SPN Fic: Fratricide
Title: Fratricide
Author: abrupte
Rating: PG13
Fandom: Supernatural.
Genre: Gen.
Pairing: There's a little bit of Dean/one-night stand, but other than that, none.
Wordcount: 6600ish
Summary: There's a part of his mind that insists on reminding him that Sam is still in there -- the demon can't push him out completely -- but he doesn't like to think of his brother going through that, so he just pretends that Sam isn't there. Sorry, leave a message, little brother isn't home right now, and he goes on.
A/N: Thank you to my lovely betas, xphoenixrising, geminilove_ca, and natfudge who helped me out so much with this fic. This was initially posted in three parts, but in reposting it to this blog, I've decided to stick them all together.
†
Part One
The gun goes off and there's a horrible moment where Dean is sure he shot me, before he realises the magnum is firmly in his own hands, finger wrapped around the trigger. It's pointed at his little brother’s chest and oh my god, what did I just do they both look down.
You shot him, and Sam's thin voice is an answer to the question Dean didn't ask. His little brother sounds strangled and confused, and he falls back.
For the longest time, he doesn't move. Sam just lies there like some broken doll, think, red blood oozing from his mouth and down onto his chin, some continuing past down his neck or dripping onto his shirt. Dean's heart clenches in his chest and his brain fails him because it's too busy screaming over and over: I don't want him to die, he can't die, he's all I've got left...
But Sam is possessed and the demon inside him isn't going to let go just because there's a piece of lead buried deep in his chest. He hadn't even meant to shoot him. It was an accident, a mistake, and it happened mostly because Sam -- not Sam -- he wouldn't do that, even if he did once, the demon -- was trying to shoot him. Dean couldn't let that happen because if the demon killed him, who was going to get it out of Sam?
But his brother isn't dead, or at least, isn't dead yet. As Dean stands there and watches, Sam gets up, his movements jerky and halting, a puppet in the hands of an amateur. He laughs and it's the laugh that scares the shit out of him, the demon with his brother's face and voice and smile, and the way that laugh sounds so much like Sam. It surprises him, because it's been two months since Dean last saw the man who was really his brother, and it's been too damn long since he heard that laugh.
The gun is in his hands and Sam stands there laughing at him and it's not Sam, but Dean can't shoot him again because even if he falls it won't do a damn bit of good. There's a hole in his brother's t-shirt, a few drops of blood, but no more. It's with a sense equal parts relief and horror that he realises Sam won't, can't, die. He doesn't have Dad's journal with him so it's not like he can perform an impromptu exorcism, and there's nothing to keep Sam -- the demon, the fucking Demon -- from tearing him limb from limb to begin with.
He stuffs the gun in the back of his pants, like if Sam can't see it he'll stop laughing, because it's not as funny as he seems to think it is. The barrel is still hot and it burns, but it's a comforting relief from the numbness of the shock. It reminds him of a lot of things: fire, father, the way Sam's been acting so fucking weird lately, how to move his legs. He does the only thing left to him then, and he runs. He runs while the demon in his brother's body still lurches, trying to push everything back into working order.
He fumbles with the car keys and slides into his seat, spares a glance for where his brother is supposed to be. He can't get his hands to stay steady on the steering wheel they're shaking so badly, but he shifts the car into gear and lets the engine's rumble make a poor attempt at comfort.
It's not Sam.
He's been possessed for two fucking months and Dean thinks he should have known better, should have been careful, but he was distracted and depressed and if Sam was acting a little weird, well that made sense. They didn't work any jobs after it happened, and Dean's been strangely okay with that. He needed time and figured it was the same for Sam --
God, how could he have been so stupid?
Now all the pieces are falling into place because Sam wouldn't pull a gun on him in a dark alley when they're supposed to be walking back to the car. Sam wouldn't smile like that at the expression of shock and horror on his brother's face. He wouldn't.
†
Dean learns to separate Demon from Sam. He's been on the run for months, motel to fucking motel. The demon follows him from North Dakota to Tennessee and all the way across the country to California. The thing is toying with him. He sees it flirting with girls in diners or drinking coffee in front of trendy cafes. It's a bad imitation, because it takes its coffee with sugar and no milk, while Sam drank frappuccinos and other girly drinks with fake Italian names. The girls he seduces with Sam's body are really more Dean's type, big boobs and fake nails. There's a stranger in his brother's body and that's the thing that makes Dean's skin crawl, because he thinks the demon should seem wrong somehow. Instead he's just a face in a crowd, only the face is Sam's, but it isn't Sam in there. It's someone Dean doesn't know, had never met.
He thinks of Sam in a strange blend of past and future tense, how his brother was and how he's going to be when he gets him back. Dean thinks of all the things they did -- will do -- but in between is a big blank, because right now Sam doesn't exist. The demon does, the thing in Sam's body, but his brother is an empty space. A non-entity. There's a part of his mind that insists on reminding him that Sam is still in there -- the demon can't push him out completely -- but he doesn't like to think of his brother going through that, so he just pretends that Sam isn't there. Sorry, leave a message, little brother isn't home right now, and he goes on.
Because it's easier.
Between nowhere towns and big cities, backtracking and driving and crisscrossing all over the fucking country, Dean is trying to make a plan. He's trying to figure out how the hell he can exorcise the son of a bitch from his brother's body, and knowing the same trick they used on Meg won't work because it's been done before. Still, there has to be a way. Sam would know it. Sam would have the answer because he always knew everything and it used to drive Dean up the fucking wall, but now he misses it. He's got this insane urge to call his brother and say hey, can you help me figure out how to do this exorcism? And I need to practice my Latin, but he knows Sam isn't going to be the one who answers the phone.
He spends a lot of time coming up with crack-pot ideas he knows Sam would shoot down, just because he knows his brother would point out how insane and impossible they are. It's funny how he's started to miss being told he's wrong.
Somewhere between Nevada and Pennsylvania, on some nameless back road in the middle of fucking nowhere, he realises he can't do it. He's got this idea of what might work; using the demon's games against it, but it can't work because if he does it, Sam will die. There's a bullet in his brother's chest, and if his brother dies, Dean doesn't know what he'll do. After all this, he can't kill him, he can't get rid of that future tense he's been using, of what he'll do when he has Sam back. It's the demon that keeps Sam alive, somewhere in there, and he can't do it. He can't.
He could exorcise the demon, but Sam would die because there's that fucking bullet, that mistake, lodged somewhere in his heartlungspinegodonlyknowswhere and it's going to kill him. Dean pulls over to the side of the road and just sits there, emergency lights flashing, thinking about how easy it would be to just give in, to pull that magnum out of the glove compartment and just let go. But he's had this idea in his head for months about how he's going to have Sam back and they're going to go out and get shit-faced drunk and have one hell of a time, maybe make up for missing Sam's twenty-first birthday or something, and that's the one thing he can't give up. It doesn't give him the strength to exorcise the demon, but it keeps him from blowing his brains out, which is enough for now.
†
Part Two
Sam's voice leaves him a message while he's holed up in a shitty motel somewhere in Nebraska. Sam's voice, but it's not Sam, even if it sounds like him. Hey, man. How's it going? Haven't seen you in a while. Give me a call, we'll catch up. It's almost something Sam would say, only he wouldn't, and Dean thinks it's a stupid fucking voicemail for a demon to leave either way. Even so, he presses nine to save this message.
