When Heroes Go Down (They Go Down Fast) 12/12
Title: When Heroes Go Down (They Go Down Fast) 12/12
Author:
buffyaddict13
Rating: a strong R for language and a lot of violence. some of it's fairly gory. sorry folks. the end of the world isn't a shiny happy place.
Characters/Pairings: Sam, Dean, Andy, OCs. Gen.
Summary: The war is at hand. It’s demon against man and we’re losing the fight. The special children are wreaking havoc across the land, side by side with demons. Dean is on a desperate hunt to find and save his brother while leading a small band of survivors to a final showdown.
A/N 1: OMG, THIS IS THE END!!!! this whole thing is about 91,000 words long. meep.
A/N 2: thank you SO much to
kroki_refur for the beta, love and encouragement. If it’s any good, it’s because of her brilliance. If it sucks, well, that's on me. Lastly, the title is from a Suzanne Vega song.
A/N 3: thank you to everybody's who's stuck with me through this. this is for you. MWAH.
Disclaimer: I own nothing Winchestery. If I did, the boys would talk more.
Through these fields of destruction,
Baptism of fire
I've watched all your suffering
As the battles raged higher
And though they did hurt me so bad
In the fear and alarm
You did not desert me
My brothers in arms.
--Dire Straits
Chapter 12
Now.
Andy paces the length of the hall while Craig leans against the grimy wall, shoulders slumped. Andy's been doing this on and off for two days now (forever), but he doesn't know what else to do. Dean won't come out of the room. Craig rubs his face and Andy wonders when the professor got so old. He looks like he's aged about ten years overnight, and Andy thinks the way things have been going, maybe he has.
There are exactly fifteen steps to the window at the end of the hall. There are three rooms, and a closet (empty) labeled Medical Staff Only. There are exactly twenty-two steps to the elevator (which doesn't work) and thirty-one steps to the stairwell. And the entire time Andy moves (he can't sit still, he can't), Craig stands there, arms folded, and waits.
ooooo
Then.
Luke's hand is on Sam's neck but his eyes are on Dean. He whispers "It'll be okay."
It doesn't feel okay, though, because Sam's hand goes limp in Dean's, and Dean doesn't want to think about what will happen if Sam dies because life without Sam isn't a life at all. Sam convulses and his limbs jerk, his heels drum against the ground. Dean blinks the tears back, trying to see, he's got to see, dammit, because he's got to make sure Sam's still breathing. He wipes his face savagely against his sleeve and that's when he spots the thin wire of red across Luke's throat. He stares, dumbfounded as the cut widens into a deep gash that mirrors Sam's. Andy whispers oh my God, what the fuck and Dean can't answer because he doesn't know. Luke doesn't answer because his own blood is running (spilling) down his neck, onto his arms, onto Sam's shirt. But he smiles.
ooooo
Now.
Andy stands at the dirty window and looks out onto the little square below. Owen and Rosey are playing demons and hunters. From the look of it, Owen is the demon. Rosey waggles her fingers at him and shouts get out or else, and Owen drops to the ground and rolls around energetically, waving his arms. Rosey giggles and joins him in the grass, and pretty soon they're trying to do somersaults, demons forgotten. Andy wants to forget with them.
Lisa sits on a bench nearby, legs drawn up, hands clasped around her knees. Monica sits beside her, one arm around one of the girl's thin shoulders. Lisa's hair obscures her face, all he can see is a glimpse of her glasses, and Monica talks earnestly to her, gesturing with her free hand.
Andy turns abruptly away, he doesn't want to see any more. He rubs his thumb against the blond braid circling his wrist and wants Izzy. She'd be able to make him laugh. Take his mind off everything. He clenches his fists and stalks over to the door, pounds on it. "Dean, it's me." Which is stupid, because obviously Dean knows it's him, Dean knows he's been hovering in the hallway like a homeless moth for the past forty-eight hours, just like he knows Craig is there. But Andy says it anyway, because he doesn't know what else to say. "Please, just let me in." He glances at Craig's stony face. "Let us in."
There's no answer, just the quiet, steady drone of Dean's voice from deep inside the room. Andy rattles the doorknob, but the door is locked. Any one of the hunters could pick it, hell, Andy could probably pick it by now though osmosis alone, but he doesn't. He looks at Craig again and Craig shakes his head, just once, barely a hint of movement, but it's enough. Give him more time.
Andy wants to point out that's all they've been doing is giving him time, nothing but time, but he chokes the words back and paces some more.
ooooo
Then.
Craig's on his knees beside Luke, his dark face gray, tears leaking from his eyes. "Luke. Please." He holds one hand out to the boy, a desperate, pleading gesture.
But Luke just smiles and shakes his head, his hand and arm completely scarlet now and gently--very gently--pushes Craig's hand away. He nods at Craig, and his smile is beatific, and he's saying it's okay and don't worry and goodbye all at once.
Andy whimpers oh God, oh God and Luke winks at him, he fucking winks, and Andy claps a hand to his face like he's just been punched and sobs hard enough to turn his face beet red, to make his nose bubble snot.
Dean knows he should push Luke away, he should shove him away, but he can't. He's frozen in place, he can't move, can't blink, because if he does something will go wrong and whatever this is, whatever gift or curse Luke has won't work. And as much as Dean likes Luke, maybe loves Luke even, he loves Sam more. He needs Sam more and he'll stop pretending he doesn't, he'll tell everyone, he'll tell anyone how much he loves Sam if he can just keep him. Please, just a little longer. He prays to God, he prays to Luke, he prays to the stones and the sky. He prays to anything and anyone that might be listening. Don't take my brother yet. Not now. Why let Sam live through the gunshot, through the endless hell that followed, just to take him now?
Dean watches the blood drip down Luke's arm, across his thin t-shirt, and understands. He understands that Luke healed Izzy's cold, that he healed Sam's hand, and he healed Lisa's leg. Luke stopped talking when he couldn't save his mother's life because given the time, given the chance, he could have saved her. Dean can still hear the sound of Luke's frenzied screams after Izzy died and understands those cries were the sound of Luke's guilt, the sound of his failure to save her. Dean understands the set of Luke's shoulders and the determination in his wide blue eyes and knows Luke is not planning to fail again.
Dean clutches Sam's hand, unable to let go. Luke meets Dean's eyes and shrugs. "I miss my mom," he croaks and his voice is fucked up from whatever's happening and Dean thinks I miss my mom too and he knows this isn't right, he should stop this boy, this little boy, this child from giving his life for Sam's, but the horrible truth is he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to.
Luke sways and slides forward bonelessly on top of Sam, but still he keeps one hand on his throat and one hand on Sam's. Craig leans forward and plants a gentle kiss on top of Luke's head and whispers "I love you."
"Don't let him die," Andy begs, and Dean doesn't know if he's talking about Sam or Luke.
ooooo
Now.
Ash is well enough to hobble around on a pair of duct-taped crutches by the next afternoon. He takes a few teetering steps out of his room, Jeff on one side of him, Monica on the other. A harried-looking silver-haired man watches Ash's progress and purses his lips after a few careful steps. "That's enough," he says. "Back to bed."
Ash rolls his eyes. "Give me a break, doc. I'm practically runnin'." He's sweating heavily, and looks like he's only a couple steps from death's door. But he's got a huge smile plastered across his face, and he’s aiming it at Jeff. He notices Andy at the other end of the hall and leans awkwardly against the crutches. "Hey." He looks from Andy to Craig, takes in their expressions. "What's going on?"
Andy shoots Monica a thanks for nothing look, and she looks properly chagrined.
Jeff clears his throat. "Ash. Why don'tcha do what the doc says?"
Ash frowns. "Cuz I'm the only doc I gotta listen to," he says and lifts an eyebrow. "Are you guys holding vigil for me out here or is there something I should know about it?"
Andy studies the floor. He wonders how many scuff marks there are, how many nurses and doctors have walked this hallway over the years.
Ash pivots on the crutches and stares hard at Jeff. "I thought you said the demons are gone. The yellow-eyed bastard got vacuumed back to hell or whatever."
Jeff pulls a toothpick from his shirt pocket and slides it between his teeth. "Yep. That's what I said."
"Then what am I missing?" He nods toward the closed the door beside Craig. "Who's in there?"
Monica sighs. "Dean."
Now both eyebrows shoot up and worry drains the already faint color from Ash's face. "What? How bad is he?" He looks for the actual doctor but the man disappears into Ash's room.
"He's fine," Andy says quietly.
Ash nearly drops one of the crutches. He reaches for it and winces, eyes wide. "Is it Sam? Is Sam okay?"
Andy rubs his face and sighs. God, he's tired. He can't remember a time when he wasn't. Can't imagine a time when he won't be. "No."
Craig speaks for the first time and his voice sounds rusty. "The boy's dead," he says simply.
ooooo
Then.
