich was gone, but Dean's eyes were pleading. The tight clench of his jaw and frequent swallowing were all he needed to know that even now it was barely staying down.
"Small sips," he instructed, handing over the plastic cup. "Slowly."
Dean complied miserably, and Sam had heart enough to pluck the half-eaten remains from his knee and toss it in the trash. A waste of food, maybe, but he hoped 'out of sight and out of mind' would equal 'still in stomach'.
It wasn't as if he was really hurting for cash anyway. He was finally to the point that he didn't have to rely on the false credit cards as much. Not that he really cared about that anymore. His priorities had changed when his brother sold his soul. What was a little fraud with that on your conscience, after all? Getting odd jobs here and there was tough, and never paid much, but it still felt good to earn money the right way when he could. And while he was never as good at hustling as Dean had been, but he could get by when he needed to.
He wondered what Dean would think if he knew his goody goody little brother had voluntarily resorted to less than honorable means to get money. Cash advances on credit cards, some gambling if he could risk it. It wasn't like he was asking for donations for a little blind boy and then spending the money on booze. Someone had to do the job, and it meant he couldn't always earn an honest living.
He couldn't very well hold a steady job with all the moving around he did. Inevitably he'd end up coming to work looking like a zombie with blood on his shirt and a pistol still tucked in his jeans. Something told him that wouldn't go over well.
He'd just have to stick to what he'd been doing - what he could when he could and biting the bullet when he couldn't.
Sam shook the momentary guilt and took the now empty cup from Dean's shaking hand. "Stomach okay?"
Dean gave a noncommittal shrug, but wrapped one arm protectively around his middle.
"Why don't you lie down?" he suggested. At Dean's narrowed eyes, he added, "You don't have to sleep. Just rest, see if your stomach doesn't settle."
Dean clearly didn't buy into that, but the glare he gave only made Sam smile. That was more like the old Dean, less like the broken creature who'd taken his place.
In the back of his head, a voice wondered how long that would last.
And, as always, asked : Now what?
--
The sandwich stayed down.
He supposed that was a good thing, even if the meager amount of food in his stomach was making him queasy. No matter how repugnant the idea of food was, he would have to eat. It was nutrition, which meant strength. Strength meant a chance to fight, and fighting meant he might make it out alive.
When had he decided that - to fight? To live?
Maybe he hadn't. It was the instinct they'd driven out of him. It was the hope he lost, learned to stifle. It crept in quietly, and for the briefest moment, it dared to flicker.
--
And so the days went.
Dean ate little, slept less. When he talked, it wasn't much. With every small victory came more setbacks. Guilt ate away at Sam every night Dean woke up screaming, and every day Sam tried to come up with answers. And every day he found only more questions.
Until, finally, came the call.
When Sam answered, there was no preamble, just a rush of air as Bobby said, "Sam, got a job for ya."
He cast a glance at Dean, who was watching him with interest, and hedged what hadn't been a request. "Bobby, I'm kinda... tied up right now."
"Tied up?" Bobby asked, clearly wanting details. "I ain't heard from you in going on three weeks now, boy." His voice was tinny and static with poor reception, but Sam didn't miss the tension.
"Yeah, uh..." he trailed off. Maybe now wasn't the time to mention his brother was back from the dead. And maybe it was. "Listen, Bobby..."
The hunter cut him off, "Sam, you've been hunting non stop for four years. One hunt right after another? Hell, it's enough to wear anyone down. I know you're tired. But Sam... it's just a simple hunt. I'm stuck in Denver, and you're right next door. I just need you to check it out."
Sam closed his eyes and sighed.
"Bobby," he said softly. "I can't..."
When he spoke again, it was with confusion, concern, maybe even a little anger. "You all right?"
He could have lied. Said he was laid up with some injuries from a hunt gone bad, and that'd be that. Bobby wouldn't question him if he thought Sam wasn't fit for the job.
Watching his brother from the corner of his eye, he thought about it. He didn't have the heart to lie anymore. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, he saw Dean stand and motion to him. He covered the mouthpiece of the phone.
"I want to go."
He blinked and stared at his brother. "Dean, I don't think - "
Dean's eyes were intense, burning into his own.
"I want to go."
"Sam?" Sam kept the speaker covered, ignoring Bobby.
Dean was in no shape to hunt, still too thin, too weak. But standing there, a shadow of his former self with a baggy t-shirt hanging loose on his shoulders, Sam saw something in his brother's eyes. He didn't know what it was, only that it hadn't been there before.
He sighed again, knew he might come to regret it, but spoke anyway :
"What do you need me to do?"