Chapter 2
Dean woke with a start. He pushed himself onto his elbows and blinked slowly. Already the nightmare was fading and he couldn't quite recall much - just water. Lots of water. He rolled onto his back and lifted his head. His ears were back to normal, he was happy to notice.
"Sammy?"
Dean stood off the bed and looked around. He called his brother's name again and the bathroom door opened. Sam looked ill. He began to walk towards Dean but fell, crashing into a chair as he hit the floor. He stayed down before pushing himself back up.
"Dean- there weren't two ghouls back there," he said weakly, sitting on the chair. "The one with the knife was a ghoul. The other one was a witch. I don't know what she did, but she's done something to me. Something bad."
As he finished his sentence, Sam began to cough. He held his hands in front of his mouth. When the coughing fit had passed, he wiped his mouth. Dean saw the red smear. He sat by Sam and gently took hold of his wrists and looked at his hands. Sam's hands were faintly spattered with dark red. Dean frowned.
"Did either of them say anything?" he asked as he carefully changed the bandages, checking the cuts weren't infected.
"No, they just- ow- they just took my blood. I wasn't conscious half the time, which is probably-" he winced from the pain, "-when she put some sort of curse on me."
Dean checked the cut on his brother's neck before standing. Sam began coughing again, but there were no flecks of blood this time, which Dean took to be a positive sign.
Hours passed.
It was during a break from research that Sam got worse. Sitting by the table, Dean was drinking cheap coffee as he idly flicked a quarter in the air using his thumb. Sam exited the bathroom before falling to his hands and knees. His older brother was on his feet so fast he knocked the chair over.
"What is it? What's wrong?" Dean demanded. Sam tried to speak but couldn't make a sound. He started coughing again and choked up red bile. Before Dean could approach Sam, Sam's entire body spasmed and he gave a wracking cough that sent thick strings of glistening blood from his mouth. He breathed shallowly, clutching his stomach.
"Oh, no. Sam!" Dean exclaimed, rushing to help Sam up. As he pulled his brother to his feet, Sam coughed again, and Dean felt blood hit his face and neck. He supported Sam with his arm around his brother's waist. Sam was slumped, his eyes heavy-lidded but he had stopped coughing.
"Sam, we need to take you to a hospital-"
"What can they do for me? We can't just walk in like, 'hey, I was cursed by a witch, got a cure for that?'"
Sam winced as he got to his feet slowly. "The best we can do is hope to find a cure through research. Until then, we have to deal with it."
From his brother's expression, Dean knew Sam was serious. He sighed. But Dean desperately wanted to help Sam. Over the next few weeks, his brother deteriorated - he was more and more tired, yet he couldn't sleep. Despite not sleeping for weeks, Sam didn't die. Dean knew people didn't last long without sleep - after a week, Sam should've died. They were onto the third sleepless week.
Sam barely ate throughout the day, only able to drink. Anything solid that he ate soon was coughed back up with a worrying coating of blood.
Not only that, but the younger Winchester looked physically sick, too. His eyes were glazed and had bags under them, giving him a bruised look. He was unshaven too, as he spent most of his time gazing out windows or staring into space. That was when he wasn't coughing. It was terrifying for Dean to be woken in the night by Sam's coughing, violent and unrelenting.
Dean would wake to darkness and the hacking coughs, and he'd reach out blindly for the light. Then he would find his brother, stood over the sink, red droplets all over the white porcelain.
There was nothing they could do and it was killing Dean to know that.
It was midnight and Dean's eyes finally drifted closed. His coughing fit subsided, Sam had fallen quiet in his usual spot by the window. But as Dean slipped into sleep, he heard a thump. Knowing the noise wasn't ordinary, he lifted his head blearily, looking up and blinking.
"Sam?" he mumbled. No reply. Dean pushed himself up and looked around. It was then that he saw Sam, seizing on the floor, eyes rolled up into his head. Dean leapt from his bed and ran over to his brother.
"Sammy? Jesus-" Dean struggled to hold Sam down, wishing Bobby was there to help. Blood was running from Sam's nose and mouth and he seemed to be choking on it. Dean looked up to the ceiling.
"Cas!" he shouted. "Cas, you get your feathered ass down here right now!"
He hesitated, looking back down at Sam. The seizure had passed and Sam was shaking as he drew a shallow, shuddering breath. Dean looked up again. "Castiel, goddammit, we need you!"