The next time Sam's name comes up on the caller ID, Dean answers for just long enough to say you're not my brother, fuck off before he hangs up. His hands tremble and he thinks he should have had something more to say, but that small rebellion still makes him feel just a little bit better.
He's in Corpus Christi when he sees his brother downing Jack on a bar's patio. He catches a glimpse of the server, a dark-haired chick with big breasts who leans over the table more than she really has to. She's got a pretty enough face and he would totally take her back to his motel, only he's on the street while the thing in Sam's body flirts with her, laying it on way too thick. Suddenly Dean knows how Sam felt when he flirted with the bimbos at every bar and diner. His stomach is roiling and he has to turn away.
He leaves the next morning, and listens to the radio because every single tape he owns somehow reminds him of Sam. It's the morning news when the stereo tells him the body of an unidentified woman was found this morning in the parking lot behind the Sunrise Mall and Dean realises that's where he slept last night. He writes it off as the coincidence he knows it isn't and is halfway across Texas by noon.
He's in Santa Ana, California when a waitress at the diner where he ate lunch a few days earlier turns up dead. They find her in the trash, all tangled limbs and covered in bruises. Her uniform is wrinkled and torn, covered in blood. The ring of black and blue around her throat is a necklace made by large, strong hands. When they finally haul her out of the dumpster, her head flops around on her broken neck like a grotesque rag doll.
He's on the road that night when he gets a phone call. He actually picks up even though he knows he doesn't want to hear it and Sam's voice says hey, you figured it out yet?
Dean hangs up without a word and at the next coffee shop in the next town he goes through, he stops and pulls out the laptop. He goes through the newspapers of the towns and cities they've stopped in, he and the demon behind him. Hutchinson and Stillwater, Fayetteville, Sedona, Mason City, Lewistown, all over the goddamn country, and in every place there's a dead girl from a coffee shop or a bar or a diner. Dean's face and knuckles are white because he didn't even notice and there's got to be at least thirty of them. He hasn't been working jobs, but he figures he should have known there was a trail of bodies following him across the country. He should have known that demons don't just make shadows of themselves, an annoyance and nothing more. And it had used Sam to do it.
†
He passes through New Mexico a few weeks later, a place called Truth or Consequences, which is a weird name for a town, but it suits him. He knows he can't stay long, but he's desperate and falling apart. It's been months since he last got laid and all he wants is a soft bed and a warm body.
There's a girl at the bar that's his usual type, skinny with a low-cut top, and Dean starts to flirt before he remembers the body they fished out of the trash and loses interest. He spots a girl at a table with a few of her friends, looking out of place, uncomfortable. She's blonde, with dark eyes that are shielded by her glasses. She's pretty but quiet, sitting on the edge seat of the round booth, sipping her beer but not that interested in her friends' conversation.
He feels awkward, not used to this kind of seduction, but goes over to her table, gives her his most charming, harmless smile, and says, You play any pool? Her friends look up, curious, and she stares at him like she's caught in the headlights.
Me? she asks, her voice soft, like she can't believe he'd be interested in her. She's not as flashy as her friends, but she's pretty and Dean thinks if he plays it right... it'll work out alright for both of them.
He grins, holds out his hand to her and says, Who else?
She gives him a hesitant smile, confesses, I play a little, and puts her hand in his. It's small and soft in his rough one, and he helps her up, pausing while she gets her drink, then leads her over to the pool table.
I'm Dean, he says as he sets up the balls, and she goes over to select a cue.
Her voice is quiet and he thinks she'll get a little braver if she drinks a little more, and she tells him, softly, that her name is Katie, but everyone calls her Kate. She seems a little embarrassed and Dean smiles.
Dean lets her win the first game, buys her a second beer. They make small talk, Dean gives her vague details about the road-trip he's been on, a little bit about his little brother, nothing too specific, but enough to make it seem like they're having a really personal conversation. She tells him about her parents, her big brother, the small apartment where she lives by herself. They play another game, and she calls him on it when he keeps missing his shots, and he gives in and wins. They've both had a few by then, although he's more used to the alcohol, and finally says, Can I give you a ride home?
She hesitates, realises what he's asking for, and smiles shyly. Yeah, she says after a pause. I'd like that. In order to show him she understands, she pulls him down and presses a soft kiss to his mouth, and they both ignore her friends giggling as he takes her hand and leads her out to his car.
They're only together for another hour, but Dean tries to make it last as long as he can. She gives him relief, and release, and admits when it's over that she's never had a one-night stand before. He smiles and holds her against his chest, feeling more relaxed than he has since this whole thing started, and admits to himself that he really did need to get laid. He's honest with her, when he gets her number, and says he probably won't call, but that he might if he ever passes through again. She gets it, smiles, kisses him once more when he's dressed and on his way out the door.
Hey, he says softly, pulling her just outside with him, pressing his mouth to hers. If you ever pick up a guy in a bar again, do me a favour, okay? Don't tell him you live alone. It's not safe. She looks at him with wide eyes, nods, and pulls him mutely down for one last kiss.
†
She costs him the few hours' lead he had on his brother's demon, and when he gets to Wyoming, he stops briefly for lunch when Sam comes in and taps him on the shoulder. Hey, he says, sliding into the seat across from him, and Dean bristles at the thing using his brother's mouth. How's it going?
Fuck off, Dean grates out and stabs a French fry into his ketchup.
The demon arches an eyebrow. Now, Dean, that's no way to greet your brother. The last thing he really wants at that particular moment is to be patronised by the thing inhabiting his brother's skin.
You're not my brother, fuck off.
Sam reaches casually across the table and takes a fry -- Dean's response is automatic, seizing the fork and driving it with all his strength through his brother's large hand. The bones stop it from going all the way through, but when Sam pulls his hand away, Dean lets go of the utensil for the demon to pull out. Blood wells up in the wound, but the skin smoothes over as soon as it's out. That wasn't very nice, the demon says. Didn't Dad teach you any manners?
Again, fuck off, and Dean guards his plate jealously. The scene is a twisted re-creation of their childhood.
There's a long silence while he eats his fries, as if determined to enjoy them out of pure spite. Finally, the demon speaks. So, he says slowly, watching for Dean's reaction, meet any nice girls lately?
His stomach does this horrible twist, leaving him to feel nauseous as he remembers the softness of her skin, her lips beneath his. He killed her, and Dean knows he fucked up, knows he shouldn't have given in to that need not to be alone, because a few hours with a warm body isn't worth her dying, not for him, but -- he pulls himself together, forces a wry smile that doesn't want to stick but does, and remembers to feel nothing.
No one special. He shoves the plate of half-eaten food at his brother, gets up and walks away. Leaving the demon with the bill is a small bit of revenge, and he figures it'll either skip out or kill the waitress, and it's funny how he feels too sick to even care at this point. He makes a point of smiling at the cashier and nodding to his brother as he leaves.
†
He calls her three hours later, just to see. He knows she won't pick up, won't be there, that she's dead in an alley somewhere, maybe behind the bar where he met her. Which is why it takes him a minute to think of anything to say when she picks up and says Hello? Who is this?
I... uh, it's Dean. Kate, it's Dean. Is everything okay? She's surprised because he even told her he wasn't going to call and he sounds shaken, which he is.
She frowns into the phone. I'm fine. What's wrong?
Nothing, he lies. He's not going to tell her he thought the demon possessing his brother might have killed her, so he just says, I just had... a weird feeling. Wanted to make sure you were okay. You're okay, right? Nothing bad happened?
Nothing bad happened, she confirms. You're acting... really weird.
