He Who Fights Monsters - Chapter Eleven

[blood_and_pie]

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CHAPTER ELEVEN
Bobby gives Sam an address, on the border of Wisconsin. Less than an hour drive from Pontiac. It's a safe house, communal hunter property for emergencies. Bobby can be there in three hours; Ellen'll get there soon after.

Sam gets to the safe house in forty minutes. It's small, musty, and full of old cobwebs strung across narrow doorways that catch in his face and hair, but the power works, and they have running water. Most importantly, it’s warded against every evil imaginable.

It doesn't occur to Sam until he's crossing the threshold for a second time, this time with Dean in his arms, that the wards don't seem to have any effect on him. His heart feels lighter at that realization and he thinks that maybe it means there's still a way back for him. Maybe he is still human.

But then he remembers how easily holy water had rolled off Azazel. Ruby could be held by devil's traps, but could Lilith, or Alastair? And even if they could be… Sam had killed Alastair. His power had broken right through the warded walls of the referee's box. So what did that make him?

Sam pushes the questions aside as he lays Dean down on the kitchen floor near a lamp. It's not ideal, but the only table in the house is far too short to hold Dean and he won't be able to reach the wounds properly if he puts him right on the couch.

Carefully, he cuts open Dean's shirt and sets to cleaning and redoing the busted stitches. Sam keeps himself calm until he stands, blood-and-pus-stained rag in hand. He makes it all the way to the sink before his temper flares. Three deep gashes, running up Dean's torso - ugly, jagged, infected and deep. Hellhounds did that. Lilith did that. The light bulb above his head shorts out.

Sam takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, forcing him to relax. He can’t lose control like this. Not around Dean. He goes back to his brother, pulls out the dozen or so torn stitches and re-sews Dean together again before coating his brother’s wounds in antibiotic ointment and covering the wounds with fresh bandage. He carries Dean into the living room and makes sure he's in a good resting position on the couch. Then he spends a solid hour tidying up as best he can. He wants to get them food and water, certain Dean will be starving when he wakes up. But he can't leave Dean's side. Not yet. Maybe once the others are here.

There's a store of light bulbs in the pantry, and Sam replaces a few of the burnt-out ones, starting with the kitchen, then the living room and finally the bathroom. He regrets the last one immediately when he catches sight of his reflection. The yellow in his eyes hasn't dimmed. If anything, they look brighter than before. He fights the urge to shatter the mirror, and takes three deep breaths. He can't lose control like this anymore. Not with Dean here - almost really here.

Remembering Ruby's drills, he begins to fill the sink with cold water. As soon as there's an inch-worth of water, he immerses his hands, letting the tiniest trickle of power flow out of them, focusing on the temperature.

The water heats within seconds, becoming warmer and warmer and then scalding. He pulls his reddened hands out, holding them over the surface, and pushes just a bit more energy into the now boiling liquid until it turns to steam.

The exercise is relaxing, and by the time he leaves the bathroom, he feels mostly in control of himself.

Until there’s a knock on the door.

Steeling himself, Sam crosses the floor. He throws a glance at Dean, resting on the couch. Dean looks almost peaceful, and if it weren't for the large bandages, Sam could fool himself into believing his brother was just sleeping off one too many drinks.

Sam swallows and opens the door, wishing one more time that the hideous color of his eyes would go away, but the second Bobby sees him, he knows they're still yellow. Still monstrous.

"Christo," Bobby says in way of greeting.

It doesn't hurt as much as Sam thought it might. "I'm not possessed." He points to the devil's trap beneath his feet and holds out his arms, palms open. "You can test me, if you want."

"You goddamn fool," Bobby says, as his mouth twists into even more of a frown.

Sam doesn't argue. He steps aside and gives Bobby a wide berth as he lets him in.

Bobby freezes, just a few feet from the entrance to the living room, staring at Dean's sleeping form.

"He's been through a lot," Sam says, voice soft. He's relatively sure Dean will stay out until whatever Ruby did to him wears off, but better to play it safe. "I don't know what'll happen when he wakes up, but I-" A splash of water cuts off the rest of his words.

