My Brother's Keeper 1/?
Title: My Brother's Keeper
Chapter One: An Empty Parking Lot
Rating: R
Warnings: A bit of descriptive gore and language.
Description: Teenchesters! The Winchesters try to recover from a hunt gone wrong when the unexpected occurs. LimpSam! BigBrotherDean! DrivenPapaWinchester!
Author's Note: I have to give a "Thank you Thank you Thank you" to youthere, who beta-ed this for me. Without a doubt this would be a mess without her. She catches everything and I mean EVERYTHING!
Author's Note II: Fair warning, this is NOT a deathfic. I repeat, this is NOT a deathfic.
Sam kept quiet and still, eyes darting between the book on his lap and his brother. He'd been stuck on the same page for the last twenty minutes, the words blurring whenever he'd managed to focus his attention for longer than two seconds. Despite how hard he tried to concentrate it felt as if he were reading another language. Nothing made sense and Sam wasn't certain if he was reading a book on the history of the Civil War or a retelling of ancient Greek myths.
The binding on the book was faded and worn enough that the title was no longer legible and the pages were just starting to yellow with age; he'd picked it up at one of the motels they'd stayed at. It had been peeking out from beneath the bed frame, long forgotten by another motel customer, and at the time Sam had never felt so lucky. The book was the newest in his tiny collection and he had been looking forward to reading it for days.
He played with the binding absently, his eyes flickering once more to Dean. Leaning forward, Sam half closed the book and discreetly took in his brother's appearance. Dean was slouched over in the corner, cleaning guns and lost in his own world. With the sun just starting to set behind him, his skin was stained a bright red hue. He looked like a bloody angel, the sun not only coloring his skin but creating a halo of light around him. Dean looked like he'd just walked off the battlefield, like he'd just folded his wings in and out of sight.
It made Sam shiver, the image in his head and the one in front of him melding together for a brief moment. Dean was his brother. Dean was a warrior sent by God. It was a thought he'd had before, a notion that had struck him previously when he'd been in trouble and his older brother had appeared like he always did. Sam shook the thought away, trying to concentrate instead on the truth in front of him. He wasn't a kid anymore and Dean couldn't fix everything.
Sam could see the tension in Dean's arms and legs, the tight way he held his shoulders as if all of his attention was centered on the task in front of him. His brother's head bobbed as he finished up the last weapon, exhaustion making his eyes flutter half shut occasionally.
Although the sun was just starting to dip out of the sky, Dean was more than just winding down for the evening. In fact, Sam was surprised his brother had managed to stay alert for so long. At noon the older boy had already started downing coffee, seeming to need every drop of caffeine he could get. He'd been jittery all afternoon, his attention sliding quickly from task to task as he'd clearly fought to keep himself awake and alert.
Sam didn't like seeing his brother so worn and weak, wanted to push him onto a bed and make him rest. His hands flexed at the thought, the edges of the book digging into his palms. Even in the state he was in Dean could easily subdue his younger brother.
The last hunt they'd pulled had been one big screw up from beginning to end and Dean was still recovering. It had taken him twice as long to dress and shower just that morning and he hadn't even complained when their father had given him several pain pills and a stern look. His shoulder was a mess of purple bruises and small cuts, the markings so dark in some places that they reminded Sam of rotten fruit. Looking at them made Sam nauseous, even thinking about them had him queasy.
It didn't help that the entire thing had been Sam's fault. He had messed up, like always, and Dean had paid for it, like always. His brother tried to play it off, tried to make his injury seem like nothing more than an inconvenience, but Sam knew. Even today, a little over a week later, Dean was still popping pain pills like candy and grimacing whenever he thought Sam wasn't looking.
If Dean was trying to pull the wool over Sam's eyes, if he thought that he was succeeding in his little charade, than he was sorely mistaken. Sam couldn't keep his eyes off his brother.
Dean's forced cheerfulness made Sam ill, just looking at his brother made him feel like throwing a hissy fit a kid half his age would. He wanted to stomp his feet, to cry and beg and undo the mistakes he had made.
Sam knew, however, that pretending to be fine made Dean happy on some level. He thought he was protecting his younger brother's feelings, believed that the younger boy's emotions deserved to be shielded. That they had to be protected.
He mistakenly believed that Sam's needs came before his own, which he'd demonstrated on the botched hunt, defending his brother after Sam's clumsiness had made an unscheduled appearance.
Afterward, their father had helped Dean up and practically carried the younger man to the car. Although Dean had been conscious and clearly not in any life threatening danger, he'd been suffering from a concussion and was talking just crazy enough that Sam's heart had stopped. Dean's words had been slurred, his balance non-existent.