He's underwater, trying to swim. And he's cold. The water is freezing. He tries to see where he is, reach the surface, but everything's dark and his lungs are bursting. Someone's holding his hand and he thinks Dad, but he knows instinctively that's wrong because Dad never held his hand, Dad put things in his hand, all kinds of thing: guns, rope, crossbows, lock picks. There's only one person who holds his hand when he's scared (like now), there's only one person he trusts. He squeezes the hand and the hand squeezes back and he knows it's Dean, Dean has him, Dean's gonna pull him out of the water any minute now, any minute, cuz Dean would never let him drown.
Sam blinks, and he can see, but he's still under water because everything's blurry and fuzzy and he still can't breath, but he wants to, he needs to, because his chest is breaking and his head feels all wrong and he knows he's swallowed water because his mouth is full of it, he's choking on it, and his throat burns, Jesus Christ it hurts like a bitch.
Now he's on his back and Sam can't figure out when Dean dragged him out of the lake, but here he is, gasping for air like a fucking fish and his chest heaves and his hands are still wet, his shirt is soaked, it sticks to him like he's been under water for days. He blinks, and for a split second he thinks he's still drowning, because all he sees is blue, but then his brain starts to cooperate and supplies him with the word sky, and the wet sound in his ear isn't waves, it's someone crying. Sam claws at his throat but nothing happens and he lifts his hand, looks at it, and everything snaps back into place because it's not water, it's blood, his blood and he's dying and he was a fool to trust Jason and shit and shit.
He needs Dean, needs to tell him it'll be okay, needs to say goodbye and I'm sorry, because he doesn't want to go, which is kind of hilarious since he's wanted to die for months now, maybe years, but now that death is right here, ready and waiting, Sam isn't quite so keen on going. Dean's looking at him and his face is red and wet like maybe he's been under water too and Dean says breathe and Sam thinks that might be the best idea he's ever heard.
His back arches and his head smacks against concrete, but the pain is nothing compared to his need for air. His eye rolls past Andy and Craig and Luke but he doesn't see any of them because his throat is a tiny little straw and the oxygen he wants is a weather balloon and it's not gonna work it's not gonna--
There's a hand on his throat and it's not his.
There's a hand on his throat and it's. Not. His. He clasps it with his own hand and it's small and it can't be Dean's or even Andy's and--
His lungs finally, finally pull in a ragged breath and it hurts, but it hurts less with the second breath, and not at all with the third. The fire in his throat goes out and his head clears and he feels (good, can't be right because that's crazy, that doesn't make sense) better and he pulls the hand from his neck and it's connected to an arm and the arm belong to Luke. And Luke is sort of sprawled across him and he's not moving and he thinks
No.
the kid must have passed out because seeing someone almost die, someone you care about has gotta be terrifying, especially to a kid
Please, no.
who's already had a shitload of horror to deal with and everyone is looking at him, or not looking at him, Andy and Monica and random people he doesn't know, and Craig's face
He's still drowning. That's what it is. He's just confused. There's nothing going on with Luke, Luke's fine and Sam is dying, it's just taking longer than he thought, but he'll wait, he's patient.
is buried in Luke's back and he wants Luke to wake up now, wants him to move and Sam scrambles backwards, tries to get away, and see, he is in the water because there's a jagged noise, like a dying engine, and he thinks boat.
Sam looks around, desperate for the boat, and there's Dean, reaching for him, and he's got that low voice, that Sam's in trouble voice and Sam doesn't want it, doesn't want to listen because hey, they sent Yellow-Eyes back to hell and they're at a lake and it's time to party, it's time to--
Sam swallows and his hands go to his throat and he can feel the fresh ridge of skin tissue there, and his fingernails scrabble at the scar, he claws at it because he needs to undo this, needs to take it back, take it back, whatever Luke did, he needs to stop, because Luke's just a kid and Sam is supposed to save him, not the other way around.
Andy says Sam, wait and Craig's cradling Luke's body and Sam can see the terrible wound across the boy's throat and Sam scratches harder, deeper, but his nails are too short and his skin won’t break and Dean yells and slaps at his hand, grabs for his wrist but Sam keeps crawling through the forest of arms reaching for him and struggles to his feet. He can still hear the broken motor and it revs closer, louder, and he realizes, finally, as his breath hitches and he takes a stumbling step backwards, the noise is coming from him. He puts his hands to his head and pulls, pulls at his hair, as if he can reach in and physically pull out the memory of what’s happening. All he comes away with is a bloody fistful of hair.
Dean walks toward him, hands up, cautious, still talking, each word made of calm and logic but Sam shuts it all out. Dean tries to smile, tries to convince Sam this is for the best, this is right, he says, You’re okay, now. You’re all right.
Sam shakes his head. No. He’s not. He turns in a circle, suffocating from the weight of everyone’s gaze and pulls at his hair again, and he welcomes the pain. His eye patch falls off and he kicks at it. "You should have let me die!" he bellows . He stomps on the patch and everyone’s watching, staring, judging and no one understands how he feels, not even Dean. Because as many people as he’s killed, he’s never killed a child. Not until now.
Andy moves toward him, but Craig is still on the ground, head bent and silent and Sam wants to say he’s sorry, he wants to say he doesn’t understand how this happened, that he didn’t mean it, doesn’t mean it, doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want Luke’s life. He’s not worth it. He feels the ground slide beneath his feet and his heart thunders in his ears and each beat is using Luke’s blood and each time he takes a breath he’s breathing Luke’s air and he screams again because there’s nothing else he can do.
He’s still screaming when Dean reaches him and pulls him close and then he’s screaming into Dean’s shoulder and he wonders if he screams loud enough, will Luke hear, will he know he’s sorry?
A gruff voice says for Christ’s sake, shut him up, and Dean’s voice snarls back, shut your fucking mouth before I break your goddamn face, and then Andy’s there as well, one on each side of him and Sam wants to scream, needs to scream, but his voice isn’t cooperating and his knees give way and Dean’s there, like always, to hold him up.
Sam walks between them, head bowed. Voices rise and fall (like waves) and Sam can still taste blood in his mouth (Luke’s blood, now) and he wants to run, to get away, but there’s nowhere to go because the person he most wants to hide from his himself.
ooooo
Now.
Ash’s mouth drops open and Jeff hovers at his elbow, ready to help his friend if he needs it. "What?"
"Not Sam," Andy clarifies, "Luke."
Ash looks from Andy to Craig. Craig looks back, eyes hard, lips compressed. "The little brown-haired boy who didn’t talk?" Ash asks.
Craig nods. "That’s him. He saved Sam’s life."
Ash works himself over to the wall and leans against it. "I’m real sorry about your loss," he says. "He seemed like a good kid."
Craig turns away abruptly and walks to the window. He leans his forehead against the smudged glass.
Andy shakes his head and swallows hard. "He was a fucking awesome kid."
Ash holds Andy’s gaze for a long moment. Then he says, very quietly, "So’s Sam Winchester."
ooooo
Then.
Dean and Andy hustle Sam over to the hospital and up to the second floor. At least there are actual doors here and a semblance of privacy. And privacy is exactly what Sam needs. That, and a boatload of valium.
Sam sits on the bed, his back against the wall, hands loose in his lap. He’s still covered in blood. Dean wants to get him into the shower but Sam won’t budge. He just sits there like a statue and Dean feels all the progress they’ve made, all the headway of the last few weeks swirling right down the toilet. Dean pulls at his bottom lip, thinking. Whatever Sam needs, he’ll do it. He’ll listen, he’ll commiserate, but he won’t buy into Sam’s guilt trip. Dean’s the one who’s actually guilty of anything, he could have stopped Luke, but he didn’t. This is his guilt to bear, not Sam’s.
Andy paces around the room, generally getting in the way, and Dean finally sends him out to check on Craig. Once Andy’s gone, Dean sits beside his brother and tells him "This isn’t your fault. Do you know how many lives you saved, today, Sam? In the long term, hundreds, probably thousands."
Sam tilts his head and he grins and Dean doesn’t see the blood or the mangled eye or the scar. He sees Sammy Winchester, the gangly kid with the too-big eyes and too much hair, the kid who asks too many questions but admits too little. Sam lifts his hands and lets them drop back into his lap. "I couldn’t save Luke."
"It’s not your job to save everyone. We can’t save everyone, Sam." Dean says the words and they feel smooth and rounded coming out of his mouth. He's said them so many times the syllables are polished; he can almost see the ruts worn in the air. He needs new words, better words with sharp edges to pierce through Sam's wall. Sam closes his eye and shuts Dean out and Dean tries again. "You saved lives, Sam. Luke’s death isn't your fault. Neither was Izzy's. You've got, like, this fucking list of blame, Sam. And it's wrong. I know what you think, about Mom and Jess and everyone else. But they didn't die because of you." Dean leans forward, grips Sam's arm, wishes there was a way he could inject the words straight into Sam's brain. "They didn't."
"Luke did," Sam insists, "and so did the others. So many others." He rolls his head back and forth against the wall, his eye sill closed, like he thinks if he can't see Dean, maybe Dean can't see him. Sam opens his hands and holds them palm up. "This is Luke's blood." He raps against his chest with a fist. "And in here, too." He yanks at his shirt, stretching blood-stained fabric, a low growl in his throat. "I don't. I don't know what to do. I. Can't. God.." He digs his knuckles into his temples and his eye opens, rolling around the room, as if looking for the familiar streamers of Dean's words. His voice is full of hairline cracks and the pain punches through, shattering Sam's words. "Why did he do it?" He turns a terrible look on Dean, a look that sends ice cubes rattling into Dean's stomach. "Why?"
