New Fic: Bearable (Gen, PG-13) - Oh Sam! H/C Comment Fic
You can read this here. As it's a comment fic, I posted it with the amazing ash48's prompt (credit where credit is due). But, it got cut up so badly when posting, I thought it might be best to post it in its entirety here. I hope everyone enjoys it.
Bearable
by Ancasta
PG-13
2,867 words
Beta by the swift and wonderful debbiel and callistosh65
***
Sam is strung up so tight, Dean doesn't know how his body still has the freedom to move with every blow. But it does. It jerks and snaps and sinks and sways. Dean jumps every time Sam does. But he doesn't say a word of comfort, and he doesn't struggle to pull his baby brother down. He stays where he is and watches, silent, from across the room, held in place by hellhound jaws, one set around each wrist, like a pair of demon manacles. He can feel the phantom teeth digging into tender skin. But they haven't broken through to blood, not yet. The dogs' master is holding them in check.
But only as long as Sam can keep quiet.
You bloody Winchesters and your bloody pet angel. Did you really think I'd leave my every last bone just lying around for you two bumbling boy detectives to destroy? How long do you think I've been at this, eh? Long enough to outsmart the likes of you, I can promise you that.
If Dean was shocked to learn Crowley's whole disappearing in a burst of flame and ash was more intermission than final curtain, he was stunned when Sam was torn from his side by unseen hands and shackled at the wrists and ankles, Sam's limbs pulled wide from his body until he was stretched, suspended like a human X.
"Dean!"
"Sam! Hang on, I-"
It was then that, with a snarl, Dean's canine captors made their presence known, startling him into silence and giving Crowley the opportunity to speak instead.
"Now that you've both assumed the position-as the saying goes-it's time for a bit of fun. You flannel-clad imbeciles are more in love with each other than you are with anyone else. So I'll bet I know just the way to teach you both a lesson. You there, Sam, are going to take it like a man. Twenty strokes of the lash, administered by my tender hand. And you're not going to say a word. If you do, I'll take you down and put Dean up there in your place. Or better yet, maybe I'll just let my hounds use him for a chew toy instead. Dean remembers what that feels like. Don't you, Dean?"
"No!" Sam protested.
"That better be your famous last word, moose." With the flick of Cowley's hand, Sam's shirts were ripped from his body. Sam gasped and swung terrified eyes in Dean's direction.
Dean was just as scared. "You son of a bitch."
"Don't like it? Well, I don't like your tone," Crowley said. "In fact, why don't you follow your brother's shining example, and shut it. If I hear one word of encouragement-or anything else-from you, I'll double the count. When applied properly, twenty lashes are enough to make a grown man pass out from pain. Can you imagine what forty lashes would do?"
Dean could imagine all too well.
"Right," Cowley said, smiling. "Now let's start started."
"Eight."
"Nine."
"Ten."
With every crack of the lash, Crowley calls out the count. He's sweating with effort and his eyes gleam with pleasure. Dean says nothing and pictures in his head strangling Crowley with his own whip, squeezing so hard those cruel, laughing eyes pop right out of his head.
Only ten more, Sammy.
Only seven.
Only four.
Sam is facing him. So Dean can't see the damage being done to his brother's back. But he can imagine it. Sam is flushed a violent shade of red and his limbs tremble unceasingly, his body shivering as if horribly chilled. He won't look at Dean, and cowardly though it may be, Dean isn't really sure he wants Sam to. Yet Dean can see tears chasing each other, one after another, down Sam's cheeks.
Sam has bitten his lip so hard he’s drawn blood. But he hasn't said a word, hasn't done more than gasp, no matter how hard Crowley applies the lash. Dean wishes he would, that Sam would shout, curse, scream his pain to the heavens. Dean would give anything to take his brother's place. But Sam doesn’t.
He’s always been the most stubborn bastard Dean has ever known.
"Twenty."
Finally. Thank God.
Sam's trial at an end, Dean pulls against the hellhounds' hold again, desperate to get to his brother. Growling, the demon dogs clench down harder, sinking at last through his skin and making him wince, his eyes burning with tears of their own. Still, Dean doesn't cry out, not yet. He doesn't trust what Crowley might do if he did. Even though the twenty strokes have been delivered, it would be just like the demon to say their ordeal wasn't over.