Sam could remember stumbling behind, afraid to take his gaze off his feet. He'd never felt so ashamed. His father had been unsurprisingly disappointed and even now, just being in the same room with his dad was enough to make Sam sick to his stomach. He could feel the weight of his failure like fifty pound bags of sand hanging around his neck. He was certain any moment that they would weigh him down, that his legs would give out and he would sink to his knees.
They'd patched Dean up and rested in the dingy motel room until the worst of his symptoms had passed. Those days were a blur to Sam, hovering next to his brother's bed and cringing every time his father's eyes passed over him. Only two days of bed rest later, however, Dean had declared himself 'fit' and their dad had packed them up without another word.
He had asked his brother later if he really was okay, had cornered him in the bathroom and talked to him in a low voice while their father had packed supplies into the car. Dean had smiled and said he was fine, but Sam could clearly see the lines of pain still etched into the skin on his face.
The hunt they'd moved onto was at least easy, if not a total joke. Sam still wasn't certain if he believed his father's words, if there really was anything supernatural happening in this tiny town in northern Oregon. He was okay with that, though; okay with his father fudging the facts if that was the case. Dean needed to recover and this hunt was perfect.
Sam glanced at the meager pile of 'evidence' they'd managed to gather in the last three days. It was so sparse it was almost pathetic. A couple people had turned up dead, mauled by what was assumed to be some sort of wildcat. The markers from the coroner's report seemed to match the description of a large feline and cougars were known to roam the heavily wooded area. The town was so tiny that the police station was connected to the local waffle house. Sam had spent hours looking over books, digging through old newspapers but couldn't figure out what supernatural thing could have caused the deaths or even if there was a pattern. So far he had no reason to suspect anything odd.
It happened sometimes, they'd stumble across a death that really was an accident or a run of the mill murder. With their father usually scouting things out it was a rare occasion but Sam knew the last hunt had left them all off kilter. None of them were on their games and it made this dud of a hunt a lot easier to deal with. Dean wouldn't complain that he was being babied and Dad could immerse himself in work while at the same time ignoring his youngest.
And Dean had been resting, had gritted his teeth the last two days and 'taken it easy' while Sam and their father had looked through newspapers and books. Today he'd pulled himself out of bed the second their dad had left and looked at Sam as if daring his younger brother to say something. When Sam hadn't, he'd showered and then spent a good two hours cleaning their weapons. Sam hadn't been able to bring himself to say anything, couldn't seem to have a conversation with his brother without reopening the barely scabbed wound of shame and apologizing again.
Sam was crossing his fingers that they could wrap everything up in the next twenty four hours and then move on. Hopefully by then his brother would be almost completely mended, if not mostly on the way. He was almost there, beneath the tight smiles and careful movements Sam could see the cocky swagger slowly starting to return. His eyes strayed back to his brother and he jumped, finding that Dean had moved while Sam had been daydreaming.
"Pizza?"
His brother's voice was rough, his eyebrows low as he pulled out his cell phone. Sam glanced at the bedside clock, the bright red numbers declaring that it was already after six. Though the sun hung low in the sky, it hadn't really clicked for him that the day was coming to an end. His time with Dean had blurred, minutes and hours melting together as Sam tried to pull himself out of the pool of guilt he seemed to be drowning in.
"Yeah." Sam met his brother's gaze for a moment before studying the faded comforter, "Dad should be home soon, too."
Dean nodded, already dialing and tapping his foot. Sam set the book on the bedside table, not bothering to see what page he'd made it to, before trudging over to the small bathroom. His brother's words as he spoke on the phone passed over him like background buzz. The bathroom mirror was chipped and faded, the wallpaper curling on three of the walls, and the smell of mildew was so strong it nearly killed the small amount of hunger Sam felt. He turned the tap on, ignoring the dirty brown water, and lathered his hands up before plunging them into the filthy liquid. He washed his hands methodically, keeping his eyes from the mirror in front of him.
Lately, looking at himself had just caused his lips to curl.
Drying his hands, he jumped at the knock on the half open door.
"Should be here soon. You done?"
Sam nodded jerkily, wiping his hands on the frayed towel and stepping around his brother. Dean leaned heavily against the door, smiling even as he tried to keep his balance.
"Money is on the table."
The door closed with an audible click, Dean undoubtedly downing pain killers and rubbing the stiffness from his shoulders. His head falling forward, Sam let his gaze run over the decrepit room to the cash on the table. Noticing the half empty duffle bag next to the cash, he walked across the room and glanced at the weapons Dean was in the process of cleaning. Although he knew how to fire a gun, Dean didn't like him touching them when they weren't hunting or practicing. He'd had one accident at eleven, one measly little accident, and Dean hadn't forgotten. Sam was sure that Dad was on Dean's side as well; Sam never got gun cleaning duty. Ever.
