After dinner, Sam spent most of the evening surrounded by the untold number of books Bobby had on occult rituals and practices. And since Dean had decided to clean the guns and sharpen the knives, there was the added bonus of being near his brother without any pressure to make conversation. The later the day grew, the tighter the knot in Sam's stomach became and the less he wanted to talk.
So, when Dean finally finished the last of the knives, carefully packing them away, and said he was headed up to bed, Sam gave him a long look and merely nodded. He didn't think he could force any words through his throat right then, even if he had to.
Dean gave him another confounded look - he had been doing that a lot since Sam had begun researching ways to break the deal - and said, "Good night, Sammy," before disappearing up the stairs.
Sam watched him leave, not looking away until Dean was completely out of sight, before turning his gaze to the middle of the room and staring off into space. He was startled, several moments later, by Bobby asking quietly, "You sure you want to go through with this?"
Pretending he hadn't just jumped so badly as to spill the book from his lap (which he had), Sam looked at Bobby. Sam felt pressed in from all sides - the time had finally come. Almost a month of planning after almost eight months of hopeless searching, and Sam found he didn't know what to think.
"I have to," he finally managed, his voice rough and low.
He half-expected Bobby to argue, and was surprised when he nodded instead. "He won't be happy," Bobby said, tilting his chin to the left to indicate the upstairs.
"I know."
Bobby chuckled, an odd sound in the serious conversation. "But it isn't like he can throw any stones over it exactly, either."
Sam grinned at the gallows humor, knowing it for the truth even as he knew Dean wouldn't think of it like that for a second. "Won't stop him."
"No," Bobby said, shaking his head. There was a long silence before Bobby asked, "You ready?"
Icy fear stole over Sam's chest at the question. Was he? Really? Was he prepared for if the spell didn't work, or if the draught was wrong? No, he wasn't remotely ready for either. But he couldn't let himself think about all of the possible outcomes, just the right one.
"Yeah," he said, hoping his voice sounded strong. When Bobby looked at him, almost sadly, Sam knew it hadn't. Meeting Bobby's eyes, Sam shrugged, trying to find the words to express that maybe he wasn't ready, but that he somehow was at the same time.
Finally, he settled on, "He's my brother, Bobby."
Bobby was silent for so long that Sam began to grow nervous. Eventually, he must have seen what he was looking for on Sam's face, because he nodded. "I know, kiddo. I know."
The words were sincere, and quietly spoken, and in that moment, Sam knew he did know. Maybe even understood. Even if Sam didn't doubt Bobby hated the self-sacrificing methods his family always seemed to find. In the end, the older hunter understood that it was family - blood first, chosen second. Everything else was distantly tertiary.
"I'm gonna head on up," Bobby said, breaking Sam away from his thoughts.
Sam nodded. "I'm going to let Dean get to sleep, then I'll be up."
Bobby walked across the room, and reached the bottom of the stairs before turning back to face Sam. "Let me know if you need anything."
"I will," he said, hating himself just a little bit for the lie. Sam was going to do everything he could to keep Bobby out of the line of fire. It would be bad enough for him if something did go wrong. Sam didn't envy Bobby having to deal with a cornered Dean if or when the time came.
There must have been something on Sam's face telegraphing the thoughts, because Bobby didn't reply, just shook his head slightly, frowned, and disappeared up the stairs.
For several moments, Sam just sat there, staring straight ahead and trying not to think. Eventually, he shook his head, trying to force any doubts away, and began replacing the books he had taken from the shelves. Once done, he turned off the lamp and followed the others up to the second floor.
There was only a little light coming in the window of their room, and Sam had to tread cautiously to avoid tripping over any of the clothes that littered the floor. Reaching his bed, he pulled his bag open. First he removed the pouch the woman had given him from its hiding place, followed by a bottle of water. He then picked the bag up from his bed and dropped it - quietly, not wanting to disturb Dean - on the floor.
His eyes had adjusted to the dark and winding his way back into the hallway wasn't quite as difficult as working his way into the room had been. Once outside, he hurried to the bathroom and closed the door before turning on the light.
Sam opened the bottle of water, dropping the cap onto the counter before very carefully pouring the contents into the water. It occurred to him that he had no idea what had gone into the concoction and that - were circumstances different - Dean would have his head for even thinking about drinking it (which, were circumstances different, he wouldn't have). As it were, Dean was going to have enough to be upset about on the whole and Sam didn't have any other choice - or room for doubts if he was going to try and save his brother.