Crowley seems amused by his eagerness. "Boys, I have to give credit where credit is due. The way you two run off at the mouth, I didn't think you'd be able to keep it zipped. But I was wrong. Well done."
"Let him go," Dean says, daring now that Crowley has spoken. His wrists are wet with blood, and they ache, throbbing in rhythm with his pulse. He doesn't care. "Let us both go."
"All in good time," Crowley says, the whip disappearing from his hand. "First I want to make certain you understand the purpose of this little exercise-consider it a friendly warning. Don't cross me and don't ask Castiel to do it for you. I let you two live because you have your uses. The minute the inconvenience outweighs the advantages, that twenty lashes turns into one hundred. Do you want to watch as I flay your brother alive, Dean?"
Dean swallows hard. "No."
"No," Crowley echoes, mocking. "Thought not." He snaps his fingers and Sam collapses like a building felled by dynamite. Dean can see his back now. Raised stripes crosshatch the skin, some split open and bleeding, painting everything red. "You two be good now."
And with that, the demon king and his equally demonic pets are gone.
Released with a suddenness that makes him stumble, Dean runs to Sam's side and falls there on his knees. "Sam? Sammy? Hey. Easy, take it easy now. Let me look at you."
Sam's only response is a shaky moan. He tries to roll over onto his side, but the movement costs him. He doesn't get far before his breath catches and releases on a sob. Burying his face in the bend of his elbow, he rolls back over onto his belly again.
Dean is frantic to help. "Sam, please don't move. Okay? Not yet," he pleads, already shrugging out of his coat. He folds it into a lumpy pillow and, lifting Sam's head, slips it beneath his damp cheek. "Let me…just let me go get some stuff. All right? Stay there. I'll be right back."
They're in an abandoned ball bearing factory just outside Massillon, Ohio. It's early March and chilly. Sam has goose bumps peppering the skin between the welts. Dean can't tell if they're caused by cold or shock. He takes off his shirt and drapes it over Sam's ruined back. He doesn't know what else to do.
"I'll be back," he says again, standing, clad now in a t-shirt and jeans. "Stay still, and try to stay awake."
Sam doesn't answer, but he closes his fingers around Dean's coat and holds on tight. His silence is enough to make Dean hightail it that much faster to the Impala.
Once there, he rummages through both the interior and the trunk, searching for any and all things useful-their battered first aid kit, Sam's half-empty bottle of water; a faded brown hoodie Sam has worn so often it's frayed at the cuffs and nearly threadbare; and Dean's favorite semi-automatic. Just in case.
Shoving it all in a duffle bag, Dean full-out sprints back to his brother. Sam is where Dean left him, lying on his stomach near one of the long-dead assembly belts. The only change Dean notes is that one of Sam's knees is bent a little higher, like he was trying to curve in on himself. Dean doesn't know if he was trying to warm up or make himself less of a target.
"See, told you I wouldn't take long," Dean says, kneeling at Sam's side. He wants to touch him, but is afraid of hurting him further. Every line of Sam's body is rigid with tension, as if he expects to be beaten some more. This wariness makes him seem brittle somehow to Dean's eyes, fragile and easy to break. "I need to get you cleaned up some. We can do most of it back at the motel. But it's the middle of the day and we need to get you from the car to the room without anyone asking too many questions. So I've gotta make you at least a little bit presentable. Think you can maybe help me out here?"
Sam doesn't respond, though his eyes are open and staring at the floor, as if fascinated by the concrete. He's beginning to freak Dean out.
"Do you want to do this sitting up or lying down?" Dean asks, trying again. Giving in to his desire for contact, he lays his hand on Sam's head. Sam's hair is tangled and sweaty, and the scalp beneath it is warmer than anything else in the room. Strangely, Dean is comforted by the heat. He wonders if the same could be said by Sam of his touch.
He doesn't know, because Sam still isn't speaking. At least not at first. But after a moment or two of Dean smoothing his hand as gently as he can over Sam's hair, Sam swallows hard and whispers, "Dean?"
