What's Dead Should Stay Dead by baylorsr (gen, PG-13)
Hi, I saw that there was an Evil!Sam community so I'd thought I'd share this. Enjoy!
Title: What's Dead Should Stay Dead
Author: baylorsr
Pairing: None
Warning: spnnewsletter found this story so disturbing that they gave it an NC-17 rating, so be forewarned. No sex or overt violence.
Spoilers: Season Two Finale
Rating: PG-13
Summary: If a deal sounds too good to be true, it probably is. The demon was right about that.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything here but the twisted workings of my little brain.
If a deal sounds too good to be true, it probably is. The demon was right about that. He also was right that Dean knew better than most that what's dead should stay dead, but it was Sam and what else was Dean supposed to do?
He thought it was all right at first. Sam seemed like Sam, mostly, and if he was a little different, well, he'd been dead. Dean thought he deserved a little slack. Besides, if anything, Sam was happier, less prone to worry about things. If he also seemed less, well, considerate, it was a small price to pay. And Dean had been telling him for years that he needed to enjoy the job more, so he shouldn't think it meant anything when Sam killed so casually, should he?
Sam didn't dream anymore, but then, there wasn't a demon anymore, was there, so that was all fine and good. No matter that sometimes it seemed like Sam was listening to or watching things that Dean could not hear or see. Dean was just being paranoid, worrying over what the demon had said about Sam not being 100 percent pure Sam. They were alive, they were together, the demon was dead -- what more could he ask for?
Dean kept telling himself all these things until the morning he found the dead rabbit on the floor of the hotel room, right at the foot of his bed.
"Sam," he said, holding very still, not taking his eyes off the dead animal. "Sam, do you know where this came from?"
Sam was sitting at the end of his bed, pulling on socks. "It's for you, Dean," he said, off-handed and unconcerned.
Dean forced his eyes up from the rabbit to Sam, who looked completely ordinary and Sam-like. "You went outside last night and killed this?" he asked, his voice carefully steady.
Sam gave him a puzzled look. "Yeah," he said, as though it were obvious, and then added, "Don't you want it?"
Dean reached down and picked up the rabbit. Its head lolled from its broken neck, but there were no other marks on it. "I didn't hear you leave?"
Sam, shoes and socks now on, stood up and reached for his coffee cup. "You never do," he said, and turned on the television.
After he threw up, Dean buried the rabbit and then showered until his skin was raw. When he came out of the bathroom, Sam was happily munching on a bagel and surfing the Internet.
"Thought we might go to Bobby's," Dean said.
"'Kay," Sam said amiably.
"'Kay," Dean breathed, and then willed his hands not to shake as he packed his bag.
* * *
"If you can't put him down, Dean, I will," Bobby said.
"We're talking about Sam," Dean said, desperate. "He's not a dog that's gone rabid. I mean, look at him. He's normal."
"Honey," Ellen said, "he's not. You wouldn't be here like this if he were."
Outside, Dean could see Sam tossing a stick for Truman to fetch. He was smiling and ambling about, as blissful as the dog.
"There's gotta be a way," Dean said, not taking his eyes off his brother. "We can fix this." He turned to look at their friends. "Right?"
Bobby ran a hand over his face. "Let me see what I can find out," he said gruffly.
Dean nodded. "Thank you," he said.
Outside, Sam raced after the dog through a nearby field, both of them chasing something.
* * *
The three of them acted like the rabbits and squirrels didn't keep appearing on the porch and in the kitchen, just took them out back and buried them. Re-buried them if Truman got into them. At least, they all hoped it was Truman digging them back up.
Bobby pored over his texts, looking for some kind of answer. Ellen watched everything with her arms crossed over her chest, taut and anxious.
Sam never asked how long they were staying at Bobby's, or what Dean and Bobby were researching. He played with the dog and rooted through the vehicle graveyard, making little piles of spare parts that meant something only to him. He ate huge meals every night and chattered happily at the three of them.
Dean started to think that it wasn't so bad, the dead animals, once you got used to it. It was just some new, bizarre Sam behavior, and his life had been filled with Sam's oddities. It wasn't so different, was it? Sam was happy, and didn't seem to find anything unusual about his new hobbies. Bobby was nuts to think they needed to put him down. They all just needed to adjust.