He chuckles nervously and tells her, I just had a really weird dream. He slips into that role of being perfectly normal which he's adopted so well. Sorry, I know it's crazy. Everything's fine, don't worry about it. Listen, I'll call you later. Maybe I'll stop by sometime.
She seems to accept that, and he hangs up. Dean's heart feels too tight, unable to process her voice on the other side of the line, her breath in his ear, the fact that she isn't dead, that she's okay. She's supposed to be dead. Like all the other women the demon has killed, only Dean can't understand why it didn't kill her, the only one who meant even a small something to him, even just as a willing body with a soft mouth.
He's getting tired of playing these games that were never fun to begin with and have only gotten more twisted, until he's sick to his stomach and not sure where to go.
He knows. There are two choices left to him, and as far as he can tell, they both suck. He can go with his first instinct and put a gun in his own mouth, spray skull fragments and brain matter over the steering wheel and hope the demon lets go, leaves Sam alone. He doesn't like the uncertainty, the fact that it might not change a damn thing, and isn't crazy about suicide as a solution to begin with. There's also the small problem where even if the demon releases his brother without argument... Sam still dies. There's a certain romance in the notion of them dying for each other, but Dean would like to be able to say goodbye, even if he knows it's a pointless gesture.
Which only leaves door number two: exorcism. Dean hates it, knowing that Sam will die because he's already dead or dying and it's his fault for being an idiot and pulling that fucking trigger. A mistake. But at least, Dean thinks, this way he can apologise. It doesn't mean much, saying I'm sorry I killed you, but it's worth something and he figures then he can kill himself in peace if he wants to, the last of the Winchesters. It's fucked up and so wrong that it's come to this, but there's nothing left he can do.
He leafs through his father's journal, past well-worn pages about witches, vampires and spirits, finds the Rituale Romanum. He pushes down the sick feeling in his stomach, tells himself that he killed Sam six months ago and it's time to finish this fucking job and get it over with. He thinks maybe when it's over he'll go back and fuck Kate one more time before he gets back into the Impala and turns the magnum on himself. He likes that idea and decides to remember it later.
He drives until the tank is running damn near empty. He never lets the needle get right to the E because any idiot knows that drags all the crap from the tank right through the engine, and if the Impala gives up on him, he's fucked. He never stops for more than ten minutes, just long enough to get gas and coffee. Coffee is the only thing he wants. The buzz of caffeine tastes better than any of the food he's stopped trying to eat, even if the drink itself is bitter. He figures he gets to choose between caffeine and alcohol, and he can't drive drunk, so the coffee is enough to keep him going.
At night, he lays awake and stares at the ceiling of his car. It's chilly but he's gotten used to it. He murmurs continuously in Latin imperat tibi Christus, aeternum Dei verbum caro factum... He stumbles over some of the words at first, but it's not long before it starts coming back to him. The phrases are familiar from a childhood spent reciting the Latin mass to their father, and he thinks Sam would be impressed and a little surprised. That thought is the one that forces him to keep going.
He mumbles in Latin at gas stations while he fills up the gas tank and buys his cup of stale coffee. He never raises his head, never meets anyone's eye, ignores looks of confusion as he whispers adjuramus te per Deum, vivium per Deum, verum per Deum, sanctum per Deum into his steaming cup and sighs.
He takes a week to memorise it, dozing lightly for only an hour at a time, on the road the rest of the time with his father's journal open on the dash. He whispers the rites until he's sure he can recite the words in his sleep, although sleep isn't high on his list of priorities. He just wants it to end.
Seattle seems like as good a place as any.
†
Part Three
He arrives in Seattle, the veritable birthplace of the trendy cafés the demon loves so damn much. It's 3AM and cloudy, not a star in the black sky. The streets aren't completely empty, but it's just late enough that most of the drunks have found their ways home. He's just a few blocks over from the hospital, and he's planned it that way, not that he really thinks it's going to change anything. He's given up on optimism by now. He lurks on the street, pulling his jacket close because it's fucking cold and damp in this town famous for rain and coffee. He drinks his black, the way he always has, although it's from a gas station and it tastes like shit. It only cost him seventy-five cents and it's caffeinated, so it's enough.
He throws out the empty cup and cuts into the alley. He looks like he belongs: weather-beaten leather jacket, greasy hair, dark smudges like bruises under his eyes, a sparse and patchy beard. Just another homeless vagrant, and that's a lot closer to the truth than he likes to admit.
He picks The Abbey because the name is nicely ironic, and he thinks the demon might appreciate it as much as he does, even if it doesn't understand the reasons. There's a can of blue paint in the back seat from the discount bin of a hardware store back in Boise, Idaho. He mutters to himself, thoughtful, imperat tibi Martyrum sanguis and it keeps him company while he picks the lock. He hates the way his hands tremble while he disables the alarm. He brings in the essentials: a stepladder, paint, a few brushes and the book full of diagrams they got off of Bobby nearly a year ago. God, has it been that long?
He counts himself lucky because the ceiling of the coffee shop is a kind of sky-blue, just a few shades off the paint he chose at random, thinks about thanking God but decides it's not worth it. If any gods exists, they've been fucking him over for the past year -- hell, the past twenty-some if he thinks about it -- and he doesn't feel like he owes any thanks or apologies.
It takes him a couple hours, moving tables and dragging the stepladder over to where he wants to paint, glancing down at the book that lays open beneath him, making sure each of the designs is a perfect replica of the one on the page. He remembers watching Sam do this on Bobby's ceiling and this whole damn thing is so fucking familiar, even the eventual outcome, and it makes him want to be sick. The sun is coming up when he's finished and he figures he's got about another hour before someone shows up to open the shop, so he's quick while he applies contact cement to the floor and the bottom of the tables, gluing them in place. He's not about to let his plan, full of holes as it may be, get ruined because some idiot decides to move one of the tables.
There's a cheap hotel about ten minutes away and it's close enough that he thinks the demon will get everything right and play right into his hands. He doesn't sleep, just brews some coffee in the cheap-ass, complimentary Mr. Coffee provided for his use. He sits on the edge of the bed and drinks cup after cup because it's the best fucking coffee he's had in weeks and it helps keep him up and functioning, remembering a childhood of rock-salt, pranks and scraped knees.
It's two hours before Dean actually puts down the mug, gets into the shower. He's a mess, too thin, and he can see the way his ribcage sticks out. His skin is tanned unevenly, darkest on left arm and pale on his right. He can't remember the last time he washed or cut his hair, and it's way too long, looks sort of like that awful haircut he used to tease Sam about. He towels off and takes an electric razor to his beard, trimming it down to the stubble he's used to. He picks out the cleanest clothes he can find, although his jeans are too big in the waist, and they fall down a little even with the belt.
He's got a few twenties in his wallet still and remembers seeing a barber's shop a few blocks over. It costs fifteen bucks and the barber is a nice guy who talks about his wife while he cuts Dean's hair. He tips him another five just because it's easier than breaking the bill, and it's not like he's going to need the money for that much longer, just enough to get a half-mile to the coffee-shop and two-thousand miles worth of gas and coffee to get back to New Mexico. About four hundred dollars, give or take a little and he's still got a few grand spread across his various fraudulent credit cards, so it's all good.