Dean's hand stills. "Yeah, Sammy?"
"C-can you help me sit up?" Sam's voice sounds shredded, like he screamed his way through his torture instead of saying nothing at all.
"Sure. Yeah. Sure I can."
Dean was confident when he gave his response, yet when it comes to actually following through, it's hard. Sam is shaky, and it seems to Dean as if at least half his body is injured in some way. Dean does all he can to avoid Sam's damaged back. But in the end, his arm brushes against it and Sam flinches, making a wordless sound of pain.
"Sorry," Dean says, pulling away suddenly, like he was the one wounded, not Sam. "Jesus. I'm sorry."
"It's okay," Sam says, sitting now, hunched over, his weight braced against one hand, his legs curled around him. Dean shirt is pooled on the floor, forgotten alongside Dean's coat.
It's not okay. Not a damned thing about this is okay. But all Dean does is shuffle around on his knees so he's in back of his brother and all he says is, "I'm going to go as quick as I can, okay? If I hurt you, let me know."
"'kay."
Using what's left of Sam's water, Dean wets down a hand towel he found with their supplies and begins dabbing carefully at Sam's injuries. Sam has more welts than open cuts, but a few of the gashes are deep and are probably going to need stitches. "Damn."
"What?" Sam says, turning his head ever so slightly to look in Dean's direction. Their eyes don't meet.
"Gonna need to break out the dental floss and needle for a couple of these, I think," Dean replies, frowning as he presses the towel to a particularly ragged wound. Sam tenses, but he doesn't draw away.
Sam nods as if his head weighs a couple of tons. "Do we have any whiskey left?"
"If we don't, I'll buy you some," Dean says, pulling away the towel to check his work. It seems like the blood might finally be clotting. "Any kind you want."
That coaxes a weak chuckle from Sam's lips. "We can't afford the good stuff."
"Try me," Dean says. He quickly wipes at his own wounds. The bites are shallower than he thought at first.
"'s okay," Sam says softly. "I'm fine."
Sam is so far from fine, Dean doesn't think he could see it with a telescope. His back is a mess, he still hasn't entirely stopped shaking, and there's something…off about the way he's reacting to the whole thing. Dean knows there is.
Sam is a tough son of a bitch, always has been. The first time he took a punch, he was in the fourth grade. He lost a tooth, but the great big bully of a sixth grader who started it all wound up flat on his back, holding his nuts, once Sam realized he was truly in a fight.
Dean remembers how pissed he was when his kid brother came home from school, his clothes ripped, his cheek bruised, blood trickling from his mouth. But Sam took it all in stride, shrugging off Dean's attempts to coddle him, proud not only of what he could dish out, but of what he could take.
Only that was then and this is now.
And something has changed.
It isn't long before Dean has wiped away what blood there is from Sam's back. He's bandaged what he can, even though he knows some of the dressings are only temporary. Still, it'll do until they get back to the motel. "If I help you, do you think you can slide your arms in here?" Dean asks, holding up the hoodie.
Taking a slow, shuddering breath, Sam nods. "Yeah." On unsteady arms, he pushes to his knees. Dean guides his hands through the sleeves, going slowly and carefully, trying not to jar Sam or his wounds. They're able to tug the jacket up over his shoulders, but Dean doesn't zipper it. That would pull the fabric too tightly against Sam's injuries.
Dean doesn't get a good look at Sam's face, not once the entire time he's dressing him. It's not until he leans in close, hands on Sam's elbows in preparation to help him stand, that their eyes finally meet. What Dean sees there stops his breath and pierces him worse than Crowley's demon dogs.
Hell is staring back at him, flickering dark and awful in his brother's gaze. It isn't flames Dean sees, but a kind of awareness on Sam's part, a history unwilling to let him go.
"Sam?"
Sam quickly ducks his head, shivers, and says nothing.
"Sammy, what?" Dean is all but panicked now. The wall has crumbled. Crowley must have kicked in a chunk of its plaster when he tore up Sam's back, and Dean doesn't know how great the damage is or how to even begin patching it. "What are… what do I--?"
"Nothing," Sam mumbles, eyes averted still. "It's nothing."