That was before Truman and the shed and the hand drill. Nothing was right after that.
* * *
Dean had gone out to the shed to find a decent screwdriver to fix the kitchen chairs that Ellen claimed were going to fall apart and leave one of them on their ass during dinner. He hadn't even known Sam was out there -- he and Truman had disappeared after breakfast, and the two of them could spend all day rambling around the fields before coming back dirty and tired and happy as the sun was going down. Dean's fingers were closing around the screwdriver when the shadows of the room moved and he spun around, tool held out as weapon on instinct. The shadows formed into Sam, looming in the corner of the room.
"Sam," Dean said, and stood down. "You scared the hell out of me. What are you doing out here?"
Sam shuffled forward, something large and heavy in one hand, the other cupped around a handful of clicking items.
"I don't know which one to use," he said, his voice a low mumble.
"Which what to use?" Dean said, and reached out to take Sam's cupped hand. It was full of drill bits, and now Dean could see that the power hand drill was in Sam's other hand.
"Use for what?" Dean asked. "You got a little project going on out here?"
"Use for me," Sam said thickly.
"For what?" Dean said patiently. "Maybe I can help out."
Sam nodded, and handed Dean the hand drill. "Yes, you do it," he said. "Get it out of me."
"Sam, what the hell?" Dean asked, and tried to pretend that his heart wasn't suddenly pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. "What's the matter?"
Sam stepped backward, away from the light coming in the small window, back where Dean couldn't see his face, just his looming shape and the gleam of his eyes. "There's something wrong with me," he said.
Cold sweat popped out on Dean, but he kept his voice steady, soft, reassuring. "I know," he said. "It's okay, Sam. We're gonna find a way to fix it. What were you trying to do with this?" and he held up the hand drill.
Sam shuffled in his dark corner. "Get it out of my head," he said, low and husky. "Get rid of all the bad thoughts," and Dean thought he was going to vomit.
"You were going to put a hole in your head?" he asked, and there was no mistaking the tremor in his voice. "Why, Sam, why would you want to do that?"
Sam backed away further. "I did a bad thing," he said. "It didn't feel bad but then I knew that it was, that I would have know it was bad before, before you brought me back, and I'm wrong, Dean, there's something wrong in me and we have to get it out."
Dean swallowed bile. "Sam, what did you do?" he asked.
"We have to do it now, Dean," Sam said, and he sounded just like Dean's Sam, scared and demanding and a huge pain in the butt, not at all like the carefree, happy Sam of the past weeks. "If we don't do it now I might not know again, might not know what's bad and I could do something worse. You promised me once, didn't you? You said you would."
Dean reached his hand into the dark corner and found Sam's hand, clutching the drill bits. He tugged out it and Sam came to him, let Dean pry his fingers open. They were clenching the bits so tight that the metal had dug into Sam's skin, created a dozen little bleeding wounds in his palm. Dean cradled the hand gently, setting aside the drill and the bits.
"Let's get this cleaned up, Sam," he said.
"Dean, please," Sam said, and he was crying. "You said you would."
"It's going to be all right, Sammy," Dean said, but he already knew it was a lie.
* * *
Dean told Bobby and Ellen that Sam had cut his hand up messing around in the tool shed, added that they should all keep a better eye on him. Sam was silent, his eyes never leaving Dean, while they sat at the kitchen table and Dean cleaned and bandaged up the hand. He sent Sam upstairs to take a nap once they were done, and then started getting dinner around.
He didn't turn around when Ellen charged into the house, the back door slamming behind her.
"Truman's dead," she said, her voice shaking. Dean didn't turn.
"Dean, you hear me?" Ellen demanded. "Sam killed the dog."
Movement out of the corner of his eye told Dean that Bobby was standing in the kitchen doorway. He didn't turn around, just kept cutting up carrots for the stew.
Ellen made a noise of disgust and fear. "That's it," she said. "You two handle this how you see fit. I'm not going to stay here and watch it anymore." She strode out of the room, and Dean heard her going up the stairs.
Bobby came up behind him and took the knife out of his hand, setting it on the counter. Dean didn't turn, kept his head down.