Replacing the cap on the bottle, he shook it vigorously, trying to mix it evenly. The water turned a rusty brown and when he opened the bottle, Sam's stomach turned at the smell. Steeling himself, Sam held his breath and chugged the potion as fast as he could. He refused to stop until the bottle was empty, coughing at the vile aftertaste as he tossed the now empty container into the trash.
Mindful of the woman's instructions, Sam flipped off the light switch and hurried, as fast as he could without making any noise, back to the bedroom. Luckily, he reached the bed without tripping over anything and lay down on top of the covers. Sam rested his head on the pillow, he heard the letter hidden beneath it crinkle at the added weight.
With a glance at his watch, aware that he only had an hour once everything started, he sighed. He turned his head to the side, looking at Dean for several moments before letting his eyes fall closed. All he could do was wait.
It was show time.
The next thing Sam was aware of was Dean calling his name.
For a moment, Sam thought it hadn't worked. That the trip to New Orleans and his hopes to solve this once and for all, were for naught. Until the moment he realized he was looking at his body, not from it.
"Sam. Sammy!"
Sam squinted - everything was oddly blurry - trying to make out what was happening. In front of him, and below, Dean was kneeling at the side of Sam's bed. One hand was wound in Sam's hair; the other was on his shoulder, shaking it roughly.
"Wake up, damn it," Dean cried, his voice rough and getting louder with each word. Sam watched as Dean pressed fingertips to his throat, searching for a pulse. "Damn it! I knew something wasn't right."
Seeing the pain on Dean's face - open and unfettered - tore at Sam. This was exactly what he'd hoped to avoid. Tabling the issue of why Dean was awake at all for later, Sam tried to respond, but nothing would come out. He jerked his hand up to his throat (or what passed of it in his current form) alarmed. Why couldn't he talk? If he couldn't talk, the ritual was useless.
"Damn it, Sam. Wake up!"
Dean crawled onto the bed, pulling Sam into his arms. While it was barely big enough for Sam, it was certainly much too small for the both of them. He shook Sam him roughly. "You don't get to do this." Staring skyward, Dean yelled again, "You don't get to do this! I played by your rules! Good little soldier. All that crap! You can't have him!"
Sam thought his heart would break, hearing Dean's shattered voice pleading. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. The shock of seeing his own broken body, lying prone on the bed, was an afterthought; all that mattered was the near frantic gleam in Dean's eyes.
He wondered if this is what it had been like in Cold Oak. Sam had never dared to ask. He hadn't really wanted to know how bad it had gotten then.
Climbing off the bed, Dean knocked the pillow to the side, appearing to Sam as though he was about to attempt mouth-to-mouth. CPR was a skill their father had insisted they each learn at an early age. You never knew when you would need it, he had said. It hurt Sam to know that when Dean finally did need it... it was for him.
Dean pushed the pillow to the floor, making Sam lie flat, only to pause. Still trying to find his voice, and still failing, Sam watched in confusion as Dean went immobile. To his horror, he realized the moment Dean reached his hand out, touching the innocent looking paper with shaking fingers.
"Sammy..." Dean said, as if guessing what the paper would say. There was utter stillness then, after Dean picked it up, in the seconds it took him to read the words written there.
Suddenly, the fury returned, "Damn you, Sammy. This is not your choice. I did not deal with that bitch just to turn around and lose you anyway." His voice cracked, a tear tracing down his cheek. "Not for me," he whispered, crumpling the letter in his fist.
"Dean..." Sam tried to speak, for the hundredth time, surprising himself almost as much as Dean - who jumped as though he had been scaled - when it worked. He was supposed to recite the incantation, but calming his brother had a far greater priority, if he could manage it.
Dean looked frantically around the room before looking back at Sam. He shook his head roughly, unblinking. "Sammy?"
"Over here. Well, up here I guess," he said. And though he could hear his voice, Sam's heart fell when it was obvious that Dean couldn't.
"Great," Dean muttered, once more hastily positioning Sam for resuscitation. "I'm already losing it."
Undeterred, Dean pressed down on Sam's chest fifteen times, chanting the count under his breath, before tilting Sam's head back and breathing for him. "Come on, Sammy," Dean said around the numbers as he moved back to the compressions.
Sam stared, fascinated, as Dean fought to save him. Suddenly, his chest, or what passed for it, felt tight. His head felt light. Aghast, Sam realized that Dean's efforts were working against the potion. He felt as though he was being pulled back toward his body.
"No, no, no," Sam chanted, shaking his head roughly. Panicked, he yelled, "Dean, stop!" and was stunned when it worked once more, and Dean did.
His older brother was only still for a moment though, his head cocked to the side as if unsure what he was hearing, before he returned to the compressions. "Not this time, Sammy. You're coming home."
