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His eyes ached. They were pinched to narrow slits, tender sunburnt skin wrinkling against the assault of the sun and the reflected glare from sterile white sand and rocks.
He was the only thing alive.
Anything that might once have tried to carve out an existence in the barrenness had long since given up. There were no animals, not even insects, no plants of any kind. He stumbled, and looked down reflexively; the little heap of bones at his feet was almost frightening in its testimony to the hostility of the environment.
He called out, but the single syllable grated harshly through cracked lips. His tongue was swollen from lack of moisture, and the name died feebly in the overheated air.
Water.
He'd never even thought about it before, had just taken its presence for granted, and now it was the only thing on his mind.
Water... need to...
Need to drink...
He thought about it: clear liquid in a tall glass with condensation making a ring on a wooden table... standing in a shower, silvery drops cascading down over his head, over his body, cool and wet... falling onto his knees and burying his face in a little spring, feeling the soft tug as the current swirled... He laughed, a horrible rasping sound. And he wondered if he was perhaps going a little mad.
And then he saw it.
Not too far away, close enough that he didn't understand why he hadn't seen it before. Smaller than it should have been, although maybe that was the shimmering air playing tricks on his eyes. And still.
There was suddenly energy, strength that he thought had been sucked slowly from him with his body's moisture, and he ran, forgetting about water, forgetting about glasses and showers and springs and able only to think of the loose huddle on the sand, that limp figure ahead of him.
It was further away than it had looked. He was further away. He could see when his brother moved, when his head rolled so that he could see the familiar face. Green eyes were wide, with pain and exhaustion and fever.
"Help me..."
He ran harder.
"Water..."
He was gasping, stumbling, fighting to reach him, but the distance didn't lessen.
"Water... please..."
He could hear him, that desperate broken whisper. But he couldn't get closer. He was still running when he saw the emotion fade, when resignation replaced fear. He was just too far to do anything when he saw the life flicker and fade. His brother's head lolled sideways, features slackening.
"No... No..."
And then, suddenly, he was there, falling to his knees and reaching out, catching hold of the hand which had stretched out for him but which was now limp. The green eyes were open.
Sightless.
"No... no... please..." It was his turn to beg, as shaking hands searched, as his fingers felt for the beat that would contradict what his eyes were telling him and his mind refused to accept. He was here now, he had reached his brother, he could stop it, help him...
There was no pulse.
There was no breath.
His brother was dead.
The heat and the drought had taken him, like it had taken everything else.
A cry rose in his throat, a harsh cracked scream of despair.
"Sammy!"
His eyes were open for a while before he realised it. Coarse jagged grains of sand pressed against his cheek where it rested on the ground, and he noted the discomfort vaguely. It was nothing when compared to the dull heavy thud in his head; somehow he knew that moving to escape the sand would be worse than enduring it.
After he recognised the irritation, though, he remembered.
The pain on moving was as bad as he'd expected. It detonated behind his eyes, flares and sparks of white brilliance even though he screwed them shut. It dropped him to his knees again, nausea defeating him, so that he lost what little he had in his stomach.
But he fought to his feet again. It was for Dean, after all. Somewhere in the midst of this hell of heat and blinding sun and arid waterlessness was his brother, and Sam was the only one who could help him. Sam had to help him, because if Dean wasn't found, he would die. And pain and thirst and nauseating dizziness were nothing compared to the horror of that.
He still had no idea of what had happened. Dimly he could remember waking before. He could remember the darkness, the sand and rocks – always the sand and rocks – and the pain. But why and what and how were all a mystery.
It was a hunt.
He had to find Dean.
That was all he had.
"D-Dean..." He'd intended a shout, was vaguely surprised when it came out a croak.
And Dean didn't answer.
He struggled to his feet and stumbled on.
He was gasping, quick panicky breaths. His heart thudded in his chest.
"Sammy..." Not a shout this time, because he wasn't kneeling in sand and there was no dead brother lying limply in front of him. He was upright in the front seat of the Impala, one hand clutching the leather and the other rubbing jerkily at his face, at sweat that was only partly due to the sweltering heat.
Just a freakin' nightmare...
"Sam..." he mumbled again, slowly subsiding back against the seat.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd had such a vivid dream. He'd felt the heat, the prickle of sand and the burn of sweat dripping in his eyes, and the intense, painful thirst. And the horror and agony of Sam dying, in front of him, while all he could do was watch and fight uselessly to reach him.
He could still see the resignation in his brother's eyes just before they glazed over in death.