"It's time, Dean," Bobby said gently. "You want to risk it being me next time? Want to risk it being Ellen?"
Now Dean lifted his head and looked directly into Bobby's eyes. "You're not killing my brother," he said, and he'd never heard his own voice sound so dangerous.
"I can't let you leave with him like this," Bobby said, and he sounded so very, very sad.
Ellen charged back into the kitchen, bag in hand. Bobby held a hand up to her, staying her exit. "This is ending now, Ellen," he said. "Might could use your help after," and he looked meaningfully at Dean.
"Use your help with what?"
Sam was standing in the doorway, and he didn't look sad or pleading or scared anymore. He looked perky and interested and bright-eyed. He looked, Dean thought with a sick lurch of his stomach, like a friendly, happy dog that doesn't know not to kill.
Sam's eyes were on Ellen's bag. "Ellen, what are you doing?" he asked, puzzled.
"I have to leave, Sam," Ellen said, and her voice was as loving as it had ever been when she addressed Sam. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I just can't be here for this," and she looked over at Bobby, who nodded his head.
"But I don't want you to go," Sam said, as it if were the only thing in the world that mattered.
"I know, Sam," she said. "But I need to." She turned and pushed at the screened back door to leave. It remained shut.
"I don't want you to leave, Ellen," Sam said again. "I like it here, with all of us. It's like our own little family, right? You should stay."
Ellen put her shoulder into the door and then rattled frantically at the handle. It remained shut. Sam strolled over to Dean's stew pot and looked inside. He was humming to himself.
"What's for dinner, Dean?" he asked, and then picked up a carrot to happily munch on.
"Bobby," Ellen said, her voice frantic. Bobby, his face white, his gaze fixed on Sam, didn't answer.
"Bobby!" Ellen said again, desperately slamming herself against the door.
None of them answered her.
* * *
None of the gun cabinets would open either, nor the front door. Sam came and went freely, but whenever Dean or Bobby or Ellen tried to leave the doors would not budge. Ellen tried to go out a window once and it slammed shut as she approached it. Bobby's phone didn't work anymore. Neither did any of the cell phones.
There was plenty of food, and Sam never moved to harm any of them. The biggest problem was they couldn't bury the dead animals, and they were piling up. Sam was expanding his hunting now, bringing them birds and raccoons and possums.
Bobby drew Devil's Traps over Sam's bed and put things in his drink and had long, serious talks with Ellen about what to do about the Sam Problem. Sam seemed oblivious to it all and Dean ignored it.
Dean spent as much time as he could with Sam. He'd stopped talking to Bobby and Ellen. He and Sam played cards and talked about every good time Dean could remember from their childhood. Sam remembered them all. Dean ignored the fact that Sam never volunteered a memory himself, only responded with delight to ones that Dean presented.
Dean had never seen Sam so happy in his first life.
* * *
Jo pulled in the driveway on day four of the lockdown, and Ellen started screaming for her daughter. Jo put the car in park and stepped out, looking around the yard.
"Jo!" Ellen screamed, and even though just the screened door was between her and the outside world, Jo didn't respond and Dean knew she couldn't hear them.
He watched as Sam emerged from the junkyard, waving to Jo, who smiled and waved back. He watched as Sam came over to the car and they hugged, then stood there talking.
"No, no, no, please God, no," Ellen sobbed, and bent over double, horror and grief tearing out of her. Dean did not move to comfort her.
He didn't move, either, when he heard bullets sliding into the chamber of the old rifle that had been Bobby's great-grandfather's, the one he kept over the mantle.
"Does it even shoot, Bobby?" Ellen gasped.
"Guess we'll find out," Bobby said, and aimed the rifle through the door at Sam.
Dean reached a hand up and grabbed the barrel. Bobby yanked back, but Dean held on.
"Damn it, Dean!" Bobby said. "We're not gonna get another chance."
"You want to kill my brother, you'd best kill me first," Dean said, and looked Bobby right in the eyes.
"Dean," Bobby said, desperate. "Dean, I gotta be fast here, or he's gonna know."
Dean lifted his chin in challenge. "If you're gonna kill Sam, kill me first," he whispered. "I can't just let you do it. I'm sorry, Bobby, I can't."