It's raining again, cold and windy. The raindrops splatter across the windshield, the wiper blades pushing them aside so that he can make out the traffic-signs through the haze created by steady sheets of rain. It's freezing, but at least it means the patio is closed because Dean couldn't exactly paint the sigils in the air above the deck. He can't see Sam at first, but when he heads inside, their eyes meet. The demon watches him, then looks up at the ceiling, the sigil painted on the ceiling above it, and they both know he has it. Dean's smirk is all confidence as he slips towards the back, casually ignites a smoke-bomb in the empty men's washroom and then pulls the fire alarm. Amidst the cries of alarm, chairs scraping and people rushing to get out, he makes a quick phone call and then heads over to sit across from his brother.
You look good, Sam observes, and Dean just smiles. His confidence is all fake, and he hopes he can conceal the way his hands won't stop shaking, his heart hammering in his ears. He knows it's the lack of sleep and food, the overdosing on caffeine, and the fact that everything is about to be over.
They sit in silence while smoke fills the room and people rush out around them, and Dean knows he needs to hurry the hell up. This ends now, he finally says, glancing at his watch, wondering how long it's going to take.
Gonna exorcise me, huh? the demon asks. Where's the journal?
Don't need it, Dean says flippantly, because he's got the whole damn thing in his head and it's time. It's time, and for a minute, it almost feels good.
Exorcizamus te, omnis immunde spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis andversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, in nomine Domini nostri Jesu Christi, eradicare et effugare a Dei Ecclesia, ab animabus ad imaginem Dei conditis ac pretioso divini Agni sanguine redemptis.
It sounds more impressive than it really feels at first, the Latin familiar from a week of reading and whispering the words to himself, to gas station clerks, to the car's dash, and Dean feels a sort of pride at the fact that he's got a better grip on it than Sam did. He doesn't stutter or stumble over the words, imperat tibi excelsa Dei Genetrix Virgo Maria, quae superbissimum caput tuum a primo instanti immaculatae Conceptionis in sua humilitate contrivit, doesn't hear the demon's taunts of you're going to kill him you fucking idiot. Suddenly the only thing he can feel or hear or taste is the magic, and he thinks it's almost enough to make him believe in god.
There's smoke billowing in from the bomb in the bathroom and even though his eyes are watering, he doesn't care because it's going to end now, even if it kills them both, which it very well might. It's like eating too much peanut butter and saltines, his mouth sticky with the power of the world, and Sam is screaming. Sam, or the demon, Dean doesn't fucking care anymore because the rite is a way to get his brother back, even if only for a few minutes, a few seconds before the bullet takes over.
There are sirens outside, from ambulances or fire-trucks, Dean isn't sure but doesn't really have time to worry about it because he needs to save Sam, to kill him, whichever it is at this point. He doesn't know, can only concentrate on getting to the end, rushing through the phrases now as familiar to him as the grip of his favourite shotgun or the weight of a full box of shells.
Humiliare sub potenti manu Dei; contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobissancto et terribili Nomine Jesu, quem inferi tremunt, cui Virtutes caelorum et Potestates et Dominationes subjectae sunt; quem Cherubim et Seraphim indefessis vocibus laundant, dicentes: Santus, Sanctus, Sanctus Dominus Deus Sabaoth, and Sam screams, a black cloud of spraying out of his mouth, towards the ceiling, through it, until it disappears and they're both left panting in the aftermath for just a brief second. Dean stands in shocked stillness for a moment, the end of the words leaving him with a kind of emptiness, a shock that it's over before his little brother slumps forward, and then he's there, cradling his head and lowering him gently to the floor, begging him to hold on, please not let go, not yet.
Sam is coughing up blood onto Dean's shirt, not that it matters because it's already stained in a couple of places anyway, like most of his shirts. The scene is way too familiar, and he strokes his brother's hair, croaking faintly don't worry, it's gonna be okay, ambulance is on the way. Sam shakes his head and Dean can see the blood seeping through the pale blue polo shirt from a gunshot wound in Sam's chest, like he'd just been shot all over again.
I'm sorry, he murmurs, cradling his head with all the tenderness he can manage. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Sam. He wipes the blood from his brother's mouth and whispers apologies, I'm sorry for everything, sorry I didn't realise, sorry I shot you, sorry... sorry...
Can't believe you shot me, Sam whispers, his voice weak and he looks up at Dean with hazy, absent eyes.
Sam squeezes his arm tightly and for a moment it looks like he's going to say don't be sorry but instead he gives a thin smile and breathes Dean, I forgive you. It's the right thing to say because there's no way Dean can stop apologising, and he just needs to know his dying brother forgives him for all he's done and everything he hasn't.
The sirens are loud on the street and Dean cradles his brother and keeps his hand over the wound to try and stem the flow of blood. When the paramedics finally arrive, they have to pry Sam out of his brother's hands and they load him onto the ambulance while the police try to ask questions about what happened. People on the street keep saying they didn't hear anything, not a shot fired, and yet there's Sam with a bullet in his chest and it's been damn near six months since Dean pulled that trigger.
†
They didn't let him ride in the ambulance, so Dean made his own way to the hospital, and sits in the waiting room, staring blankly at the wall, or the clipboard of medical information, or his hands, or the police officers standing in the corner. He's trying to make sense of the fact that his brother might not be dead after all, that maybe he didn't kill the only good thing he had -- might have -- in his fucked-up life. He was so ready for Sam to die, but no doctor has come out yet to say we did everything we could, I'm sorry, and he waits, feeling like he hangs in the balance that is the difference between Sam's life and death.
An hour later and the police must figure they've waited long enough and they come over and start asking Dean questions about what happened. He lies because he can't say I shot my brother six months ago because he was possessed and trying to kill me and I just exorcised him and now he's dying. Instead it's all I couldn't see, everyone was rushing out because of the alarm, and there was smoke, and then Sam was hurt, and I don't know, and -- the fear isn't hard to fake and they believe every word, and when he says I don't know who pulled the fire alarm, I don't know who shot my brother, I don't know, I just don't know they don't press him for more.
He falls asleep and a nurse brings him a blanket, and then leaves him alone to dream about Sam living and dying, and the demon laughing because he couldn't save his little brother, or cursing him because he did. He dreams about their father, who tells him at the same time I'm proud of you, son and how could you let that happen to your brother? I told you to protect him, and Dean isn't sure which one is real.
Son? someone asks, and Dean is groggy and disoriented, wondering what his dead father is doing at the hospital, before he finally comes to and looks up at the man in the white coat. He says we did everything we could, and Dean feels his insides clench as he waits for the second half of the sentence, but we couldn't remove all of the bullet fragments. We think he'll recover provided they don't migrate. We're moving him to private room. He's still under anaesthesia, but you can see him now. It's all a little hazy and completely surreal, and Dean swears the hallway that leads to his brother's room is one of those infinite corridors some people dream about.
†
Sam sleeps for two days and Dean only leaves his side to get bad food from the cafeteria and to use the bathroom. He tries to stay awake in case his brother comes to, but he passes out and dreams, this time about long hallways and Sam's shaky smile. He's exhausted from way too long without any sleep, and the nurse wakes him up periodically to make sure he's okay and to remind him that he needs to eat. He gives her a grateful, sleepy smile, says there's nothing he really needs, and falls back asleep. He wakes up to find Sam holding his hand and whispering hoarsely I still can't believe you shot me, like that's the only thing out of this whole ordeal worth remembering.
Dean gives a hoarse laugh and wants to tell him that he was trying to shoot the demon, not his little brother, but ends up just whispering Sammy and I'm sorry, man. Sam shakes his head and squeezes his hand tightly and Dean thinks that after everything they've been through, he can live with a chick-flick moment to round the whole thing out.