Bobby glares at him, empty holy water flask in hand. "You don't know what'll happen? He's gonna take one look at your eyes and start screaming bloody murder. And that’s just a conservative estimate."

Sam's throat clamps shut and he nods stiffly. Then he chokes out. "Yeah, that part happened already."

Bobby grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him hard. "How could you do this to yourself? You think this is what Dean wanted? Your brother traded his soul for you and this is how you repay him? By going darkside?"

"He was in Hell," Sam snaps. His eyes feel wet, and he doesn't care. He doesn't even care that they're yellow anymore. Bobby can scream at him all he wants.

But Bobby doesn't say another word. He lets go of him, makes a sound somewhere between a huff and a snarl and turns on his heel. He grabs a chair and sits down next to Dean, carefully taking his hand.

When Ellen arrives, it's dawn, and the sky is a bleak grey. Sam waits for Bobby to open the door. Instead of letting Ellen in, Bobby steps outside with her. Sam hears Ellen's shout of disbelief, and when she does come in a few minutes later her eyes are wide. He thinks it looks more like sorrow than anger on her face when she walks closer to him. Then she slaps him on the cheek, hard.

She never does say hello.

Ellen sits on the edge of the wooden coffee table next to the couch, carding her fingers gently through Dean's hair. She and Bobby speak in hushed tones, like they're afraid to wake Dean. Or they don't want Sam to hear.

Sam sits in the cracked leather armchair near the doorway, as far away from them as he can get while still keeping a clear view of his brother. He hears bits and pieces of their conversation, and he can't ignore the shift in tone when Bobby's eyes flick to him for little more than a half-second.

"… But can we be sure?" Ellen asks, and Sam sees her pull out a small flask. She unscrews the cap, covers the opening with her finger and tilts it over, then, righting the container and setting it beside her, brings her fingertip to Dean's skin. Holy water. Nothing happens, and Ellen tucks her flask away again.

Satisfied? Sam thinks to himself, grimly. He looks over at Bobby, who's staring at the floorboards. After a while, Bobby leans back in his chair, and crosses his arms across his chest, like he's settling in for a nap. Ellen runs her fingers gently up and down Dean's arm, her chin resting on her other hand.

The exhaustion of the past couple of days catches up with Sam and he feels his head bob forward. Yellow eyes or not, he's still human enough to need sleep. His eyes refuse to close all the way, and a half-hour later he's just conscious enough to catch a glint of silver in Ellen's hand, something small and sharp.

In a heartbeat, Sam’s across the room, hand wrapped around Ellen's wrist. Her shocked gasp turns into a wince as he pushes his thumb hard into her tendon. She loses her grip on the blade and it falls into Sam's other hand.

Bobby startles awake, half out of his chair. When he sees the blade in Sam's hand, he freezes.

"It's silver," Ellen says unsteadily. "I was just gonna touch him with the hilt. No cuts. Just to make sure-"

"No more tests," Sam says, voice quavering from the effort of keeping his anger in check. It's hard, with all that violent energy inside of him. When he'd seen the blade in Ellen's hand, his first instinct had been to pull it away from her with his mind, which would have no doubt made her and Bobby look twice as scared as they did now. He'd stopped himself, but just barely. "Please,” he adds. “Dean's human."

"No human comes out of Hell untouched," Bobby says. He doesn't sound angry, just sad. "Sam, son… we've gotta know what we're dealing with. And it'll be a whole lot easier if we figure it out before he wakes up."

"He's human. That was part of the deal," Sam heads back to his chair in the corner, fingers wrapped tightly around the small knife.

"So you did make a deal."

"No. I fought for him. I killed for him. I played by their rules in their arena and I won. They voided his contract and brought him back human," Sam's voice is tight, his power simmering just underneath his skin. He tamps it down, squeezing the metal handle of the knife tighter until he feels it dig into his flesh.

"When have they ever played fair?" Bobby asks gently. "Demons lie."

"Not to me," Sam snaps.

"Then why'd you call us?" Ellen asks. She sounds genuinely curious. "If Dean's Grade-A human, why do you need our help? We ain't doctors."