Bobby looked at him grimly. "All right, then," he said, and brought the barrel around, but too slow.
* * *
"She'll still moving," Ellen said, but Dean didn't answer. She'd been saying it for hours, her eyes still fixed out the front door at Jo's car. A small hand dangled out the driver's side window, and every so often it would twitch, try to grab at things that weren't there, seeking help.
Sam had ignored Bobby's body, just stepped over it when he came in the house, and happily declared, "Hey, Dean, Jo came to visit. Too bad you missed her," like Jo's little hand wasn't already dangling out of her car, like she'd popped in and said hi and then been on her way. Then Sam had made himself a sandwich, ate it at the kitchen table, and declared he had things to do once he was finished. They hadn't seen him since, and now the twilight shadows were lengthening.
"Dean, please," Ellen said, and she was sobbing again. "Dean, she's all I've got in this world. She's your friend, Dean."
Dean wiped a sweaty hand on his jeans but didn't move from his spot on the couch. From here, he could still see outside, see the white shape of Jo's hand hanging out the window. Behind that, in the field, he could dimly see Sam's approaching form.
The gun felt right in his hands. Seemed like he's been born holding a weapon, Dean thought. He checked the weapon, but he knew there were still two shots in it. Only the one had gone off as he and Bobby had grabbled, and it seemed that it did, indeed, still work. There was no telling why Sam had bypassed it, leaving it beside the body.
Maybe he just wanted this to end, too.
Dean held the rifle out to Ellen, who stared blankly at him.
"If you're going to kill Sam, you need to kill me first," he said, and his voice was dull. She blinked at him, eyes wet and frightened. Dean smiled sadly at her. "Please, Ellen," he said, and then she took the gun from his outstretched hands.
Dean turned his back to her. Sam was nearing the house now. He drank in every line of his brother's body, thought about everything he'd done his whole life to keep him safe and whole, right up to selling his own soul. He thought about Sam crying in the shed, saying that he'd promised. He thought about his father, that rough voice husking, "You look out for Sammy, now."
Sam saw him watching and lifted a hand in greeting, breaking into a large, brilliant smile. Dean raised a hand back, but his own smile was forced and his hand shook.
Behind him, he heard the hammer of the rifle click back.
###
Title: What's Dead Should Stay Dead
Author: baylorsr
Pairing: None
Warning: spnnewsletter found this story so disturbing that they gave it an NC-17 rating, so be forewarned. No sex or overt violence.
Spoilers: Season Two Finale
Rating: PG-13
Summary: If a deal sounds too good to be true, it probably is. The demon was right about that.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything here but the twisted workings of my little brain.
If a deal sounds too good to be true, it probably is. The demon was right about that. He also was right that Dean knew better than most that what's dead should stay dead, but it was Sam and what else was Dean supposed to do?
He thought it was all right at first. Sam seemed like Sam, mostly, and if he was a little different, well, he'd been dead. Dean thought he deserved a little slack. Besides, if anything, Sam was happier, less prone to worry about things. If he also seemed less, well, considerate, it was a small price to pay. And Dean had been telling him for years that he needed to enjoy the job more, so he shouldn't think it meant anything when Sam killed so casually, should he?
Sam didn't dream anymore, but then, there wasn't a demon anymore, was there, so that was all fine and good. No matter that sometimes it seemed like Sam was listening to or watching things that Dean could not hear or see. Dean was just being paranoid, worrying over what the demon had said about Sam not being 100 percent pure Sam. They were alive, they were together, the demon was dead -- what more could he ask for?
Dean kept telling himself all these things until the morning he found the dead rabbit on the floor of the hotel room, right at the foot of his bed.
"Sam," he said, holding very still, not taking his eyes off the dead animal. "Sam, do you know where this came from?"
Sam was sitting at the end of his bed, pulling on socks. "It's for you, Dean," he said, off-handed and unconcerned.
Dean forced his eyes up from the rabbit to Sam, who looked completely ordinary and Sam-like. "You went outside last night and killed this?" he asked, his voice carefully steady.
Sam gave him a puzzled look. "Yeah," he said, as though it were obvious, and then added, "Don't you want it?"
Dean reached down and picked up the rabbit. Its head lolled from its broken neck, but there were no other marks on it. "I didn't hear you leave?"
