New Fic: My Brilliant Career, Part II
"Sam! Wait!"
It's a cool summer evening in Medford, Oregon. Streetlamps are flickering to life. They soften the neon glow lighting Sam's way. Sam has a bus ticket in his pocket, a suitcase in his hand, and his backpack slung over his shoulder. He is leaving his family for the first time to go to college. His heart is breaking just a little.
"Sammy!"
Sam stops, sighs, and bows his head. Damn. He thought he’d made a clean getaway.
When he looks behind him, he sees his brother coming towards him at a trot. Sam hasn't even made it two blocks from the motel they've been calling home. He wonders why Dean has come after him. He doesn't know what more they have to say to each other.
"What?" Sam asks. He doesn't turn all the way around to face Dean and he doesn't put his suitcase down.
Dean approaches, not saying a word. His arms are down and away from his body as if he's trying to prove to Sam he is unarmed, that he is harmless. Yet, if Sam has learned anything over the last couple of years, it's how easily the Winchesters can wound each other.
Sometimes without even trying.
"You know, if you give him a little time, he'll come around," Dean says when he draws up alongside Sam. "I mean…you can't blame him, man. You kind of just dumped this on him."
"Oh, so you're saying this is my fault?" Sam goes on the offensive without even thinking about it. It's second nature to him these days.
"I'm not saying it's anyone's fault, Sam," Dean says, refusing to back down. Dean might be trying to make peace, but he still won't take Sam's side. Sam makes his "oh typical" face just to see Dean scowl. "I'm saying you surprised him. That's all. You've got to give him time to adjust."
That makes Sam drop his suitcase and stretch to his full height. He's gone through a growth spurt the last couple of years, a relief after being small for his age in junior high. Sam would be lying if he didn't admit he likes being taller now than Dad and Dean. "That's bull, and you know it. I've been talking about going to school since I was a kid."
"Yeah," Dean says, nodding. "But not for real. Not like you were actually gonna do it."
"Why wouldn't I want to go to college?" Sam doesn't even understand why they're having this conversation. Normal families don't wonder why their kids want to go to school. They encourage them.
"Why would you?" Dean counters. "Why would you want to spend your days in the classroom when you could spend them on the road with Dad and me?"
"Dean, I have spent my entire life on the road with Dad and you," Sam says, getting in Dean's face. "It's all I've ever known. But enough is enough."
"Why?" Dean asks. "Why now?"
There are so many things Sam could say. That he's tired of being lonely. That fighting monsters is bad enough, but that he's actually just as worried about them being arrested for credit card fraud or trespassing or property damage and winding up behind bars. That Dad is drinking more than he ever has, and taking more chances.
But the truth is Sam knows he has the potential to do more, be more. He has never been a good soldier, not like Dean is. Sam isn't cut out for taking Dad's orders, no questions asked. And the more Dad expects it of Sam, the more Sam resents it, resents him. Sam has to get out-needs to get out-before all that resentment hardens into hatred.
But he can't say any of that to Dean, not to his big brother who Sam knows loves him, but who he is pretty sure loves their dad and the work just a little bit more. So instead, Sam shrugs and says, "The time is right. I'm eighteen. I've graduated high school. That's when most kids go away from home for the first time."
Dean smiles at him, one of those sideways smirks he likes to try out on waitresses and shopgirls. Only it's more successful with them than it is with Sam. "I thought you knew by now-you're not most kids."
"But I want to be!" Sam can feel his eyes beginning to sting, the threatening tears born of frustration. He has had this conversation over and over again in one form or another for what feels like forever. Neither Dean nor Dad seems to get why this is so important to him. And, no matter how hard he tries, he isn't able to find the words to make them understand. "I want to have a normal life, okay? With a real home, not some motel room with cockroaches in the walls and mold in the shower. I want to eat a meal I don't order off a menu. I want to have a goal, something I can work for and achieve. Become an engineer maybe, or a lawyer or something."
