Sam gasped wildly for air as his eyes flew open. His heart was pounding like a galloping horse and he stared in confusion at the overcast sky above him, ringed with the dark, spiked silhouettes of trees. It was night. There was no moon and no stars. How could he see anything?
He sat up. He was in the middle of a small clearing in a forest. There was no sign of Dean. Or anything, for that matter, except the long grass and silent trees.
"Right," Sam muttered to himself as he got to his feet. "So far, so good."
Sam looked around the clearing, trying to spy a path or trail he was meant to follow. He shivered; Dean's mind was cold. He didn't remember Bobby's mind being cold. He tried to ignore the obvious red flag.
The sound of twigs snapping and pine needles brushing against each other made Sam turn. His gaze zeroed in on the swaying branches to his left. Taking a deep breath, he followed whatever had moved them.
It was even darker under the canopy. The trees were wide and close and Sam walked with hunched shoulders, trying not to disturb the great monarchs. The night was so still, so quiet that every tentative step seemed as loud as gunfire.
Every now and then Sam caught a glimpse of a small figure ahead of him, staying out of sight but close enough to guide his way with its barely audible footfalls. Whatever it was, it was tiny – barely as tall as Sam's hip.
He wished he had a weapon. While knowing he had the Dream Root's added mojo, a handgun or machete would feel very reassuring on this long walk through the dark forest.
After what must have been over an hour, the trees began to thin. Sam's mysterious guide abruptly vanished. Sam paused, listening for the whisper-soft footsteps, but they were gone. Swallowing hard, he pressed on through the steadily thinning trees in as straight a line as he could trace without a path.
As he stepped out from under the last pine's boughs, Sam's mouth fell open.
The clearing was unremarkable, the pathetic ruin of a building sinister only in its dilapidation. What halted Sam was the murky shadows of a familiar junkyard curving behind what he then recognised to be a house.
Bobby's house.
Sam stepped forward, his guard up, his hands fisted against any surprise attack. The memories the old ruin engendered were less easy to fend off. The book-cluttered rooms and smell of stale beer and incense were gone. One corner of his old safehouse remained standing, the ragged brickwork silhouetted against the inky, starless sky. The roof had caved in, debris littering the area that had once been a porch and garden.
Sam compared the image before him with the memory of the last time he had seen Bobby's place. Weeds had been reclaiming the land after a Leviathan had burnt the former haven into a smoldering crater.
Impossibly, this looked worse.
Maybe it was the rawness of the ruin before him, the lack of any new growth to soften the carnage that made it so hard to behold. Or maybe it was because this must be how Dean remembered the old place, instead of as the haven – the home – it had been for so many years.
Sam shook himself. If he was going to help Dean out of this mess, he had to be strong. He couldn't let himself be caught up in nostalgia or grief or anything that wasn't constructive to helping Dean. Reminiscing about the house that once was didn't help anything.
Sam turned his hunter's eye on the ruin, thinking. Whoever his little guide was, they had wanted him to come here. Assuming the guide was friendly, that could mean Dean was inside.
Except that there was no inside anymore. There was rubble and there was under rubble, but nothing that could be called 'inside'.
Sam walked around the perimeter a ways before he saw something that made him smile. One of the door posts to the basement had survived whatever catastrophe had leveled most of the two storey house. His smile widened. Of course.
The panic room.
Carefully maneuvering his way down through the dusty bricks and squeaking stairs, Sam descended into the basement. Whatever mysterious luminescence lit the world outside kept working in here, for which Sam was grateful. He didn't like the idea of starting a fire in Dean's mind.
The iron door to the panic room was closed. Sam laid his hand against it a moment, feeling the rough, salted surface under his palm. He pushed.
The door creaked open.
Dean was inside.
If the apparition of the ruined house had shocked Sam, it was nothing compared to the sight of his ruined brother.
Dean was hunched over himself against the wall, his normally big frame seeming smaller. His head was buried in his hands and Sam could see blood on his knuckles. It wasn't the only stain. Blood and bruises covered his exposed back. Whatever light illuminated him cast the spaces between his ribs and shoulder blades into achingly sharp relief. He was emaciated.
Thick chains as black as demon eyes crisscrossed over Dean's shaking frame, wearing deep welts into his battered skin, winding around his torn jeans. They didn't seem tied to him, but their sheer weight kept them – and Dean – in place. Dean was pressing himself hard into the wall of the panic room as though desperate to melt into it.
Sam, realising that Dean had not yet noticed his presence, took a moment to compose himself. He could feel this later: now Dean needed him to be strong. He swallowed his tears and took a quiet step forward.
"Dean?" he whispered, not wanting to frighten his brother.
Dean flinched and pressed himself yet harder into the wall, his head swaying from side to side as soft moans escaped him.
So much for that.
"Dean?" he tried again, taking another step closer. "Dean, it's Sam. It's Sammy."
When he reached the quivering form of his brother, Sam sank down to his level. This close to him, the sight became harder to bear. Ignoring it, Sam focused on the tiny sounds his brother was making, listening until they became words.