The heat, at least, was real. His t-shirt was drenched with perspiration. His bare arm incautiously brushed against a patch of the seat which had been in direct sunlight and he jerked it away with a startled gasp of pain. They were in the desert: it was hotter than he'd ever experienced, and he could feel the gritty dryness in his mouth that spoke of the beginnings of dehydration.
But the part about Sam wasn't real.
He reached for the bottle of water he'd stashed in the foot-well the previous night and swallowed the now-warm liquid, closing his eyes briefly. Sam was okay. They were both okay, stuck without gas but unhurt. Bobby would be along soon enough.
Unseeing green eyes flashed before him, and a hand that reached in mute helplessness, and he shivered, despite the heat.
"Sam." He needed to see his brother. It was stupid to be so shaken by a dream; he would be embarrassed by his own weakness later. He was already embarrassed.
But he still wanted to see the expressive blue-green eyes and mobile face; Sam, alive and okay.
"Sam?" He sat up again, frowning a little at the lack of response. Sam wasn't in the backseat, but then that wasn't particularly remarkable: Sam had spent most of the previous evening sitting on the ground outside the car.
Avoiding Dean.
He stifled the little dig from his conscience at that thought, but there was a tinge of contrition in his voice as he opened the door.
"You better get inside, Sam, this sun'll burn you like a..." His voice trailed off. "Sam?"
There was no large little brother crouched against the side of the Impala.
Oh. Right. Shade's on the other side at this time of day.
He slid across the seat and opened the other door.
Sam wasn't there either.
Sam wasn't around by the hood, or behind the trunk when Dean climbed out to check.
He's obviously gone off to take a leak, or something.
Or something.
"Sam!" For the first time he raised his voice to something near a shout.
There was no answering yell.
Stupid kid's sulking. Still upset with me from yesterday... wants to see me stressed...
"Sam, this isn't funny! Get back here!" It came out angry, but the emotion with which he scanned his surroundings was not anger, and it was not anger that was accelerating his heart beat with every minute that passed.
Green eyes staring at him, glazed in death... tall lanky body slack and motionless...
No.
That was just a dream, and it wasn't true. It wasn't going to happen.
"Not a good time to sulk, Sam! It's too hot to be outside!"
Sam was going to appear. Sam was just brooding, or sulking, or whatever, and any minute now he would come striding from whatever hiding place had been concealing him, with his hair even shaggier than usual from the dryness and his face morose, and he would scoff when he found out that Dean had been worried.
Not that I am worried, of course.
He couldn't be worried, because to be worried meant acknowledging that something might have happened.
Something like Sam getting lost in the desert.
Something like Sam dying of dehydration and heat injury.
Something like Dean's dream.
He had given up calling for Dean.
There was never any response to his shouts, and he had no idea if that meant that Dean was not around to hear them, or if he was unable to answer. He'd yelled his brother's name until his voice was a painful rasp, but Dean had not appeared.
He couldn't imagine where he could be.
His eyes burned and ached with the unrelenting glare. The sun was right overhead, beating ruthlessly down on exposed flesh and reflecting off pale sand and burnished rock. His bare feet burned in contact with the overheated ground.
He wanted water. He could not remember ever being this desperate for something to drink. The longing went beyond thirst; his lips were cracked and his tongue thick in his mouth, and there were no tears to relieve the gritty sting of his eyes when he blinked. Even the perspiration that had soaked his t-shirt had been sucked away into the parched air long ago.
An uncontrollable stagger sent him to his knees, a bowed huddle in the sand. His hands hit the ground as he instinctively braced against the fall, and a choked cry broke from him at the fiery contact.
"Dean." His voice splintered on the word, but whether it was for his own need or his brother's he didn't know. Dean was missing. Dean needed Sam's help, and it was solely that conviction that kept Sam climbing to his feet each time he went down. But he was aware through his increasingly frayed consciousness that he was also in trouble. Dean wasn't the only one who needed his brother. But Dean couldn't help him. It was a vicious circle of nightmarish proportions.
"Dean..." It was only a whisper, an almost inaudible exhalation.
"Sam."
"Dean?" His head came up, eyes suddenly wide. "Dean!" Relief and fear lent him an artificial energy and he was on his feet in a rush, stumbling across to where the figure in the leather jacket lay unmoving on the ground.
He didn't understand how Dean had got there without him noticing. He didn't understand why he hadn't seen him until now. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered now, because Dean was there and Sam would look after him.