Realizing his time was limited, Sam began reciting the chant that he had found in the small Mississippi library. The words fell easily off his tongue and even if Dean couldn't hear them, Sam knew, somehow, that the effect was the same.
The longer he spoke, the warmer the room became. Soon, a breeze picked up in the enclosed space, Sam could see his hair stirring and half-noticed the letter Dean had dropped fluttering away.
Midstream, he slipped from Latin to Creole, the language that had once been completely foreign for him but that he could now speak effortlessly. However, the lightheaded feeling was growing worse, the longer Dean persisted. He was counting louder and louder, pressing harder and harder, Sam could tell. And as he did so, Sam felt as though there was a hook behind his belly button, pulling him back to his body.
As he continued speaking, the wind grew stronger, faster. It whistled and shook things violently. Yet he pressed on.
Gasping - or he would have been if were in his body - Sam fought against the pull Dean was inadvertently creating. A sharp pain was growing in his middle, the closer he came to the end of the incantation. It felt as if the deal was fighting back, trying to survive where Sam was willing it to die.
Unwavering, Sam forced the words out through clenched teeth, pressing his eyes closed against the broken tableau in front of him. The whole ordeal was worth nothing if he didn't finish the spell while he had the chance.
Reaching the end, Sam opened his eyes and cried "Konsanti kounye-a kretyen vivan libere!" Suddenly, unexpectedly, there was a long, keening howl and the wind died and the heat released as if they'd been pushed back.
In the sudden still and quiet, all that remained was the sound of Dean's frantic counting, and muttering around the numbers. "Sam, I swear. If you do this..." The words were cut off when it was once more time to breathe for Sam.
Sam would have gasped for air if he could. It was over. The silence had turned deafening and he watched as Dean moved from breathing for him, to compressions once again.
Sam had no idea how much time had passed, though he probably still had time to return to his body before the hour was complete. He hoped. Then again, he had no idea even still how getting back would work. However, he'd barely had time to finish the thought when the tugging in his middle seemed to jerk him forward.
In the blink of an eye, he was hovering just overhead, looking down at his "dead" body and Dean's increasingly desperate face. Close up, Sam could see the innumerable tear tracks on his cheeks. He almost couldn't fathom it - Dean never cried. Not like this.
Another blink of an eye later, he was arching up off the bed, gasping loudly and knocking Dean's hands from their perch on his chest. Falling sideways, Sam pressed his forehead into the mattress, trying in vain to recapture his breath.
He wasn't sure how much time had passed before he finally heard Dean's voice over the roaring in his ears. "Sammy...?"
Sam turned slowly, feeling oddly fatigued, as though he had run a marathon, and looked at Dean. The open disbelief and fear on Dean's face made Sam's chest hurt, more than the compressions already had.
"Hey, Dean," Sam said, his voice gravelly.
Dean ran a hand over his face, no doubt trying to remove any trace of the tears, his breath coming in tortured gasps. Finally, he dropped his hand and stared at Sam for a minute. Sam was about to say something - anything - to break the silence when Dean did, instead.
"You okay, Sammy?" he asked in a very quiet voice. For the moment, it appeared, Dean's relief was winning. Sam knew that wouldn't last long.
Sam nodded. "Am now."
"And that note?" Dean asked, gesturing toward the head of the bed, though the letter was actually nowhere to be seen. "That 'so sorry I had to go and die' note?" The longer Dean spoke, the more hoarse his voice became.
Wincing, Sam said, "I'm sorry. I only meant for you to find that if something went wrong."
"You were dead, Sam. I'd say something went wrong."
Shaking his head, Sam disagreed. "I wasn't dead. Well, not really. I had some help."
"Help?" Dean asked, his voice gaining an octave. "What kind of help did you have, pray tell?"
Not wanting to get into it just yet, Sam shook his head. "Just something to hopefully make sure I stayed here long enough to take care of business and make it back."
"Sam, I swear..." Dean began, very loudly.
Suddenly the door - which Sam didn't remember closing - slammed open, causing both of them to jump. "What in the hell is going on in here?" Bobby was standing in the doorway and breathing like he had run a marathon.
"Bobby?" Dean asked, collapsing on the bed beside Sam.
Bobby ignored Dean, instead turning his gaze on Sam. "Was it your bright idea to lock the door?"
Surprised, Sam shook his head. "It was locked?"
Nodding, Bobby seemed to catch his breath. "Must have jammed when all the commotion started. Mind explaining to me what happened? Seeing as how I was woke up by your brother here screaming and what sounded like the winds of hell in here."
