A/N Don't worry, guys, everything will be fixed by the time we reach the end of the story but, in the meantime, you might want to prepare yourself for what is ahead :)
Thank you so much to everyone who is reading and/or reviewing! I truly appreciate you guys from the bottom of my heart.
Chapter Four
Cas stared at Sam's body with shock, unable to look away from the gut-wrenching sight before him.
Sam Winchester was dead. His friend. One of the few people in the world who was even remotely able to understand some of the things that Cas had been through. A friend who would and had done anything he could for Cas.
Not only that, but he was a good person. One of the best, in fact, and the world didn't understand how much it owed him. It could not stand to lose Sam Winchester.
But Cas couldn't bring him back.
His eyes slowly filled with tears that burned and Cas didn't try to stop them. He was honored to weep for a man like Sam. Gently, he laid a hand on Sam's arm, as if he could offer some final comfort for what must have been a painful, violent, death.
His skin was already cold to the touch and he had likely been dead for at least an hour, probably longer. They had never had a chance of saving him.
"Sam, I—" Cas wanted to say something, but he didn't know what. There were no words that could cover the depths of what he was feeling. Rarely did he wish to return to being a full angel with his grace intact. Most of the time he knew that he was a better being because of its loss and the knowledge and growth that had come with it, but at times like this it was different.
He might have been able to save Sam before, but now… now he was useless and Sam was dead. Did not the world—and Dean—need Sam more than they needed a sorry excuse for an angel?
Cas was having trouble wrapping his mind around it. It just didn't seem possible. Sam couldn't be dead. He was a Winchester. They didn't die and, even if they did, it wasn't for long.
But this time Lucifer or another archangel wasn't around to bring Sam back and he knew better than to let Dean try anything. He wouldn't even try himself despite how his heart might yearn too. Not after Sam's violation under Gadreel. Not when Sam had forced a promise from him after that experience that if he died, Cas wasn't to bring him back in any way unnatural, nor was he supposed to let Dean try.
Dean.
What was Dean going to do?
Licking his lips and blinking rapidly to clear his eyes, Cas sat back on his heels. To say that Dean wasn't going to handle things well was an understatement. He'd be crushed. He wouldn't—Dean wouldn't survive it. He would become a husk of a man, one that saw little purpose or even joy in life. And then there was Mary and Jack…
Cas sucked in a steadying breath and turned back to Sam.
He would worry about the others in a moment. That time would come sooner than Cas wanted it to, and when that happened they would need him to be strong, especially Dean and Jack. He was going to have to be someone that they could lean on, and he couldn't do that and grieve Sam the way that he wanted to.
Sam would understand—he would want him to look out for the others—but Cas was taking this moment as his. He was going to grieve and mourn for his friend.
A stronger wave of emotion flooded through Cas.
Sam had been a good friend, despite the fact that Cas hadn't understood or even really liked him when they first met. He'd just been the boy with the demon blood, and Cas had caused him so much pain in his life. He'd never admitted to letting him out of the panic room, silently letting him take the blame for everything that had happened, and then he'd broken Sam's wall, making his life a literal hell.
Yet Sam had forgiven him. Had become and stayed a dear friend through the years. They had been through much together. So many ups and downs and almost world-ending situations…
Sam would be missed, probably more than he would have ever understood during his life. Another pang of soul deep sadness seared through Cas.
Carefully, he reached down and tenderly straightened Sam's head to a more natural position and curled Sam's arms up to rest over his stomach and chest. His left one gave way oddly, revealing a badly broken arm, and Cas gentled his touch, not that it would do much good.
Sam was in a place where he felt no pain.
He hoped that he was at peace. Maybe not with his father, but with Bobby. He would look after Sam, Cas did trust that.
"Cas?!"
The sound of his name being yelled through the funeral home made Cas flinch and he ducked his head. Closing his eyes, he laid his hand against Sam's shoulder, squeezing hard, and tried to say something but he still hadn't found the correct words to cover how he was feeling, and he pulled back.
Taking a deep breath, he pulled himself together.
Jack needed him, and Jack couldn't walk in on Sam like this. It would scar him for life.
Giving Sam one last, long, look, Cas pushed himself up and then ducked back into the viewing room and headed towards the main lobby.
He was just in time to throw out an arm to stop Jack from entering the room. Jack looked up at him, his eyes wide and flustered. He held up a phone—Sam's phone, Cas realized a moment later—which was vibrating.
"Dean keeps calling. I don't know what to do," he blurted, shoving the phone in Cas's direction as if Cas could fix the problem and his stomach tightened. There was no way that he was going to be able to fix this one. Their whole lives had changed. He took it all the same, glancing down to see that Dean was indeed calling.
"Did you find Sam? He wasn't upstairs, but they trashed the room and I think that they were looking for something," Jack said breathlessly, looking anxious.
"Jack…" Cas didn't know how to do this. Jack thought the world of Sam. He'd been so upset when he'd thought that Sam had died last time, what was he going to do now?
Jack frowned, glancing back through the room. "Cas, did you find him? We need to find him, is he back there?" he asked in the same frazzled voice even as he took a step forward, no doubt going to check for himself that Sam wasn't there.