Author: abrupte
Rating: PG13
Fandom: Supernatural.
Genre: Gen.
Pairing: There's a little bit of Dean/one-night stand, but other than that, none.
Wordcount: 6600ish
Summary: There's a part of his mind that insists on reminding him that Sam is still in there -- the demon can't push him out completely -- but he doesn't like to think of his brother going through that, so he just pretends that Sam isn't there. Sorry, leave a message, little brother isn't home right now, and he goes on.
A/N: Thank you to my lovely betas, xphoenixrising, geminilove_ca, and natfudge who helped me out so much with this fic. This was initially posted in three parts, but in reposting it to this blog, I've decided to stick them all together.
†
Part One
The gun goes off and there's a horrible moment where Dean is sure he shot me, before he realises the magnum is firmly in his own hands, finger wrapped around the trigger. It's pointed at his little brother’s chest and oh my god, what did I just do they both look down.
You shot him, and Sam's thin voice is an answer to the question Dean didn't ask. His little brother sounds strangled and confused, and he falls back.
For the longest time, he doesn't move. Sam just lies there like some broken doll, think, red blood oozing from his mouth and down onto his chin, some continuing past down his neck or dripping onto his shirt. Dean's heart clenches in his chest and his brain fails him because it's too busy screaming over and over: I don't want him to die, he can't die, he's all I've got left...
But Sam is possessed and the demon inside him isn't going to let go just because there's a piece of lead buried deep in his chest. He hadn't even meant to shoot him. It was an accident, a mistake, and it happened mostly because Sam -- not Sam -- he wouldn't do that, even if he did once, the demon -- was trying to shoot him. Dean couldn't let that happen because if the demon killed him, who was going to get it out of Sam?
But his brother isn't dead, or at least, isn't dead yet. As Dean stands there and watches, Sam gets up, his movements jerky and halting, a puppet in the hands of an amateur. He laughs and it's the laugh that scares the shit out of him, the demon with his brother's face and voice and smile, and the way that laugh sounds so much like Sam. It surprises him, because it's been two months since Dean last saw the man who was really his brother, and it's been too damn long since he heard that laugh.
The gun is in his hands and Sam stands there laughing at him and it's not Sam, but Dean can't shoot him again because even if he falls it won't do a damn bit of good. There's a hole in his brother's t-shirt, a few drops of blood, but no more. It's with a sense equal parts relief and horror that he realises Sam won't, can't, die. He doesn't have Dad's journal with him so it's not like he can perform an impromptu exorcism, and there's nothing to keep Sam -- the demon, the fucking Demon -- from tearing him limb from limb to begin with.
He stuffs the gun in the back of his pants, like if Sam can't see it he'll stop laughing, because it's not as funny as he seems to think it is. The barrel is still hot and it burns, but it's a comforting relief from the numbness of the shock. It reminds him of a lot of things: fire, father, the way Sam's been acting so fucking weird lately, how to move his legs. He does the only thing left to him then, and he runs. He runs while the demon in his brother's body still lurches, trying to push everything back into working order.
He fumbles with the car keys and slides into his seat, spares a glance for where his brother is supposed to be. He can't get his hands to stay steady on the steering wheel they're shaking so badly, but he shifts the car into gear and lets the engine's rumble make a poor attempt at comfort.
It's not Sam.
He's been possessed for two fucking months and Dean thinks he should have known better, should have been careful, but he was distracted and depressed and if Sam was acting a little weird, well that made sense. They didn't work any jobs after it happened, and Dean's been strangely okay with that. He needed time and figured it was the same for Sam --
God, how could he have been so stupid?
Now all the pieces are falling into place because Sam wouldn't pull a gun on him in a dark alley when they're supposed to be walking back to the car. Sam wouldn't smile like that at the expression of shock and horror on his brother's face. He wouldn't.
†
Dean learns to separate Demon from Sam. He's been on the run for months, motel to fucking motel. The demon follows him from North Dakota to Tennessee and all the way across the country to California. The thing is toying with him. He sees it flirting with girls in diners or drinking coffee in front of trendy cafes. It's a bad imitation, because it takes its coffee with sugar and no milk, while Sam drank frappuccinos and other girly drinks with fake Italian names. The girls he seduces with Sam's body are really more Dean's type, big boobs and fake nails. There's a stranger in his brother's body and that's the thing that makes Dean's skin crawl, because he thinks the demon should seem wrong somehow. Instead he's just a face in a crowd, only the face is Sam's, but it isn't Sam in there. It's someone Dean doesn't know, had never met.
He thinks of Sam in a strange blend of past and future tense, how his brother was and how he's going to be when he gets him back. Dean thinks of all the things they did -- will do -- but in between is a big blank, because right now Sam doesn't exist. The demon does, the thing in Sam's body, but his brother is an empty space. A non-entity. There's a part of his mind that insists on reminding him that Sam is still in there -- the demon can't push him out completely -- but he doesn't like to think of his brother going through that, so he just pretends that Sam isn't there. Sorry, leave a message, little brother isn't home right now, and he goes on.
Because it's easier.
Between nowhere towns and big cities, backtracking and driving and crisscrossing all over the fucking country, Dean is trying to make a plan. He's trying to figure out how the hell he can exorcise the son of a bitch from his brother's body, and knowing the same trick they used on Meg won't work because it's been done before. Still, there has to be a way. Sam would know it. Sam would have the answer because he always knew everything and it used to drive Dean up the fucking wall, but now he misses it. He's got this insane urge to call his brother and say hey, can you help me figure out how to do this exorcism? And I need to practice my Latin, but he knows Sam isn't going to be the one who answers the phone.
He spends a lot of time coming up with crack-pot ideas he knows Sam would shoot down, just because he knows his brother would point out how insane and impossible they are. It's funny how he's started to miss being told he's wrong.
Somewhere between Nevada and Pennsylvania, on some nameless back road in the middle of fucking nowhere, he realises he can't do it. He's got this idea of what might work; using the demon's games against it, but it can't work because if he does it, Sam will die. There's a bullet in his brother's chest, and if his brother dies, Dean doesn't know what he'll do. After all this, he can't kill him, he can't get rid of that future tense he's been using, of what he'll do when he has Sam back. It's the demon that keeps Sam alive, somewhere in there, and he can't do it. He can't.
He could exorcise the demon, but Sam would die because there's that fucking bullet, that mistake, lodged somewhere in his heartlungspinegodonlyknowswhere and it's going to kill him. Dean pulls over to the side of the road and just sits there, emergency lights flashing, thinking about how easy it would be to just give in, to pull that magnum out of the glove compartment and just let go. But he's had this idea in his head for months about how he's going to have Sam back and they're going to go out and get shit-faced drunk and have one hell of a time, maybe make up for missing Sam's twenty-first birthday or something, and that's the one thing he can't give up. It doesn't give him the strength to exorcise the demon, but it keeps him from blowing his brains out, which is enough for now.
†
Part Two
Sam's voice leaves him a message while he's holed up in a shitty motel somewhere in Nebraska. Sam's voice, but it's not Sam, even if it sounds like him. Hey, man. How's it going? Haven't seen you in a while. Give me a call, we'll catch up. It's almost something Sam would say, only he wouldn't, and Dean thinks it's a stupid fucking voicemail for a demon to leave either way. Even so, he presses nine to save this message.
The next time Sam's name comes up on the caller ID, Dean answers for just long enough to say you're not my brother, fuck off before he hangs up. His hands tremble and he thinks he should have had something more to say, but that small rebellion still makes him feel just a little bit better.