Glancing at the kit, he lightly pawed through the cleaning supplies, seeing immediately how low they were. He heard the water turn on in the bathroom.
Even though he knew it didn't make up for everything that had happened, he slipped on his sneakers and grabbed his jacket and the car keys. There was an extra kit in the car; he'd seen it a few days ago, crammed under the front passenger seat.
"Be right back, Dean."
He slipped out of the motel room before his brother could emerge, briskly moving across the uneven pavement towards the Impala.
They'd only been a couple blocks from the police station and his father had opted to walk there on the off chance his children would unexpectedly need the car. Sam could see the building on the other side of the motel, the bright lights of the attached waffle house like a beacon on the otherwise empty street. The motel was empty, only one other car parked on the far end of the lot. It looked rusted through and was missing a side mirror. This town was so small Sam was surprised they even had a motel.
Around him, the evening air was brisk, burning his lungs and making his hands feel clumsy as he zipped up his hoodie. Reaching the car, he unlocked the front passenger door and leaned into the open vehicle. Hearing an odd shuffle, he paused and strained his ears. It would be just his luck to get robbed. He was certain the dinky town probably had two whole crimes committed a year, both by teenagers caught stealing from the local grocery store. The noise came again, quiet enough that he had to strain his ears to hear it.
Sam slowly straightened up. At fourteen he was tall and gangly and about as imposing as a piece of string cheese. He let his hand stray to his back pocket; the knife he carried was sharp and hopefully big enough to scare away some punk looking for his wallet. The noise sounded again, an odd snuffle accompanying it.
He turned his body, his knife half drawn in case he was completely mistaken.
And he was.
Whatever the hell it was, it sure wasn't some punk robber.
Sam coughed and choked, his mouth opening and closing as he frantically pulled in oxygen. Above him the sky was red and purple, several clouds drifting lazily. His eyes blinked automatically; the last few minutes were a blurry haze. He searched his memory frantically for a second, stumbling when it hit a blank. He was outside, the sky above him made that one fact obvious. But Sam couldn't even remember why he'd left the motel. Dean had been cleaning the guns and Sam had been reading and Dad was gone and then… and then…
Where was Dean?
He tried to turn his head; the ground beneath him was strangely soft.
There was an odd sound in his ears, a roaring that echoed strangely. Over it he could hear someone gasping, a rhythmic choking noise.
His eyes shifted, the sky above him rolling as Dean's face came into view. His brother was hunched over him, his necklace hanging between them as his mouth formed words Sam couldn't hear. There were goose bumps on his brother's arms and his eyes were strangely wet. Dean turned his head slightly, speaking to someone else.
Sam watched a bead of sweat slowly roll down the side of his brother's face. At this angle he could see it run over Dean's jaw and down his neck, progressing slowly. He watched his brother's throat move as he continued to speak, and his attention slid back to the bead of liquid as it slowly sunk out of sight beneath the shirt his brother was wearing.
With the distraction gone, Sam's gaze followed Dean's and landed squarely on his father. The man was so close that Sam was surprised he hadn't noticed earlier. His Dad was crouched nearly on top of his legs, his fingers frantically paging through the journal he held.
The sleeves of his father's shirt were pushed up to his elbows, his tan forearms and large hands seeming suddenly too large for the small book they clutched. His knuckles were white and beneath his tight grasp, pages bent and in some places tore. Sam watched him for several moments, wondering why his father was in such a rush. Sam himself had gotten reamed more than once for mishandling the most precious of his father's possessions.
Dean leaned closer, cutting out his father completely and filling up everything in Sam's sight except for the sky. He looked like an angel again.
"Sammy."
This time Sam could read the word on his brother's lips, could hear the echo of his voice at the edge of his mind. He didn't know, though if what he heard was simply the memory of his brother's voice, or the actual sound coming from Dean's mouth. His head was trapped in a jar, his thoughts struggling through gooey molasses.
His body was strangely warm, his hands and feet tingling while the rest of him felt weirdly disconnected. He wanted to ask his brother if Dean had accidentally slipped him beer; he'd heard kids at school say that it made you feel fuzzy and strange.
He swallowed, gagging at the warm taste of copper that filled his mouth. His throat didn't seem to want to work properly and he choked on the liquid.
"No, no, no, no, no, no."