Cas moved back a step with him, tightening his grip on his arm and bringing him to a halt.
Sam's phone stopped buzzing but only a second later his own phone started to vibrate and Cas closed his eyes. It had to be Dean calling, probably wondering why Sam wasn't answering his phone. Dean was smart, he had to know that something was wrong if he was trying to get a hold of his brother.
Dean was just going to have to wait for a moment, though. He could live one more moment in ignorant bliss.
"Jack, you do not want to go back there," he said as gently as he could even as he steadily met his eyes.
"What? Why not?" Jack stared at him, uncomprehending, and Cas's stomach turned over. Jack had already lost so much in his short lifetime. Why was he—they—losing this now as well? It just wasn't fair or right. It hurt more than Cas could express.
"It's…you don't need to see, alright?"
Jack's eyes were narrowing, a frown deepening the lines on his forehead as he looked Cas up and down.
"You have blood on your hands and knees," he said before Cas could figure out how to say what he needed to say. He blinked in surprise and then looked down at himself. His hands and knees were indeed stained scarlet with drying blood that he must have picked up from Sam. There had been enough of it, that was for sure.
"Jack—"
"Where's Sam?!" Jack's voice had risen, taking on a slightly desperate quality now and there was nothing for it.
"I found Sam, Jack," Cas said firmly, now holding onto both of Jack's biceps to keep him in place. "And you don't need to see him like this. It isn't—it won't be something that you will want to remember. You'll want to remember Sam how he was, so please wait for Dean and I to clean him up first."
Jack's face screwed up in confusion before the realization of what Cas was saying hit. His eyes went wide, and he shook his head.
"What? No. Cas, Sam can't be—He's not dead!"
"I'm so sorry," Cas said, wishing once again that there was some way that he could make this better, that he could take away the pain. Jack looked away, licking his lips, and his eyes were watery when he turned back.
"No. Sam's just—he's not—"
"I'm sorry," Cas repeated helplessly.
"No!" Jack repeated more fervently this time, trying to tear himself out of Cas's hold. "No—I—I want to see him. I'll show you, I'll—"
"Jack, I'm telling you, it's not pretty. There is a lot of blood, and Sam's—"
"I don't care!"
Sam's phone interrupted them as it began to vibrate again and Cas's insides clenched with rising anxiety.
He didn't want to do this, telling Jack had been hard enough.
Jack took advantage of his momentary distraction to break his hold and slip past him and into the viewing room. Cas cursed softly and swiftly followed him as Jack looked wildly around before seeing the shattered doors.
He ducked through the glass and then stopped short. Cas came to a stop behind him, watching as he stood there, completely rigid. Cas hesitated briefly before wrapping an arm around Jack's shoulders. He didn't say anything. There was nothing that he could do or say that was going to make Jack feel better. Not right now, anyway.
Jack continued to stare at Sam's broken body, before taking the last few stumbling steps to Sam's side. He crumpled to his knees, and then reached out, his hand hovering over Sam's arm, but he didn't touch him.
The tears that had filled his eyes earlier began to spill over, staining his cheeks as his breathing became ragged.
Cas's phone began to vibrate with an incoming call, and he couldn't put this off any longer. If neither of them answered, then Dean was likely to come here himself and he deserved a warning before he walked in on Sam like this.
"Jack, I have to talk to Dean," he warned, crouching down and searching Jack's face. Jack didn't respond as he continued to fight off tears, staring numbly at Sam. Cas squeezed his shoulder hard before turning and moving away in some sort of attempt to offer Dean privacy for the news that he was about to deliver.
His phone had fallen silent by then, but it had hardly done so before Sam's phone once again began to buzz. Dean's name was on the screen, and Cas took a deep breath before swiping up and bringing the phone to his ear.
"I swear, that if—" Dean was saying on the other end, his frustration evident before he realized that the line had connected. "Sammy? Oh, thank God. Why the hell did it take you so long to answer your damn phone? Seriously, you'll answer everyone else's calls now but not mine?"
Cas didn't know how to do this.
"Dean, it's me," he said, hunching inwards and Dean paused his angry monologue for only a moment in confusion before starting up again.
"Cas? Why didn't you answer your damn phone either? You know what, never mind. Give Sam his phone back. I need to tell him what exactly he can do with it."
Cas didn't want to do this. He had never wanted to do this. He'd do almost anything else over this.
"Dean, I'm so sorry."
There was a strangled pause on the other end, and Cas waited, holding his breath.
"It's fine. You were probably busy and couldn't get to your phone. I get it. Just…hand the phone over to Sam. I need to speak with him. Right now."
That wasn't what Cas had meant, and he was sure that Dean knew it.
"Dean, I'm sorry. There was nothing we could do. We got here too late, Sam's—" Dead was on the tip of his tongue, but Cas couldn't say it out loud. It still felt unreal.
Dean laughed nervously, blatantly refusing to pick up on what Cas was trying to say. "Man, hand the phone over. I—this isn't funny. I really need to talk with Sam."