"Are you kidding me? Dad has goals," Dean says. Sam can tell his brother is angry now, that Sam has struck a nerve. "So do I, as a matter of fact-ones you used to share. You don't think saving people from the evil sons of bitches we know are out there isn't a goal? That finding the thing that killed Mom isn't some kind of noble ambition?"
"How long have we been at it, Dean?" Sam asks, angry now as well. They're standing in front of used car lot, on a commercial strip with traffic roaring past fast enough that their conversation won’t be overheard. Which is good, because neither of them is keeping their voices down. "Dad started chasing whatever the hell it was that killed Mom when I was still in my crib. Eighteen years, and we're no closer than we were the day it happened. How long are we going to keep banging our heads against the wall, huh? How long before we say enough, and get on with our lives?"
Dean punches him, fast and hard, his fist connecting with Sam's chin, and cracking Sam's teeth together. Sam falls back a step or two and puts his hand to his jaw. It feels hot against his palm and throbs in time with his pulse. Sam can already feel the ache creeping up his face towards his eyes. Past experience has taught him he'll have a headache before long. Good thing he remembered to stick some aspirin in his backpack.
Sam stands up straight, drops his eyes and lowers his hand. He is still angry, but it's more at himself than at Dean. Sam was pushing his brother's buttons, and he knew it the entire time he was doing it.
It's scary sometimes how easy it is to hurt Dean. Another reason for Sam to leave. He doesn't want to get too good at it.
"Sam…"
Sam looks up and sees Dean looking back at him, swaying and pale, like he is sick with regret. Sam understands. He feels the same way.
Sam picks up his suitcase. "Good-bye, Dean. Take care of yourself. And Dad. I…I'll miss you."
Sam waits a beat, to see if Dean has anything to say in response. When he doesn't speak, Sam turns to leave.
Behind him, he hears Dean say one final word. Sam can't tell if it's meant as a prayer or as a curse.
"Jesus."
***
"Nooooooooooo!"
It's Dean's hand on Sam's shoulder that actually pulls him from sleep, not Dean's words.
"Sam! Sam, wake up."
Dean's voice is something Sam might confuse with a dream, but not his touch. He would recognize that anywhere. It's as if Dean's physical presence is hard-wired into his awareness. Dean equals safety for Sam. He always has. Asleep or awake, Sam is drawn to that promise, even though he knows now Dean is no talisman.
Sam is twenty-two, and a senior in college. Jess has been dead for three days, and the life Sam painstakingly built for himself since coming to Stanford died with her.
He has nothing left now but Dean.
"You all right?"
Dean is sitting on the bed, looking at him with worry. They're staying at the Motel 6 near campus. It's not the Ritz, but it's a cut above their usual accommodations. Dean chose it, and Sam knows why. Dean is coddling him, like he used to when they were kids, and Sam would skin his knee or catch a cold. Sam thinks about calling him on it, only part of him doesn't want Dean to stop. Not yet.
Sam isn't proud of how needy he feels. But right now, it's nothing he can control.
"Yeah," he says, clearing his throat and rubbing his hand over his face. "Yeah, I'm good."
"Oh, yeah," Dean says, all but rolling his eyes. "You're awesome."
"Bite me," Sam says as he draws up his legs, swings them around Dean and off the bed. Pressing to his feet, he weaves a bit unsteadily to the bathroom and relieves himself, washes his face and brushes his teeth. He tells himself the reason his hands are trembling is because he drank too much coffee the night before. Though he isn't sure he believes those kinds of lies anymore. He knows Dean doesn't. But that doesn't stop Sam from telling them.
Sam has just awakened from his first sound sleep since the drive back from Jericho. He looks at his watch, does the math, and figures out he got a little over two and a half hours of shuteye. That small effort didn't make a dent in his exhaustion. He is so tired, he might as well be underwater. Nothing is clear. His vision is blurred and his hearing is muffled, yet he has no desire to return to bed. He feels jumpy under his skin, like something is crawling there. But he tries not to fidget.
"You want to get something to eat?" Dean is leaning in the bathroom doorway, watching him. "Maybe grab some breakfast?"