The far away sound of his brother echoed again and when Sam blinked his head had been turned to face his shoulder. Next to him, Sam could see the impala, its form from this angle monstrous and strange. The tire closest to him rested in a pool of glaring red, the liquid slowly spreading out under the car, swallowing up rocks, sticks, and random pieces of garbage.
His eyes skittered across the pavement beneath him, halting only momentarily on his own shoulder and arm. From his position he could see his arm sprawled out next to him, his fingers twitching in pattern he didn't recognize. Someone had spilled on his arm too; it was a mess of red.
Dean's body shifted into his line of sight again and Sam was thankful. He still had to ask his brother something and was curious who had spilled all over the pavement and just what it could be. From the angle he was at, Sam couldn't see if it had gotten on the car, but knew that his dad would be pissed if it needed a washing. Money was tight and washing the Impala was a luxury they usually couldn't afford.
"Hey, stay with me."
Sam's attention skittered back to his brother, finding that Dean had moved a hand to his face. He could feel the hand against his skin, though it felt as if his brother had wrapped it in cotton. His brother's knees were an inch deep in red; the fabric of his worn jeans soaked through.
He blinked, his eyes sticking shut for several moments until he was able to force them open. It was as if he had sleep in his eyes, as if there were small weights tied to each of them. Dean had moved closer, so close that Sam could see the gold flecks in his eyes, could smell beneath the copper the barbecue chips his brother had been snacking on.
"Sammy."
Dean's voice still sounded far away. There was an odd note to it too, a tension that he'd never heard before. It wavered, his brother saying something else that Sam missed, and he wished he could identify just what his brother was so upset about. He thought that he knew all of his brother's looks, each of his brother's tones. This was strange, though… unnatural.
The taste of copper in his mouth intensified, welling up and out from between his half parted lips.
"God Sammy."
Dean had leaned closer, was so close now that he filled up everything. Sam tried to tilt his head, to see what their father was doing, but his neck had stopped working.
" -ve you."
Sam's attention moved back to his brother, his focus moving in and out enough that he missed half of whatever his brother had said.
There was an odd ringing that started to fill his ears, a sense of weightlessness that filled his body. He watched his brother; Dean's frantic stare seeming to see right through him.
He took a shaky breath and let it out.
Dean came to consciousness slowly, his body heavy and his mind a foggy mess. The comforting sound of a running engine filled his ears and his body rocked as the car turned and stopped before starting again. He took in a mouthful of air and could taste the old leather, stale fast food wrappers, and gun cleaner. It was familiar enough that he let himself relax, staying slumped against the worn seat and cool window.
Unsure whether or not he'd been awake or asleep, Dean listened to the rumbling engine of the Impala and let the lull of it dull his senses. A thick haze surrounded him and his shoulder ached just enough that the pain kept him hovering on the edge between drifting and awareness. He wondered how long they'd been on the road, why his father hadn't shaken him and handed him pills to swallow dry. His father had been watching him closely the last few days, treating him more like a toddler than the teenager he was. Now, with his shoulder aching and his stomach feeling queasy, he wished his dad had poked, prodded, and shoved the pills down his throat.
There was no music playing as they drove and the change had Dean's ears straining. He was used to the sounds always filling up the space between him, his dad, and his brother. Even in the dead of night the radio played softly while Dean and Sam slept and their dad drove. The thick quiet had him slowly pulling himself out of stupor he had fallen into, blinking grainy eyes and staring blearily at the dirt road illuminated by the pale glow of the Impala's headlights. He half turned in the front seat, trying to tug his leather coat closer before realizing he wasn't wearing it. His hands were stiff and his wrists felt sore. He wiped his hands unconsciously on his jeans, then flexed his fingers and wiped them again. They felt stiff and dirty, as if caked with dry mud.
He glanced down at them, and in the dark light of the evening they seemed to be stained an off colored brown. His jeans were stained too and his shirt was torn in several places. He brought a hand up to the shirt, parting it and looking down at his chest. He could just make out some sort of design over his heart, drawn in the same mud as the rest of the mess he seemed to be covered in. Confused, he glanced at his dad.
"Da-"
Dean choked mid word, his throat raw and sore.
Across the car, his father glanced at him from the corner of his eye before his gaze flickered back to the road. His hands clenched the steering wheel, white knuckled as he turned the car at nearly full speed. Dean grabbed at the seat beneath him, taking in his father's pale face and rumpled clothes. He made to turn his head, instinctively needing to see his brother curled up and asleep in the back seat. With the quiet engulfing them he felt out of place, strange. However, his head only moved fractionally before his father's hand locked onto his neck. Jumping in his seat, Dean turned his attention back to the older man.
"What?"