"You knew he was up to something," Dean said before Sam could muster the energy to reply. He glared at Bobby, anger boiling in his eyes. "Didn't you?"
Taking a seat on the other bed, much as he had when he confronted Sam the morning before (Could it really only be the morning before? Sam wondered), Bobby sighed. "I knew there was something going on, but your stubborn brother wouldn't tell me what."
Jumping up as if he had been shocked, Dean yelled, "And you didn't try to stop him?" When Bobby glared at him, Dean lowered his voice but spoke with no less venom.
"You couldn't warn me? Give me a hint? Something?" He paused. "This is why you were acting so weird."
Bobby nodded. "Yeah."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Dean asked, his anger draining.
"Because I asked him not to," Sam said, stepping in on Bobby's behalf. It had been his choice - not Bobby's - and there was no reason to let him bear the brunt of Dean's reaction. "I didn't want you to know."
Dean looked at Sam for several moments, a myriad of emotions flickering through his gaze before he turned and left the room. Sam watched him go; yet another pain tore through his chest that had nothing to do with the CPR.
He turned and looked at Bobby, and could only imagine what his own expression looked like. For his part, Bobby didn't look surprised by the turn of events, but there was sympathy there.
"Just give him a minute to cool off," Bobby said a moment later. "Then I'll help you downstairs to find him." At Sam's startled glance, Bobby added, "You're moving like a ninety-year-old man, Sam. I can tell whatever you did, it took a lot out of you."
"I'll be fine."
Sam cringed when Bobby sighed, very much a long-suffering sound only to nod in defeat. "Sure you will. That's just one of the things about you Winchesters. You're always fine. Even when you're not."
There wasn't much Sam could say in response to that.
True to his word, Bobby helped Sam downstairs once Sam was able to move fairly well. Sam reclaimed the comfortable seat he had sat in earlier that night (though it felt like so much longer). He sat, gingerly, hurting from head to toe. He would almost swear even his hair hurt. Absently, he ran a hand over his chest, which he had no doubt would be a Technicolor rainbow by the morning.
He waited, as patiently as he could, while Bobby went to roust Dean out. Closing his eyes, Sam relaxed into the chair only to startle them open when the others returned. Bobby pointed at Sam, while looking at Dean. "You. Talk to your brother." Turning, he pointed at Dean, while looking at Sam. "You. Whole story this time, no excuses. I'm going to get some sleep. You boys behave."
Muttering under his breath, Bobby then left the room, retreating up the stairs and ostensibly back to bed. However, Sam wouldn't be surprised if things got ugly, Bobby would appear and intervene. Hopefully, it wouldn't come to that.
Exhausted, Sam could only watch as Dean paced rather than sitting. When it became clear Dean wasn't going to speak, Sam asked, "Why did you wake up, anyway? You were out cold when I laid down."
Dean shrugged, glancing at Sam and looking incredibly uncomfortable. "Something wasn't right."
Confused, Sam asked, "What?"
"I don't know, Sam," Dean said, continuing to pace back and forth nervously. "I just... Something wasn't right, and it woke me up. I turn over, and see you laying there staring at the ceiling like..." Dean's words faded, and Sam saw him swallow nervously. "It was like before, all over again. All I could think was something had happened and the deal backfired. You were gone again and it was all my fault."
The words were whispered, broken, and Sam could only stare, stunned at the onslaught. "Anyway. Then I found that damn letter. We're gonna have a long talk about one, Sammy," he said, gesturing at Sam as if to make his point. "And then I knew you were up to something but I didn't care. The only thing that mattered was getting you back."
Sam smiled. Suddenly the woman's explanation of how he would return - which had driven him crazy at the time - made sense.
Pausing in his pacing, Dean turned to look at Sam, annoyed. "What in the world are you smiling about? You almost got yourself killed. Scratch that - you did get yourself killed. And if I ever find out who helped you..."
"The heart will know," Sam said, having to interrupt Dean. For someone who was often a man of few words, suddenly he didn't seem inclined to stop talking.
"What?" Dean asked, looking at Sam as if he'd finally lost his mind completely.
Sam laughed. All the relief at Dean's release from the deal and his own survival seemed to burst out of him at once. "When I asked how I would get back into my body, once I was done, that's what she said. 'The heart will know.' Somehow, even asleep, you knew. You brought me back."
"Who her? And more importantly, you listened to her?" Dean asked, throwing his hands up in the air, exacerbated. Resuming his pacing, he added, "Sam, this was your life you were playing with."
The euphoric feeling remained, but Sam's smile dimmed. "I knew that, Dean."
Turning to face Sam, Dean said, "And you did it anyway."