"No, no, no, no, please, no, no, please –"
"Dean?" he tried again.
"No! No! Please, no!"
"Dean, it's Sam. Sammy. I'm not gonna hurt you."
Despite Sam's gentlest tone, Dean flinched as though the words had cut him.
"No, Sammy, please, I'm so sorry, no, please Sammy, pleeease –"
"I'm here, Dean. It's okay." Sam swallowed. This was a million miles from 'okay'.
"Sammy, please, so sorry, Sammy, I'm sorry, please, Sammy, no more –"
Unwanted tears filled Sam's eyes. He was afraid to touch his brother's shaking shoulder. If his words caused this much distress, how damaging would his hand be?
"Dean, I'm here. It's okay, I'm here. Look at me, Dean, please."
Dean's fingers tightened in his shaggy hair. He curled further in on himself, trying to escape whatever horror Sam's words were causing.
Trying valiantly to keep the tears from his eyes and voice, Sam tried again. "Dean, I'm here. You don't have to be sorry. It's okay: we fixed it. You and me."
Dean's reaction didn't change. He shuffled backwards on his bare feet, trying to get away from Sam, but the table behind him held him trapped.
Unable to bear the soft moans any longer, Sam reached out and laid his hand gently on Dean's bare shoulder.
Dean cried out at the contact and jerked backwards, his hands rising instinctively to protect himself. Which gave Sam an unobstructed view of his brother's face.
Sam remembered, when Dean had been in Hell, trying to imagine what tortures his brother was enduring, and, if he ever figured out a way to bring him back, how he would look.
None of Sam's nightmares had ever achieved the detail of torment he now saw in his brother's gaunt, skeletal face.
Dean's eyes were sunken and ringed with dark shadows, thrown into sharp relief by the paleness of his skin. His cheeks were hollowed to the point that he looked more like a cadaver than a living human. His lips were pale and cracked, hair disheveled, his freckles like flecks of shrapnel scattered across his face.
All of that, Sam probably could have handled.
But then he met Dean's eyes.
It was as though every hurt Dean had ever felt was laid out in the dark, dead-looking irises. A pain Sam had only ever felt was as clear to see in Dean's eyes as the freckles on his nose. Worse still, Dean's eyes seemed deeper than Sam had ever seen them, and he knew instinctively why. For the first time in his life, he was looking into his brother's unguarded eyes. No walls separated what Dean was feeling from Sam's gaze, and eyes had never been so expressive. Sam could see, could almost feel Dean's longing for – what? Comfort? Death?
Tears broke through Sam's defenses and raced each other over his lids as though trying to get to his brother. For one moment, Sam allowed himself to feel overwhelmed and acutely young. Then he blinked.
"Dean?" His voice cracked but he ignored it, reaching his hand slowly out to Dean.
Dean's eyes darted from Sam's hand to his face and back, looking terrified. "Please," he begged in a choked whisper.
"What? Please what, Dean?"
"Please," he repeated, his eyes boring into Sam's imploringly. "Please don't hurt me."
Sam fought to smile, pretending to ignore Dean's answering flinch. "I am not going to hurt you, Dean," he said slowly and clearly. "I promise you. I'm here to help you."
Dean's eyebrows twitched momentarily. "You're different."
"Different?"
"From the other Sams. You're older."
Trying to keep up, Sam nodded. "I'm not a memory, Dean. I'm me." Dean's eyes widened. "You're asleep, so I took some African Dream Root to come help."
Dean regarded him warily for a long moment. "Asleep?"
Sam nodded, his smile widening. "Yeah. Well, in a coma technically."
"Coma."
"Yeah, Dean. So I'm here to help you wake up."
"I'm still alive?"
The question caught Sam off guard. "Yeah, Dean, of course you're still alive."
Dean's unshielded eyes couldn't hide his disappointment. Before Sam could speak, Dean punched himself hard on the temples with both hands curled into thin fists. "No! No! No! No!"
"Dean! Stop! Dean!"
Sam took hold of Dean's wrists. His fingers closed right around them as he pulled them away. Dean hung his head, shaking harder now. He was repeating his desperate mantra, his voice breaking.
"Dean, it's okay! It's – it's good you're alive!" Sam's voice hardened. "I need you to be alive. You hear me, Dean? I need you! You can't leave me alone out there. That's our deal, isn't it? We take all the hits that keep coming, we lose everyone else, but we still have each other, right? You and me, come whatever, right?"
Dean was sobbing. "No, you're wrong, you're wrong –"
"I am not wrong Dean!"
"You don't want me, you can't want me." Dean sobbed as the strength went out of his arms and he sagged in Sam's grip.
Sam let one wrist flop to the floor and took a firm hold of Dean's chin, forcing him to look into his burning gaze.
"Don't you think that. Not for one second, Dean. Not for one second. You're my brother, Dean. I need you. Of course I want you. You think I'd be here if I didn't?" Dean's tortured gaze searched Sam's as though looking for the lie. Hope, faint and weak, kindled in the dark green irises.