"No," Sam says, drying his hands and face. "I'm not hungry. You go though, if you want. But hurry. I want to go back to our…to my apartment this morning. See if there's anything we've missed."
Dean sighs and folds his arms across his chest. "Sam, we've already been back there twice."
"Yeah. Once at night and once when we ended up getting chased off by the cops. We haven't had the chance to really go over the scene in daylight…"
"Dude," Dean says, pushing away from the door jamb and coming to stand beside Sam at the sink. "Your apartment is not an arson scene. We're not trying to figure out how the fire got started or who set it. We already know that. What's left behind…that's not going to tell us anything."
Sam realizes that. He isn't an idiot. He wishes Dean would stop talking to him like one. Sam knows what murdered Jess. He just doesn't know why. Why now? Why when he finally had what he wanted? Why take it all away?
He can't ask those questions out loud, though. Not in front of Dean. He’s afraid they will make him sound weak, and he doesn't want Dean to think of him that way. So Sam asks Dean something else instead.
"Fine. What do you think we should do?"
"I think you should eat something-"
"I mean about figuring out what happened to Jess."
"I know what you mean," Dean snaps, his arms falling to his sides. Sam can tell Dean is running out of patience. "But I'm telling you right now-you're no good to Jess or to me if you make yourself sick."
"I'm not sick," Sam says, pushing past Dean and out of the bathroom.
"Not now," Dean says, trailing behind him. "Not yet. But you keep going the way you are-no food, no sleep, hyped up on Red Bull and motel lobby coffee-and sooner or later you're either gonna faceplant on the sidewalk or end up in the hospital. Probably both."
Dean is right. Sam knows he is. Sam would say the same thing if their roles were reversed. But Dean doesn't understand. He doesn't know that every time Sam closes his eyes, Jess is there above him, twisted and pinned, her blood dripping on his face. He can't fathom how a whiff of burgers frying on a grill is enough to remind Sam what her body smelled like as it burned.
How can Sam ever tell Dean of the guilt he fears sometimes might turn his bones to powder, crushing him beneath its terrible weight?
He has no words to explain to Dean and none to argue with.
Raking his fingers through his hair, Sam wanders over to the bed, and drops down on the end of it, making the springs beneath the mattress squeal and squeak. Hanging his head, he closes his eyes and murmurs, "I don't know what to do."
Dean doesn't say anything at first. He just comes to sit beside Sam and put his hand on Sam's shoulder. His voice is gentle when he finally asks, "What do you want, Sam?"
Sam has always told himself what bothered him most about Dean and Dad was that neither of them ever took into consideration what Sam wanted. Now Dean is asking, and Sam isn't sure what to say. He knows one thing though.
"I want Jess back." He looks up and meets Dean's eyes. All the sympathy in the world is shining from them.
Dean smiles, small and sad. "I'm good, Sam. But I'm not that good."
"Think you're good enough to help me hunt down whatever it was that took her from me?"
Dean squeezes Sam shoulder once, hard, before moving his hand away. "Yeah. I think maybe I am."
Sam takes a deep, slow breath. "That's what I want," he tells Dean. "To destroy that thing. To make it regret it ever even looked our way."
"So what?" Dean asks. "You've decided you're going to be Sam Winchester, boy demon slayer now?"
Sam shrugs. "If that's what it takes."
"It probably will, you know," Dean says. "I don't know what we're up against, but there's a good chance it's demonic, or something worse."
Sam nods. "I'm ready."
Dean shakes his head. "No, you're not. Not right now."
"All right," Sam allows, acknowledging Dean is right. "Maybe not. But soon."
"Yeah," Dean says, as serious as Sam has ever heard him. "Soon."
Sam takes that as the promise he knows Dean intends it to be.
***
Sam is twenty-six the day Lucifer rises. He is responsible for setting the fallen one free. He is a monster now, a freak, and knows the real tragedy is how eagerly he pursued his own corruption.