Dean helped his younger brother into the bathroom, where Sam coughed up the excess blood as Dean held him upright, supporting him. He cursed himself for letting them go on the case. He cursed himself for not seeing the ghouls in time, for not being able to protect Sam. He had sworn to protect his brother, and he'd failed. Multiple times.
Dean left Sam in the bathroom and went to the window, looking out for any signs of the angel. He heard the telltale whoosh of wings and turned around. Castiel was stood with a grim expression, facing him.
"Dean-" he began. But he was cut off as Dean crossed the room and grabbed Castiel by the lapels of his trenchcoat.
"I begged for you, Cas! I begged you to help us!" Dean exclaimed. "Sam is dying, and you can't even find the time to listen?"
Castiel hadn't moved nor interrupted. He waited until Dean had let go of his coat before speaking.
"I wanted to, Dean. But I'm not strong enough to heal your brother fully."
"Do something, Cas! Can't you make him at least a little better?"
Castiel looked in Sam's direction with a closed expression. The coughing had stopped. Gingerly opening the door, Dean looked in. Sam was leaning against the sink. He looked over with red-rimmed eyes, before noticing Castiel.
"Cas!" he began, pushing himself up and forcing a smile. Castiel sighed. He could easily see through Sam's facade. The angel turned back to face Dean.
"Dean," he explained in a genuinely apologetic voice, "I am sorry. But I do not have the capacity to lift this curse. Not only am I unfamiliar with it, I also do not know how I could help your brother."
"You mean … there's no cure?" Dean asked incredulously. He grabbed his hair in frustration and closed his eyes, holding back a yell of pent-up emotion. When he opened his eyes again, Castiel was gone. Dean was stunned.
"Did he- he just took off? Without even trying?" he asked. Sam shrugged, pushing his hair out of his eyes.
"I guess. I didn't see him go, but-"
"Goddamn angels. Unreliable, lying, useless bastards!" Dean shouted, kicking a chair violently. Sam ran to stop him.
"Whoa, easy, Dean!" he cried before hunching over, coughing dryly. Dean was immediately concerned.
"You need sleep. From now on, I'm going to make you sleep. No more window-sitting."
It was three in the morning when Sam managed to drift off for the first time in a month. Dean stayed up to watch him. He saw how Sam's brow furrowed, how he seemed to be tensing. Yet he remained asleep and that was what mattered. It wasn't long until Dean fell asleep, and this time, he had a different dream.
He was stood in an endless field of wheat. The yellow was vibrant against the dazzling blue sky. There wasn't a cloud in the sky nor a break in the wheat for as far as he could see. As Dean walked, he could feel the air getting colder, until he reached a perfectly round pool. He automatically looked down at his reflection in the still surface. A single leaf blew over his shoulder - although there hadn't been a single tree in sight. It landed on the pond surface and oddly sank, causing small ripples. It was then that Dean saw it was now Sam looking back at him.
Dean noticed that his mismatched reflection was trying to speak so he crouched down, leaning close. Slowly, carefully, he reached out with a trembling hand. He dipped a hand into the cool pond. Without warning, the Sam reflection dissipated and a black inky substance billowed to the water's surface, rising up his skin like a stain until his vision turned black.
Dean woke with a gasp. The room was bathed in the pale yellow light of early morning. Birds sang outside as he wiped the sweat from his forehead, rapidly going over the dream in his mind. Sam was still asleep, so Dean got up. He began to research curses as he drank his first coffee of the day. Nothing came up.
The whole day passed and still Sam slept. It was night again when Dean was beginning to seriously worry. Sam still hadn't woken up. Dean crouched by his sleeping brother and reached out with a hand to brush the hair away from Sam's closed eyes.
"Sammy- ah!" Dean hissed, recoiling. Sam's forehead was burning hot. As Dean stared, startled at how hot his brother's skin was, Sam stirred. He opened his eyes and blinked sleepily.
"Dean?" he mumbled. "What're you doing?"
"Sammy, you're feverish," Dean said worriedly. Sam pushed himself into a sitting position and rubbed his eyes, squinting. With a sad expression, he looked at his brother.
"Can we go out?" Sam asked in a quiet voice.
"What?" Dean replied, startled.
"I mean, like ... just go on a drive. Out to the countryside. Somewhere we can just sit in silence and forget all this crap. Please."
Dean knew that it could do Sam good to get away from everything. He looked less sick. Grabbing his jacket and keys, he helped Sam up and noticed how unfocused his brother was.