"Because he was in Hell. Time passes differently there, and Dean…” Sam takes a breath, presses on, “Dean was down there for thirty years. Thirty-one. I don't think he even knows he's out." Sam turns away from them, swallowing hard. He drops his voice to a mumble. "And because he's terrified of me." He doesn't look back up, but he can feel the weight of their stares on him. Can practically hear them say, Well, can you blame him?

Ellen stands. "I'm gonna go buy us some things. Supermarket should be open by now.”

"Closest one's a twenty mile drive," Bobby says.

"I’ve got gas." He hears her moving to leave and then her feet pause in Sam’s field of vision.

Sam keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the warped floorboards. He knows Ellen’s studying him and he resolutely refuses to meet her gaze. Even when she puts her hand on his shoulder and squeezes it gently.

"I'll be back soon."

After Ellen's gone, Sam watches Dean sleep. The sun rises higher, and the warmer the light gets, the more he can see how pale Dean is. Socked feet silent on the wooden floor, Sam moves closer to his brother. There are dots of red and brown oozing through his bandages; they will need to be changed soon. Sam shifts his weight from his right leg to his left, debating whether or not Dean will sleep through a bandage swap.

It's been nearly twelve hours since Ruby knocked Dean out and he should stay asleep. But Sam can't stand watching anymore, needs to do something more to ease Dean's pain. Memories of Hell won't be as easy to treat as wounds.

Navigating quietly past Bobby, asleep on the recliner by the window, Sam gets his med-kit from the kitchen cabinet where he’d stowed it last night, and sits on the coffee table next to the couch, making sure Dean's still out cold before he touches the edge of the bandage. He cuts through the gauze carefully with his knife, and pulls back the stained cloth. The wounds don't look any better. In fact, they look worse than when he’d cleaned them last. The largest of the wounds in Dean's middle is oozing brownish-red pus and the skin around the edges looks shiny and inflamed. The tight stitches Sam had made just hours ago are already straining the puffy flesh.

My fault, Sam thinks for the thousandth time. He was scared of me.

With trembling fingers, Sam brings a wet cloth to the wound, mops up what he can of the infection and starts to cover the edges of the wound with antibiotic ointment. A shuddering breath leaves Dean, and Sam freezes, watches his brother for any other signs he's waking up. But in seconds his breathing evens out again.

Sam finishes cleaning and redressing the wounds, covers them again with fresh gauze and self-adhesive tape. He throws away the foul-smelling old bandages and sits back down in the chair in the corner, trying to rest his eyes. He needs to be ready for Dean when he wakes up.

It's not so much sleep as immediate unconsciousness that grabs Sam and pulls him under. When he wakes up again, it's hours later and there are tiny speckles of red forming on Dean's clean gauze.

Fist clenching and unclenching, Sam thinks that if the wounds don't look better by tonight he'll call Ruby.

She’d revived Dean's corpse enough for it to be habitable; there has to be something she knows to help the wounds heal cleanly. Or maybe Ruby could teach him how to speed up Dean's healing. The demon blood always helped Sam heal faster, maybe there's a way he can use his powers to heal Dean. Bobby is still snoring steadily, and Sam runs his thumb over his phone one last time before pulling it out of his pocket. He walks out onto the porch, exhales white breath into the crisp morning air, and dials Ruby's number.

"Didn't think I'd hear from you so soon," she says by way of greeting.

"I need your help." Sam eyes Bobby through the window, but he's still sleeping, and Dean hasn't moved a muscle in nearly an hour. It looks as though the spell would see its way through tonight.

"What else is new?"

"Dean's wounds… they look bad. Infected. I cleaned them, but antibiotic cream can only do so much. Can you make something to heal him? Some kind of spell?"

She scoffs. "To fix Hellhound wounds? Those go a little deeper than the flesh, you know."

"There has to be something we can do." Sam pauses. "Or something I can do. What if I drank more… could I get strong enough to-"

"To heal him? No. That's not how it works. Your powers… They’re from Hell. You get that, right?" Ruby asks, her tone both pitying and scolding, the teacher perpetually burdened with an inept pupil.