He stands, looking down at a strange pattern drawn by Lilith's blood. Against all expectations, his brother stands beside him. A fearsome light roars as it pushes up through the center of that pattern, sharp as a laser, melting stone, and setting the chamber aglow.
Watching with a kind of awe, Sam and Dean cling to each other like the children they once were. "Sammy, let's go."
But Sam can't move. He is frozen in horror and disbelief. His brother gave himself to Hell to buy Sam's life. Now Sam has given Hell back to him, repaying Dean's sacrifice with damnation.
"Dean." That's all Sam knows. He has already apologized once, and would again, over and over, only he knows there is no forgiveness possible for a man like him.
"He's coming," Sam gasps as the beam of light grows in brightness and in scope.
Dean tugs on him, struggling to draw him away. Sam resists. He doesn't want to go, doesn't want to run. Where would he hide? He has avoided so much for so long. He wonders if there isn't a kind of relief to be had in facing consequences.
Yet Dean isn’t willing to let him find out.
"Come on, Sam!" Dean pulls harder, throwing Sam off-balance and dragging him nearly all the way to the door before Sam can stop his momentum and escape from his brother's grasp.
"Forget it. Just leave me, Dean," Sam begs. "Get out of here."
"No!" Dean shouts, grabbing hold of him again. "I won't."
"Dean, please!" Sam says, openly fighting now to get away. The light is nearly white with power, incandescent, and blinding. They haven't much time. "I can't."
"Yes, you can!" Dean says, his hands locked around Sam's arms, his face in close. Sam can see the desperation swimming in his eyes, can feel Dean's breath puffing hot and urgent against his cheek. "You're my brother. I'm not leaving you behind!"
And as his world crumbles around him, Sam finally understands.
He is Dean's brother.
That is who he is. Who he has always been.
And, at that moment, all he truly wants to be.
"Please, Sam," Dean whispers, his love for his monster of a brother obvious even to Sam.
"It was you and your choices," Ruby said to Sam before she died. "I just gave you the options and you chose the right path every time."
Sam knows his path.
He goes with Dean.
It may be a choice. But it is also his destiny.
***
The End
It's a cool summer evening in Medford, Oregon. Streetlamps are flickering to life. They soften the neon glow lighting Sam's way. Sam has a bus ticket in his pocket, a suitcase in his hand, and his backpack slung over his shoulder. He is leaving his family for the first time to go to college. His heart is breaking just a little.
"Sammy!"
Sam stops, sighs, and bows his head. Damn. He thought he’d made a clean getaway.
When he looks behind him, he sees his brother coming towards him at a trot. Sam hasn't even made it two blocks from the motel they've been calling home. He wonders why Dean has come after him. He doesn't know what more they have to say to each other.
"What?" Sam asks. He doesn't turn all the way around to face Dean and he doesn't put his suitcase down.
Dean approaches, not saying a word. His arms are down and away from his body as if he's trying to prove to Sam he is unarmed, that he is harmless. Yet, if Sam has learned anything over the last couple of years, it's how easily the Winchesters can wound each other.
Sometimes without even trying.
"You know, if you give him a little time, he'll come around," Dean says when he draws up alongside Sam. "I mean…you can't blame him, man. You kind of just dumped this on him."
"Oh, so you're saying this is my fault?" Sam goes on the offensive without even thinking about it. It's second nature to him these days.
"I'm not saying it's anyone's fault, Sam," Dean says, refusing to back down. Dean might be trying to make peace, but he still won't take Sam's side. Sam makes his "oh typical" face just to see Dean scowl. "I'm saying you surprised him. That's all. You've got to give him time to adjust."
That makes Sam drop his suitcase and stretch to his full height. He's gone through a growth spurt the last couple of years, a relief after being small for his age in junior high. Sam would be lying if he didn't admit he likes being taller now than Dad and Dean. "That's bull, and you know it. I've been talking about going to school since I was a kid."
"Yeah," Dean says, nodding. "But not for real. Not like you were actually gonna do it."
"Why wouldn't I want to go to college?" Sam doesn't even understand why they're having this conversation. Normal families don't wonder why their kids want to go to school. They encourage them.