"Hey, Sammy?" began Dean, gently taking hold of Sam's shoulders and looked at his eyes until Sam returned his gaze. "Get a jacket. It'll be cold outside."
Not long later, they were in the Impala. A soft song came onto the radio, familiar and easy on their ears. Dean swayed his head to the tempo. Glancing over after noticing Sam was silent, he noticed that his brother was gazing out the window. Despite the glazed look on his face, Sam, too, was nodding very slightly to the song.
"Up here," he exclaimed abruptly. Dean pulled onto a side road, driving until he reached the end, an empty parking lot on a hill. He parked and the sudden silence was somehow comforting. They exited the Impala and breathed in the crisp night air. Dean looked up at the moon, crescent shaped and glowing.
Like it was an unbidden rule, they sat side by side on the bonnet of the Impala, gazing up at the sky. The two brothers watched the stars in a silence that wasn't awkward nor strained. Their lack of speaking said more than their words ever could. Finally, however, one had to speak.
"Sammy," Dean sighed, turning his head to look at his brother. Sam lowered his eyes and tilted his head to face Dean's.
"… Yeah?"
"I just wanna say- I'm sorry for all the crap I've done in the past. I'm sorry that I couldn't save you from the ghouls, I'm sorry that Cas can't help you-"
"Dean," Sam interrupted softly, looking slightly uncomfortable. "Look, man, it's fine. There's nothing to apologize for."
The only noise after was the hush of wind in the grass.
"I'm not whole, Dean."
"Sam?"
"It's true. I've never felt truly whole. Like a person. Ever since I knew that my blood wasn't the only thing in me … it hasn't been the same. And now, after all this crap, I don't think I can pretend any longer. I just want it to end."
When Dean looked at Sam, he was devastated to see the tears in his brother's eyes. Tears of self-hatred. Tears of shame.
"Hey, don't say that," Dean comforted. The way Sam looked at him then, with glistening eyes and a broken expression, broke Dean's heart.
"I've made so many mistakes and I can't take any of it back, even though I would give anything to-" tears rolled down Sam's face as he spoke- "and every time I looked at you, I remember every time I've let you down."
"Don't speak like that. Come here."
Dean reached out and pulled Sam into a hug. He could feel his brother shaking in the embrace. All of a sudden, Sam convulsed and he began to cough. Dean held him close, rubbing his back until the fit had passed. He could hear Sam's raspy breaths.
"Blood?" Dean whispered. Sam's head nodded by a fraction. Dean closed his eyes.
"I want it to be over, Sammy. I don't want to live without you. I don't want to live in this world if all it means is losing people I love. Hunting isn't a job anymore. It's a task, and it's painful and never-ending and worse than I ever thought it'd be."
"I want to be over too."
From the tone of Sam's hoarse whisper, Dean knew what he meant. He was suddenly aware of the cold metal at his side. The familiar shape of the gun. How easy it was to shoot.
He always said he wanted to go out shooting.
As Dean reached down with one hand, he kept the other around his brother's shoulders. "Remember the lullaby mom used to sing to us?"
"Mm."
"Can you remember the words?"
Sam was silent for a few seconds before beginning to sing, his voice rough and quiet.
"Carry on, my wayward son," he sang softly, his voice cracking. Dean moved his lips with the words.
"There'll be peace when you are done," Sam continued. Dean couldn't see, but Sam's eyelids were drooping and he was depending on his older brother's support to stay upright.
Dean had pulled out the gun and pulled back the hammer silently.
"Lay your weary …"
Sam's voice trailed off. Dean paused.
"Sam?"
There was a lump in his throat. When Sam didn't answer, Dean loosened the hug. Sam's head was hanging and his eyes had closed. Dean's breath shook.
"Sammy?"
No response. No breath.
No pulse.
Dean's vision blurred and he wrapped his arms tightly around Sam again, rocking from side to side slowly. His eyes traveled up to the stars. "Cas, if you're up there, listen to me now. Don't bring us back. Can you do that for us?"
Dean closed his eyes again, trying to hold onto his brother as the heat slipped away.
"I'll finish it for you," Dean whispered. As he stroked Sam's hair and raised the gun, he began to sing the chorus. His soft voice trembled and the metal barrel was cold against his temple. His finger rested on the trigger. As the first tear ran down Dean's face, he opened his mouth to sing the final line.
"… Don't you cry no more."