Dean's voice was scratchy but surprisingly loud in the quiet space. When his father still held him, his heartbeat started to quicken. His hand was callused against Dean's neck and as dirty as his own.
"Don't look, Dean."
Dean listened to his father's words, a deep feeling of dread slowly spreading through him. His father's voice was hard, a tone his son recognized immediately. It meant he had shut down, had closed out the pain he was feeling. Dean glanced down at his stained hands again and suddenly his memories came flooding back.
Oh God.
He hunched forward in his seat, unable to control the sound of pain that worked itself free. Eyes clenched shut, he swallowed down the taste of bile that rose like a tidal wave. He was going to be sick; he was going to throw himself from the moving car.
Behind his shut eyes the image of his brother flashed and Dean forced them open again. He hadn't ever seen so much blood before, hadn't ever come across a monster or victim that had bled even a tenth as much. Sam though, Sam had been a small speck in the pool of red around him. Dean hadn't even realized a person could have so much blood in them. It had looked like a scene out of a bad horror film, like a poorly designed set waiting to be used while the actors took a lunch break.
Sam, glassy eyed and in shock, hadn't even recognized him at first. He'd stared up at the sky and Dean had been certain that his brother wasn't in his death throes… he was already dead. But he hadn't been, Sam had blinked and really looked and suddenly Dean had been unable to breath.
"Is he - "
Dean couldn't even finish the sentence, the words were like ash on his tongue. He leaned forward, breathing noisily through his mouth as he fought down the nausea. He couldn't make himself say the words out loud. It simply couldn't be true. They hadn't been anywhere dangerous, hadn't even been on a hunt or in a car accident or practicing with weapons. They had been relaxing, his geek brother reading and staring off into space as Dean had contemplated how to cheer him up.
But there had been so much blood - both Dean and his dad were covered in it. There wasn't any way that Sam could have survived.
Be right back Dean.
The words echoed and twisted, had him frantically opening the glove compartment in front of him and pulling out napkins. Bile rushed up and out of his mouth, burning a path as it traveled. The napkins barely caught the mess; it pooled in the cupped napkins like a lake. Next to him he could hear his father cursing and Dean fought to keep more down even as the car slowed.
The Impala shuddered to a stop and Dean fumbled with the door momentarily before getting it open. Falling to his knees just outside, he leaned forward and threw up. The chips he'd been snacking on earlier felt like razor blades.
It was just starting to rain and the grass beneath him swayed sluggishly from a slight wind. His hands dug into the loose gravel beneath them. He let all of his weight rest on his hands, welcoming the pain that echoed through his shoulder at the shift.
He trembled, shutting his eyes and fighting back the urge to curl up and cry.
Sammy.
Dean felt as if he'd been torn in two, as if he'd been the one bleeding out under the setting sun. He choked on the sobs that were fighting to get free, tried not to think about what had to be in the back seat of the car.
He distantly heard his father's door open and close, listened absently as the older man rounded the car. Everything felt far away, bizarre and strange. Sam was in the car, not sleeping, complaining, or reading. His brother who had been torn apart, who had choked to death on his own blood. Dean hunched forward, his elbows hitting the slick pavement as he collapsed closer to the ground.
"Come on. Out of the rain, Dean."
He listened to his father's voice, could hear the buried anguish in each word. His dad hadn't wanted him to look, didn't want Dean to see his brother glassy eyed and pale. Why, Dean didn't know. He already had once that day. He didn't fight the hand that rested on his shoulder, the tight grip his father took as he pulled him up and onto his knees.
"Out of the rain, now."
Dean listened, more out of habit than anything else, and forced himself back through the open car door behind him. He sat, halfway in, halfway out for a moment, looking at his hands, at how Sam's dried up blood was starting to drip onto the floor of the Impala after being rewetted.
"Dean."
His father's voice cut through the sound of his own heavy breathing and the sound of the rain starting to pitter patter on the roof above. He stood in the rain, still outside of the car, and looked like he'd aged twenty years in the last twenty four hours. Dean tried to respond, tried to force himself to say that he was 'okay', but he couldn't. Dean wasn't okay, didn't think he could ever be okay.
Not after realizing he was going to have to bury his little brother.
He hung his head in his hands and waited for the world to end. That it could keep going with Sam gone seemed unfair. He felt his father move closer and shift him until he was fully in the car. Dean couldn't make his eyes open, couldn't allow himself to draw air in through his nose. He was certain now that the car smelled of death and the thought was enough to have him choking back bile again.
The door shut and the sound of the rain grew distant. His father climbed back into the driver's side moments later, the rain cutting in and out as the door opened and closed.
"Fuck Dean."