"Because he wanted to help you," Dean says, and his own voice sounds just as cracked, like it's already broken and been glued back together. "He wanted to save you." Dean puts his face by Sam's, ignores the ice, and admits the truth. "And I wanted him to save you."
"Why?" Sam asks again, like it's a mantra. The word is small but deadly-like a .22 caliber bullet-and it breaks Dean's heart more than a little that Sam doesn't-or can't--understand.
"Because nobody wants to give up on their heroes," Dean says hoarsely and he's not talking about Luke. Sam's head drops forward and his shoulders begin to shake.
ooooo
Monica knocks on the door, a soft tap-tap. She's got a plastic tray of peanut butter sandwiches, potato chips and fresh water. She doesn't expect an answer, usually she just leaves the tray outside the door, but the door opens. Monica's so startled she nearly drops the food. Dean blinks out at her. He looks tired and his five o-clock shadow's just about ticked over to beard but he offers her a faint smile. "Thanks, Monica."
Monica skips past the pleasantries. "How is he?"
Dean shrugs. "Sleeping. Finally. He can fake the snoring, but I don't think he'd fake drool."
Monica smiles. "Good. That's good." She tries to think of something else to say, and her brain latches onto the tray in her hands. "Is he eating?"
Dean waves a hand. "Not much."
Monica knows Dean-and Sam--well enough by now to know that's Dean's polite way of saying no.
Monica offers the tray with a sigh. "This probably won't convince him, then."
Dean peers at a sandwich. "Peanut butter, huh? Chunky or smooth?"
"Chunky."
Dean grabs one and shoves a quarter of the sandwich into his mouth. "Good enough for me," he mumbles thickly.
Monica laughs and she almost wishes Rosey was with her. "Oh, and guess what? We've had over a dozen people show up in the last two days. The highway's been clear, no attacks. Jeff and a few others went out to, um, clean the telephone poles but they were still empty."
Dean lifts an eyebrow, clearly pleased. "Hey, that's great."
Monica nods, glad to share the good news. "I know. But the really great part is there's some old farmer who brought a cage with two chickens." She smiles, excited. "They way he's talking, I'll be able to make you eggs tomorrow."
Dean stops chewing, eyes wide. "I would sell my spleen for scrambled eggs right about now." Monica laughs again and Dean grins, peanut butter in the corner of his mouth. "What good's a spleen, anyway?"
The door to the stairwell creaks open and Andy and Craig emerge into the hall. Andy nods at Monica and Dean, the smile on his face painfully hopeful. "Hey guys."
Craig smiles too, but the smile's tacked on, just for show. He walks up to Dean and grabs him by the collar and pulls him bodily out of the doorway.
"Craig," Dean sputters, "I'm sorry, but this isn't-"
Dean's younger and faster than Craig, but the professor has the element of surprise on his side. And height. He pushes Dean against the wall and takes off the smile. His eyes are pins and they hold Dean fast. "I've been waiting three days," he says slowly. "Three days. I've seen Sam do some miraculous things, but he's sure as hell not Jesus, and I am done waiting."
Dean's gaze flicks from Andy to Monica, then back to Craig. Craig's lips twitch and for a minute Dean's afraid he's gonna put that fucking smile back up but he just says "Eat your lunch, Dean. Sam and I need to have a talk."
The sandwich turns to acid in Dean's stomach, his mouth tastes like dirt. "Craig. Don't…don't hurt him."
Craig's eyes are full of reproach. "Now I know it's been a hard couple of days and I know you're worried about Sam. So I'm going to save us both a lot of trouble and pretend you didn't just say that." Craig points a finger toward an empty chair in an empty room. "Sit," he says. "We won't be long." And he pushes the door to Sam's room wide and steps through.
Dean stares after him, open-mouthed, like his jaw just broke. Andy looks much the same way.
Monica bites her lip, unsure what to do. She takes a step toward Dean. "Do you want me to get Ash?"
Dean snaps his mouth shut and she can hear the click of his teeth. He shakes his head. "No." He walks toward the worn chair Craig gestured at and lowers himself into it. He glances at his watch, rubs a hand over his newly-bearded chin, scratches his cheek.
"Then what?" Monica asks.
Dean casts a glance at Andy. "I'll take a turn at waiting. I owe Craig that much, at least."
Monica's eyebrows draw together. "Why do you owe Craig?"
Dean drops the sandwich back onto her tray. His gaze is mild but the tone of his voice implies he's talking to someone with the brain power of a pothole. "Because my brother's still alive and Luke isn't."
ooooo
Sam wakes to find Craig at his bedside. The older man watches him, hands folded in his lap, expression inscrutable.
Sam doesn't know what to say, a hundred regrets slide through his head, but the words that come out of his mouth are weak and fuzzy with sleep. "How long?"
Craig shrugs. "Not long. Ten minutes, maybe."
Sam sits up cautiously, half expecting Craig to throw a punch, half expecting another story about Saul or Paul or some other dusty relic from the Bible. Sam tries to stop what's coming with "I'm sorry."
Craig nods and picks up Sam's eye patch from the table. Sam watches Craig turn it over in his hands and Sam thinks of eyes and scales, blindness and loss. Craig sighs and hands Sam the patch. Sam pulls it on without a word. The elastic band pulls at his hair. Sam clasps his hands nervously and struggles for something meaningful to say; he's lost and ashamed and now he's drowning in guilt, not water. "Craig. Um." He adjusts the elastic from the eye patch and waits for Craig to say something but Craig just sits there, sits there, watching, silent. Sam wants to smash his head against the wall, throw himself out the window, hide in the bathroom Instead, he sits on the bed and rubs his hands together like he's still trying to get Luke's blood off, and in a manner of speaking, he is. He takes a deep breath and clears his throat. He tries again. "I didn't mean…I'm sorry that..." He swallows and there's a hot stone in his throat. He can't get a full sentence past it. Word fragments hang between them like twine and Sam thinks rope and noose. He doesn't know how to make this better, how to undo what's been done. He's trapped inside this cramped room with Craig Thomson, and whether the door's open or closed, there's still no way out for either of them.
Craig's fingers unfold and he reaches out, puts a cool dry hand on Sam's arm. "Stop it." His eyes are headlights and Sam's caught in the glare. "Stop apologizing, Sam. Do you hear me?"
Sam can't speak past the stone, so he nods.
Craig runs his hands through his hair and sighs again. He pushes the chair another inch closer to the bed, lowers his gaze back onto Sam. His eyes are bloodshot and when he grips Sam's arm it feels like a warning. "I'll tell you this once, son. One time. So you need to listen good. You ready?"
Sam stares at him, nerves twisting into complicated knots, and nods.
"What Luke did isn't your fault. It's not about you. It's about him. You need to stop acting like you're responsible for the whole damn world. You're just a man, Sam. You don't have to die for anybody's sins, especially your own. You're a good man, but that's all. It's true you can do things some men can't. I've seen you. But still, you're just a man, like the rest of us. Like Luke. Luke's death isn't an excuse for you to go jumping off the deep end," Craig says, "and it makes me want to slap you into next week to see you carrying blame that doesn't belong to you. That boy gave you a gift, he sacrificed himself because he cared about you, because he chose to." Craig's voice is soft but there's iron around the edges. "I don't have to agree with his choice, I don't have to like it, but I will not have you turn what he did into another round self-flagellation." Craig's nostrils flare and his hand is a vise. "I won't allow that, Sam. I can't."
Sam opens his mouth. He wants to protest that's not what he's doing, not what he means to do, but Craig shakes his head. "You'll get your turn," Craig says, "but not just yet." Craig releases Sam's arm and leans back in the chair, grips the peeling arms. He exhales slowly, puffing air through his cheeks. "I never found the right woman, Sam. I never settled down, never had any kids besides my students. But then the world ended and God saw fit to put me in charge of that boy." His smile is a curved blade. "Luke." Craig shakes his head and makes a sound that's a cross between a snort and sob. "That's not even his real name." He grips the chair arms so tight his knuckles crack. Grief sits in every line of his face, but he masks it with anger. "Did you know he could do that?" Craig demands. "Did you know he healed your hand, that he was just…just pretending to hit the tree after Izzy died?"
Sam swallows, ashamed. That's part of the problem. He didn't know and he should have. He should have. "No."
"Did you know he healed Lisa's leg?"
A hot tear leaks from Sam's eye. He shakes his head.
"Neither did I," Craig admits, deflating. He seems to shrink into the chair, like the weight of his sorrow is pushing him down. "I didn't have a damn clue. I just...didn't see it. Didn't want to see it, maybe." Craig leans forward again, rests his elbows on the knees of his faded slacks. "I believe Luke would've saved Izzy if he'd had the chance. But he didn't. So he saved you. If he hadn’t been able to save you, he'd have saved someone else." Craig's eyes are bright with unshed tears, and he blinks them back. He rubs the tip of his nose. "He was just waiting to get back to his momma. And he chose to give you his life on the way back to her. That's a gift, Sam. And I sure as hell don't want you spitting on that gift by being too thick-headed and stubborn and stupid to realize it was Luke's choice and not yours. Luke saved you because he wanted you to live. He thought you deserved to live. If you want to repay him or thank him, or honor him, then you better get the hell out of this room and live your life. You better keep moving forward and making a difference."