"Fuck that!" Dean replies, wanting to shake him. "It's Hell. And we've got to -"
Only Dean doesn't know what they've got to do. How are they supposed to face down Hell? How did Sam get it back under wraps the last time?
"I've just gotta hang in there," Sam says, arms wrapped around himself as if he believes he can hold himself together that way. "I need… I need to keep it away from me until I can…get control."
That's all Dean needs to hear. "Come here."
Frowning, Sam looks up. "What?"
"I said come here." Without even thinking about what he's doing, Dean pulls Sam into his arms, handling him gently, but firmly.
"Dean…what?" Though Sam is tense, he doesn't fight. He flows willingly into Dean's embrace until he comes to rest, leaning fully against Dean, his cheek on Dean's shoulder. The fit is different from what it was when they were boys, but it's there nonetheless. Dean loops his arms low around Sam's waist, away from the worst of the damage, and hangs on.
After a time, Sam asks, "What are you doing?"
Dean doesn't really know. Yet he answers, "I'm helping."
Sam doesn't reply at first. He is huddled against Dean as if he were truly the little brother. The silence is almost growing soothing when Sam asks, "You think you can take on Hell for me?"
Dean swallows down all his doubts. "I've done it before, haven't I?"
Sam takes hold of Dean's T-shirt, wrinkling the fabric in his fist. "Yeah. Yeah, you have."
"I've got you, Sammy," Dean says. "I've got you and I'm not letting go. Not again."
"Don't," Sam whispers. "Don't let go."
"I won't," Dean says. "I'm telling you. We'll get through this. I swear we will."
Dean doesn't know if Sam believes him. But they cling to each other for a long time, until at last Sam stops trembling.
"It's okay," Sam says, drawing away to meet Dean's eyes. "I'm okay. Well…better anyway."
Dean can see that he is. "Let's get out of here."
Maybe that's the secret, Dean thinks as he pulls Sam to his feet. Maybe by holding onto each other, they can break Hell's grip on Sam. They've always done better together than apart. This is no different, and no hardship.
And even if it were, the Winchesters are no strangers to difficult times. Being responsible for Sam's life, and his soul, is a burden Dean is all too willing to shoulder.
Anything else would be unbearable.
Bearable
by Ancasta
PG-13
2,867 words
Beta by the swift and wonderful debbiel and callistosh65
***
Sam is strung up so tight, Dean doesn't know how his body still has the freedom to move with every blow. But it does. It jerks and snaps and sinks and sways. Dean jumps every time Sam does. But he doesn't say a word of comfort, and he doesn't struggle to pull his baby brother down. He stays where he is and watches, silent, from across the room, held in place by hellhound jaws, one set around each wrist, like a pair of demon manacles. He can feel the phantom teeth digging into tender skin. But they haven't broken through to blood, not yet. The dogs' master is holding them in check.
But only as long as Sam can keep quiet.
You bloody Winchesters and your bloody pet angel. Did you really think I'd leave my every last bone just lying around for you two bumbling boy detectives to destroy? How long do you think I've been at this, eh? Long enough to outsmart the likes of you, I can promise you that.
If Dean was shocked to learn Crowley's whole disappearing in a burst of flame and ash was more intermission than final curtain, he was stunned when Sam was torn from his side by unseen hands and shackled at the wrists and ankles, Sam's limbs pulled wide from his body until he was stretched, suspended like a human X.
"Dean!"
"Sam! Hang on, I-"
It was then that, with a snarl, Dean's canine captors made their presence known, startling him into silence and giving Crowley the opportunity to speak instead.
"Now that you've both assumed the position-as the saying goes-it's time for a bit of fun. You flannel-clad imbeciles are more in love with each other than you are with anyone else. So I'll bet I know just the way to teach you both a lesson. You there, Sam, are going to take it like a man. Twenty strokes of the lash, administered by my tender hand. And you're not going to say a word. If you do, I'll take you down and put Dean up there in your place. Or better yet, maybe I'll just let my hounds use him for a chew toy instead. Dean remembers what that feels like. Don't you, Dean?"
"No!" Sam protested.