"Dean..." He collapsed to his knees again as he reached his brother, stretched out his hand. Dean was turned away from him, face tilted down into the sand, and he gripped one leather-clad shoulder and pulled him over onto his back.
His scream was hoarse and thin, but no less horrified for lack of strength. He scrabbled in the sand, panicking, but his sluggish muscles resisted his desperate struggles to get away and he went down in an awkward sprawl.
"No... No..." He curled over himself, hands pressed against his face. "Dean..." His fingers dug into his eyes but couldn't drive away the image that seemed burnt onto his brain, of decaying flesh clinging to exposed bones, of gaping sockets that had once housed animated green eyes. That familiar jacket now hung around a rotting corpse and fell open in front to reveal Dean's amulet resting against visible ribs.
He had to get away. He couldn't stay there, with that... thing... that had once been his brother. He was supposed to have saved him. He didn't understand, couldn't imagine what could have happened, but Dean was dead, horribly, grotesquely dead, and Sam hadn't been able to help him.
The heat couldn't prevent the sudden violent shiver.
"I'm sorry, Dean... I'm sorry..." It was a moan. Horror and revulsion and slow paralysing grief choked with the dust in his throat and a rasping sob shuddered through him. He'd failed, and now his brother was dead.
He lurched to his knees, almost falling again. He had to get away. His empty stomach churned at the movement and dizziness roared in his ears so that he had to thrust his hands out or collapse.
Involuntarily, reluctantly, his blurring vision went to where Dean – what was left of Dean – lay.
And then his breath quickened, and he crouched in the sand, staring in confusion and distress.
There was nothing there.
Dean didn't know what to do.
It was a rare predicament for him. He'd been brought up to be prepared, to know what he was fighting and to be ready for it. And natural audacity was sometimes even more useful than a careful plan when circumstances screwed him around.
But this... this was new.
He wasn't used to being at odds with nature. His enemies were always sentient, even if they were the stuff of nightmares; a well-placed shot or ancient ritual or good old-fashioned barbecue was enough to remove the threat.
But how did he kill a desert?
Sam was out there, somewhere, under the brassy sky and the ruthless sun. He might be just over the rise, just out of sight, or he might be miles away. He might be completely healthy and unharmed. Or he might be severely injured.
He might be dead.
And Dean had no idea. He didn't know if Sam was alright or not; where he was; why all this had happened and what could possibly have motivated his brother to walk off into the desert when he knew very well the dangers of such an action.
When Sam had fallen victim to the Benders, Dean had known what to do even when he had no idea where his brother was. There were structures set up, officials and systems to assist in finding missing persons, and a false identity had ensured his place in those systems, for at least long enough to locate Sam.
But there were none of those systems here. There were no security cameras, no police records. He didn't even have the use of his car. And while everything in him demanded that he go out and search, he was only too aware that leaving the Impala could be the signing of his own death warrant.
Once he lost sight of the car he was as much at the mercy of the environment as Sam was. He might wander around, disorientated and aimless, until he collapsed from dehydration and died in the sand. And he would thus ensure Sam's death as absolutely as if he'd killed him with his own hands.
There was always the chance that Sam would come back, that he'd gone for a walk along the road, over the rise, and that any minute now he'd reappear. Dean sat on the side of the driver's seat with his feet on the ground, and tried to convince himself that he believed that, and that for once the worst possible scenario wouldn't turn out to be reality.
If we didn't have bad luck, we wouldn't have any luck at all...
It was no surprise when Sam didn't appear.
Dean's forearms were an angry red from the sun, and his face felt stiff and hot. He hadn't been sitting there long, had not even been awake for more than an hour, and he was already feeling the effects of the climate. And Sam was out there, somewhere, unsheltered.
"Help me..."
"Water... please..."
It was his nightmare coming true, and he was helpless to stop it.
Damn it, Sam... What the hell were you thinking?
He couldn't just sit there, waiting for Sam to somehow find his way back. He had to do something, look for his brother. Everything within him rebelled at the idea of Sam being in trouble and Dean doing nothing to help him.
He thrust himself to his feet, and staggered. The clinging remnants of flu worsened momentary heat-induced vertigo, and the next moment he was on his knees, blinking, nausea a sullen threat.
Real slick, Dean.
Not a good time to faint like a girl.
He crouched there, not quite trusting his stomach to retain its contents. Sweat that wasn't entirely due to the heat beaded on his face, and he watched absently as it dripped down, into the sand, and disappeared.
Bobby... Bobby'll know what to do.