"Dean, you need to come to the funeral home."
Cas waited for Dean's answer, but the only one he got was the dial tone. Dean had hung up on him.
Bowing his head, Cas pressed his lips together. Dean was not going to take this well and Cas understood but it still made his own heart hurt. Taking another deep breath, he tucked both phones back into his pocket for safekeeping.
Steeling himself, he walked over to where Jack was kneeling. He had apparently decided that touching Sam was okay because he was cradling his hand gently in both of his. He looked up at Cas's approach, his face stained with tears.
"Why?" he managed to get out in a ragged whisper, pleading for Cas to have the answers.
Cas sighed, kneeling next to him. "I don't know. Sam was very good at what he did, but sometimes that doesn't matter. Sometimes that isn't enough."
Jack bowed his head again, letting out a low, keening, sound as his shoulders began to shake once more. Cas wrapped his arm around him and Jack melted into his embrace, clutching at Sam's hand like that could bring him back.
Cas let him have the moment, taking what he could for himself as well. Sam's eyes were still open and Cas longed to close them. At least then Sam would look more natural and like he was just sleeping, but that wasn't his right.
After a minute or so he broke the silence saying to Jack, and maybe to Sam as well, "I called Dean." Jack stiffened but Cas continued. "And he's on his way. He'll be here soon. Listen, Jack, he's not going to be happy and he's going to need some space to grieve and be alone with Sam. When he gets here, I want you to go back upstairs or into another one of the viewing rooms and find some long curtains if you can. We'll need to wrap Sam up for…" Cas had to stop, the pain an almost physical knife in between his ribs. He had lost so many people that he loved and respected over the years. It should have felt normal by now, but it didn't. It still hurt. "We need to wrap him up for transport."
"No. We can't—we're just taking him back to the motel. Then we can bring him back, can't we?" Jack said instantly. "Somehow, someway, we have to bring him back. Lucifer brought him back before. We can find Michael, or—"
"Sometimes people can't be brought back," Cas interrupted as firmly as he could.
"Maybe other people, but we bring people back. We don't just let them die," Jack repeated stubbornly and Cas wished that it was that simple.
"Sam doesn't want to be brought back. Not if it disrupts the natural process or hurts someone else. We can't just bring him back."
Jack pulled away from him, giving him a hot glare. "Stop acting like this! This is Sam, he's not just anyone! And you don't know that he wouldn't want to be brought back, you can't just assume that!"
"Yes, actually, I do know that," Cas said wearily. "I swore to him, Jack, that if he was to die I was going to do my best to not let Dean do anything to bring him back. To ensure that if he died, he would stay dead and be at peace."
"But what if he doesn't want that anymore? What if it's changed?" Jack was now pleading, staring at him so hopefully that Cas almost couldn't find it in himself to shatter that hope, but he shook his head stalwartly.
"I can't tell you what you want to hear, Jack. I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry, just fix it! You're an angel!"
The words stung, even if Jack didn't mean them to. "Jack, if I could—"
Jack turned away from him, cutting him off with an angry sound as his face screwed up in a mixture of pain and rage. He shook Cas's hand off even as he clutched Sam's harder. A moment later his shoulders began to shake and he bent forward, sobbing.
Cas tentatively reached forward again, laying an arm around his shoulders. This time Jack didn't shove him away and Cas inched closer, gazing down at Sam as Jack continued to cry.
The throaty roar of the Impala was their first warning that Dean was about to arrive, and Cas hurriedly stood, his heart in his throat. "Jack," he said trying and failing to keep the urgency out of his voice even as he tugged Jack up by the arm. Jack hesitated, his focus still on Sam, but Cas tightened his grip. "Jack, go upstairs. Please, just go and don't come back until I get you."
Dean was going to be here any second, and Jack didn't need to witness what was about to happen. Cas didn't even really know himself what that might look like, but he did know that he wanted Jack away.
"Jack, now!"
Jack turned numbly but the sound of a car door slamming brought life back into his face. Shooting one last look at Sam's body over his shoulder, he turned and scurried away.
Cas passed him as he strode swiftly towards the door to head Dean off.
#
Dean wrenched open the motel door without waiting to see if Mary would follow. Something was wrong with Sam and had been for possibly a couple of hours. That was…this could be bad.
He had his phone out and was calling Sam before he even stepped off the porch. It rang endlessly, finally switching over to voicemail and Dean's panic was only increasing. "Sam, answer your damn phone. People are trying to get a hold of you," he snarled as he headed for the Impala before sending him a brief text demanding that he call him.
Mary yanked open the door from where he had shut it. "I'm coming with you," she announced but Dean didn't care. He threw open the Impala's trunk even as he dialed Cas. Cas should be at the funeral home as well by now. He'd be able to tell Dean why Sam wasn't answering…only Cas didn't pick up either and Dean swore loudly before trying Sam again. He was going to keep calling until one of them picked up.
This was utterly ridiculous. Phones were meant to be answered.
He began to sort through the weapons there, grabbing only the essentials. If they needed help then Dean wasn't going to have a lot of time to react and they needed to be prepared. His hands were starting to shake as he shoved shotgun shells of both salt and iron into his pocket but he couldn't do anything about it.