He's in Corpus Christi when he sees his brother downing Jack on a bar's patio. He catches a glimpse of the server, a dark-haired chick with big breasts who leans over the table more than she really has to. She's got a pretty enough face and he would totally take her back to his motel, only he's on the street while the thing in Sam's body flirts with her, laying it on way too thick. Suddenly Dean knows how Sam felt when he flirted with the bimbos at every bar and diner. His stomach is roiling and he has to turn away.
He leaves the next morning, and listens to the radio because every single tape he owns somehow reminds him of Sam. It's the morning news when the stereo tells him the body of an unidentified woman was found this morning in the parking lot behind the Sunrise Mall and Dean realises that's where he slept last night. He writes it off as the coincidence he knows it isn't and is halfway across Texas by noon.
He's in Santa Ana, California when a waitress at the diner where he ate lunch a few days earlier turns up dead. They find her in the trash, all tangled limbs and covered in bruises. Her uniform is wrinkled and torn, covered in blood. The ring of black and blue around her throat is a necklace made by large, strong hands. When they finally haul her out of the dumpster, her head flops around on her broken neck like a grotesque rag doll.
He's on the road that night when he gets a phone call. He actually picks up even though he knows he doesn't want to hear it and Sam's voice says hey, you figured it out yet?
Dean hangs up without a word and at the next coffee shop in the next town he goes through, he stops and pulls out the laptop. He goes through the newspapers of the towns and cities they've stopped in, he and the demon behind him. Hutchinson and Stillwater, Fayetteville, Sedona, Mason City, Lewistown, all over the goddamn country, and in every place there's a dead girl from a coffee shop or a bar or a diner. Dean's face and knuckles are white because he didn't even notice and there's got to be at least thirty of them. He hasn't been working jobs, but he figures he should have known there was a trail of bodies following him across the country. He should have known that demons don't just make shadows of themselves, an annoyance and nothing more. And it had used Sam to do it.
†
He passes through New Mexico a few weeks later, a place called Truth or Consequences, which is a weird name for a town, but it suits him. He knows he can't stay long, but he's desperate and falling apart. It's been months since he last got laid and all he wants is a soft bed and a warm body.
There's a girl at the bar that's his usual type, skinny with a low-cut top, and Dean starts to flirt before he remembers the body they fished out of the trash and loses interest. He spots a girl at a table with a few of her friends, looking out of place, uncomfortable. She's blonde, with dark eyes that are shielded by her glasses. She's pretty but quiet, sitting on the edge seat of the round booth, sipping her beer but not that interested in her friends' conversation.
He feels awkward, not used to this kind of seduction, but goes over to her table, gives her his most charming, harmless smile, and says, You play any pool? Her friends look up, curious, and she stares at him like she's caught in the headlights.
Me? she asks, her voice soft, like she can't believe he'd be interested in her. She's not as flashy as her friends, but she's pretty and Dean thinks if he plays it right... it'll work out alright for both of them.
He grins, holds out his hand to her and says, Who else?
She gives him a hesitant smile, confesses, I play a little, and puts her hand in his. It's small and soft in his rough one, and he helps her up, pausing while she gets her drink, then leads her over to the pool table.
I'm Dean, he says as he sets up the balls, and she goes over to select a cue.
Her voice is quiet and he thinks she'll get a little braver if she drinks a little more, and she tells him, softly, that her name is Katie, but everyone calls her Kate. She seems a little embarrassed and Dean smiles.
Dean lets her win the first game, buys her a second beer. They make small talk, Dean gives her vague details about the road-trip he's been on, a little bit about his little brother, nothing too specific, but enough to make it seem like they're having a really personal conversation. She tells him about her parents, her big brother, the small apartment where she lives by herself. They play another game, and she calls him on it when he keeps missing his shots, and he gives in and wins. They've both had a few by then, although he's more used to the alcohol, and finally says, Can I give you a ride home?
She hesitates, realises what he's asking for, and smiles shyly. Yeah, she says after a pause. I'd like that. In order to show him she understands, she pulls him down and presses a soft kiss to his mouth, and they both ignore her friends giggling as he takes her hand and leads her out to his car.
They're only together for another hour, but Dean tries to make it last as long as he can. She gives him relief, and release, and admits when it's over that she's never had a one-night stand before. He smiles and holds her against his chest, feeling more relaxed than he has since this whole thing started, and admits to himself that he really did need to get laid. He's honest with her, when he gets her number, and says he probably won't call, but that he might if he ever passes through again. She gets it, smiles, kisses him once more when he's dressed and on his way out the door.
Hey, he says softly, pulling her just outside with him, pressing his mouth to hers. If you ever pick up a guy in a bar again, do me a favour, okay? Don't tell him you live alone. It's not safe. She looks at him with wide eyes, nods, and pulls him mutely down for one last kiss.
†
She costs him the few hours' lead he had on his brother's demon, and when he gets to Wyoming, he stops briefly for lunch when Sam comes in and taps him on the shoulder. Hey, he says, sliding into the seat across from him, and Dean bristles at the thing using his brother's mouth. How's it going?
Fuck off, Dean grates out and stabs a French fry into his ketchup.
The demon arches an eyebrow. Now, Dean, that's no way to greet your brother. The last thing he really wants at that particular moment is to be patronised by the thing inhabiting his brother's skin.
You're not my brother, fuck off.
Sam reaches casually across the table and takes a fry -- Dean's response is automatic, seizing the fork and driving it with all his strength through his brother's large hand. The bones stop it from going all the way through, but when Sam pulls his hand away, Dean lets go of the utensil for the demon to pull out. Blood wells up in the wound, but the skin smoothes over as soon as it's out. That wasn't very nice, the demon says. Didn't Dad teach you any manners?
Again, fuck off, and Dean guards his plate jealously. The scene is a twisted re-creation of their childhood.
There's a long silence while he eats his fries, as if determined to enjoy them out of pure spite. Finally, the demon speaks. So, he says slowly, watching for Dean's reaction, meet any nice girls lately?
His stomach does this horrible twist, leaving him to feel nauseous as he remembers the softness of her skin, her lips beneath his. He killed her, and Dean knows he fucked up, knows he shouldn't have given in to that need not to be alone, because a few hours with a warm body isn't worth her dying, not for him, but -- he pulls himself together, forces a wry smile that doesn't want to stick but does, and remembers to feel nothing.
No one special. He shoves the plate of half-eaten food at his brother, gets up and walks away. Leaving the demon with the bill is a small bit of revenge, and he figures it'll either skip out or kill the waitress, and it's funny how he feels too sick to even care at this point. He makes a point of smiling at the cashier and nodding to his brother as he leaves.
†
He calls her three hours later, just to see. He knows she won't pick up, won't be there, that she's dead in an alley somewhere, maybe behind the bar where he met her. Which is why it takes him a minute to think of anything to say when she picks up and says Hello? Who is this?
I... uh, it's Dean. Kate, it's Dean. Is everything okay? She's surprised because he even told her he wasn't going to call and he sounds shaken, which he is.
She frowns into the phone. I'm fine. What's wrong?
Nothing, he lies. He's not going to tell her he thought the demon possessing his brother might have killed her, so he just says, I just had... a weird feeling. Wanted to make sure you were okay. You're okay, right? Nothing bad happened?
Nothing bad happened, she confirms. You're acting... really weird.