Sam, shoes and socks now on, stood up and reached for his coffee cup. "You never do," he said, and turned on the television.
After he threw up, Dean buried the rabbit and then showered until his skin was raw. When he came out of the bathroom, Sam was happily munching on a bagel and surfing the Internet.
"Thought we might go to Bobby's," Dean said.
"'Kay," Sam said amiably.
"'Kay," Dean breathed, and then willed his hands not to shake as he packed his bag.
* * *
"If you can't put him down, Dean, I will," Bobby said.
"We're talking about Sam," Dean said, desperate. "He's not a dog that's gone rabid. I mean, look at him. He's normal."
"Honey," Ellen said, "he's not. You wouldn't be here like this if he were."
Outside, Dean could see Sam tossing a stick for Truman to fetch. He was smiling and ambling about, as blissful as the dog.
"There's gotta be a way," Dean said, not taking his eyes off his brother. "We can fix this." He turned to look at their friends. "Right?"
Bobby ran a hand over his face. "Let me see what I can find out," he said gruffly.
Dean nodded. "Thank you," he said.
Outside, Sam raced after the dog through a nearby field, both of them chasing something.
* * *
The three of them acted like the rabbits and squirrels didn't keep appearing on the porch and in the kitchen, just took them out back and buried them. Re-buried them if Truman got into them. At least, they all hoped it was Truman digging them back up.
Bobby pored over his texts, looking for some kind of answer. Ellen watched everything with her arms crossed over her chest, taut and anxious.
Sam never asked how long they were staying at Bobby's, or what Dean and Bobby were researching. He played with the dog and rooted through the vehicle graveyard, making little piles of spare parts that meant something only to him. He ate huge meals every night and chattered happily at the three of them.
Dean started to think that it wasn't so bad, the dead animals, once you got used to it. It was just some new, bizarre Sam behavior, and his life had been filled with Sam's oddities. It wasn't so different, was it? Sam was happy, and didn't seem to find anything unusual about his new hobbies. Bobby was nuts to think they needed to put him down. They all just needed to adjust.
That was before Truman and the shed and the hand drill. Nothing was right after that.
* * *
Dean had gone out to the shed to find a decent screwdriver to fix the kitchen chairs that Ellen claimed were going to fall apart and leave one of them on their ass during dinner. He hadn't even known Sam was out there -- he and Truman had disappeared after breakfast, and the two of them could spend all day rambling around the fields before coming back dirty and tired and happy as the sun was going down. Dean's fingers were closing around the screwdriver when the shadows of the room moved and he spun around, tool held out as weapon on instinct. The shadows formed into Sam, looming in the corner of the room.
"Sam," Dean said, and stood down. "You scared the hell out of me. What are you doing out here?"
Sam shuffled forward, something large and heavy in one hand, the other cupped around a handful of clicking items.
"I don't know which one to use," he said, his voice a low mumble.
"Which what to use?" Dean said, and reached out to take Sam's cupped hand. It was full of drill bits, and now Dean could see that the power hand drill was in Sam's other hand.
"Use for what?" Dean asked. "You got a little project going on out here?"
"Use for me," Sam said thickly.
"For what?" Dean said patiently. "Maybe I can help out."
Sam nodded, and handed Dean the hand drill. "Yes, you do it," he said. "Get it out of me."
"Sam, what the hell?" Dean asked, and tried to pretend that his heart wasn't suddenly pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. "What's the matter?"
Sam stepped backward, away from the light coming in the small window, back where Dean couldn't see his face, just his looming shape and the gleam of his eyes. "There's something wrong with me," he said.
Cold sweat popped out on Dean, but he kept his voice steady, soft, reassuring. "I know," he said. "It's okay, Sam. We're gonna find a way to fix it. What were you trying to do with this?" and he held up the hand drill.
Sam shuffled in his dark corner. "Get it out of my head," he said, low and husky. "Get rid of all the bad thoughts," and Dean thought he was going to vomit.
"You were going to put a hole in your head?" he asked, and there was no mistaking the tremor in his voice. "Why, Sam, why would you want to do that?"