His dad's hands were suddenly on him, twisting Dean around until he faced the older man fully. Dean opened his mouth, to curse or scream or cry, but trembled instead when his father reached over and pulled his shirt open exposing the mark Dean had noticed earlier. His father studied it for a moment before leaning forward, resting his head on Dean's shoulder and making a motion as if to touch the mark. He didn't.
"Dad?"
Dean could hear the broken quality to his voice, asking the question because he thought he should. He didn't think he could bring himself to care about anything anymore. His dad backed away, rubbing at his eyes and leaving pale red streaks that made him look like a boy playing cowboys and Indians.
"It's Sam. Okay?"
Hearing his brother's name spoken aloud had him splintering. The world around him turned grey; he wanted to stick his head in a bucket of sand and forget about everything. Even now Dean could feel his brother. Was certain that if he turned his head Sam would be behind him, smiling goofily or sulking like the teenager he was fast becoming. But while his own breathing and his father's were audible, no noise came from behind him.
He opened his mouth to respond, to tell his father to just stop because he couldn't take it anymore, couldn't understand how, with Sam gone, Dean was still breathing.
"That symbol, it can't be wrecked, understand?"
Dean let his eyes flicker down to his chest, momentarily taking in the symbol his father had drawn on him in Sam's blood. He didn't recognize it.
"Why?"
His voice sounded dead in his own ears and the feeling was echoed inside. If Sam was gone, Dean should be too.
"Because," a ghost of a smile caught on his father's face and it seemed so glaringly out of place that Dean startled. His father reached again as if to touch and again let his hand stop short. He was shaking. "It holds your brother's spirit, his soul."
Dean's blood rushed in his ears, making him grow dizzy and lightheaded. He was certain that his father had just told him the impossible. He leaned forward again, as if he were trying to shield a bloody wound. As if he was trying to hold in his guts. If he concentrated Dean could still see his brother's insides, spilling out of him and onto the pavement around him. Sam hadn't even realized, had watched him in confusion even as the last moments of his life melted away.
"Dean, did you hear me?" Dean shook his head, not in answer but in disbelief. Sam was gone. He was gone, gone, gone. He was a bloody corpse in the back seat. His insides had been on his outsides, he'd rested in a pool of his own cooling blood and started to decay.
"No, he isn't gone Dean."
He shook his head again, only slightly surprised that the words had been spoken out loud. He wanted to sleep, wanted to wake up from this awful nightmare.
"Dean, listen to me." Dean shook his head once more, this time stopping when his father's fingers caught it. He didn't want to listen; he wanted to be numb. His dad tugged at Dean's face until Dean had no choice but to look at him. "As long as you have that mark, Sam is with you."
He could feel his face crumple, could feel the tears slowly start to fall from his eyes. How could Sam be with him, how could Sam be anywhere, when his corpse was rotting not two feet away?
"How?" The word was so choked with tears it was barely discernible.
His father sighed, wrapping his hand around the back of his son's neck and rubbing at the skin soothingly. Dean swallowed back a soft sob, bringing up a hand to clutch at the front of his father's shirt. He felt as if he were seven again, as if he'd just woken from a nightmare.
"Can you, feel him?" His dad sounded unsure and Dean tried not to pull away and punch the man. Of course Dean could feel his brother; his brother was everything that made Dean good. His brother still hung in the air around them, still filled Dean's lungs and made his heart beat in his chest.
"I always could Dad."
His father pulled away, letting Dean slide back into his spot and stare forward numbly. He shivered and pulled his arms around him as the Impala started up again and continued to drive. The road in front of them was edged on both sides by trees, but they sped by so quickly that Dean didn't bother to concentrate on them.
He glanced down at the mark on his chest, not nearly as curious as he thought he probably should be. Sam was gone and no silly scribble was going to bring him back.
Dean leaned against the window, the cold glass soothing against the headache that pounded against his skull. Dean let his eyes slip shut, let the waves of pain and exhaustion steal over him. He didn't want to go to sleep, didn't want to stay awake, and somehow, instead hovered between the two.
They drove in silence, Dean neither knowing nor caring where they were headed. There was no cure for death; there was no way to set this right. He only wondered how long he'd have to try and hold it together before he gave into the despair he was drowning in. Already, he was certain he wouldn't last long. How could he?
Dean…
His heart ached at the voice, the soft sound of his brother teasing his senses. If he hadn't known better Dean would have sworn that his brother was wedged in next to him, leaning forward and whispering to him as their father drove. Dean felt hazy, tired, could almost feel the hairs of Sam's bangs teasing his ear as he leaned in to tell a secret or a joke.