Craig looks hard at Sam and says roughly, "Because believe me, son, you made a hell of a difference three days ago. You make a hell of a difference." He manages a weary smile. "And if you think your destiny is done, if you think we don't need you now, well then you're even stupider than I thought."
Sam's not sure how exactly how stupid he is. He lost the ability to calculate that equation long ago--usually he just relies on Dean to tell him. But to hear Craig say he's still needed, that he makes a difference feels…something. It feels like something that's not entirely bad. Something that doesn't hurt. Something he can live with.
Craig sits in the chair for a long moment, watching Sam. Waiting.
"I want to honor him," Sam finally manages through the stone in his throat. "I do."
"Then don't sit up here like you're in some kind of time-out. It's not fair to you or your brother. For that matter, it's not fair to any of the people who care about you." Craig nods toward the bathroom. "So take a shower, put on some decent clothes and come pay your respects. Luke's not the only one who died you know."
Craig's words sting and Sam flinches. "I know."
Craig's tone softens and he puts his hand over Sam's, gentle now. "I know you do." Craig shoves the chair back and stands. "I'm sure your brother's trying to crawl in through the keyhole so I'm going to give him a break and open the door. You good with that?"
"Yeah." Sam thinks about fathers and sons and the fragility of love. He thinks about words that hurt and silences that hurt even more. "Craig?"
The old man glances back, his eyes muted, no longer spotlights. "What?"
"Thank you." Sam still feels guilty and wrong, like he's living on (Luke's) borrowed time, but he understands where Craig is coming from. And no matter what Craig says, Sam will always owe Luke. And paying his respects, coming out of this room won't reduce his debt, but it will ease Craig's loss. And that matters too.
Craig puts a hand on the doorknob and stands with his back to Sam. "You know, Luke's not the only one I think of like a son," he says softly.
ooooo
Now.
He walks in silence, dusty boots down a dusty road. The sky's the pale blue of a robin's egg, and the air smells of dirt and sweat and the promise of rain. The rusted shells of cars are gone, dragged away and hammered flat. Now they're walls and ceilings and tables. The school is mostly rebuilt, although it's not much of a school now. It's more of a barracks, and it seems like one or two people turn up daily, eager for shelter and news and the chance to dream. The chance to hope.
ooooo
Then.
Sam goes to the mass grave for a week straight. Dean goes with him the first time. Twice, Sam goes alone. Once he goes with Craig. There are flowers and broken dolls and runes and tiny hand-carved totems. The freshly packed dirt is littered with pieces of goodbye. Lisa sits beside the mound for hours at a time, sketching pictures, writing letters. She leaves them in the dirt, anchored by bits of quartz and the weight of her loss. Sometimes Sam sits with her and they share the silence. Sam composes notes to Luke and Hannah and Vanessa the way Lisa does for her parents. Sam's notes always stay inside his head, and they always say the same thing: I'm sorry.
ooooo
Now.
The mural along the east wall is nearly done; Craig and Lisa are down to the detail work now. It's a wall of faces in red and black and blue and yellow. Luke grins out at the street, and so do Izzy and Hannah and Vanessa and a half dozen others. There are protective symbols and flowers and a row of footprints links them together like a rainbow chain.
Dean walks over to Craig, admires his work. "Wow. This is just…" He doesn't know what to say. Isobel smiles at him, mischievous, and it's like she's right there.. Maybe she is. "Shit, man. I don't know whether to laugh or cry or what."
Craig dips a fine brush into a can of black paint and lifts his eyebrows. "I often do both." The corner of his mouth pulls upward. "At the same time. Makes painting awkward."
Lisa doesn't say anything--she's been walking in Luke's silent shoes lately--but she offers a polite smile when Dean asks if she's seen Sam. She points back toward town.
ooooo
Then.
Five days after Sam follows Craig out of the hospital room, Ash picks up a ham radio transmission. A dentist who's been living in his basement hasn't seen a demon in over a week. Ash is so excited to make contact he knocks his crutches over and falls on his ass. He sits in the mud like he's on a goddamn throne and babbles directions to T or C.
ooooo
Now.
Dean waves goodbye to Craig and Lisa and heads toward the ramshackle house behind the market. Ash is outside the bar tinkering with a radio transceiver, a cane and a half-empty bottle of beer both within easy reach. Ash offers Dean a vague salute as he passes. Dean rolls his eyes, but he salutes back. He jogs up the crooked porch and bellows into the house. "Sam?"
There's no answer. Shit. It feels like he's always looking for Sam lately. Sometimes, Sam leaves him a message. A scrap of paper taped to the cracked mirror above the sink. I'm waiting. Hurry your ass up.
Today, there's a note fastened to the door with a piece of electrical tape. Hey bro, where are you?
Dean blinks at the note, and his stomach doesn't drop and his hands don't sweat and he doesn't think of a dead woman swinging from a tree. He thinks of a promise made and wonders how fast he can run.
ooooo
Then.
Dean, Ash, Monica and Jeff spend the month following the battle trying to hammer out various committees to oversee shit around town. Dean can't figure out how the hell he got drafted into helping. He suspects it has something to do with too much alcohol and poor judgment on Dean's part. Or Ash's. Possibly both. The only good part is there's a hot chick who's trying to round up teachers. Half the town wants Sam in charge of something or other. The building committee and the fledgling board of education-along with pretty much every hunter around--seem to feel if Sam is telekinetic, building houses should be a snap. If he has a loud-ass voice of doom, he can make the kids learn Latin that much easier. Dean tries to pawn the teaching bit off on Andy, but Andy's not interested. He's working with the food co-op and the farmer types to try and legalize marijuana. So far there isn't much opposition, since nobody has any.
Sam avoids the meetings and cultivates an air of careful oblivion whenever someone tries to get him to join this or head that. Sam wants no part of it. He's happy to help, but he refuses to be in charge of anything. Which Dean thinks is bullshit, because he seems happy enough to boss Dean around.
"But he'd be perfect," Monica laments during one of the endlessly boring educational meetings. "Who else has that kind of knowledge to teach the kids?"
Dean sits up, an idea percolating. "I know a decent theology professor."
ooooo
Now.
They're gathered in a small park behind the hospital. The park is more mud than grass, but no one seems to care. Dean's impressed: there are fifteen people waiting today, eight men and seven women. He recognizes a few faces from earlier in the week.
Monica is demonstrating how to throw knives for three of the women. Andy’s sitting on a stool well out of throwing range, patiently showing a teenage boy how to clean a gun. Jeff draws various seals on a large sheet of metal with a piece of chalk, explaining the uses and protective traits of each symbol.
Sam sits farthest away, his back against a tree. A small group surrounds him, listening intently. He's been teaching simple exorcisms and cleansing rituals to the new members of Truth or Consequences for the past few weeks. Dean walks toward him, unable to keep the grin off his face. "I don't know how you do it, but this stuff sounds almost interesting when you talk about it."
Sam looks up from his book at the sound of Dean's voice. He's still too pale and too thin. He eats less than Rose, and he doesn't sleep enough. But the nightmares don't come every night, and sometimes (like now), he smiles all on his own. Sometimes he smiles like Dean's still the best big brother in the world, like he's seven years old and life's a fucking treasure map full of big black Xs. Dean tells himself the sight of that smile is worth the price of pulling the trigger inside that kitchen. Dean takes comfort in the familiar (too brief) flash of dimple and the knowledge Sam is safe and happy here. Well, safe, anyway. And the fact he's willing to spend a few hours training new hunters has got to be a good sign.
"Too bad it won't when you start talking," Sam says and Dean laughs. He sits next to Sam and their shoulders touch-just barely. Dean talks about spirits and wendigos and rawheads. The tiny audience listens raptly; it's been a long while since anyone's even considered being afraid of something besides a demon.
Twenty minutes pass, and Andy wanders over to listen. He's heard most of these stories, hell he's in some of them, but he sits there anyway. Dean thinks of endless months of campfires and salt circles and full moons and despair. A year ago, he'd have never believed he'd have Sam back (alive!), that he'd be training a bunch of hunter wannabes. He'd have never believed he'd be capable of giving anyone hope, mostly because he had none to give.
Dean sits beside Sam, and there's a stick goosing his ass and he's thirsty and he's pretty sure Andy just tried to flick a pebble at his head. He sits beside Sam, and he has hope, because Sam is hope. And Dean's never going to admit that piece of touchy-feely truth to Sam, but he has a feeling Sam already knows. The bitch.
They've still got a long way to go, and Dean's not sure where they'll end up. Each day is another step closer to Sam getting better. Dean's not sure he cares what the future holds, what Sam's destiny is, as long as they keep on keepin' on together.