Mary joined him, breathless and still shrugging into her coat. The wind was whipping her hair across her face and she shook it out of her eyes, only for it to blow right back in.
Sam still wasn't picking up, and Dean tried Cas again. Grabbing his sawed off, he tucked it under his arm before slipping an angel blade into his pocket.
Mary leaned in, grabbing her own assortment of weapons with an efficiency and ease that normally might have impressed Dean. Tonight, it only frustrated him as he tried Sam's phone once more, his hand on the trunk and ready to shut it as soon as Mary had finished.
"C'mon, damnit," he muttered. "I swear that if—" The line connected and Dean jerked around, his full focus on the phone even as relief swept over him. It was okay. Everything was going to be okay. "Sammy? Oh, thank God. Why the hell did it take you so long to answer your damn phone? Seriously, you'll answer everyone else's calls now but not mine?"
There was a pause on the other end before Cas's deeper voice came over the line. "Dean, it's me."
Dean's stomach did a sickening flip and he paced a step away from Mary who was shooting him a concerned look. "Cas? Why didn't you answer your damn phone either? You know what, never mind. Give Sam his phone back. I need to tell him exactly what he can do with it."
Again, there was a long moment of hesitation. "Dean, I'm so sorry."
Dean's brain wasn't comprehending what Cas was saying and he stuttered to a stop. No. That wasn't—Cas couldn't mean what he thought that he did. "It's fine. You were probably busy and couldn't get to your phone, I get it. Just…hand the phone over to Sam. I need to speak with him. Right now."
He needed to hear Sam's voice, to know that even if he wasn't okay that he was alive. Cas would get him help if he was in trouble, Cas was there and Dean would be there shortly as well. It would all be okay.
"Dean, I'm so sorry. There was nothing we could do, we got here too late, Sam's—" Cas cut himself off, his breath hitching.
Dean's gut clenched, but that couldn't be. He knew those words, knew that tone of voice. He'd used them himself to deliver bad news to people, bad news that couldn't pertain to him. Not to Sam. This must just be some sort of insane and very insensitive joke that Sam and Cas were playing on him. "Man, hand the phone over. I—this isn't funny. I really need to talk with Sam."
"Dean, you need to come to the funeral home."
Dean wasn't consciously aware of hanging up as he slammed the lid of the trunk shut—Mary just managed to jump back before it hit her—and then strode around the car, heading for the driver's side.
Cas didn't know anything. He was just being idiotic.
Yanking the door open, he turned over the engine and then pulled out of the parking spot. Belatedly, he realized that he'd left Mary behind, and he watched her throw her hands up in exasperation in the rearview mirror but he didn't stop.
A moment later his phone began to vibrate with an incoming call, but Dean ignored it. Hey, it was what everyone else was doing tonight. He might as well join in on the fun.
The funeral home wasn't far away, a twenty-minute drive at most if one was following the speed limit, and Dean wasn't. The boulder in his gut wasn't letting him.
Cas hadn't meant what he'd hinted at. He just…it couldn't be that. Dean hadn't been there. If Sam was going to go before him, then Dean was going to be there. He'd been there every other time. It just…
Pulling into the half-circle driveway, he parked haphazardly next to Cas's car. The lights were on at the funeral home, bathing the outside a warm yellow, but he couldn't see anyone inside.
Slamming the car door, Dean stalked forward and threw open the unlocked door.
"Dean—" Cas was hurrying towards him, one hand outstretched but Dean's brain had stopped.
Blood was everywhere, the scent of iron thick in the air, and Cas…Cas was covered in it. His hands were stained red and splotches of it were on his trench coat and his shirt. His knees were soaked with it, like he had kneeled in a puddle of blood
Dean's eyes were starting to burn as terror threatened to consume him. He had to find Sam. He had to get to him right now.
"Where's Sam? Where's my brother?" Dean demanded hotly, trying to move past Cas, but Cas stuck out an arm, his face hopelessly sad as he attempted to stop him. Dean shoved him roughly in the chest with both hands, sending him staggering back a few steps.
"Where is Sam?" he snarled more forcibly.
"Dean—"
"Tell me where my brother is right the hell now!" Dean felt wild with fear, but Cas wasn't rising to the bait.
"It's not—Just be prepared. It's not going to be easy to see," Cas said calmly and Dean fought the urge to grab him by his trench coat and shake some sense into him.
"I don't care! Just—I have to see Sam!"
Cas took another step back, putting some space between him and Dean, and then pointed at a door just to their left. "He's in the garden. Dean, I'm so—"
Dean didn't want to hear anything else that he had to say and he certainly didn't want to hear any apologies. Pushing his way past Cas, he marched through the door and looked around. The shattered sliding door led into what he supposed was the garden and Dean headed straight for it. Ducking through what remained of the door, he straightened and then stopped, unable to move even if he had wanted to.
A truck couldn't have hit him any harder than the image before him.