"Yeah," Sam says, quietly. His hand curls into a fist, and his fingernails dig into his palm. He knows he won't like what she's going to say next.

"Healing others… that's not really our game."

"But Dean- Even after his wounds heal… you saw what he's like. How's he supposed to get better with thirty-one years of Hell in his head? There has to be something we can do. Something you can teach me. To help him forget."

"You want to heal him and wipe his brain clean?” She huffs derisively. “Talk to the angels."

"I don't believe in angels." Sam swallows. "Not anymore."

"Suit yourself."

Through the window, Bobby shifts in his chair, and Sam knows he's running out of time. "Is Lilith still alive?"

"You already know the answer to that."

"Where is she?" Sam's voice is quiet, but his ears start to pound and when he opens his hand, little sparks of lightning are flickering between his fingertips.

"Hiding. She's not going to make it easy on you. She'll be ready." Ruby pauses. “You really pissed her off, making her run like that.”

"I don't care," Sam snaps, the power inside of him whispering promises. "Find her."

"Sure I'll get right on that. Not like I have a price on my head or anything."

The light around Sam's fingers turns deep gold. "Find. Her.”

Dean shifts on the couch, and even through the window, Sam can hear the sound he makes. It comes again, all soft and pained and broken. Dean is waking up.

Sam ends the call without waiting for Ruby’s reply, and reels his power back inside himself, because the last thing Dean needs is to see Sam's fingers glowing. He opens the door silently and walks back into the living room.

Bobby's eyes open wearily and he turns at Sam's approach. "Ellen back?"

Sam shakes his head, and moves around the table, sitting on it gingerly. It might not be wise, especially if Dean's still afraid of him, but if he's in pain, then Sam needs to be there - to do whatever he can to fix it. The bandage on Dean's left side is stained more than it was minutes earlier, which might be where his distress is coming from.

"Hey," Sam says, his voice as gentle as he can possibly make it.

Dean's breath hitches as his eyes open, blinking against the light before he turns his head slowly towards the sound of Sam's voice. His mouth curves a bit. It looks almost like a smile. "I know," he says.

What do you know? Sam wonders, and that thought gets more unpleasant as he sees the bitterness bleed into Dean's expression.

"I know you're not him. You can wear his face all you want, but I know-"

"Dean, it's me," Sam interrupts, unease knotting his gut. "It's Sam."

"-who you are," Dean snarls the last few words his face shifting into a grimace as he starts to sit up.

"Don't- Try to stay still, okay?" Sam says, resisting the urge to push Dean back down. "You're hurt."

"It's not real. None of this is real," Dean says. A fresh circle of red stains the bandage under his ribs as he pushes himself higher.

"Dean. Lay down," Sam pleads, desperate for him to listen. And then regrets it immediately when Dean's body stiffens and presses itself down into the couch.

"Sam-" Bobby says, staring at him with a mix of apprehension and surprise. "Was that you?"

"Both of them today?" Dean says, his eyes darting around, wide with fear. His voice is low and shaky, a weak attempt at that fearlessness he always used before. "Thought maybe you'd try something new, but, no, you always stick to the classics, huh?"

"No, Dean, please listen to me. You're not in Hell. I got you out," Sam says, gently easing his mental hold on Dean. He hadn't even meant to pin him down; he'd just been so worried about the wound and, dammit. why can't Ruby find something to help. She's useless. And Sam himself feels useless. "I got you out," he repeats, hoping Dean can see past the color of his eyes to the truth.

Bobby slides his chair a bit closer, holding his hands up, like he's trying to calm a spooked beast. "It's true, son. You're topside - a cabin in Wisconsin.”

The laugh that comes from Dean’s mouth is horrible and sad. "Really? That's the best you can come up with? All that time in my head and you don't get how this could never happen?”

"Why not?" Sam asks.

"If my brother really had eyes like yours, Bobby would've sent his ass back to Hell the second he saw him. He's not stupid."

"Dean-" Sam says again, fighting back the lump in his throat.

"Stop using his face!" Dean screams, sitting up again, and Sam doesn't stop him this time. He won't. He does the only thing he can - he stands and walks out of the room, biting down hard on his lower lip to keep the tears in his eyes from spilling down.