Dean blinked, surprised to find himself back in the motel parking lot his brother had been attacked in. The Impala's door was open and behind it the sunset filled the sky with oranges and reds. Leaning against the hood of the car was his brother, shuffling his feet and glancing around as if confused. Dean cursed, his eyes drinking in the sight of a brother who breathed and moved. Sam wore what he'd died in, but the clothing was no longer torn or stained. There were no gaping holes in his middle, no splotches of blood.
Dean had somehow fallen asleep and the sight of Sam was enough to have tears pool in his eyes. That he had to go through this, that it had to be this place, almost had him turn away. He wasn't ready yet for these sorts of dreams, didn't know if he could handle seeing his brother.
How could he apologize? How could he possibly atone?
He knew the minute his brother noticed him; Sam stopped scuffling his feet and smiled so widely that Dean couldn't help the tentative smile on his own face. Sam looked like he'd been crying, his face was blotchy.
"Dean."
Suddenly his brother was wrapped around him and the scent of Sam was so strong it had Dean's knees buckling. He landed hard on them, his body automatically bringing up its arms to hold Sam close.
"Sammy."
He whispered the word into his brother's hair, could feel the warmth radiating from the smaller body. If Dean concentrated he could even hear the beating of his brother's heart in his chest. Sam had started to grow too old for hugs in the past year, had brushed his brother away after waking from a nightmare or taking a spill on a hunt. Dean could admit that he had missed the sensation of holding his brother close.
Unable to stop himself, Dean started tearing up again, fighting back sobs and the great chasm of despair that was slowly starting to swallow him. He wouldn't be able to hold his brother any more, wouldn't be able to knock him on the back of his head, or tickle him, or hug him close. This was it; a brother created by his own imagination was all he would ever have again. How long would it take for him to forget the way Sam smiled, the way it felt to hug him or the sound of his voice? How long until all he had were memories of memories, a few faded pictures tattered with age?
"Dean, what's happening?" The fear in his brother's voice was obvious, his smaller frame hitching as he fought back his own tears, "Where am I?"
"Oh, God." Dean took an unsteady breath, rubbing at his brother's back as if Sam were a colicky baby. He pulled back, watching as the younger boy blinked up at him with huge wet eyes. "I can't do this, not yet. I'm sorry Sammy."
The dream was too much too soon. He couldn't deal with his grief when it manifested itself as his little brother. Dean pulled back, forcing his hands to let go of his brother. Sam clung to Dean as he tried to disengage.
"I'm scared."
Sam sounded younger, as if he were seven or eight instead of fourteen. It was something that occasionally still happened, whenever he was seriously distraught. He turned into a kid again, believed that his older brother could fix every problem. The sound made Dean's chest ache. He couldn't fix this problem; there was no way for him to comfort a dream. No way for him to bring back a brother who had already left this world.
He didn't answer Sam, uncertain that he could handle any more pain.
"Dean?" Sam's eyes widened as Dean scurried back and out of his brother's reach. The younger boy reached forward, hands clenching as if he could wish his brother closer. "How did I get here? What's happening?"
Dean shook his head, wiping at the tears on his face and making himself meet his brother's gaze. The painful part was that Sam didn't look like a dream; he looked like a real person. His cheeks were red, his chest heaved in distress, and his hair looked like it hadn't been combed in days. He looked like Sam.
A loud thump had Dean jerking awake, shivering as the dream sluggishly replayed itself in his head. He ran a shaky hand through his hair. His mouth tasted like bile and sleep and around him the car was still silent; his dad stared forward like a zombie as he took the car down a worn dirt road. They hit another rough patch and Dean grabbed at the dash. How he had slept through this, he didn't know.
"Where are we going?"
Dean's voice cut through the small space like glass. If his father had realized that he'd drifted off, he said nothing of it.
"We need a safe secluded spot."
"Why?" Dean's mouth worked before his mind had caught up, the reason so crystal clear that it had him shutting his eyes. Of course they needed a safe spot, of course they had to go somewhere private. It wasn't everyday that you burned and buried a family member. He could feel his father's eyes on him but kept his own closed. He couldn't handle this, couldn't deal with it.
He suddenly wanted a drink, wanted to burn the entire world away with a bottle of hard liquor and a match.
His father said nothing.
Dean.
Dean froze, his eyes popping open as he tried to slow his racing heart. That he was hearing his brother while awake couldn't be a good sign. He had to hold it together for a little longer.
Dean.
Sam's voice sounded again, quietly whispering next to him, inside of him. It was crazy and unhealthy and so painful that Dean knew he needed it to stop. If he started dreaming of Sam and hearing him while he was awake, Dean was certain he wouldn't last more than a few days. He forced his head to turn, to take in the body resting in the back seat. His dad didn't stop him and Dean hoped that this final acknowledgment would be enough to quiet his imagination.