He had known, theoretically and in some sort of abstract way, what Cas had been trying to tell him. His mind had been trying to warn him that he was going to find Sam's body, but he…he wasn't prepared.
He wasn't prepared to see Sam lying there, unmoving, and in the middle of a pool of blood. One leg was bent unnaturally underneath the other, like Sam had fallen and hadn't been able to get back up and his head was turned towards Dean.
Sam was staring at him, but there was no life in his eyes, no sign of recognition or awareness.
"Sammy—" The word was ripped from Dean. This couldn't—there was no way—This couldn't be how Sam died. "Fix him—!" he demanded, rounding on Cas, who had followed him, and jabbing a finger back at Sam.
"Don't you think that I tried? His soul is gone, there was nothing that I could do," Cas said slowly, his face creasing in misery.
No. This couldn't be happening. Not to Sam.
Stumbling forward, Dean dropped down onto his knees next to his brother, his hands hovering uncertainly over him, his eyes searching Sam's but there was nothing there to comfort him.
"Sammy…" His voice broke on the whisper that was meant for Sam's ears alone. He dropped a hand, resting it against Sam's shoulder. "Here, lemme just…" He didn't know what. He gently laid his other hand against Sam's cheek and then closed his eyes against the flood of tears that were waiting.
Sam's skin was cool to the touch and waxy. There was no warmth of life there, and Dean had been around enough bodies to know that Sam had been dead for a while now. But that was just—
"You're okay, it's—I'm—" Dean couldn't form the lies as his throat closed up, the lump there swelling until he couldn't speak. This couldn't be real. "Sam—" he managed to rasp out before a sob shook him. Desperately, he pressed his fingers against Sam's throat, searching for a pulse that he knew wasn't there. He laid his other hand against Sam's bloodied chest, waiting for a breath or a beat of his heart. For anything.
There was nothing, and Dean couldn't deny it anymore.
Sam was dead.
Dean stared down at him. His little brother. His best friend. The one person with whom he could share anything, who had been through so much with him and had his back at every turn.
Sam, who had always been too good for the world, who helped everyone that he could. The world couldn't lose him, he did too much. Dean couldn't lose him. What was he going to do without him?
Dean slipped an arm under Sam's shoulders, lifting him until he was resting against his chest. Sam couldn't be dead. He just—Sam's head lolled limply forward, and he eased it back so that it was resting in a more comfortable position.
Sam didn't fight him on the manhandling. It wasn't natural or right. Sam had a stubborn streak like no other and he fought Dean about everything.
Dean wrapped his arms around him and crushed him closer to his chest even as he twisted his hands in Sam's shirt desperately. He dragged him in even closer as he began to rock. He bowed his head, burying his face in Sam's hair. The smell of blood filled his nose, drowning out the fruity smell of the shampoo that Sam used.
Sam had picked up a new bottle of it just a few weeks ago when they'd been out shopping. Dean had teased him about it and his girly hair, and Sam had laughed along with him with a genuine, good-natured, smile on his face.
He was never going to see that smile again. He was never going to get to tease Sam about his hair again.
For whatever reason, that sent the grief and realization sweeping over him all over again, and he clutched Sam closer with a moan, his fingers digging into Sam's flesh. It would probably hurt if Sam was alive. If he could feel anything.
He couldn't do it. He'd lost Sam so many times, and Dean knew what life without his brother was going to be like. It tore at his very soul and pierced him straight through his heart. He didn't want to do this without Sam. He never had.
Dean clutched Sam's body closer and hoped against hope that if he just held on tight enough he could draw Sam's soul back long enough for Cas to heal him. That he would come back to Dean.
"You're okay, Sammy. You're okay, I've got you. I gotcha, don't you worry," he whispered, his voice barely discernable as he struggled through the tears that were clogging up his voice.
He felt numb. Like he was in shock.
Sam was…dead, and he didn't want to be brought back. This time there was to be no alternative route, no way to undo what had been done. There was no hope of seeing Sam again this time. There wasn't even a cage in hell to research how to get him out of. He was never going to forgive himself for letting Sam come here alone.
Dean didn't know how long he sat there, rocking Sam's body as tears silently coursed down his face. In fact, he wasn't aware of much else besides the cooling body in his arms until the first drops of rain splattered onto Sam's hair and face, smearing the dried blood there and breaking Dean out of his trance.
Turning Sam's face further into his chest to protect him from the elements, Dean hunched over him, using his own body as a shield as it began to drizzle, staining the pavement a darker grey and lightening the blood there to a pinkish hue.
The action sparked additional movement and a moment later a pair of dress shoes appeared in Dean's line of vision before Cas crouched down next to him.
"Dean?"
"No." Dean's voice was thick and hoarse from the tears and he looked away from Cas, resting his cheek against the top of Sam's head now. He wasn't ready to let go. He wasn't ever going to be ready.
"Dean, we need….we need to move Sam. Dean? Dean, I think that it's going to start raining in earnest soon. You will get soaked."
That was the last thing that he cared about. Sam wasn't going to care about it much either so there was no reason for them to move. If he moved—if he moved Sam—then he was going to have to start a life without his brother.
So no, he was content to remain right here.