"Why would you?" Dean counters. "Why would you want to spend your days in the classroom when you could spend them on the road with Dad and me?"
"Dean, I have spent my entire life on the road with Dad and you," Sam says, getting in Dean's face. "It's all I've ever known. But enough is enough."
"Why?" Dean asks. "Why now?"
There are so many things Sam could say. That he's tired of being lonely. That fighting monsters is bad enough, but that he's actually just as worried about them being arrested for credit card fraud or trespassing or property damage and winding up behind bars. That Dad is drinking more than he ever has, and taking more chances.
But the truth is Sam knows he has the potential to do more, be more. He has never been a good soldier, not like Dean is. Sam isn't cut out for taking Dad's orders, no questions asked. And the more Dad expects it of Sam, the more Sam resents it, resents him. Sam has to get out-needs to get out-before all that resentment hardens into hatred.
But he can't say any of that to Dean, not to his big brother who Sam knows loves him, but who he is pretty sure loves their dad and the work just a little bit more. So instead, Sam shrugs and says, "The time is right. I'm eighteen. I've graduated high school. That's when most kids go away from home for the first time."
Dean smiles at him, one of those sideways smirks he likes to try out on waitresses and shopgirls. Only it's more successful with them than it is with Sam. "I thought you knew by now-you're not most kids."
"But I want to be!" Sam can feel his eyes beginning to sting, the threatening tears born of frustration. He has had this conversation over and over again in one form or another for what feels like forever. Neither Dean nor Dad seems to get why this is so important to him. And, no matter how hard he tries, he isn't able to find the words to make them understand. "I want to have a normal life, okay? With a real home, not some motel room with cockroaches in the walls and mold in the shower. I want to eat a meal I don't order off a menu. I want to have a goal, something I can work for and achieve. Become an engineer maybe, or a lawyer or something."
"Are you kidding me? Dad has goals," Dean says. Sam can tell his brother is angry now, that Sam has struck a nerve. "So do I, as a matter of fact-ones you used to share. You don't think saving people from the evil sons of bitches we know are out there isn't a goal? That finding the thing that killed Mom isn't some kind of noble ambition?"
"How long have we been at it, Dean?" Sam asks, angry now as well. They're standing in front of used car lot, on a commercial strip with traffic roaring past fast enough that their conversation won’t be overheard. Which is good, because neither of them is keeping their voices down. "Dad started chasing whatever the hell it was that killed Mom when I was still in my crib. Eighteen years, and we're no closer than we were the day it happened. How long are we going to keep banging our heads against the wall, huh? How long before we say enough, and get on with our lives?"
Dean punches him, fast and hard, his fist connecting with Sam's chin, and cracking Sam's teeth together. Sam falls back a step or two and puts his hand to his jaw. It feels hot against his palm and throbs in time with his pulse. Sam can already feel the ache creeping up his face towards his eyes. Past experience has taught him he'll have a headache before long. Good thing he remembered to stick some aspirin in his backpack.
Sam stands up straight, drops his eyes and lowers his hand. He is still angry, but it's more at himself than at Dean. Sam was pushing his brother's buttons, and he knew it the entire time he was doing it.
It's scary sometimes how easy it is to hurt Dean. Another reason for Sam to leave. He doesn't want to get too good at it.
"Sam…"
Sam looks up and sees Dean looking back at him, swaying and pale, like he is sick with regret. Sam understands. He feels the same way.
Sam picks up his suitcase. "Good-bye, Dean. Take care of yourself. And Dad. I…I'll miss you."
Sam waits a beat, to see if Dean has anything to say in response. When he doesn't speak, Sam turns to leave.
Behind him, he hears Dean say one final word. Sam can't tell if it's meant as a prayer or as a curse.
"Jesus."
***
"Nooooooooooo!"
It's Dean's hand on Sam's shoulder that actually pulls him from sleep, not Dean's words.
"Sam! Sam, wake up."