It had been months since his father had died. It had been even longer before that since he'd really hunted with his father. He'd had to make his own decisions, choose his own course of action, for years.
And yet there was still something inside him that knew relief at the thought of someone older and more experienced being there. No-one could take the responsibility for Sam's welfare from him. He wouldn't have allowed it even if they could. But Sam was missing, and possibly in serious trouble, and Dean was painfully aware of how inadequate he was at that moment to help him.
He pulled himself to his feet against the Impala, more cautiously this time, and shaded his eyes as he glanced back along the road they had travelled the previous day. There was no sign of Bobby's pickup yet.
He turned his head and stared in the other direction again, some small, determinedly optimistic part of him hoping that he might see the familiar figure of his brother loping towards him.
He didn't.
He saw something else, though; something that drew his brows together in a frown, that sent him towards the front of the car where he squatted down and scrutinised the ground.
Sand had fallen, had spread out from where the bank of the road had collapsed. It was still fresh, in peaked clumps which wind hadn't had time to smooth, and pressed into it was a wide indentation.
An indentation such as might have been caused by a falling body.
And then his gaze fixed on something else, and the suffocating heat couldn't prevent the chill that settled low in his stomach.
"Son of a bitch..."
It was blood.
It was right there. Just a few feet away, lying in the sand. If he moved just a little, if he crawled those few feet, it would be his.
He could already feel the smooth plastic in his hands.
Trickles blurred over the surface where condensation had fused into little droplets. It was cold then, ice-cold; he would hold it against his face for a minute when he reached it. He would press that wonderful chill against his burning skin.
But only for a minute.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd had something to drink, even something warm. He couldn't really even imagine what water would be like in his mouth. His tongue was heavy, coated with thick dust and dried saliva. Moisture, wetness, flowing gently, trickling down his throat... he smiled at the heavenly thought, although it looked more like a grimace on his stiff sun-scorched face.
And once he'd had a drink, he would be stronger, able to walk further. Able to find Dean.
He lurched across from where he had slumped in the sand, reaching for the water bottle.
His hand closed over it.
And came up empty.
He blinked, confused, opening and closing his hand for a moment. It had been... he'd seen it... it was right –
There.
A few feet away, just out of his reach. Icy and glistening. His craving for it was a physical ache.
He lunged forward, a little more desperately this time. Both hands clutched at it.
And missed.
It was still there.
Still beyond his grasp.
His already harsh breathing accelerated. He needed that water. He had to have it.
He threw himself full-length on the sand and snatched at the bottle, fingers digging into the sand in his frantic attempts to hold onto it. He could almost feel it, he had it, his hands were closing around it...
Dry sand trickled from his empty fingers as he lifted them.
It was gone again.
It was there again, just beyond his reach.
"No..." It would have been a sob if he'd had any tears, if his voice wasn't a hoarse rasp. "Please..." He gazed hopelessly at it. It was so real, so solid and there. So desperately craved.
And he knew it would disappear again when he reached for it.
"Go away...just... go away!" He pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes. He couldn't bear it: seeing what he wanted, what he needed more than anything, but being unable to grasp hold of it. He was going to go mad, watching the water and trying to take it and never succeeding. He was going to die.
"Dean..."
I have to find you and I can't...
I'm sorry...
Help me...
He pulled his hands away from his face, kept his eyes averted from where he knew the water was beckoning falsely.
Dean was lying on the sand, only a few feet away.
"Dean!"
He almost fell, scrabbling in the sand to reach his brother. This was real. This had to be real. Somehow, while he'd been fighting to get the water, Dean had found him. Dean had heard him calling and had come. He was facing away, on the ground which meant he was probably hurt, but it was going to be fine. They were together, and Sam could help him now.
He gripped the hunched shoulder and pulled Dean onto his back.
Shirt, jeans, the front of the leather jacket... they were black with blood. It had streamed from the horrendous gaping slashes across Dean's chest and abdomen, where internal organs were visible; had spilled from his nose, from his ears and slack mouth. It had dried in little trickles from his eyes: they were open, staring at Sam in sightless accusation.
"No... Dean..." His breath hitched in a shredded whimper.
Dean's dead...
I didn't find him.
I couldn't save him.
Dean's dead and it's all my fault...
He pushed himself away, lurching to his feet in an awkward flail of arms and legs.
I'm sorry, Dean... I tried to save you...
He staggered, uncoordinated legs tangling as the landscape tilted drunkenly before his gaze.
Then he went down again, and this time he didn't get up.
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