He chuckles nervously and tells her, I just had a really weird dream. He slips into that role of being perfectly normal which he's adopted so well. Sorry, I know it's crazy. Everything's fine, don't worry about it. Listen, I'll call you later. Maybe I'll stop by sometime.
She seems to accept that, and he hangs up. Dean's heart feels too tight, unable to process her voice on the other side of the line, her breath in his ear, the fact that she isn't dead, that she's okay. She's supposed to be dead. Like all the other women the demon has killed, only Dean can't understand why it didn't kill her, the only one who meant even a small something to him, even just as a willing body with a soft mouth.
He's getting tired of playing these games that were never fun to begin with and have only gotten more twisted, until he's sick to his stomach and not sure where to go.
He knows. There are two choices left to him, and as far as he can tell, they both suck. He can go with his first instinct and put a gun in his own mouth, spray skull fragments and brain matter over the steering wheel and hope the demon lets go, leaves Sam alone. He doesn't like the uncertainty, the fact that it might not change a damn thing, and isn't crazy about suicide as a solution to begin with. There's also the small problem where even if the demon releases his brother without argument... Sam still dies. There's a certain romance in the notion of them dying for each other, but Dean would like to be able to say goodbye, even if he knows it's a pointless gesture.
Which only leaves door number two: exorcism. Dean hates it, knowing that Sam will die because he's already dead or dying and it's his fault for being an idiot and pulling that fucking trigger. A mistake. But at least, Dean thinks, this way he can apologise. It doesn't mean much, saying I'm sorry I killed you, but it's worth something and he figures then he can kill himself in peace if he wants to, the last of the Winchesters. It's fucked up and so wrong that it's come to this, but there's nothing left he can do.
He leafs through his father's journal, past well-worn pages about witches, vampires and spirits, finds the Rituale Romanum. He pushes down the sick feeling in his stomach, tells himself that he killed Sam six months ago and it's time to finish this fucking job and get it over with. He thinks maybe when it's over he'll go back and fuck Kate one more time before he gets back into the Impala and turns the magnum on himself. He likes that idea and decides to remember it later.
He drives until the tank is running damn near empty. He never lets the needle get right to the E because any idiot knows that drags all the crap from the tank right through the engine, and if the Impala gives up on him, he's fucked. He never stops for more than ten minutes, just long enough to get gas and coffee. Coffee is the only thing he wants. The buzz of caffeine tastes better than any of the food he's stopped trying to eat, even if the drink itself is bitter. He figures he gets to choose between caffeine and alcohol, and he can't drive drunk, so the coffee is enough to keep him going.
At night, he lays awake and stares at the ceiling of his car. It's chilly but he's gotten used to it. He murmurs continuously in Latin imperat tibi Christus, aeternum Dei verbum caro factum... He stumbles over some of the words at first, but it's not long before it starts coming back to him. The phrases are familiar from a childhood spent reciting the Latin mass to their father, and he thinks Sam would be impressed and a little surprised. That thought is the one that forces him to keep going.
He mumbles in Latin at gas stations while he fills up the gas tank and buys his cup of stale coffee. He never raises his head, never meets anyone's eye, ignores looks of confusion as he whispers adjuramus te per Deum, vivium per Deum, verum per Deum, sanctum per Deum into his steaming cup and sighs.
He takes a week to memorise it, dozing lightly for only an hour at a time, on the road the rest of the time with his father's journal open on the dash. He whispers the rites until he's sure he can recite the words in his sleep, although sleep isn't high on his list of priorities. He just wants it to end.
Seattle seems like as good a place as any.
†
Part Three
He arrives in Seattle, the veritable birthplace of the trendy cafés the demon loves so damn much. It's 3AM and cloudy, not a star in the black sky. The streets aren't completely empty, but it's just late enough that most of the drunks have found their ways home. He's just a few blocks over from the hospital, and he's planned it that way, not that he really thinks it's going to change anything. He's given up on optimism by now. He lurks on the street, pulling his jacket close because it's fucking cold and damp in this town famous for rain and coffee. He drinks his black, the way he always has, although it's from a gas station and it tastes like shit. It only cost him seventy-five cents and it's caffeinated, so it's enough.
He throws out the empty cup and cuts into the alley. He looks like he belongs: weather-beaten leather jacket, greasy hair, dark smudges like bruises under his eyes, a sparse and patchy beard. Just another homeless vagrant, and that's a lot closer to the truth than he likes to admit.
He picks The Abbey because the name is nicely ironic, and he thinks the demon might appreciate it as much as he does, even if it doesn't understand the reasons. There's a can of blue paint in the back seat from the discount bin of a hardware store back in Boise, Idaho. He mutters to himself, thoughtful, imperat tibi Martyrum sanguis and it keeps him company while he picks the lock. He hates the way his hands tremble while he disables the alarm. He brings in the essentials: a stepladder, paint, a few brushes and the book full of diagrams they got off of Bobby nearly a year ago. God, has it been that long?
He counts himself lucky because the ceiling of the coffee shop is a kind of sky-blue, just a few shades off the paint he chose at random, thinks about thanking God but decides it's not worth it. If any gods exists, they've been fucking him over for the past year -- hell, the past twenty-some if he thinks about it -- and he doesn't feel like he owes any thanks or apologies.
It takes him a couple hours, moving tables and dragging the stepladder over to where he wants to paint, glancing down at the book that lays open beneath him, making sure each of the designs is a perfect replica of the one on the page. He remembers watching Sam do this on Bobby's ceiling and this whole damn thing is so fucking familiar, even the eventual outcome, and it makes him want to be sick. The sun is coming up when he's finished and he figures he's got about another hour before someone shows up to open the shop, so he's quick while he applies contact cement to the floor and the bottom of the tables, gluing them in place. He's not about to let his plan, full of holes as it may be, get ruined because some idiot decides to move one of the tables.
There's a cheap hotel about ten minutes away and it's close enough that he thinks the demon will get everything right and play right into his hands. He doesn't sleep, just brews some coffee in the cheap-ass, complimentary Mr. Coffee provided for his use. He sits on the edge of the bed and drinks cup after cup because it's the best fucking coffee he's had in weeks and it helps keep him up and functioning, remembering a childhood of rock-salt, pranks and scraped knees.
It's two hours before Dean actually puts down the mug, gets into the shower. He's a mess, too thin, and he can see the way his ribcage sticks out. His skin is tanned unevenly, darkest on left arm and pale on his right. He can't remember the last time he washed or cut his hair, and it's way too long, looks sort of like that awful haircut he used to tease Sam about. He towels off and takes an electric razor to his beard, trimming it down to the stubble he's used to. He picks out the cleanest clothes he can find, although his jeans are too big in the waist, and they fall down a little even with the belt.
He's got a few twenties in his wallet still and remembers seeing a barber's shop a few blocks over. It costs fifteen bucks and the barber is a nice guy who talks about his wife while he cuts Dean's hair. He tips him another five just because it's easier than breaking the bill, and it's not like he's going to need the money for that much longer, just enough to get a half-mile to the coffee-shop and two-thousand miles worth of gas and coffee to get back to New Mexico. About four hundred dollars, give or take a little and he's still got a few grand spread across his various fraudulent credit cards, so it's all good.