Dean sits beside Sam, and there's nowhere else he'd rather be.
Author:
buffyaddict13
Rating: a strong R for language and a lot of violence. some of it's fairly gory. sorry folks. the end of the world isn't a shiny happy place.
Characters/Pairings: Sam, Dean, Andy, OCs. Gen.
Summary: The war is at hand. It’s demon against man and we’re losing the fight. The special children are wreaking havoc across the land, side by side with demons. Dean is on a desperate hunt to find and save his brother while leading a small band of survivors to a final showdown.
A/N 1: OMG, THIS IS THE END!!!! this whole thing is about 91,000 words long. meep.
A/N 2: thank you SO much to
kroki_refur for the beta, love and encouragement. If it’s any good, it’s because of her brilliance. If it sucks, well, that's on me. Lastly, the title is from a Suzanne Vega song.
A/N 3: thank you to everybody's who's stuck with me through this. this is for you. MWAH.
Disclaimer: I own nothing Winchestery. If I did, the boys would talk more.
Through these fields of destruction,
Baptism of fire
I've watched all your suffering
As the battles raged higher
And though they did hurt me so bad
In the fear and alarm
You did not desert me
My brothers in arms.
--Dire Straits
Chapter 12
Now.
Andy paces the length of the hall while Craig leans against the grimy wall, shoulders slumped. Andy's been doing this on and off for two days now (forever), but he doesn't know what else to do. Dean won't come out of the room. Craig rubs his face and Andy wonders when the professor got so old. He looks like he's aged about ten years overnight, and Andy thinks the way things have been going, maybe he has.
There are exactly fifteen steps to the window at the end of the hall. There are three rooms, and a closet (empty) labeled Medical Staff Only. There are exactly twenty-two steps to the elevator (which doesn't work) and thirty-one steps to the stairwell. And the entire time Andy moves (he can't sit still, he can't), Craig stands there, arms folded, and waits.
ooooo
Then.
Luke's hand is on Sam's neck but his eyes are on Dean. He whispers "It'll be okay."
It doesn't feel okay, though, because Sam's hand goes limp in Dean's, and Dean doesn't want to think about what will happen if Sam dies because life without Sam isn't a life at all. Sam convulses and his limbs jerk, his heels drum against the ground. Dean blinks the tears back, trying to see, he's got to see, dammit, because he's got to make sure Sam's still breathing. He wipes his face savagely against his sleeve and that's when he spots the thin wire of red across Luke's throat. He stares, dumbfounded as the cut widens into a deep gash that mirrors Sam's. Andy whispers oh my God, what the fuck and Dean can't answer because he doesn't know. Luke doesn't answer because his own blood is running (spilling) down his neck, onto his arms, onto Sam's shirt. But he smiles.
ooooo
Now.
Andy stands at the dirty window and looks out onto the little square below. Owen and Rosey are playing demons and hunters. From the look of it, Owen is the demon. Rosey waggles her fingers at him and shouts get out or else, and Owen drops to the ground and rolls around energetically, waving his arms. Rosey giggles and joins him in the grass, and pretty soon they're trying to do somersaults, demons forgotten. Andy wants to forget with them.
Lisa sits on a bench nearby, legs drawn up, hands clasped around her knees. Monica sits beside her, one arm around one of the girl's thin shoulders. Lisa's hair obscures her face, all he can see is a glimpse of her glasses, and Monica talks earnestly to her, gesturing with her free hand.
Andy turns abruptly away, he doesn't want to see any more. He rubs his thumb against the blond braid circling his wrist and wants Izzy. She'd be able to make him laugh. Take his mind off everything. He clenches his fists and stalks over to the door, pounds on it. "Dean, it's me." Which is stupid, because obviously Dean knows it's him, Dean knows he's been hovering in the hallway like a homeless moth for the past forty-eight hours, just like he knows Craig is there. But Andy says it anyway, because he doesn't know what else to say. "Please, just let me in." He glances at Craig's stony face. "Let us in."
There's no answer, just the quiet, steady drone of Dean's voice from deep inside the room. Andy rattles the doorknob, but the door is locked. Any one of the hunters could pick it, hell, Andy could probably pick it by now though osmosis alone, but he doesn't. He looks at Craig again and Craig shakes his head, just once, barely a hint of movement, but it's enough. Give him more time.
Andy wants to point out that's all they've been doing is giving him time, nothing but time, but he chokes the words back and paces some more.
ooooo
Then.
Craig's on his knees beside Luke, his dark face gray, tears leaking from his eyes. "Luke. Please." He holds one hand out to the boy, a desperate, pleading gesture.
But Luke just smiles and shakes his head, his hand and arm completely scarlet now and gently--very gently--pushes Craig's hand away. He nods at Craig, and his smile is beatific, and he's saying it's okay and don't worry and goodbye all at once.
Andy whimpers oh God, oh God and Luke winks at him, he fucking winks, and Andy claps a hand to his face like he's just been punched and sobs hard enough to turn his face beet red, to make his nose bubble snot.
Dean knows he should push Luke away, he should shove him away, but he can't. He's frozen in place, he can't move, can't blink, because if he does something will go wrong and whatever this is, whatever gift or curse Luke has won't work. And as much as Dean likes Luke, maybe loves Luke even, he loves Sam more. He needs Sam more and he'll stop pretending he doesn't, he'll tell everyone, he'll tell anyone how much he loves Sam if he can just keep him. Please, just a little longer. He prays to God, he prays to Luke, he prays to the stones and the sky. He prays to anything and anyone that might be listening. Don't take my brother yet. Not now. Why let Sam live through the gunshot, through the endless hell that followed, just to take him now?
Dean watches the blood drip down Luke's arm, across his thin t-shirt, and understands. He understands that Luke healed Izzy's cold, that he healed Sam's hand, and he healed Lisa's leg. Luke stopped talking when he couldn't save his mother's life because given the time, given the chance, he could have saved her. Dean can still hear the sound of Luke's frenzied screams after Izzy died and understands those cries were the sound of Luke's guilt, the sound of his failure to save her. Dean understands the set of Luke's shoulders and the determination in his wide blue eyes and knows Luke is not planning to fail again.
Dean clutches Sam's hand, unable to let go. Luke meets Dean's eyes and shrugs. "I miss my mom," he croaks and his voice is fucked up from whatever's happening and Dean thinks I miss my mom too and he knows this isn't right, he should stop this boy, this little boy, this child from giving his life for Sam's, but the horrible truth is he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to.
Luke sways and slides forward bonelessly on top of Sam, but still he keeps one hand on his throat and one hand on Sam's. Craig leans forward and plants a gentle kiss on top of Luke's head and whispers "I love you."
"Don't let him die," Andy begs, and Dean doesn't know if he's talking about Sam or Luke.
ooooo
Now.
Ash is well enough to hobble around on a pair of duct-taped crutches by the next afternoon. He takes a few teetering steps out of his room, Jeff on one side of him, Monica on the other. A harried-looking silver-haired man watches Ash's progress and purses his lips after a few careful steps. "That's enough," he says. "Back to bed."
Ash rolls his eyes. "Give me a break, doc. I'm practically runnin'." He's sweating heavily, and looks like he's only a couple steps from death's door. But he's got a huge smile plastered across his face, and he’s aiming it at Jeff. He notices Andy at the other end of the hall and leans awkwardly against the crutches. "Hey." He looks from Andy to Craig, takes in their expressions. "What's going on?"
Andy shoots Monica a thanks for nothing look, and she looks properly chagrined.
Jeff clears his throat. "Ash. Why don'tcha do what the doc says?"
Ash frowns. "Cuz I'm the only doc I gotta listen to," he says and lifts an eyebrow. "Are you guys holding vigil for me out here or is there something I should know about it?"
Andy studies the floor. He wonders how many scuff marks there are, how many nurses and doctors have walked this hallway over the years.
Ash pivots on the crutches and stares hard at Jeff. "I thought you said the demons are gone. The yellow-eyed bastard got vacuumed back to hell or whatever."
Jeff pulls a toothpick from his shirt pocket and slides it between his teeth. "Yep. That's what I said."
"Then what am I missing?" He nods toward the closed the door beside Craig. "Who's in there?"
Monica sighs. "Dean."
Now both eyebrows shoot up and worry drains the already faint color from Ash's face. "What? How bad is he?" He looks for the actual doctor but the man disappears into Ash's room.
"He's fine," Andy says quietly.
Ash nearly drops one of the crutches. He reaches for it and winces, eyes wide. "Is it Sam? Is Sam okay?"
Andy rubs his face and sighs. God, he's tired. He can't remember a time when he wasn't. Can't imagine a time when he won't be. "No."
Craig speaks for the first time and his voice sounds rusty. "The boy's dead," he says simply.
ooooo
Then.
He's underwater, trying to swim. And he's cold. The water is freezing. He tries to see where he is, reach the surface, but everything's dark and his lungs are bursting. Someone's holding his hand and he thinks Dad, but he knows instinctively that's wrong because Dad never held his hand, Dad put things in his hand, all kinds of thing: guns, rope, crossbows, lock picks. There's only one person who holds his hand when he's scared (like now), there's only one person he trusts. He squeezes the hand and the hand squeezes back and he knows it's Dean, Dean has him, Dean's gonna pull him out of the water any minute now, any minute, cuz Dean would never let him drown.