"That better be your famous last word, moose." With the flick of Cowley's hand, Sam's shirts were ripped from his body. Sam gasped and swung terrified eyes in Dean's direction.
Dean was just as scared. "You son of a bitch."
"Don't like it? Well, I don't like your tone," Crowley said. "In fact, why don't you follow your brother's shining example, and shut it. If I hear one word of encouragement-or anything else-from you, I'll double the count. When applied properly, twenty lashes are enough to make a grown man pass out from pain. Can you imagine what forty lashes would do?"
Dean could imagine all too well.
"Right," Cowley said, smiling. "Now let's start started."
"Eight."
"Nine."
"Ten."
With every crack of the lash, Crowley calls out the count. He's sweating with effort and his eyes gleam with pleasure. Dean says nothing and pictures in his head strangling Crowley with his own whip, squeezing so hard those cruel, laughing eyes pop right out of his head.
Only ten more, Sammy.
Only seven.
Only four.
Sam is facing him. So Dean can't see the damage being done to his brother's back. But he can imagine it. Sam is flushed a violent shade of red and his limbs tremble unceasingly, his body shivering as if horribly chilled. He won't look at Dean, and cowardly though it may be, Dean isn't really sure he wants Sam to. Yet Dean can see tears chasing each other, one after another, down Sam's cheeks.
Sam has bitten his lip so hard he’s drawn blood. But he hasn't said a word, hasn't done more than gasp, no matter how hard Crowley applies the lash. Dean wishes he would, that Sam would shout, curse, scream his pain to the heavens. Dean would give anything to take his brother's place. But Sam doesn’t.
He’s always been the most stubborn bastard Dean has ever known.
"Twenty."
Finally. Thank God.
Sam's trial at an end, Dean pulls against the hellhounds' hold again, desperate to get to his brother. Growling, the demon dogs clench down harder, sinking at last through his skin and making him wince, his eyes burning with tears of their own. Still, Dean doesn't cry out, not yet. He doesn't trust what Crowley might do if he did. Even though the twenty strokes have been delivered, it would be just like the demon to say their ordeal wasn't over.
Crowley seems amused by his eagerness. "Boys, I have to give credit where credit is due. The way you two run off at the mouth, I didn't think you'd be able to keep it zipped. But I was wrong. Well done."
"Let him go," Dean says, daring now that Crowley has spoken. His wrists are wet with blood, and they ache, throbbing in rhythm with his pulse. He doesn't care. "Let us both go."
"All in good time," Crowley says, the whip disappearing from his hand. "First I want to make certain you understand the purpose of this little exercise-consider it a friendly warning. Don't cross me and don't ask Castiel to do it for you. I let you two live because you have your uses. The minute the inconvenience outweighs the advantages, that twenty lashes turns into one hundred. Do you want to watch as I flay your brother alive, Dean?"
Dean swallows hard. "No."
"No," Crowley echoes, mocking. "Thought not." He snaps his fingers and Sam collapses like a building felled by dynamite. Dean can see his back now. Raised stripes crosshatch the skin, some split open and bleeding, painting everything red. "You two be good now."
And with that, the demon king and his equally demonic pets are gone.
Released with a suddenness that makes him stumble, Dean runs to Sam's side and falls there on his knees. "Sam? Sammy? Hey. Easy, take it easy now. Let me look at you."
Sam's only response is a shaky moan. He tries to roll over onto his side, but the movement costs him. He doesn't get far before his breath catches and releases on a sob. Burying his face in the bend of his elbow, he rolls back over onto his belly again.
Dean is frantic to help. "Sam, please don't move. Okay? Not yet," he pleads, already shrugging out of his coat. He folds it into a lumpy pillow and, lifting Sam's head, slips it beneath his damp cheek. "Let me…just let me go get some stuff. All right? Stay there. I'll be right back."
They're in an abandoned ball bearing factory just outside Massillon, Ohio. It's early March and chilly. Sam has goose bumps peppering the skin between the welts. Dean can't tell if they're caused by cold or shock. He takes off his shirt and drapes it over Sam's ruined back. He doesn't know what else to do.
"I'll be back," he says again, standing, clad now in a t-shirt and jeans. "Stay still, and try to stay awake."