Dean's voice is something Sam might confuse with a dream, but not his touch. He would recognize that anywhere. It's as if Dean's physical presence is hard-wired into his awareness. Dean equals safety for Sam. He always has. Asleep or awake, Sam is drawn to that promise, even though he knows now Dean is no talisman.
Sam is twenty-two, and a senior in college. Jess has been dead for three days, and the life Sam painstakingly built for himself since coming to Stanford died with her.
He has nothing left now but Dean.
"You all right?"
Dean is sitting on the bed, looking at him with worry. They're staying at the Motel 6 near campus. It's not the Ritz, but it's a cut above their usual accommodations. Dean chose it, and Sam knows why. Dean is coddling him, like he used to when they were kids, and Sam would skin his knee or catch a cold. Sam thinks about calling him on it, only part of him doesn't want Dean to stop. Not yet.
Sam isn't proud of how needy he feels. But right now, it's nothing he can control.
"Yeah," he says, clearing his throat and rubbing his hand over his face. "Yeah, I'm good."
"Oh, yeah," Dean says, all but rolling his eyes. "You're awesome."
"Bite me," Sam says as he draws up his legs, swings them around Dean and off the bed. Pressing to his feet, he weaves a bit unsteadily to the bathroom and relieves himself, washes his face and brushes his teeth. He tells himself the reason his hands are trembling is because he drank too much coffee the night before. Though he isn't sure he believes those kinds of lies anymore. He knows Dean doesn't. But that doesn't stop Sam from telling them.
Sam has just awakened from his first sound sleep since the drive back from Jericho. He looks at his watch, does the math, and figures out he got a little over two and a half hours of shuteye. That small effort didn't make a dent in his exhaustion. He is so tired, he might as well be underwater. Nothing is clear. His vision is blurred and his hearing is muffled, yet he has no desire to return to bed. He feels jumpy under his skin, like something is crawling there. But he tries not to fidget.
"You want to get something to eat?" Dean is leaning in the bathroom doorway, watching him. "Maybe grab some breakfast?"
"No," Sam says, drying his hands and face. "I'm not hungry. You go though, if you want. But hurry. I want to go back to our…to my apartment this morning. See if there's anything we've missed."
Dean sighs and folds his arms across his chest. "Sam, we've already been back there twice."
"Yeah. Once at night and once when we ended up getting chased off by the cops. We haven't had the chance to really go over the scene in daylight…"
"Dude," Dean says, pushing away from the door jamb and coming to stand beside Sam at the sink. "Your apartment is not an arson scene. We're not trying to figure out how the fire got started or who set it. We already know that. What's left behind…that's not going to tell us anything."
Sam realizes that. He isn't an idiot. He wishes Dean would stop talking to him like one. Sam knows what murdered Jess. He just doesn't know why. Why now? Why when he finally had what he wanted? Why take it all away?
He can't ask those questions out loud, though. Not in front of Dean. He’s afraid they will make him sound weak, and he doesn't want Dean to think of him that way. So Sam asks Dean something else instead.
"Fine. What do you think we should do?"
"I think you should eat something-"
"I mean about figuring out what happened to Jess."
"I know what you mean," Dean snaps, his arms falling to his sides. Sam can tell Dean is running out of patience. "But I'm telling you right now-you're no good to Jess or to me if you make yourself sick."
"I'm not sick," Sam says, pushing past Dean and out of the bathroom.
"Not now," Dean says, trailing behind him. "Not yet. But you keep going the way you are-no food, no sleep, hyped up on Red Bull and motel lobby coffee-and sooner or later you're either gonna faceplant on the sidewalk or end up in the hospital. Probably both."
Dean is right. Sam knows he is. Sam would say the same thing if their roles were reversed. But Dean doesn't understand. He doesn't know that every time Sam closes his eyes, Jess is there above him, twisted and pinned, her blood dripping on his face. He can't fathom how a whiff of burgers frying on a grill is enough to remind Sam what her body smelled like as it burned.
How can Sam ever tell Dean of the guilt he fears sometimes might turn his bones to powder, crushing him beneath its terrible weight?
