Mercy, Mercy (Fighting for Nothing) [1/3]
When Sam falls, they both go down.
Tied at the wrists, joined at the hands, the minds.
They can’t help it, can’t stop it.
Sam falls to the devil and Dean drops to the ground.
As they both fall to pieces.
Down. Down. Down.
***
The deep tones of his father, the echoing voice of his brother.
The sounds ingrained into Sam’s memory; the sounds his mind dredges up whenever someone speaks of a fight.
“I heard you and David fighting last night, what was that about?” says a girl to her friend, and Sam thinks about John’s voice, yelling, telling Sam that he has no right to leave, not when they’ve fought side by side all these years.
Passing a couple on the sidewalk. Hushes of, “let’s not fight anymore.” Sam remembers Dean, his voice booming as Sam turned his back.
“Come back! Do you hear? Dammit, Sammy, come back!”
But when Sam hears Jess’s voice, sweet soft voice, raised and directed at him in a hard line, pummeling, all he can do is flinch. This isn’t supposed to happen. Not here, not now, not in this life. This life is simple; this life is better, better than the one he left behind.
Her tone is shrill, demanding answers, explanation, reason; Sam’s not quite sure he knows what she’s saying. She’s yelling, and he freezes up because memories of his past life are rushing into this one and he can’t have that. He has to keep his lives separate; the distant and the present, the normal and the insane.
This life is built on carefully placed lies that add up to something like peace. That life was chaotic; one long fight after another.
That life can’t be here.
Jess’s eyebrows are furrowed and her eyes are narrow as she glares at Sam, hands on her hips. Usually soft, they look hard as knives. And all he can do is move slowly forward and wrap his arms around her shoulders, waiting, placing kisses on her hair until she melts.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I love you.”
She smiles. “Love you too,” bite gone from her voice, and it’s exactly what Sam needs to hear to make him forget.
For a moment, his life is perfect.
***
It looks warm.
Inviting, innocent, because Sam can’t see the details.
He’s looking through the glass. All he sees is yellow light, Lisa’s blurry silhouette moving in and out of the window’s view. Ben has a shadow too, shorter, and Sam can see it bounce with excitement as it wraps arms, nondescript, around a taller figure. Dean.
To an outsider it’s the happy family. The perfect life. It’s the hunched shoulders of the husband, tired after work; the comforting hand of the wife on his back. But Sam knows, even though he can’t see. He knows Lisa’s face is tense, confused. He knows Dean’s eyes are wet.
Sam can smell poorly-masked despair seeping from the walls, but he still wants to run towards the house. To jump and shout, “I’m okay!”
To see Dean smile.
The streetlamp above his head dies with a spark.
A reminder, it feels like. A jerk back to reality, to cold hard truth. He’s not okay.
He’s alive, sure. His feet are planted firmly on the ground, and cool night air hits his face. But it feels tight, skin having stretched taut during his fast plummet and abrupt return, and he doesn’t think he can do it.
Can’t walk up to that door and knock, because he doesn’t know what, who he is.
The streetlamp was the first clue, a pop and a sizzle that made him realize. He’s not all human, he’s not all Sam.
He doesn’t quite know what brought him back. He should be locked up, inside the cage meant for Lucifer. Locked up tight, unable to control himself. He should be the devil’s plaything, should hear Satan speaking from in between his lips.
But he doesn’t.
Somehow, control is still his. When he tells his hand to curl, his fingers make a fist. He tells his mouth to open, air rushes into his lungs. He tells his feet to move, and they step into the street. There’s no one in his mind, no one lurking to contradict him as he walks towards the house.
The thought that stops him is: Where’s Lucifer?
If he’s here, if Sam’s here on earth, above ground, where’s Lucifer? Sam doesn’t know how he was freed, but somehow he knows that this isn’t right. Lucifer isn’t trapped in that cage where he belongs.
He closes his eyes.
It takes him a minute, two, but then he senses it. The scratching of another mind beside his own, clawing at invisible walls and screaming, screeching, pleading for release. And he knows, just knows. That’s Lucifer.
Somehow, impossibly, immeasurably, Sam has Lucifer trapped. Unable to control him, unable to escape.
Maybe he’s in control, maybe he’s sane, but Sam isn’t alone in his mind, and he doesn’t know how long this mystery box will last. Doesn’t know if, when Lucifer will break free.
Even then, Sam wants to knock. He wants to see the look on Dean’s face when he opens the door, the look of surprise, those shining green eyes.
“Yes, it’s really me. Yes, I’m alive. Yes, Lucifer’s gone.”
He wants to lie.
“Yes, it’s over.”
It’s the desperate urge to tell Dean what he wants to hear, truthful or not, because it’s been such a long time since they could be happy. Since they could relax, just sit back and wait for jobs, wait for their purpose to find them. Lately, it seems all they do is run. From each other, from themselves.