Sam backed away further. "I did a bad thing," he said. "It didn't feel bad but then I knew that it was, that I would have know it was bad before, before you brought me back, and I'm wrong, Dean, there's something wrong in me and we have to get it out."
Dean swallowed bile. "Sam, what did you do?" he asked.
"We have to do it now, Dean," Sam said, and he sounded just like Dean's Sam, scared and demanding and a huge pain in the butt, not at all like the carefree, happy Sam of the past weeks. "If we don't do it now I might not know again, might not know what's bad and I could do something worse. You promised me once, didn't you? You said you would."
Dean reached his hand into the dark corner and found Sam's hand, clutching the drill bits. He tugged out it and Sam came to him, let Dean pry his fingers open. They were clenching the bits so tight that the metal had dug into Sam's skin, created a dozen little bleeding wounds in his palm. Dean cradled the hand gently, setting aside the drill and the bits.
"Let's get this cleaned up, Sam," he said.
"Dean, please," Sam said, and he was crying. "You said you would."
"It's going to be all right, Sammy," Dean said, but he already knew it was a lie.
* * *
Dean told Bobby and Ellen that Sam had cut his hand up messing around in the tool shed, added that they should all keep a better eye on him. Sam was silent, his eyes never leaving Dean, while they sat at the kitchen table and Dean cleaned and bandaged up the hand. He sent Sam upstairs to take a nap once they were done, and then started getting dinner around.
He didn't turn around when Ellen charged into the house, the back door slamming behind her.
"Truman's dead," she said, her voice shaking. Dean didn't turn.
"Dean, you hear me?" Ellen demanded. "Sam killed the dog."
Movement out of the corner of his eye told Dean that Bobby was standing in the kitchen doorway. He didn't turn around, just kept cutting up carrots for the stew.
Ellen made a noise of disgust and fear. "That's it," she said. "You two handle this how you see fit. I'm not going to stay here and watch it anymore." She strode out of the room, and Dean heard her going up the stairs.
Bobby came up behind him and took the knife out of his hand, setting it on the counter. Dean didn't turn, kept his head down.
"It's time, Dean," Bobby said gently. "You want to risk it being me next time? Want to risk it being Ellen?"
Now Dean lifted his head and looked directly into Bobby's eyes. "You're not killing my brother," he said, and he'd never heard his own voice sound so dangerous.
"I can't let you leave with him like this," Bobby said, and he sounded so very, very sad.
Ellen charged back into the kitchen, bag in hand. Bobby held a hand up to her, staying her exit. "This is ending now, Ellen," he said. "Might could use your help after," and he looked meaningfully at Dean.
"Use your help with what?"
Sam was standing in the doorway, and he didn't look sad or pleading or scared anymore. He looked perky and interested and bright-eyed. He looked, Dean thought with a sick lurch of his stomach, like a friendly, happy dog that doesn't know not to kill.
Sam's eyes were on Ellen's bag. "Ellen, what are you doing?" he asked, puzzled.
"I have to leave, Sam," Ellen said, and her voice was as loving as it had ever been when she addressed Sam. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I just can't be here for this," and she looked over at Bobby, who nodded his head.
"But I don't want you to go," Sam said, as it if were the only thing in the world that mattered.
"I know, Sam," she said. "But I need to." She turned and pushed at the screened back door to leave. It remained shut.
"I don't want you to leave, Ellen," Sam said again. "I like it here, with all of us. It's like our own little family, right? You should stay."
Ellen put her shoulder into the door and then rattled frantically at the handle. It remained shut. Sam strolled over to Dean's stew pot and looked inside. He was humming to himself.
"What's for dinner, Dean?" he asked, and then picked up a carrot to happily munch on.
"Bobby," Ellen said, her voice frantic. Bobby, his face white, his gaze fixed on Sam, didn't answer.
"Bobby!" Ellen said again, desperately slamming herself against the door.
None of them answered her.
* * *
None of the gun cabinets would open either, nor the front door. Sam came and went freely, but whenever Dean or Bobby or Ellen tried to leave the doors would not budge. Ellen tried to go out a window once and it slammed shut as she approached it. Bobby's phone didn't work anymore. Neither did any of the cell phones.
There was plenty of food, and Sam never moved to harm any of them. The biggest problem was they couldn't bury the dead animals, and they were piling up. Sam was expanding his hunting now, bringing them birds and raccoons and possums.