Cas fell silent for a long moment before trying again. "It's going to be morning sooner rather than later. We need to leave before Mrs. Phillips comes back or any other workers arrive. If that happens, then they will call the officials, and they will take Sam away from you."
Dean shook his head, snorting and clutching Sam tighter. He'd like to see them try.
"We need to get him someplace safe. This isn't it." Cas's hand came to rest against Dean's shoulder and he stiffened. "Here, let me…" Cas was moving, reaching for Sam and Dean wrenched himself back, tugging Sam with him.
"No, Cas, don't—" Dean pleaded, holding on tighter.
"It's going to be alright, Dean. It's going to be okay."
Dean didn't believe that, not even for a moment. Sam was dead, that was about as far from alright as it was going to get. Cas got that sad look on his face again, before twisting on his heels and beckoning with one hand. A moment later Jack appeared, his face pale and his eyes red, holding what looked to be a set of long curtains.
Dean knew what the curtains were for and his stomach clenched.
"No. We're not doing that," Dean insisted, trying to hunch further over Sam and protect him. The drizzle was quickly becoming heavier, and Cas's coat was getting wet. Dean could feel the coldness seeping under his collar but it was better than moving.
"We need to get Sam ready. We have to move him, we cannot stay here and we cannot walk around with a body out in the open," Cas insisted firmly as he accepted the pile of material from Jack and began to shake one out. Dean shook his head again.
"No."
"Dean, I won't hurt him, I promise." Cas was reaching for Sam again, trying to pry his body from Dean's arms and Dean roughly pushed him back with one hand.
"No. Don't. I'll—I've got him. I'll take care of it."
Cas hesitated, looking unsure as he searched Dean's face but Dean broke the gaze, looking back down at Sam.
"Give us a minute—alone—then I'll take care of it," he requested and Cas chewed on his lip, glancing over at Jack who couldn't seem to drag his eyes away from Sam, before nodding. Standing, he laid the linens down next to Dean and then stepped away respectfully and ushered Jack back as well.
Dean closed his eyes. He needed more than a minute. He needed a whole lifetime before he was going to be able to let Sam go.
He didn't think that he could do this.
Biting off another sob, Dean bent over Sam.
This wasn't how it was supposed to end. Sam was supposed to get old. Maybe have a family. He wasn't supposed to die bloody, that had never been what Dean had wanted for him or pictured. Sam was supposed to get to live a life even if Dean didn't.
He knew that more than a minute had passed. Cas was no doubt waiting, but he couldn't—he couldn't wrap his brother up in those. That wasn't—he couldn't do it.
It took all the strength that Dean possessed to straighten. Keeping Sam pressed against him as much as possible and off of the cold concrete, Dean began to spread out the curtains one handed and tried to ignore the way that he was trembling.
He went to lower Sam down and found that he couldn't. Instead, he drew Sam in closer until his head was resting in the crook of Dean's arm. Some of his hair had been glued with dried blood to the side of his face and Dean pried it free before tucking it back behind Sam's ear.
Sam was still staring sightlessly forward, and Dean's nose burned as fresh tears sparked. There was no life in the hazel eyes. No love, laughter, or even anger. Sam's eyes had always been so expressive and Dean could read what his brother just by looking into them.
Now, there was nothing.
Raising his hand, Dean went to close them but stopped.
This was the last time that he was going to be able to look into Sam's eyes. How long would it be before he forgot exactly what color they were? Or how they would light up when he was happy. If he closed them now, they were never going to open again.
Dean blinked rapidly and drew in a ragged breath. Sammy, I can't do this, he thought desperately as he dropped his hand down to rest against Sam's chest. I can't. I can't do this without you.
The tears were starting all over again as Dean tried to meet Sam's eyes but found that he couldn't. They were empty, devoid of everything that had made them Sam. This wasn't his brother. This was just a corpse.
Licking his lips, Dean hesitated a moment longer before sliding his hand down over Sam's eyes, closing them for the last time.
Another shuddering sob overtook him and he bent over, a horrible sound tearing itself out of his throat against his will.
He couldn't do this.
Sam just looked like he was sleeping now, but that wasn't any better and Dean couldn't look at Sam, he couldn't think about it, he just pulled Sam back in and closed his eyes.
They were both damp from the rain when Dean opened them again.
The curtains had also become wet and Dean abruptly decided that he wasn't wrapping Sam up in those. Not yet. He wasn't ready to do that.
He wasn't ready for any of this.
Taking another shuddering breath and blinking his vision clear of tears as much as he could, Dean forced himself up onto his knees. Sam wasn't exactly light, but Dean shuffled him as gently as he could over his shoulder and into a fireman's carry. He was dead weight, and Dean staggered to the side as he tried to find his feet and almost crumpled back down onto his knees.
Gritting his teeth, Dean forced his legs to hold him through pure force of will. He wasn't going to drop his brother, he wasn't going to put him through that.
"Dean?" Cas must have been watching because a moment later he was right there and grabbing his arm, helping him to balance. Dean shrugged him off as he shifted Sam into a more secure position and then moved determinedly forward, his back bent under the weight.