Sam blinks, and he can see, but he's still under water because everything's blurry and fuzzy and he still can't breath, but he wants to, he needs to, because his chest is breaking and his head feels all wrong and he knows he's swallowed water because his mouth is full of it, he's choking on it, and his throat burns, Jesus Christ it hurts like a bitch.
Now he's on his back and Sam can't figure out when Dean dragged him out of the lake, but here he is, gasping for air like a fucking fish and his chest heaves and his hands are still wet, his shirt is soaked, it sticks to him like he's been under water for days. He blinks, and for a split second he thinks he's still drowning, because all he sees is blue, but then his brain starts to cooperate and supplies him with the word sky, and the wet sound in his ear isn't waves, it's someone crying. Sam claws at his throat but nothing happens and he lifts his hand, looks at it, and everything snaps back into place because it's not water, it's blood, his blood and he's dying and he was a fool to trust Jason and shit and shit.
He needs Dean, needs to tell him it'll be okay, needs to say goodbye and I'm sorry, because he doesn't want to go, which is kind of hilarious since he's wanted to die for months now, maybe years, but now that death is right here, ready and waiting, Sam isn't quite so keen on going. Dean's looking at him and his face is red and wet like maybe he's been under water too and Dean says breathe and Sam thinks that might be the best idea he's ever heard.
His back arches and his head smacks against concrete, but the pain is nothing compared to his need for air. His eye rolls past Andy and Craig and Luke but he doesn't see any of them because his throat is a tiny little straw and the oxygen he wants is a weather balloon and it's not gonna work it's not gonna--
There's a hand on his throat and it's not his.
There's a hand on his throat and it's. Not. His. He clasps it with his own hand and it's small and it can't be Dean's or even Andy's and--
His lungs finally, finally pull in a ragged breath and it hurts, but it hurts less with the second breath, and not at all with the third. The fire in his throat goes out and his head clears and he feels (good, can't be right because that's crazy, that doesn't make sense) better and he pulls the hand from his neck and it's connected to an arm and the arm belong to Luke. And Luke is sort of sprawled across him and he's not moving and he thinks
No.
the kid must have passed out because seeing someone almost die, someone you care about has gotta be terrifying, especially to a kid
Please, no.
who's already had a shitload of horror to deal with and everyone is looking at him, or not looking at him, Andy and Monica and random people he doesn't know, and Craig's face
He's still drowning. That's what it is. He's just confused. There's nothing going on with Luke, Luke's fine and Sam is dying, it's just taking longer than he thought, but he'll wait, he's patient.
is buried in Luke's back and he wants Luke to wake up now, wants him to move and Sam scrambles backwards, tries to get away, and see, he is in the water because there's a jagged noise, like a dying engine, and he thinks boat.
Sam looks around, desperate for the boat, and there's Dean, reaching for him, and he's got that low voice, that Sam's in trouble voice and Sam doesn't want it, doesn't want to listen because hey, they sent Yellow-Eyes back to hell and they're at a lake and it's time to party, it's time to--
Sam swallows and his hands go to his throat and he can feel the fresh ridge of skin tissue there, and his fingernails scrabble at the scar, he claws at it because he needs to undo this, needs to take it back, take it back, whatever Luke did, he needs to stop, because Luke's just a kid and Sam is supposed to save him, not the other way around.
Andy says Sam, wait and Craig's cradling Luke's body and Sam can see the terrible wound across the boy's throat and Sam scratches harder, deeper, but his nails are too short and his skin won’t break and Dean yells and slaps at his hand, grabs for his wrist but Sam keeps crawling through the forest of arms reaching for him and struggles to his feet. He can still hear the broken motor and it revs closer, louder, and he realizes, finally, as his breath hitches and he takes a stumbling step backwards, the noise is coming from him. He puts his hands to his head and pulls, pulls at his hair, as if he can reach in and physically pull out the memory of what’s happening. All he comes away with is a bloody fistful of hair.
Dean walks toward him, hands up, cautious, still talking, each word made of calm and logic but Sam shuts it all out. Dean tries to smile, tries to convince Sam this is for the best, this is right, he says, You’re okay, now. You’re all right.
Sam shakes his head. No. He’s not. He turns in a circle, suffocating from the weight of everyone’s gaze and pulls at his hair again, and he welcomes the pain. His eye patch falls off and he kicks at it. "You should have let me die!" he bellows . He stomps on the patch and everyone’s watching, staring, judging and no one understands how he feels, not even Dean. Because as many people as he’s killed, he’s never killed a child. Not until now.
Andy moves toward him, but Craig is still on the ground, head bent and silent and Sam wants to say he’s sorry, he wants to say he doesn’t understand how this happened, that he didn’t mean it, doesn’t mean it, doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want Luke’s life. He’s not worth it. He feels the ground slide beneath his feet and his heart thunders in his ears and each beat is using Luke’s blood and each time he takes a breath he’s breathing Luke’s air and he screams again because there’s nothing else he can do.
He’s still screaming when Dean reaches him and pulls him close and then he’s screaming into Dean’s shoulder and he wonders if he screams loud enough, will Luke hear, will he know he’s sorry?
A gruff voice says for Christ’s sake, shut him up, and Dean’s voice snarls back, shut your fucking mouth before I break your goddamn face, and then Andy’s there as well, one on each side of him and Sam wants to scream, needs to scream, but his voice isn’t cooperating and his knees give way and Dean’s there, like always, to hold him up.
Sam walks between them, head bowed. Voices rise and fall (like waves) and Sam can still taste blood in his mouth (Luke’s blood, now) and he wants to run, to get away, but there’s nowhere to go because the person he most wants to hide from his himself.
ooooo
Now.
Ash’s mouth drops open and Jeff hovers at his elbow, ready to help his friend if he needs it. "What?"
"Not Sam," Andy clarifies, "Luke."
Ash looks from Andy to Craig. Craig looks back, eyes hard, lips compressed. "The little brown-haired boy who didn’t talk?" Ash asks.
Craig nods. "That’s him. He saved Sam’s life."
Ash works himself over to the wall and leans against it. "I’m real sorry about your loss," he says. "He seemed like a good kid."
Craig turns away abruptly and walks to the window. He leans his forehead against the smudged glass.
Andy shakes his head and swallows hard. "He was a fucking awesome kid."
Ash holds Andy’s gaze for a long moment. Then he says, very quietly, "So’s Sam Winchester."
ooooo
Then.
Dean and Andy hustle Sam over to the hospital and up to the second floor. At least there are actual doors here and a semblance of privacy. And privacy is exactly what Sam needs. That, and a boatload of valium.
Sam sits on the bed, his back against the wall, hands loose in his lap. He’s still covered in blood. Dean wants to get him into the shower but Sam won’t budge. He just sits there like a statue and Dean feels all the progress they’ve made, all the headway of the last few weeks swirling right down the toilet. Dean pulls at his bottom lip, thinking. Whatever Sam needs, he’ll do it. He’ll listen, he’ll commiserate, but he won’t buy into Sam’s guilt trip. Dean’s the one who’s actually guilty of anything, he could have stopped Luke, but he didn’t. This is his guilt to bear, not Sam’s.
Andy paces around the room, generally getting in the way, and Dean finally sends him out to check on Craig. Once Andy’s gone, Dean sits beside his brother and tells him "This isn’t your fault. Do you know how many lives you saved, today, Sam? In the long term, hundreds, probably thousands."
Sam tilts his head and he grins and Dean doesn’t see the blood or the mangled eye or the scar. He sees Sammy Winchester, the gangly kid with the too-big eyes and too much hair, the kid who asks too many questions but admits too little. Sam lifts his hands and lets them drop back into his lap. "I couldn’t save Luke."
"It’s not your job to save everyone. We can’t save everyone, Sam." Dean says the words and they feel smooth and rounded coming out of his mouth. He's said them so many times the syllables are polished; he can almost see the ruts worn in the air. He needs new words, better words with sharp edges to pierce through Sam's wall. Sam closes his eye and shuts Dean out and Dean tries again. "You saved lives, Sam. Luke’s death isn't your fault. Neither was Izzy's. You've got, like, this fucking list of blame, Sam. And it's wrong. I know what you think, about Mom and Jess and everyone else. But they didn't die because of you." Dean leans forward, grips Sam's arm, wishes there was a way he could inject the words straight into Sam's brain. "They didn't."
"Luke did," Sam insists, "and so did the others. So many others." He rolls his head back and forth against the wall, his eye sill closed, like he thinks if he can't see Dean, maybe Dean can't see him. Sam opens his hands and holds them palm up. "This is Luke's blood." He raps against his chest with a fist. "And in here, too." He yanks at his shirt, stretching blood-stained fabric, a low growl in his throat. "I don't. I don't know what to do. I. Can't. God.." He digs his knuckles into his temples and his eye opens, rolling around the room, as if looking for the familiar streamers of Dean's words. His voice is full of hairline cracks and the pain punches through, shattering Sam's words. "Why did he do it?" He turns a terrible look on Dean, a look that sends ice cubes rattling into Dean's stomach. "Why?"