"I had to," he said, his voice barely loud enough for Dean to hear. "It was the only way."
Dean growled, a low sound in his throat, startling Sam. "How did you even know about the catch anyway? I never told you. And I know that bitch wouldn't have warned you. She would've just gotten a kick out of you dying again. For good, I mean."
Dean made a face at his rambling, tongue-tied sentences and Sam laughed, half-heartedly. This wasn't going to go over well at all. When Dean appeared about to press the issue, Sam decided to just rip the bandage off all at once and get it over with.
"You told me."
"No I didn't. I think I'd remember that, Sam."
"Remember the night in Mississippi, when I told you I thought I'd found a way out of this?" Dean looked at Sam vacantly for a moment before recognition dawned and he nodded. "You had a nightmare that night, remember? I woke you up. But before I could, you were talking in your sleep about how it wasn't fair. That you would lose me again."
Dean collapsed onto a chair, all the air seeming to deflate out of him. "I remember that dream," he said, almost to himself, shuddering. He looked up at Sam. "I talked in my sleep? Dude, I never talk in my sleep."
"You did that night. That's when I realized why you'd always look so... afraid anytime I'd mention finding another ritual or spell." Sam shrugged, and managed a small smile. "It all made sense then. So I started searching for a way around it."
"And you thought it'd be a great idea to poison yourself," Dean replied, once again sounding as though he thought Sam wasn't all that bright. "Brilliant."
Rolling his eyes, Sam shook his head. "No. I tried to find a way that would allow me to die - but not die. Something that would mean my body was dead when the deal was broken, and beyond the reach of the deal you made, but that my spirit wasn't."
"Sammy. That was too much to risk. What if it had just killed you? What then?"
That very question had dogged him for close to a month. Resigned, Sam shook his head once more. "What else could I do, Dean? Wait until the year was up, for the hounds to come after you? It was my risk to take. And it was worth it. And it didn't. Kill me, I mean."
"It's not worth it to me!" Dean said, standing once more.
"It was my choice, Dean." He watched as Dean paced back and forth, willing his brother to understand. He was too tired to chase him down if he took flight. Quietly, he tried to explain, to make Dean understand his side. "You traded your soul to save me."
"It was my choice, Sam," Dean said, throwing Sam's words back at him. But rather than being hurt, Sam knew the reason. Even after the fact, even with Sam safe, Dean was afraid, and anger was safer than fear.
Instead of taking the bait, Sam merely nodded. "I know."
Dean collapsed at that, once again sitting down. "So did it work?"
"I think so," Sam said, wishing he had a more definitive answer. Looking closely at Dean, he asked, "Do you feel any different?"
Dropping his forearms across his knees, Dean shrugged. "I haven't felt different until now because of the deal, I don't know why that would change." Dean seemed to think about something for a moment before adding, "But upstairs, right before you started gasping for air - and nearly gave me my second heart attack of the night, I might add - there was a noise. It was like..."
"A scream. Or a howl," Sam finished. At Dean's stunned look, Sam said, "I heard it, too, before you pulled me back. Dean, I really think it worked."
After a moment, Dean nodded. "That's good enough for me." He paused and added, "But don't you ever pull a stunt like this again."
Sam laughed. "Yeah, sure. Just as long as you take your own advice."
Grinning, Dean stood and held out a hand to help Sam stand. Once he was fully upright, Sam grimaced. "There is nothing on me that doesn't hurt right now."
"Come on," Dean said, moving toward the stairs, a hand under Sam's elbow. "I'll run a bath for you, princess. That should help."
Ignoring the stupid name, Sam nodded. "Sounds pretty nice, actually."
"Thought it might. And I'll rustle up some painkillers. Your chest isn't gonna be pretty by tomorrow. Never mind whatever else you did to yourself."
Sam stopped walking, and looked at Dean's profile, something suddenly occurring to him. "Dean. I..."
Dean paused, turning to look at Sam, concern clear on his face. "What's wrong? Are you sure you're feeling okay?"
"I'm fine. Sore, but fine," he added at Dean's disbelieving look. "I just... I never said thanks. For saving me back then. I can't say I'll ever agree with your methods, but..."
Sighing, Dean stared at Sam for several moments, unblinking. "Yeah. I think I know what you mean. And you didn't have to say thanks, dumb ass." Sam opened his mouth to reply, but Dean cut him off. "That said... Thanks, Sammy. For not giving up on me. For being your usual stubborn, pack mule self."
Laughing, feeling lighter than he had in a long while, Sam swiped his hand across the back of Dean's head. "We're Winchesters. It's what we do."
fin