And all Sam wants to do is make it better.
Something stops him, freezes him, when he reaches the lawn. Grass wet in the dark, and he contemplates, unwilling but unable to stop.
His entire childhood was built on lies.
“Dad’s on a business trip.”
“What kind of business?”
“Business.”
He was told what was best, what was safe. It was meant to protect him, shelter him. Blind him.
“Why do we move around so much?”
“Because everywhere we go they get sick of your face.”
They wanted him safe; he gets that. He knows they were right to lie, because when he found out the truth? The first thing he wanted to do was run. Run from the raw new world he’d been thrown into. He wanted to go back, back to when things were simpler, back to a time when monsters were just stories, a shadow in the dark.
And right now, he realizes. He can’t bring the monsters back into Dean’s life. He can’t say that he’s fine. Can’t say that it’s over. And he can’t tell the truth, because the truth brings too many questions, horrible possibilities.
He just wants to let Dean rest.
A single long look back at the window, and Sam bows his head, blinks his eyes once, and walks on.
***
Dean takes his place the minute they leave the house.
He stands up tall, trying to match Sam’s height, and places himself in front of his brother. Steadfast. Resolute. Ready for anything. Ready to shield Sam, to block him from harm, risk his own life.
Dean shakes his head, slightly, breathing chuckle.
He’s always risked his life.
Even before Sammy knew. Even before Dean was allowed to, before he even knew what it meant, even then. He knew he wanted to hunt.
He wasn’t sure why, why he so badly wanted to fling himself in harm’s way, but he knew. He wanted to feel the gun in his hands, the snap as he shot evil in the heart. There was no reason behind it, no explanation he could give Sam as to why he needed to do this. This was him. This was his destiny.
The Impala bumps over the road as Dean drives, city after city, and when he looks up he sees Sam in the mirror. His brother’s face is a mixture of all the things he felt on his first hunt: tense concentration, anticipation, excitement. Smothered in a veil of fear.
Sam’s eyes meet his in the mirror and Dean gives a smile because fear is the thing he sees most in Sam’s eyes. Burning. Reaching out.
Sam’s lips are tight. He smiles back.
It’s a routine hunt. A spirit wreaking havoc, a restless soul, a body to be burned. Dean’s seen this a million times over, but with Sam here it’s new. Everything is sharp, crisp. He’s more aware of every detail, has to be, because the littlest thing is life or death. Sam’s life, Sam’s death.
Suddenly, his priority isn’t merely to char the bones. His priority is Sam, and now Dean knows. Now he has a reason, a reason to fight, to carry on. Something he’s fighting for.
Sam.
***
A numbness settles over Dean’s limbs.
He looks at his hands, wiggles his fingers, and doesn’t process the fact that they’re connected to his body. His feet are weights gluing him to the floor, eyelashes just as heavy with held back tears. His head aches.
It’s warm in the house and Dean looks outside, the Impala in the driveway, half on the lawn because he couldn’t care about parking.
Dean’s mind tells him, he should be in the car. His blood should be boiling, bubbling with desire for revenge. He should be speeding across states, smoke from his tires, rain on his windshield. Desperately, searching for something to help, anything to ease his pain. To bring Sam back.
But the numbness has settled in his mind, blurring his senses and smothering his thirst. His thirst for action, for the hunt.
His eyes flicker up and Ben is staring at him. Dean meets his eyes and they move away as the clipping of Lisa’s heels sound, loud against tile.
She sits next to Dean on the couch. Warmth passes between them, contrasted by the cool glass of the beer now in his hand. He looks at her; tries to smile. His free hand in hers and he knows she understands. Not everything that happened -Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever tell her - but she understands how to make him forget. How to comfort him without pushing; keep him together without binding him down.
He feels it, then, feels the weight of it in his hand. This is what life could be, what it should be. This is what he’s been missing, what he’s been avoiding, what he didn’t know he was craving. It’s like a preview, the barest hint of what could be. If he just stayed.
It’s the life Sam wanted but never got. Dean feels like he owes this, owes it to his brother.
Sam’s life is gone; for him there’s no hope. Not like there is for Dean. He could stay here; play the father and the husband and the innocent man. Break the curse; banish the misery from above their heads.
He could be happy.
A facsimile of happy, still, a lonely happiness without Sam. Better than nothing.
“I just want to get away,” Sam had pleaded with him.
“Please, Dean. I just want to have a normal life.”
A happy life.
And Dean realizes; this is what he wants. He can’t keep fighting, can’t get back in that car and drive, because with no Sam in the passenger seat he won’t have the energy. Sam gave him the motivation. To fight after he’d lost his drive, his conviction. His faith.