Sam lay sprawled out, his upper body and face covered in Dean's coat. His father had wrapped strips of cloth around his middle and they were stained the ugly, rusty color of old blood. Sam's jeans were torn in the knee, his trainers were half tied and looked almost worn through on the bottom. His hand lay on the floor of the car and Dean remembered clinging to it and going numb while Sam had choked on his last breath and their father had mumbled Latin quietly.
Oh God, am I dead?
The voice was so loud that for a moment Dean expected Sam to sit up and pull the coat from his face. He remained unmoving though, an empty shell that no longer housed a soul. But Dean could still hear Sam sniffle, could feel his confusion.
Dean looked down at the mark on his chest, his mind still trying to connect the dots. He laid a hand over it, careful not to smudge any of the markings.
Sammy?
A rush of warmth filled him and, with a shock, Dean came to the only conclusion that seemed possible. Sam's body was dead and gone, a rotting corpse. But Sam's soul? The very essence that made Sam, Sam? His father's earlier words rushed back to him and he concentrated on the feeling of Sam which was still so strong. The feeling that seemed to be inside of him. The dream he'd just had echoed and bounced around in his skull. He turned towards his father, so incredulous that he had to pause to gather his thoughts.
"Dad?" His voice shook, "Is Sam's soul inside of me?"
Dean wasn't sure if the idea made him ecstatic or nauseous.
John stopped the car and killed the engine. Around them was an open field and the rain was just starting to slow. He turned to face his son and Dean could see beneath the pain and grief the resolve that had always made him believe his father could accomplish anything.
"Keep your brother safe, Dean."
Dean sat in the dark and watched his father work. There was a simple box made out of wood next to the hole that was steadily growing large; his father had somehow acquired it between Sam's death and their arrival at his place of burial. It had been unassembled, but his father had pulled out the large planks of wood and Dean had recognized what they were immediately. He'd had to throw up in the bushes twice.
Dean's shoulder was still too damaged to dig and he could only watch as his father worked with the single mindedness that defined him. Though the rain had stopped, he'd gone through the back trunk and pulled out a thick sweatshirt to layer over his ripped clothing. The air wasn't too chilly, though with the sun gone Dean had felt goose bumps cover his arms the moment he'd stepped out of the car. However, he didn't want to imagine what would happen if it started to pour and the mark was uncovered. He brought up a hand and let it rest on his chest.
Dean could feel it if he concentrated, the strings of light and color that seemed to be sewn through the mark and deep into his chest. It was an odd sensation that had him constantly reaching for the mark, as if he expected it to suddenly disappear. It seemed too flimsy, too frail in its current state. There were too many things that could happen, too many ways he could lose his brother again.
After Sam had reappeared, after Dean had realized that his dream was more than any dream could ever be, Dean had been riding the edge between elation and fear. He wanted to curl up and close his eyes, wanted to reach inside and speak with his brother.
But Sam was quiet.
He had asked if he was dead, seen through Dean's eyes his own corpse and then retreated so deeply into Dean that the older brother couldn't find him. He'd called several times, pushing the name through his head as if trolling for a fish. Sam hadn't responded, had remained silent as Dean had pleaded for him to say something, anything. But he was there, Dean knew that, just buried out of reach and too afraid to emerge at the moment.
Dean kept his eyes from the back seat; he didn't even want to chance Sam looking through his eyes again and seeing a dead body. His own dead body. It was a strange thought, that Sam could see what Dean saw, that Sam rested beneath his skin. When he'd looked out earlier, when he'd been close to the surface, Dean had felt it. That sensation was gone now, but Dean was waiting for it to return. Wherever Sam was hiding, he would be back.
Dean slouched over, resting most of his weight against the hood of the Impala, blankly watching his dad.
He remembered the realization that Sam wasn't okay, that Sam was drowning in his own blood while his insides ran out of him like melted butter. Dean could vaguely recall his father paging through his journal, could almost hear the words he'd spoken. What had his dad done? What spell, trickery, madness had he performed? And just what would they need to do to get his brother's body and spirit rejoined?
The thought scared him almost as much as his own resolve did. Sam would be whole again, even if Dean had to kick and scream and bleed to make it so.
"Dean."
Dean looked up, not noticing his father's approach. There was a shovel slung over his shoulder and dirt on his face. Behind him, the hole had nearly doubled in size.
"Give me a hand."
Dean kept his gaze on the night sky above him as he carried the cooling body of his brother.
Inside of him, Sam was silent.