Bobby drew Devil's Traps over Sam's bed and put things in his drink and had long, serious talks with Ellen about what to do about the Sam Problem. Sam seemed oblivious to it all and Dean ignored it.
Dean spent as much time as he could with Sam. He'd stopped talking to Bobby and Ellen. He and Sam played cards and talked about every good time Dean could remember from their childhood. Sam remembered them all. Dean ignored the fact that Sam never volunteered a memory himself, only responded with delight to ones that Dean presented.
Dean had never seen Sam so happy in his first life.
* * *
Jo pulled in the driveway on day four of the lockdown, and Ellen started screaming for her daughter. Jo put the car in park and stepped out, looking around the yard.
"Jo!" Ellen screamed, and even though just the screened door was between her and the outside world, Jo didn't respond and Dean knew she couldn't hear them.
He watched as Sam emerged from the junkyard, waving to Jo, who smiled and waved back. He watched as Sam came over to the car and they hugged, then stood there talking.
"No, no, no, please God, no," Ellen sobbed, and bent over double, horror and grief tearing out of her. Dean did not move to comfort her.
He didn't move, either, when he heard bullets sliding into the chamber of the old rifle that had been Bobby's great-grandfather's, the one he kept over the mantle.
"Does it even shoot, Bobby?" Ellen gasped.
"Guess we'll find out," Bobby said, and aimed the rifle through the door at Sam.
Dean reached a hand up and grabbed the barrel. Bobby yanked back, but Dean held on.
"Damn it, Dean!" Bobby said. "We're not gonna get another chance."
"You want to kill my brother, you'd best kill me first," Dean said, and looked Bobby right in the eyes.
"Dean," Bobby said, desperate. "Dean, I gotta be fast here, or he's gonna know."
Dean lifted his chin in challenge. "If you're gonna kill Sam, kill me first," he whispered. "I can't just let you do it. I'm sorry, Bobby, I can't."
Bobby looked at him grimly. "All right, then," he said, and brought the barrel around, but too slow.
* * *
"She'll still moving," Ellen said, but Dean didn't answer. She'd been saying it for hours, her eyes still fixed out the front door at Jo's car. A small hand dangled out the driver's side window, and every so often it would twitch, try to grab at things that weren't there, seeking help.
Sam had ignored Bobby's body, just stepped over it when he came in the house, and happily declared, "Hey, Dean, Jo came to visit. Too bad you missed her," like Jo's little hand wasn't already dangling out of her car, like she'd popped in and said hi and then been on her way. Then Sam had made himself a sandwich, ate it at the kitchen table, and declared he had things to do once he was finished. They hadn't seen him since, and now the twilight shadows were lengthening.
"Dean, please," Ellen said, and she was sobbing again. "Dean, she's all I've got in this world. She's your friend, Dean."
Dean wiped a sweaty hand on his jeans but didn't move from his spot on the couch. From here, he could still see outside, see the white shape of Jo's hand hanging out the window. Behind that, in the field, he could dimly see Sam's approaching form.
The gun felt right in his hands. Seemed like he's been born holding a weapon, Dean thought. He checked the weapon, but he knew there were still two shots in it. Only the one had gone off as he and Bobby had grabbled, and it seemed that it did, indeed, still work. There was no telling why Sam had bypassed it, leaving it beside the body.
Maybe he just wanted this to end, too.
Dean held the rifle out to Ellen, who stared blankly at him.
"If you're going to kill Sam, you need to kill me first," he said, and his voice was dull. She blinked at him, eyes wet and frightened. Dean smiled sadly at her. "Please, Ellen," he said, and then she took the gun from his outstretched hands.
Dean turned his back to her. Sam was nearing the house now. He drank in every line of his brother's body, thought about everything he'd done his whole life to keep him safe and whole, right up to selling his own soul. He thought about Sam crying in the shed, saying that he'd promised. He thought about his father, that rough voice husking, "You look out for Sammy, now."
Sam saw him watching and lifted a hand in greeting, breaking into a large, brilliant smile. Dean raised a hand back, but his own smile was forced and his hand shook.
Behind him, he heard the hammer of the rifle click back.
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