Sam doesn't answer, but he closes his fingers around Dean's coat and holds on tight. His silence is enough to make Dean hightail it that much faster to the Impala.
Once there, he rummages through both the interior and the trunk, searching for any and all things useful-their battered first aid kit, Sam's half-empty bottle of water; a faded brown hoodie Sam has worn so often it's frayed at the cuffs and nearly threadbare; and Dean's favorite semi-automatic. Just in case.
Shoving it all in a duffle bag, Dean full-out sprints back to his brother. Sam is where Dean left him, lying on his stomach near one of the long-dead assembly belts. The only change Dean notes is that one of Sam's knees is bent a little higher, like he was trying to curve in on himself. Dean doesn't know if he was trying to warm up or make himself less of a target.
"See, told you I wouldn't take long," Dean says, kneeling at Sam's side. He wants to touch him, but is afraid of hurting him further. Every line of Sam's body is rigid with tension, as if he expects to be beaten some more. This wariness makes him seem brittle somehow to Dean's eyes, fragile and easy to break. "I need to get you cleaned up some. We can do most of it back at the motel. But it's the middle of the day and we need to get you from the car to the room without anyone asking too many questions. So I've gotta make you at least a little bit presentable. Think you can maybe help me out here?"
Sam doesn't respond, though his eyes are open and staring at the floor, as if fascinated by the concrete. He's beginning to freak Dean out.
"Do you want to do this sitting up or lying down?" Dean asks, trying again. Giving in to his desire for contact, he lays his hand on Sam's head. Sam's hair is tangled and sweaty, and the scalp beneath it is warmer than anything else in the room. Strangely, Dean is comforted by the heat. He wonders if the same could be said by Sam of his touch.
He doesn't know, because Sam still isn't speaking. At least not at first. But after a moment or two of Dean smoothing his hand as gently as he can over Sam's hair, Sam swallows hard and whispers, "Dean?"
Dean's hand stills. "Yeah, Sammy?"
"C-can you help me sit up?" Sam's voice sounds shredded, like he screamed his way through his torture instead of saying nothing at all.
"Sure. Yeah. Sure I can."
Dean was confident when he gave his response, yet when it comes to actually following through, it's hard. Sam is shaky, and it seems to Dean as if at least half his body is injured in some way. Dean does all he can to avoid Sam's damaged back. But in the end, his arm brushes against it and Sam flinches, making a wordless sound of pain.
"Sorry," Dean says, pulling away suddenly, like he was the one wounded, not Sam. "Jesus. I'm sorry."
"It's okay," Sam says, sitting now, hunched over, his weight braced against one hand, his legs curled around him. Dean shirt is pooled on the floor, forgotten alongside Dean's coat.
It's not okay. Not a damned thing about this is okay. But all Dean does is shuffle around on his knees so he's in back of his brother and all he says is, "I'm going to go as quick as I can, okay? If I hurt you, let me know."
"'kay."
Using what's left of Sam's water, Dean wets down a hand towel he found with their supplies and begins dabbing carefully at Sam's injuries. Sam has more welts than open cuts, but a few of the gashes are deep and are probably going to need stitches. "Damn."
"What?" Sam says, turning his head ever so slightly to look in Dean's direction. Their eyes don't meet.
"Gonna need to break out the dental floss and needle for a couple of these, I think," Dean replies, frowning as he presses the towel to a particularly ragged wound. Sam tenses, but he doesn't draw away.
Sam nods as if his head weighs a couple of tons. "Do we have any whiskey left?"
"If we don't, I'll buy you some," Dean says, pulling away the towel to check his work. It seems like the blood might finally be clotting. "Any kind you want."
That coaxes a weak chuckle from Sam's lips. "We can't afford the good stuff."
"Try me," Dean says. He quickly wipes at his own wounds. The bites are shallower than he thought at first.
"'s okay," Sam says softly. "I'm fine."
Sam is so far from fine, Dean doesn't think he could see it with a telescope. His back is a mess, he still hasn't entirely stopped shaking, and there's something…off about the way he's reacting to the whole thing. Dean knows there is.