"Because he wanted to help you," Dean says, and his own voice sounds just as cracked, like it's already broken and been glued back together. "He wanted to save you." Dean puts his face by Sam's, ignores the ice, and admits the truth. "And I wanted him to save you."
"Why?" Sam asks again, like it's a mantra. The word is small but deadly-like a .22 caliber bullet-and it breaks Dean's heart more than a little that Sam doesn't-or can't--understand.
"Because nobody wants to give up on their heroes," Dean says hoarsely and he's not talking about Luke. Sam's head drops forward and his shoulders begin to shake.
ooooo
Monica knocks on the door, a soft tap-tap. She's got a plastic tray of peanut butter sandwiches, potato chips and fresh water. She doesn't expect an answer, usually she just leaves the tray outside the door, but the door opens. Monica's so startled she nearly drops the food. Dean blinks out at her. He looks tired and his five o-clock shadow's just about ticked over to beard but he offers her a faint smile. "Thanks, Monica."
Monica skips past the pleasantries. "How is he?"
Dean shrugs. "Sleeping. Finally. He can fake the snoring, but I don't think he'd fake drool."
Monica smiles. "Good. That's good." She tries to think of something else to say, and her brain latches onto the tray in her hands. "Is he eating?"
Dean waves a hand. "Not much."
Monica knows Dean-and Sam--well enough by now to know that's Dean's polite way of saying no.
Monica offers the tray with a sigh. "This probably won't convince him, then."
Dean peers at a sandwich. "Peanut butter, huh? Chunky or smooth?"
"Chunky."
Dean grabs one and shoves a quarter of the sandwich into his mouth. "Good enough for me," he mumbles thickly.
Monica laughs and she almost wishes Rosey was with her. "Oh, and guess what? We've had over a dozen people show up in the last two days. The highway's been clear, no attacks. Jeff and a few others went out to, um, clean the telephone poles but they were still empty."
Dean lifts an eyebrow, clearly pleased. "Hey, that's great."
Monica nods, glad to share the good news. "I know. But the really great part is there's some old farmer who brought a cage with two chickens." She smiles, excited. "They way he's talking, I'll be able to make you eggs tomorrow."
Dean stops chewing, eyes wide. "I would sell my spleen for scrambled eggs right about now." Monica laughs again and Dean grins, peanut butter in the corner of his mouth. "What good's a spleen, anyway?"
The door to the stairwell creaks open and Andy and Craig emerge into the hall. Andy nods at Monica and Dean, the smile on his face painfully hopeful. "Hey guys."
Craig smiles too, but the smile's tacked on, just for show. He walks up to Dean and grabs him by the collar and pulls him bodily out of the doorway.
"Craig," Dean sputters, "I'm sorry, but this isn't-"
Dean's younger and faster than Craig, but the professor has the element of surprise on his side. And height. He pushes Dean against the wall and takes off the smile. His eyes are pins and they hold Dean fast. "I've been waiting three days," he says slowly. "Three days. I've seen Sam do some miraculous things, but he's sure as hell not Jesus, and I am done waiting."
Dean's gaze flicks from Andy to Monica, then back to Craig. Craig's lips twitch and for a minute Dean's afraid he's gonna put that fucking smile back up but he just says "Eat your lunch, Dean. Sam and I need to have a talk."
The sandwich turns to acid in Dean's stomach, his mouth tastes like dirt. "Craig. Don't…don't hurt him."
Craig's eyes are full of reproach. "Now I know it's been a hard couple of days and I know you're worried about Sam. So I'm going to save us both a lot of trouble and pretend you didn't just say that." Craig points a finger toward an empty chair in an empty room. "Sit," he says. "We won't be long." And he pushes the door to Sam's room wide and steps through.
Dean stares after him, open-mouthed, like his jaw just broke. Andy looks much the same way.
Monica bites her lip, unsure what to do. She takes a step toward Dean. "Do you want me to get Ash?"
Dean snaps his mouth shut and she can hear the click of his teeth. He shakes his head. "No." He walks toward the worn chair Craig gestured at and lowers himself into it. He glances at his watch, rubs a hand over his newly-bearded chin, scratches his cheek.
"Then what?" Monica asks.
Dean casts a glance at Andy. "I'll take a turn at waiting. I owe Craig that much, at least."
Monica's eyebrows draw together. "Why do you owe Craig?"
Dean drops the sandwich back onto her tray. His gaze is mild but the tone of his voice implies he's talking to someone with the brain power of a pothole. "Because my brother's still alive and Luke isn't."
ooooo
Sam wakes to find Craig at his bedside. The older man watches him, hands folded in his lap, expression inscrutable.
Sam doesn't know what to say, a hundred regrets slide through his head, but the words that come out of his mouth are weak and fuzzy with sleep. "How long?"
Craig shrugs. "Not long. Ten minutes, maybe."
Sam sits up cautiously, half expecting Craig to throw a punch, half expecting another story about Saul or Paul or some other dusty relic from the Bible. Sam tries to stop what's coming with "I'm sorry."
Craig nods and picks up Sam's eye patch from the table. Sam watches Craig turn it over in his hands and Sam thinks of eyes and scales, blindness and loss. Craig sighs and hands Sam the patch. Sam pulls it on without a word. The elastic band pulls at his hair. Sam clasps his hands nervously and struggles for something meaningful to say; he's lost and ashamed and now he's drowning in guilt, not water. "Craig. Um." He adjusts the elastic from the eye patch and waits for Craig to say something but Craig just sits there, sits there, watching, silent. Sam wants to smash his head against the wall, throw himself out the window, hide in the bathroom Instead, he sits on the bed and rubs his hands together like he's still trying to get Luke's blood off, and in a manner of speaking, he is. He takes a deep breath and clears his throat. He tries again. "I didn't mean…I'm sorry that..." He swallows and there's a hot stone in his throat. He can't get a full sentence past it. Word fragments hang between them like twine and Sam thinks rope and noose. He doesn't know how to make this better, how to undo what's been done. He's trapped inside this cramped room with Craig Thomson, and whether the door's open or closed, there's still no way out for either of them.
Craig's fingers unfold and he reaches out, puts a cool dry hand on Sam's arm. "Stop it." His eyes are headlights and Sam's caught in the glare. "Stop apologizing, Sam. Do you hear me?"
Sam can't speak past the stone, so he nods.
Craig runs his hands through his hair and sighs again. He pushes the chair another inch closer to the bed, lowers his gaze back onto Sam. His eyes are bloodshot and when he grips Sam's arm it feels like a warning. "I'll tell you this once, son. One time. So you need to listen good. You ready?"
Sam stares at him, nerves twisting into complicated knots, and nods.
"What Luke did isn't your fault. It's not about you. It's about him. You need to stop acting like you're responsible for the whole damn world. You're just a man, Sam. You don't have to die for anybody's sins, especially your own. You're a good man, but that's all. It's true you can do things some men can't. I've seen you. But still, you're just a man, like the rest of us. Like Luke. Luke's death isn't an excuse for you to go jumping off the deep end," Craig says, "and it makes me want to slap you into next week to see you carrying blame that doesn't belong to you. That boy gave you a gift, he sacrificed himself because he cared about you, because he chose to." Craig's voice is soft but there's iron around the edges. "I don't have to agree with his choice, I don't have to like it, but I will not have you turn what he did into another round self-flagellation." Craig's nostrils flare and his hand is a vise. "I won't allow that, Sam. I can't."
Sam opens his mouth. He wants to protest that's not what he's doing, not what he means to do, but Craig shakes his head. "You'll get your turn," Craig says, "but not just yet." Craig releases Sam's arm and leans back in the chair, grips the peeling arms. He exhales slowly, puffing air through his cheeks. "I never found the right woman, Sam. I never settled down, never had any kids besides my students. But then the world ended and God saw fit to put me in charge of that boy." His smile is a curved blade. "Luke." Craig shakes his head and makes a sound that's a cross between a snort and sob. "That's not even his real name." He grips the chair arms so tight his knuckles crack. Grief sits in every line of his face, but he masks it with anger. "Did you know he could do that?" Craig demands. "Did you know he healed your hand, that he was just…just pretending to hit the tree after Izzy died?"
Sam swallows, ashamed. That's part of the problem. He didn't know and he should have. He should have. "No."
"Did you know he healed Lisa's leg?"
A hot tear leaks from Sam's eye. He shakes his head.
"Neither did I," Craig admits, deflating. He seems to shrink into the chair, like the weight of his sorrow is pushing him down. "I didn't have a damn clue. I just...didn't see it. Didn't want to see it, maybe." Craig leans forward again, rests his elbows on the knees of his faded slacks. "I believe Luke would've saved Izzy if he'd had the chance. But he didn't. So he saved you. If he hadn’t been able to save you, he'd have saved someone else." Craig's eyes are bright with unshed tears, and he blinks them back. He rubs the tip of his nose. "He was just waiting to get back to his momma. And he chose to give you his life on the way back to her. That's a gift, Sam. And I sure as hell don't want you spitting on that gift by being too thick-headed and stubborn and stupid to realize it was Luke's choice and not yours. Luke saved you because he wanted you to live. He thought you deserved to live. If you want to repay him or thank him, or honor him, then you better get the hell out of this room and live your life. You better keep moving forward and making a difference."