Sam pauses in the kitchen, long enough to hear Dean call him a yellow-eyed son of a bitch. Then he yanks the door open and rushes outside, nearly slamming into Ellen as she makes her way up the porch with two full brown paper bags.

"What happened?" she asks, looking from Sam to the window.

"He woke up," Sam says. “Bobby’s with him.” He lets out a shaky huff of air.

Ellen looks at him like she wants to say something, to ask how bad it was. She smiles at him, a little pitying. “Don’t go too far. I'm making chili."

If you knew, if you had any idea what I did - how fucking far I fell, you wouldn't be giving me the time of day, Sam thinks. He did what he had to do to free Dean, and he'd do it all again in a heartbeat, but he never expected anyone else to condone it. He's damned himself forever, irrevocably changed what he is, and now, even when he's trying to help his brother heal, all he seems to do is make it worse. He doesn't deserve anyone's sympathy.

Ellen bumps the door back open with her hip, adds, "I'll tell you when it's ready," before heading inside.

Sam nods at her, too grateful at being treated like a human to be ashamed by the hot, wet trail making its way down his cheek.

The door closes a second later, and Sam's alone.

After a long while, Bobby comes out holding two beers, hands one to Sam before twisting the cap off his own.

"Chili ain't ready yet," he says, settling on the steps beside him.

Sam nods and takes a sip of the beer, wondering if it's laced with holy water. Probably is. Not like it matters.

They drink in silence for a minute or two. Somewhere nearby, a mourning dove coos.

"How is he?" Sam asks.

"Calmer." Bobby shrugs. "Still doesn't trust me, but Ellen nearly got him to crack a smile. She's got a way about her. Especially with hurt folk. And I think maybe the hell-spawn didn't use her face with Dean. At least not as much as ours."

A wave of relief floods Sam, and now he almost feels like smiling.

"It's been better since you came out here." It's clear from his tone that Bobby doesn't mean it the way it comes out, the way it cuts. "I know you were trying to help, Sam, but you gotta know that Dean's gonna have a fit every time he sees…" Bobby gestures at Sam's face, at his eyes.

"Yeah." Sam looks down at the crooked porch steps.

"I think it might be best if you give Dean some space."

The words slither down Sam's spine and he leaps to his feet. "Bobby, no- he just got out of Hell, and there's still demons out there, I have to keep him safe."

"And what am I? Chopped liver?" Bobby snorts. "Come on, Sam, you two- you're like sons to me. I'll keep him safe. And so will Ellen. You know that." He pauses. “Ellen already talked to Jo… She’s gonna stay with him until he’s ready, no matter how long it takes. She won't leave his side.”

The beads of sweat on the bottle Sam's clutching start to sizzle and Bobby eyes it nervously. He won't look Sam in the eyes though. He's scared of him. They're all scared of him. Sam takes the three short steps down to the ground. "I'm not-” a monster, he thinks. But I am, I am. "I won't hurt him. Or you- any of you."

"You already have," Bobby says. It's too sorrowful to be an accusation. His voice strains when he adds, "You overrode his brain."

"That was an accident-"

"How many other accidents are you gonna have?" Brow furrowed, Bobby meets Sam's eyes. "Your bottle's melting."

Sam tries to think of something to say, but he can't. He can't even look Bobby in the face. All he can do is drop his warped beer bottle to the ground, and watch the sparse blades of grass it lands near move in the wind.

Bobby sighs. "I'll tell you the second he figures out where he is, okay? And we'll explain the whole yellow-eyes thing to him." He sounds tired. "He'll get over it. He will. He loves you more than - well, too damn much. He's not gonna be mad forever."

It’s not Dean being angry Sam’s worried about. He’d take fury. Rage would be better than abject terror. What makes his stomach clench is the thought of Dean never understanding that Sam isn’t a demon, isn’t possessed, that he’s still human and still his brother.

Bobby stands. “I’m sorry,” he says, grips Sam’s shoulder for a moment before releasing it. “I wish things were different, too.” He sighs, turns, and the door clatters shut behind him.