It's raining again, cold and windy. The raindrops splatter across the windshield, the wiper blades pushing them aside so that he can make out the traffic-signs through the haze created by steady sheets of rain. It's freezing, but at least it means the patio is closed because Dean couldn't exactly paint the sigils in the air above the deck. He can't see Sam at first, but when he heads inside, their eyes meet. The demon watches him, then looks up at the ceiling, the sigil painted on the ceiling above it, and they both know he has it. Dean's smirk is all confidence as he slips towards the back, casually ignites a smoke-bomb in the empty men's washroom and then pulls the fire alarm. Amidst the cries of alarm, chairs scraping and people rushing to get out, he makes a quick phone call and then heads over to sit across from his brother.
You look good, Sam observes, and Dean just smiles. His confidence is all fake, and he hopes he can conceal the way his hands won't stop shaking, his heart hammering in his ears. He knows it's the lack of sleep and food, the overdosing on caffeine, and the fact that everything is about to be over.
They sit in silence while smoke fills the room and people rush out around them, and Dean knows he needs to hurry the hell up. This ends now, he finally says, glancing at his watch, wondering how long it's going to take.
Gonna exorcise me, huh? the demon asks. Where's the journal?
Don't need it, Dean says flippantly, because he's got the whole damn thing in his head and it's time. It's time, and for a minute, it almost feels good.
Exorcizamus te, omnis immunde spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis andversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, in nomine Domini nostri Jesu Christi, eradicare et effugare a Dei Ecclesia, ab animabus ad imaginem Dei conditis ac pretioso divini Agni sanguine redemptis.
It sounds more impressive than it really feels at first, the Latin familiar from a week of reading and whispering the words to himself, to gas station clerks, to the car's dash, and Dean feels a sort of pride at the fact that he's got a better grip on it than Sam did. He doesn't stutter or stumble over the words, imperat tibi excelsa Dei Genetrix Virgo Maria, quae superbissimum caput tuum a primo instanti immaculatae Conceptionis in sua humilitate contrivit, doesn't hear the demon's taunts of you're going to kill him you fucking idiot. Suddenly the only thing he can feel or hear or taste is the magic, and he thinks it's almost enough to make him believe in god.
There's smoke billowing in from the bomb in the bathroom and even though his eyes are watering, he doesn't care because it's going to end now, even if it kills them both, which it very well might. It's like eating too much peanut butter and saltines, his mouth sticky with the power of the world, and Sam is screaming. Sam, or the demon, Dean doesn't fucking care anymore because the rite is a way to get his brother back, even if only for a few minutes, a few seconds before the bullet takes over.
There are sirens outside, from ambulances or fire-trucks, Dean isn't sure but doesn't really have time to worry about it because he needs to save Sam, to kill him, whichever it is at this point. He doesn't know, can only concentrate on getting to the end, rushing through the phrases now as familiar to him as the grip of his favourite shotgun or the weight of a full box of shells.
Humiliare sub potenti manu Dei; contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobissancto et terribili Nomine Jesu, quem inferi tremunt, cui Virtutes caelorum et Potestates et Dominationes subjectae sunt; quem Cherubim et Seraphim indefessis vocibus laundant, dicentes: Santus, Sanctus, Sanctus Dominus Deus Sabaoth, and Sam screams, a black cloud of spraying out of his mouth, towards the ceiling, through it, until it disappears and they're both left panting in the aftermath for just a brief second. Dean stands in shocked stillness for a moment, the end of the words leaving him with a kind of emptiness, a shock that it's over before his little brother slumps forward, and then he's there, cradling his head and lowering him gently to the floor, begging him to hold on, please not let go, not yet.
Sam is coughing up blood onto Dean's shirt, not that it matters because it's already stained in a couple of places anyway, like most of his shirts. The scene is way too familiar, and he strokes his brother's hair, croaking faintly don't worry, it's gonna be okay, ambulance is on the way. Sam shakes his head and Dean can see the blood seeping through the pale blue polo shirt from a gunshot wound in Sam's chest, like he'd just been shot all over again.
I'm sorry, he murmurs, cradling his head with all the tenderness he can manage. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Sam. He wipes the blood from his brother's mouth and whispers apologies, I'm sorry for everything, sorry I didn't realise, sorry I shot you, sorry... sorry...
Can't believe you shot me, Sam whispers, his voice weak and he looks up at Dean with hazy, absent eyes.
Sam squeezes his arm tightly and for a moment it looks like he's going to say don't be sorry but instead he gives a thin smile and breathes Dean, I forgive you. It's the right thing to say because there's no way Dean can stop apologising, and he just needs to know his dying brother forgives him for all he's done and everything he hasn't.
The sirens are loud on the street and Dean cradles his brother and keeps his hand over the wound to try and stem the flow of blood. When the paramedics finally arrive, they have to pry Sam out of his brother's hands and they load him onto the ambulance while the police try to ask questions about what happened. People on the street keep saying they didn't hear anything, not a shot fired, and yet there's Sam with a bullet in his chest and it's been damn near six months since Dean pulled that trigger.
†
They didn't let him ride in the ambulance, so Dean made his own way to the hospital, and sits in the waiting room, staring blankly at the wall, or the clipboard of medical information, or his hands, or the police officers standing in the corner. He's trying to make sense of the fact that his brother might not be dead after all, that maybe he didn't kill the only good thing he had -- might have -- in his fucked-up life. He was so ready for Sam to die, but no doctor has come out yet to say we did everything we could, I'm sorry, and he waits, feeling like he hangs in the balance that is the difference between Sam's life and death.
An hour later and the police must figure they've waited long enough and they come over and start asking Dean questions about what happened. He lies because he can't say I shot my brother six months ago because he was possessed and trying to kill me and I just exorcised him and now he's dying. Instead it's all I couldn't see, everyone was rushing out because of the alarm, and there was smoke, and then Sam was hurt, and I don't know, and -- the fear isn't hard to fake and they believe every word, and when he says I don't know who pulled the fire alarm, I don't know who shot my brother, I don't know, I just don't know they don't press him for more.
He falls asleep and a nurse brings him a blanket, and then leaves him alone to dream about Sam living and dying, and the demon laughing because he couldn't save his little brother, or cursing him because he did. He dreams about their father, who tells him at the same time I'm proud of you, son and how could you let that happen to your brother? I told you to protect him, and Dean isn't sure which one is real.
Son? someone asks, and Dean is groggy and disoriented, wondering what his dead father is doing at the hospital, before he finally comes to and looks up at the man in the white coat. He says we did everything we could, and Dean feels his insides clench as he waits for the second half of the sentence, but we couldn't remove all of the bullet fragments. We think he'll recover provided they don't migrate. We're moving him to private room. He's still under anaesthesia, but you can see him now. It's all a little hazy and completely surreal, and Dean swears the hallway that leads to his brother's room is one of those infinite corridors some people dream about.
†
Sam sleeps for two days and Dean only leaves his side to get bad food from the cafeteria and to use the bathroom. He tries to stay awake in case his brother comes to, but he passes out and dreams, this time about long hallways and Sam's shaky smile. He's exhausted from way too long without any sleep, and the nurse wakes him up periodically to make sure he's okay and to remind him that he needs to eat. He gives her a grateful, sleepy smile, says there's nothing he really needs, and falls back asleep. He wakes up to find Sam holding his hand and whispering hoarsely I still can't believe you shot me, like that's the only thing out of this whole ordeal worth remembering.
Dean gives a hoarse laugh and wants to tell him that he was trying to shoot the demon, not his little brother, but ends up just whispering Sammy and I'm sorry, man. Sam shakes his head and squeezes his hand tightly and Dean thinks that after everything they've been through, he can live with a chick-flick moment to round the whole thing out.