Craig looks hard at Sam and says roughly, "Because believe me, son, you made a hell of a difference three days ago. You make a hell of a difference." He manages a weary smile. "And if you think your destiny is done, if you think we don't need you now, well then you're even stupider than I thought."
Sam's not sure how exactly how stupid he is. He lost the ability to calculate that equation long ago--usually he just relies on Dean to tell him. But to hear Craig say he's still needed, that he makes a difference feels…something. It feels like something that's not entirely bad. Something that doesn't hurt. Something he can live with.
Craig sits in the chair for a long moment, watching Sam. Waiting.
"I want to honor him," Sam finally manages through the stone in his throat. "I do."
"Then don't sit up here like you're in some kind of time-out. It's not fair to you or your brother. For that matter, it's not fair to any of the people who care about you." Craig nods toward the bathroom. "So take a shower, put on some decent clothes and come pay your respects. Luke's not the only one who died you know."
Craig's words sting and Sam flinches. "I know."
Craig's tone softens and he puts his hand over Sam's, gentle now. "I know you do." Craig shoves the chair back and stands. "I'm sure your brother's trying to crawl in through the keyhole so I'm going to give him a break and open the door. You good with that?"
"Yeah." Sam thinks about fathers and sons and the fragility of love. He thinks about words that hurt and silences that hurt even more. "Craig?"
The old man glances back, his eyes muted, no longer spotlights. "What?"
"Thank you." Sam still feels guilty and wrong, like he's living on (Luke's) borrowed time, but he understands where Craig is coming from. And no matter what Craig says, Sam will always owe Luke. And paying his respects, coming out of this room won't reduce his debt, but it will ease Craig's loss. And that matters too.
Craig puts a hand on the doorknob and stands with his back to Sam. "You know, Luke's not the only one I think of like a son," he says softly.
ooooo
Now.
He walks in silence, dusty boots down a dusty road. The sky's the pale blue of a robin's egg, and the air smells of dirt and sweat and the promise of rain. The rusted shells of cars are gone, dragged away and hammered flat. Now they're walls and ceilings and tables. The school is mostly rebuilt, although it's not much of a school now. It's more of a barracks, and it seems like one or two people turn up daily, eager for shelter and news and the chance to dream. The chance to hope.
ooooo
Then.
Sam goes to the mass grave for a week straight. Dean goes with him the first time. Twice, Sam goes alone. Once he goes with Craig. There are flowers and broken dolls and runes and tiny hand-carved totems. The freshly packed dirt is littered with pieces of goodbye. Lisa sits beside the mound for hours at a time, sketching pictures, writing letters. She leaves them in the dirt, anchored by bits of quartz and the weight of her loss. Sometimes Sam sits with her and they share the silence. Sam composes notes to Luke and Hannah and Vanessa the way Lisa does for her parents. Sam's notes always stay inside his head, and they always say the same thing: I'm sorry.
ooooo
Now.
The mural along the east wall is nearly done; Craig and Lisa are down to the detail work now. It's a wall of faces in red and black and blue and yellow. Luke grins out at the street, and so do Izzy and Hannah and Vanessa and a half dozen others. There are protective symbols and flowers and a row of footprints links them together like a rainbow chain.
Dean walks over to Craig, admires his work. "Wow. This is just…" He doesn't know what to say. Isobel smiles at him, mischievous, and it's like she's right there.. Maybe she is. "Shit, man. I don't know whether to laugh or cry or what."
Craig dips a fine brush into a can of black paint and lifts his eyebrows. "I often do both." The corner of his mouth pulls upward. "At the same time. Makes painting awkward."
Lisa doesn't say anything--she's been walking in Luke's silent shoes lately--but she offers a polite smile when Dean asks if she's seen Sam. She points back toward town.
ooooo
Then.
Five days after Sam follows Craig out of the hospital room, Ash picks up a ham radio transmission. A dentist who's been living in his basement hasn't seen a demon in over a week. Ash is so excited to make contact he knocks his crutches over and falls on his ass. He sits in the mud like he's on a goddamn throne and babbles directions to T or C.
ooooo
Now.
Dean waves goodbye to Craig and Lisa and heads toward the ramshackle house behind the market. Ash is outside the bar tinkering with a radio transceiver, a cane and a half-empty bottle of beer both within easy reach. Ash offers Dean a vague salute as he passes. Dean rolls his eyes, but he salutes back. He jogs up the crooked porch and bellows into the house. "Sam?"
There's no answer. Shit. It feels like he's always looking for Sam lately. Sometimes, Sam leaves him a message. A scrap of paper taped to the cracked mirror above the sink. I'm waiting. Hurry your ass up.
Today, there's a note fastened to the door with a piece of electrical tape. Hey bro, where are you?
Dean blinks at the note, and his stomach doesn't drop and his hands don't sweat and he doesn't think of a dead woman swinging from a tree. He thinks of a promise made and wonders how fast he can run.
ooooo
Then.
Dean, Ash, Monica and Jeff spend the month following the battle trying to hammer out various committees to oversee shit around town. Dean can't figure out how the hell he got drafted into helping. He suspects it has something to do with too much alcohol and poor judgment on Dean's part. Or Ash's. Possibly both. The only good part is there's a hot chick who's trying to round up teachers. Half the town wants Sam in charge of something or other. The building committee and the fledgling board of education-along with pretty much every hunter around--seem to feel if Sam is telekinetic, building houses should be a snap. If he has a loud-ass voice of doom, he can make the kids learn Latin that much easier. Dean tries to pawn the teaching bit off on Andy, but Andy's not interested. He's working with the food co-op and the farmer types to try and legalize marijuana. So far there isn't much opposition, since nobody has any.
Sam avoids the meetings and cultivates an air of careful oblivion whenever someone tries to get him to join this or head that. Sam wants no part of it. He's happy to help, but he refuses to be in charge of anything. Which Dean thinks is bullshit, because he seems happy enough to boss Dean around.
"But he'd be perfect," Monica laments during one of the endlessly boring educational meetings. "Who else has that kind of knowledge to teach the kids?"
Dean sits up, an idea percolating. "I know a decent theology professor."
ooooo
Now.
They're gathered in a small park behind the hospital. The park is more mud than grass, but no one seems to care. Dean's impressed: there are fifteen people waiting today, eight men and seven women. He recognizes a few faces from earlier in the week.
Monica is demonstrating how to throw knives for three of the women. Andy’s sitting on a stool well out of throwing range, patiently showing a teenage boy how to clean a gun. Jeff draws various seals on a large sheet of metal with a piece of chalk, explaining the uses and protective traits of each symbol.
Sam sits farthest away, his back against a tree. A small group surrounds him, listening intently. He's been teaching simple exorcisms and cleansing rituals to the new members of Truth or Consequences for the past few weeks. Dean walks toward him, unable to keep the grin off his face. "I don't know how you do it, but this stuff sounds almost interesting when you talk about it."
Sam looks up from his book at the sound of Dean's voice. He's still too pale and too thin. He eats less than Rose, and he doesn't sleep enough. But the nightmares don't come every night, and sometimes (like now), he smiles all on his own. Sometimes he smiles like Dean's still the best big brother in the world, like he's seven years old and life's a fucking treasure map full of big black Xs. Dean tells himself the sight of that smile is worth the price of pulling the trigger inside that kitchen. Dean takes comfort in the familiar (too brief) flash of dimple and the knowledge Sam is safe and happy here. Well, safe, anyway. And the fact he's willing to spend a few hours training new hunters has got to be a good sign.
"Too bad it won't when you start talking," Sam says and Dean laughs. He sits next to Sam and their shoulders touch-just barely. Dean talks about spirits and wendigos and rawheads. The tiny audience listens raptly; it's been a long while since anyone's even considered being afraid of something besides a demon.
Twenty minutes pass, and Andy wanders over to listen. He's heard most of these stories, hell he's in some of them, but he sits there anyway. Dean thinks of endless months of campfires and salt circles and full moons and despair. A year ago, he'd have never believed he'd have Sam back (alive!), that he'd be training a bunch of hunter wannabes. He'd have never believed he'd be capable of giving anyone hope, mostly because he had none to give.
Dean sits beside Sam, and there's a stick goosing his ass and he's thirsty and he's pretty sure Andy just tried to flick a pebble at his head. He sits beside Sam, and he has hope, because Sam is hope. And Dean's never going to admit that piece of touchy-feely truth to Sam, but he has a feeling Sam already knows. The bitch.
They've still got a long way to go, and Dean's not sure where they'll end up. Each day is another step closer to Sam getting better. Dean's not sure he cares what the future holds, what Sam's destiny is, as long as they keep on keepin' on together.
Dean sits beside Sam, and there's nowhere else he'd rather be.