"I'm not letting you go anywhere, big brother. You're coming home with me."
Just as Dean's features twitched into a timidly hopeful expression, Sam heard a low chuckle behind him. He saw Dean's eyes flicker to the source of the sound and widen in unbridled terror, obliterating all traces of hope.
Sam turned, rising to his feet and putting himself between Dean and whatever had just caused such fear to return to his brother's eyes.
It was Dean.
A healthier, fully clothed Dean leaned casually against the open door with his arms folded and his bearded mouth curved into a smile Sam didn't recognise.
This Dean's eyes were black.
"No," Sam growled, disbelieving. "We got rid of you. We burned you away!"
The demon Dean chuckled again. "Not quite, Sam. You tried, but, not quite."
"How?" Sam demanded, his voice filling the room like thunder.
"Y'know how all those fancy cleaning products only kill, like, ninety-nine-point-nine percent of bacteria?" He held up a hand. "Point-one percent."
"I don't understand!"
"I don't expect you to. It's really very complicated."
"Get," Sam spat, "out of here."
"Would if I could, kid, but, eh, I have unfinished business with that, uh, 'man' behind you."
Sam could feel Dean trembling and chanced a half-glance in his direction. He was backed against the wall, staring at his demon self, his eyes wide and staring.
"Y'see," the demon continued, "those chains there that're all over your dear bro? The ones you can see? They mean that me and the Mark, well, we've still got a claim on this soul." The smile vanished as the demon fixed Sam with a fierce scowl. "And we don't give up so easy."
The demon sank into a crouch and lunged for Sam's throat, clawed hands outstretched. Before he could react, Sam felt Dean brush against his leg, his arm pushing against his stomach, forcing him back and out of harm's way. Sam's eyes widened in horror as he fell backwards, watching the chained, battered Dean rise up to meet his demon counterpart, both yelling, both reaching for the other.
Sam's head hit the salted iron wall with a loud thwack and –
– he bolted upright in his chair beside Dean's bed.
"Sam? Sam!"
It took a long moment for Cas's voice to register. Sam gaped at him, disorientated, his arms outstretched to pull Dean back.
"Sam! What happened?"
Cas's commanding voice centered Sam's attention. He anchored himself to his friend's familiar face.
"What happened?"
"Yes, that's what I want to know!"
Sam looked to Dean. He was lying exactly how he'd left him. Compared to the specter he had encountered in Dean's mind, the Dean lying under the thin blankets looked positively chubby. His cheekbones were far more prominent than they should be, and the freckles were too noticeable against the pale skin, but at least he looked alive.
"Sam, don't make me beat it out of you! What the hell happened in there?" Cas was shouting. Sam looked back up at him, focusing.
"I found Dean in Bobby's house. It was a wreck. Dean was ... was worse."
"Worse?"
"Yeah."
"Than what?"
"Than here," Sam said hollowly, gesturing to the motionless figure on the bed. "Worse than the ruin of Bobby's place. Worse than I've ever seen him."
"But you saw him? And you're sure it was him, not a phantom?"
"I'm sure." There was no mistaking the reality of the suffering in those haunting eyes.
"Sam Winchester, I swear to my father if you don't spit it out, I'll –"
"Sorry, Cas," Sam interrupted. "It's ... I found him in the panic room. He looked awful. He didn't recognise me at first. He didn't know me. Once he did, he was terrified of me, convinced I was going to hurt him."
"His soulsickness must be using your form to torment him."
"Yeah," Sam grunted sarcastically. "Great."
Cas looked abashed and gestured for Sam to continue.
"He was just starting to listen to me when his, I dunno, his demon self arrived. Looked just like Dean did a few months ago, just cockier. If that's possible. That Dean came at me and then the other Dean, the real Dean, pushed me out of the way and went to meet him. I hit my head."
"So when you left, Dean was fighting the demon?"
"I didn't leave, I was evicted! I thought dream walkers could only wake up when the sleeper did?"
"Well, Dean isn't exactly sleeping, now, is he," Cas said pointedly. "And I suppose it's possible he forced you out so the demon couldn't harm you."
Sam smiled sadly. "Knowing him, that's probably what happened." He looked over to his comatose brother. "But at what cost?"
There was a very uncomfortable pause.
"At least you tried, Sam," Cas said softly.
Sam was too tired to respond. He felt drained. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept. "I'm gonna get some sleep, then try again."
He could almost feel Cas's look of disapproval boring into the back of his head but he ignored it. He scooted his chair closer to the bed and slumped forward, resting his subtly pounding head on his arms. He kept one hand almost touching Dean's, so he would feel it if it moved and wake up. When it moved.
He heard a rustling behind him, followed by the gentle weight of Cas's coat settling over his shoulders. He mumbled a barely audible, "Thanks Cas", and moments later felt the welcoming pull of sleep tug his eyelids shut.