He has no words to explain to Dean and none to argue with.
Raking his fingers through his hair, Sam wanders over to the bed, and drops down on the end of it, making the springs beneath the mattress squeal and squeak. Hanging his head, he closes his eyes and murmurs, "I don't know what to do."
Dean doesn't say anything at first. He just comes to sit beside Sam and put his hand on Sam's shoulder. His voice is gentle when he finally asks, "What do you want, Sam?"
Sam has always told himself what bothered him most about Dean and Dad was that neither of them ever took into consideration what Sam wanted. Now Dean is asking, and Sam isn't sure what to say. He knows one thing though.
"I want Jess back." He looks up and meets Dean's eyes. All the sympathy in the world is shining from them.
Dean smiles, small and sad. "I'm good, Sam. But I'm not that good."
"Think you're good enough to help me hunt down whatever it was that took her from me?"
Dean squeezes Sam shoulder once, hard, before moving his hand away. "Yeah. I think maybe I am."
Sam takes a deep, slow breath. "That's what I want," he tells Dean. "To destroy that thing. To make it regret it ever even looked our way."
"So what?" Dean asks. "You've decided you're going to be Sam Winchester, boy demon slayer now?"
Sam shrugs. "If that's what it takes."
"It probably will, you know," Dean says. "I don't know what we're up against, but there's a good chance it's demonic, or something worse."
Sam nods. "I'm ready."
Dean shakes his head. "No, you're not. Not right now."
"All right," Sam allows, acknowledging Dean is right. "Maybe not. But soon."
"Yeah," Dean says, as serious as Sam has ever heard him. "Soon."
Sam takes that as the promise he knows Dean intends it to be.
***
Sam is twenty-six the day Lucifer rises. He is responsible for setting the fallen one free. He is a monster now, a freak, and knows the real tragedy is how eagerly he pursued his own corruption.
He stands, looking down at a strange pattern drawn by Lilith's blood. Against all expectations, his brother stands beside him. A fearsome light roars as it pushes up through the center of that pattern, sharp as a laser, melting stone, and setting the chamber aglow.
Watching with a kind of awe, Sam and Dean cling to each other like the children they once were. "Sammy, let's go."
But Sam can't move. He is frozen in horror and disbelief. His brother gave himself to Hell to buy Sam's life. Now Sam has given Hell back to him, repaying Dean's sacrifice with damnation.
"Dean." That's all Sam knows. He has already apologized once, and would again, over and over, only he knows there is no forgiveness possible for a man like him.
"He's coming," Sam gasps as the beam of light grows in brightness and in scope.
Dean tugs on him, struggling to draw him away. Sam resists. He doesn't want to go, doesn't want to run. Where would he hide? He has avoided so much for so long. He wonders if there isn't a kind of relief to be had in facing consequences.
Yet Dean isn’t willing to let him find out.
"Come on, Sam!" Dean pulls harder, throwing Sam off-balance and dragging him nearly all the way to the door before Sam can stop his momentum and escape from his brother's grasp.
"Forget it. Just leave me, Dean," Sam begs. "Get out of here."
"No!" Dean shouts, grabbing hold of him again. "I won't."
"Dean, please!" Sam says, openly fighting now to get away. The light is nearly white with power, incandescent, and blinding. They haven't much time. "I can't."
"Yes, you can!" Dean says, his hands locked around Sam's arms, his face in close. Sam can see the desperation swimming in his eyes, can feel Dean's breath puffing hot and urgent against his cheek. "You're my brother. I'm not leaving you behind!"
And as his world crumbles around him, Sam finally understands.
He is Dean's brother.
That is who he is. Who he has always been.
And, at that moment, all he truly wants to be.
"Please, Sam," Dean whispers, his love for his monster of a brother obvious even to Sam.
"It was you and your choices," Ruby said to Sam before she died. "I just gave you the options and you chose the right path every time."
Sam knows his path.
He goes with Dean.
It may be a choice. But it is also his destiny.
***
The End