Cas didn't try to offer help again, trailing after him. Jack stood by what remained of the glass door, uncharacteristically quiet.
Dean picked up his pace, pointedly not looking at any of the blood that marred the floors. He did allow Cas to pass him and open first the funeral home door and then the Impala's.
Then Dean came to a stuttering stop, Sam's weight still pressing down on him. What was he going to do now? Where were they going to go?
"I'll drive. I'll come back for my car," Cas said instantly, holding out his hand for the keys, but Dean shook his head.
"I'm okay to drive," he said thickly. Even he knew that wasn't true. Everything felt unreal and also all too real but he did know that he wanted to be alone with Sam. He didn't want anyone else around right now.
"I'm not sure that's wise," Cas hedged, still holding out his hand but Dean had made up his mind.
With all the care that he could muster with two hundred pounds of dead weight, Dean lowered Sam down into the back seat of the Impala. Easing him in all the way, he took his time to try and arrange his limbs in a way that looked at least somewhat comfortable.
Not that it mattered. Sam was dead.
Dean clenched his jaw, trying to fight off the fresh wave of tears as he smoothed Sam's hair tenderly out of his face again before patting Sam's chest and backing out.
"Dean, I really don't think that you should be driving. Please, let me," Cas said immediately when he reappeared, his face lined with concern.
Dean wasn't listening. "I'll meet you back at the motel," he said stiffly as he strode around Cas to the driver's side.
Cas opened his mouth to say something but then wisely didn't. Dean was ready to resort to violence to get this. He needed this. Needed to be alone with Sam in the Impala like it had always been. Needed this one last time.
Although it wouldn't be the last one. No, that would be when they found a suitable spot to build a funeral pyre. That would be their last ride together.
Dean's vision blurred and he hastily turned the engine over before guiding her blindly onto the road.
I'm trying, Sam. I'm trying but I don't think I can do this, he thought as he rubbed a hand across his eyes. He glanced in the rearview mirror, seeking out his brother like he had done thousands of times before, but this time there was no answer or guidance to be found there.
#
Dean wasn't really aware of how he got from the funeral home back to the motel. It was probably good that it was so early in the morning and that very few cars were around because Dean's vision was blurred the whole way.
Mary was sitting on the curb, her coat wrapped around her and hunched inwards to avoid the rain. As Dean pulled in, he looked away from her, concentrating on maneuvering the car. How was he supposed to tell her that her son was dead? That Dean hadn't looked out for him and left her baby alone to die?
She stood as soon as the car came to a stop and began to cross over to the driver's side, her face tight. Dean's stomach turned over, and he knew what he had to do. Maybe. He needed to do what was right for Sam, which was to get him away from prying eyes. Mary didn't need to see him like this, all bloody and mangled.
Sam wouldn't want to be seen like this, right?
Cutting the engine off, he got out.
"Dean? Is everything alright? No one would answer my calls. Is Sam okay?" Mary asked in one breath but Dean turned his back on her as he pulled open the back door and ducked in.
"Dean?" Mary pressed more sharply even as Dean stopped, the reality hitting him all over again as he gazed down at Sam's lifeless body. Sam was covered in blood, his skin grey and gouged open in certain spots.
He was dead.
Dean wasn't going to be able to get Sam over his shoulder again, not from this position. Levering Sam up, he wrapped one limp arm around his neck to help balance the additional weight and then tugged Sam up against his chest with his arm around his back. He began to ease him out, trying to be gentle.
Mary let out a gasp behind him, but he didn't—couldn't—focus on that.
Slipping his other arm underneath Sam's knees, he counted silently to three and then lifted him. Leaving the door of the Impala hanging open, Dean staggered towards the motel room. Mary just stood there, staring at them with horror as all the color drained from her face.
"Sam…" she whispered, before moving and reaching out as if to touch Sam's cheek, but Dean pushed past her, not caring that he was being rude. He reached the door and gestured pointedly at it with his head. Mary leaped forward, dug his wallet out of his jacket pocket, and pulled out the key card, opening the door for him.
Dean turned sideways and eased through, careful not to knock any part of Sam against the wood frame. Mary hurried in after him, letting the door fall shut.
"Dean, what happened?" she demanded hotly.
The bedroom door was already open, and Dean slid through it and then carelessly kicked it closed behind him, slamming it shut in Mary's face.
He wanted to be alone. Sam would only want him around for this next part.
Hugging Sam's limp body closer to him, he leaned back against the door for support as his knees threatened to give out.
He wanted Sam alive.
He wanted to bring him back.
Sam didn't want to be brought back.
Sucking in an unsteady gasp, Dean pushed off the door and carried Sam towards his bed.
"Dean?" Mary called through the door but Dean didn't answer. His arms were starting to burn from the strain of his brother's weight but there was no relief to be found as he lowered Sam's body onto the bed.
Sam's head lolled forward into what looked to be an uncomfortable and unnatural angle. Dean straightened it, laying his head back reverently into the pillows, and then stayed there, unable to tear himself away.
He studied his brother for a long time, trying to keep the tears at bay.