Hours pass, Ellen and Bobby both come and go, tell him the chili's ready and he should come in to eat something. The sun dips behind the trees surrounding the property. Sam swings the long-since-empty warped bottle back-and-forth between two fingers. He’s already peeled off the singed labels, shredding them into tiny pieces and the outside of the bottle has long since gone dry. The sky is beginning to deepen slightly into indigo when the smell of chili spices and ground beef makes his stomach growl loudly enough to make him move.

He’s careful not to let the door slam, shuts it silently behind him. He even toes off his boots by the entrance, padding on hunter-stealth socked feet. There’s a hole in one cotton heel and he can feel the floor, all cool smooth boards. There are two cans of Campbell’s soup on the counter. One - chicken noodle - is open and there is a small saucepan on the draining board beside the sink. The other is tomato and Sam wonders how Ellen knew about Dean’s favorite, the old default he always gyrated toward whenever one of them wasn’t feeling well back when they were kids. He almost wants to tell Ellen to add rice to it when she makes it. There’s a large pot simmering on the stove and he doesn’t make a sound when he lifts the cover from the stainless steel pot, ladles hearty chili into the empty ceramic bowl on the counter Ellen must’ve left for him. The smells are heavenly - spicy, meaty, hot. He replaces the lid, cringing as it rings out, clear as a bell, against the rim.

He sits at the table, out of sight from the living room, and takes a bite. Beans and spices and meat explode in warm flavor over his tongue, racing their heat down his esophagus to pool into his stomach. His gut contracts hungrily on itself in a way it hasn’t in so long and it spurs him on. He eats until the bowl is empty, serves himself a second helping. Halfway in, he feels almost the way he used to, before Ruby started giving him something better than food, but the second bowl proves too much and leaves him queasy. He sets the bowl and spoon into the sink. Exhaling, he slumps, hands gripping either side of the sink. It’s time to go, as much as he doesn't want it to be.

He makes his slow way to the narrow doorway between the kitchen and living room and stands in the opening, sliding his feet back into boots. He can see his brother from his vantage point, still broken, still weak. Sam got Dean out, just like he swore he would, but he can't undo what those bastards did to him. He can't even help him heal.

Dean's sitting up now, propped against a pile of pillows, blanket covering his lap, another one draped around his bare shoulders, his torso strapped up with clean bandages. He’s sipping from a bowl of something - chicken broth, probably - and Ellen's talking to him in low, soothing tones and supporting the base of the bowl between slow tilts. He’s still too pale and it reminds Sam of hospitals and ventilators and heart attacks, but he looks calm and almost relaxed. Sam lets himself hope as he breathes a sigh of relief and turns to go.

"Leave me alone!" Dean screams, "You're not him!" The blanket slides off his shoulders as he lunges sideways in Sam’s direction, all fear and rage. He doubles over instantly, nearly toppling off the couch with a strangled sound low in his throat; only Ellen’s arm, curled around his ribs, keeps him in his seat. Ignoring the upturned bowl and soiled quilt, she slides in closer and tries to prop him back against the pillows. His face is contorted, flushed, and there’s a watery stain of red oozing through the folds of the bandages. He doesn’t stop making that awful keening sound and neither does he unbend, clawing at Ellen.

Sam doesn’t move, horrified.

“No,” Dean gasps, eyes staring over Ellen’s shoulder at Sam. His voice is wrecked, the whisper loud in the room, “nonononononono.” His breath hitches. “You- You swore. You f-fucking swore you w-wouldn’t…” There’s another painful-sounding wheeze and he curls even more into Ellen, unable to hold himself up any longer. She manhandles him gently back into his seat, still holding him. Then, on the verge of sobbing: “I got off…” then, softer still, “I f-fucking got off…”

Bile surges in Sam's throat and he steps back, his shoulder colliding with the doorpost. He stares wild-eyed around the room, frozen in place by Dean’s words, the sight of his brother crying.

Bobby approaches him with spread hands as though he’s the one spooked. “Sam,” he says softly, and it's a plea.

Sam shakes his head side-to-side, throws one last glance into Dean’s direction, then turns and runs.

::: ::: :::

on to epilogue