Sam is a tough son of a bitch, always has been. The first time he took a punch, he was in the fourth grade. He lost a tooth, but the great big bully of a sixth grader who started it all wound up flat on his back, holding his nuts, once Sam realized he was truly in a fight.
Dean remembers how pissed he was when his kid brother came home from school, his clothes ripped, his cheek bruised, blood trickling from his mouth. But Sam took it all in stride, shrugging off Dean's attempts to coddle him, proud not only of what he could dish out, but of what he could take.
Only that was then and this is now.
And something has changed.
It isn't long before Dean has wiped away what blood there is from Sam's back. He's bandaged what he can, even though he knows some of the dressings are only temporary. Still, it'll do until they get back to the motel. "If I help you, do you think you can slide your arms in here?" Dean asks, holding up the hoodie.
Taking a slow, shuddering breath, Sam nods. "Yeah." On unsteady arms, he pushes to his knees. Dean guides his hands through the sleeves, going slowly and carefully, trying not to jar Sam or his wounds. They're able to tug the jacket up over his shoulders, but Dean doesn't zipper it. That would pull the fabric too tightly against Sam's injuries.
Dean doesn't get a good look at Sam's face, not once the entire time he's dressing him. It's not until he leans in close, hands on Sam's elbows in preparation to help him stand, that their eyes finally meet. What Dean sees there stops his breath and pierces him worse than Crowley's demon dogs.
Hell is staring back at him, flickering dark and awful in his brother's gaze. It isn't flames Dean sees, but a kind of awareness on Sam's part, a history unwilling to let him go.
"Sam?"
Sam quickly ducks his head, shivers, and says nothing.
"Sammy, what?" Dean is all but panicked now. The wall has crumbled. Crowley must have kicked in a chunk of its plaster when he tore up Sam's back, and Dean doesn't know how great the damage is or how to even begin patching it. "What are… what do I--?"
"Nothing," Sam mumbles, eyes averted still. "It's nothing."
"Fuck that!" Dean replies, wanting to shake him. "It's Hell. And we've got to -"
Only Dean doesn't know what they've got to do. How are they supposed to face down Hell? How did Sam get it back under wraps the last time?
"I've just gotta hang in there," Sam says, arms wrapped around himself as if he believes he can hold himself together that way. "I need… I need to keep it away from me until I can…get control."
That's all Dean needs to hear. "Come here."
Frowning, Sam looks up. "What?"
"I said come here." Without even thinking about what he's doing, Dean pulls Sam into his arms, handling him gently, but firmly.
"Dean…what?" Though Sam is tense, he doesn't fight. He flows willingly into Dean's embrace until he comes to rest, leaning fully against Dean, his cheek on Dean's shoulder. The fit is different from what it was when they were boys, but it's there nonetheless. Dean loops his arms low around Sam's waist, away from the worst of the damage, and hangs on.
After a time, Sam asks, "What are you doing?"
Dean doesn't really know. Yet he answers, "I'm helping."
Sam doesn't reply at first. He is huddled against Dean as if he were truly the little brother. The silence is almost growing soothing when Sam asks, "You think you can take on Hell for me?"
Dean swallows down all his doubts. "I've done it before, haven't I?"
Sam takes hold of Dean's T-shirt, wrinkling the fabric in his fist. "Yeah. Yeah, you have."
"I've got you, Sammy," Dean says. "I've got you and I'm not letting go. Not again."
"Don't," Sam whispers. "Don't let go."
"I won't," Dean says. "I'm telling you. We'll get through this. I swear we will."
Dean doesn't know if Sam believes him. But they cling to each other for a long time, until at last Sam stops trembling.
"It's okay," Sam says, drawing away to meet Dean's eyes. "I'm okay. Well…better anyway."
Dean can see that he is. "Let's get out of here."
Maybe that's the secret, Dean thinks as he pulls Sam to his feet. Maybe by holding onto each other, they can break Hell's grip on Sam. They've always done better together than apart. This is no different, and no hardship.
And even if it were, the Winchesters are no strangers to difficult times. Being responsible for Sam's life, and his soul, is a burden Dean is all too willing to shoulder.
Anything else would be unbearable.