Dean couldn't go on without Sam.
He couldn't—but he had to.
Taking a shuddering breath, Dean closed his eyes and moved away. Each step felt like he was dragging weights behind him, but he made it to the bathroom that was attached to the bedroom. He had to pause there and lean against the doorframe.
Sammy, please, I can't do this.
There was no answering reply, and Dean clenched at the doorframe until his fingers were white. He stopped trying not to cry and just let the tears flow even as an ugly sound was torn from his throat. If it wasn't for the doorframe, he was fairly positive that he would have ended up on his knees.
He bent inwards, another keening sound breaking free before he managed to stop it. Gasping, he let go and staggered to the sink. Grabbing the nearby, small, plastic, trash can, Dean emptied it of what little trash they had collected and filled it with warm water instead. Grabbing all the washcloths from the rack he stumbled back to the bed.
He'd never buried Sam before.
Most of the times that Sam had died there either hadn't been a body to take care of or he hadn't been dead long enough for it to matter. He'd cleaned Sam up the first time—when Jake had stabbed him in the back—but he hadn't prepared him for a funeral. Bobby had tried to talk him into it, but he hadn't been strong enough then. Dean wasn't so sure that he was strong enough now, but he'd also done a lot of growing since then, both of them had.
Dean knew what Sam wanted and knew that this time he had to respect his wishes even if it tore Dean apart in every way to do so.
Blowing out an unsteady breath and sniffing through his tears, Dean laid the washcloths out next to Sam and set the water on the bedside table. "I—" The tears clogged up his voice and Dean blinked rapidly up at the ceiling, his hands clenched into fists. "I'm listening this time, Sam, I swear. I'm going to take care of you. That's my job," he managed to grit out roughly.
Soaking the first washcloth, he wrung it out, and then took Sam's left hand and began to wipe the blood away from his fingers.
Dean's strokes slowed as he noticed the odd angle of Sam's arm. It had been broken—badly, he discovered a moment later when he pulled Sam's sleeve up to further investigate.
Anger soared hot and bright through the grief and he clenched Sam's hand in his. He was going to find the son of a bitch that had done this, and he was going to make them pay in every way possible. Just as quickly as it had come, however, the anger was smothered by the overwhelming grief that was threatening to bring him to his knees.
He had to look after Sam before he could do anything. He was going to take care of him, and then he was going to raise hell and if he died trying, well, so be it.
Dean didn't know how long it took him to clean Sam up. He kept having to stop, the tears and grief a physical burden that weighed him down and paralyzed him but eventually it was done.
The water in the trashcan was more red than not and a pile of used and similar stained washcloths set on the bedside table. Next to them was a plastic cup filled with glass shards that Dean had painstakingly pulled from Sam's back, arms, and hair. He'd also had to remove rags from the wounds on Sam's chest and shoulder from where his brother had tried to pack the gaping holes and stop the bleeding.
If only Dean had been there, then he wouldn't have had to do this. Then Sam wouldn't have died.
Sam now lay on the bed in fresh clothes and free of blood. His limbs—with the broken arm set back to as natural of a position as Dean had been able to—were arranged how Sam liked to sleep. If it wasn't for the coldness and grey color of his skin, Dean might have been able to convince himself that he was, in fact, just sleeping.
Rigor mortis had also begun to set in and until it passed Dean wasn't going to be moving him. He had until then to figure out what he was going to do, and how on earth he was going to find the courage to give Sam what he wanted with a proper funeral.
Burying his face in his own blood-stained hands, Dean chewed his lower lip, trying to keep himself in control.
He would never forget Sam—Sam was too much a part of him for that to happen—but how long would it take before he needed pictures to remind himself of what Sam looked like? Or the way that his smile brought out his dimples when he was truly happy.
Dean scoffed, trying to keep the tears at bay.
Not only could he never forget his brother or those details, but he'd be dead before he even had the chance. He was living on borrowed time; it wouldn't be long before he grew careless on some random hunt or while chasing down the thing that had killed his brother and got himself killed without Sam there to watch his back.
Sam wanted him to go live that white-picket-fence life, he knew that, but he wasn't going to. Hunting was his life, for better or for worse, and settling down with Ben and Lisa had been a mistake he believed in hindsight. He'd almost ruined their lives and he hadn't been all that happy either.
He was doing his damn best to respect Sam's wish to not be brought back, and that was all that Dean could offer. He wasn't even sure he could do that, not when Sam shouldn't have died. Not when he could call Rowena and ask for help. Or there was Michael, he could probably bring Sam back.
But at what price?
Dean wiped at his nose with the back of his hand, sniffing loudly. With everything that they knew, couldn't they find something…easy? Something that would bring Sam back without screwing anyone else over, something that wouldn't destroy Sam's faith in him again.
But Sam didn't want it.
Dean didn't know what he was going to do.
Biting off another sob instead, he reached out, grasping Sam's forearm. He wasn't going to do anything. Not until the rigor mortis faded and he could move Sam again. Not until someone broke down the door and told him that he had to.
Until then, he was going to remain right here with his brother where he belonged.