“We’ve got work to do,” Sam would say, and there was the excitement, the eagerness.
Now he’s just tired.
He can’t picture himself going on, not without Sam by his side, in the passenger seat, backing him up with a loaded gun, smiling at the empty sky.
He’s exhausted and numb and doesn’t know where to turn next, so he turns his head; rests it on Lisa’s shoulder. She rubs his shoulder and he lets her, feeling the ghost of pain from the bones Castiel healed.
He can, he thinks. He can do this. He can let himself rest.
He can stop fighting, now, stop fighting for good.
There’s nothing to fight for.
***
Dust flies in the air, billowing with every step.
Sam coughs again, clearing his lungs, but the dust doesn’t stop as he walks. He’s steadfast, trekking the shoulder of the road, not slowing even though his joints are stinging and creaking.
He’s lost count of the cars, speeding past incessantly since he left the last town. Drivers glancing, curious, in his direction. But he never waves them down, never sticks out his thumb.
His mind is as stubborn as his stride; he avoids human contact; skirting past bus stops, taking back roads, not highways.
He hardly lets himself think about why. How he’s afraid, afraid of the people, of how he doesn’t know who’s a demon, who’s an angel. And how he doesn’t want to run into either. He’s not ready for a fight; demonic, or the truth; angelic.
So he just keeps walking.
The sun hovers above the horizon, and Sam finally gives in. Sits down heavy on the side of the road with feet on gravel and grass tickling his back. He watches cars, the headlights sweeping past him.
He wonders about the people in them. Where they came from. What they’re looking for. What they’re running from, what they’re moving towards. If they saw him, would they want to kill him.
A red Ford pick-up. Silver Subaru Forrester. Black Chevy Impala.
It takes him a moment, but the name hits him. Sam can almost feel the weight of the car slamming into him and shocks him to his feet. The car is still moving forward. It doesn’t see him; the headlights don’t reach that far.
Sam stares, tells himself he’s crazy.
Can’t be.
But then, then he sees the license plate, those numbers, and he’s wandered into the road. There’s a honk behind him and he skitters out of the way.
The headlights of the Impala are moving, away, and Sam thinks the moment is lost, the chance, the car is gone.
It screeches to a halt.
The door swings open and Sam thinks maybe he should run. Hide himself in the bushes, out of the way, out of sight. A mirage, a ghost, a trick of the light.
But a figure is walking towards him, irregular steps, and Sam can’t move.
Not until he sees it; the gun pointed directly at his heart.
Dean’s face, steely in the half light; mouth tight and frowning, eyes on fire. Sam thinks, if looks could kill, then raises his hands above his head.
“Don’t shoot.” Sam’s voice is pleading, high pitched and scratching at his throat, and Dean’s hand doesn’t falter, finger on the trigger.
“What are you.”
It’s not a question; there’s a certainty to Dean’s words. Like he’s sure Sam’s evil, to be exterminated, something that belongs in Hell.
“I’m not a demon.”
Dean opens his mouth.
“I’m not a spirit.”
Narrow eyes.
“Try it, Dean. Holy water, salt, silver. Try it.”
And Dean does.
Sam just stands.
“Then you’re.” Dean swallows. “You’re him.”
Lucifer.
“It’s me, Dean.”
A shake of Dean’s head. “Can’t be.” Low and gruff.
“It’s me.”
Their eyes lock. Sam can’t do anything, so he looks at Dean, looks straight through, strains his mind to convince without words. It’s really me, he thinks. It works.
Because the safety clicks and the gun drops, clattering onto the asphalt.
There’s a beat of silence, two, three, four, and Dean’s arms are around him. He smells different; less like blood and more like home. Sam’s shaking; they both are. And for once, Dean doesn’t seem to mind. Doesn’t care that Sam can feel him falling apart, can hear the sounds coming from his mouth. Barely muffled.
“Sammy.”
A whisper that sounds final, like realization and amazement and raw disbelief.
Sam rubs Dean’s back as cars rush by, and he can almost feel a click. His world fixing its broken spine.
And he knows he can’t run anymore.
Dean pulls away then, blinking eyes as if Sam doesn’t know they were wet.
“What are you…? Jesus, Sammy. What happened?” Dean asks finally, hoarse, and he doesn’t sound like he needs an answer, and Sam can’t give him one. He shrugs.
Dean shakes his head, wide eyes, impossibly wide. He stares and Sam lets him. Nothing he can say. Nothing he can do. Until he realizes.
“Dean, why are you here? Where’s… what about Lisa?”
Dean glances away, scratching his neck like someone guilty.
“I, um. Went for groceries.”
It’s a lie, clear as day, but Sam doesn’t push.
“So you’re heading into town, then?”
There’s a nod, a vague gesture towards the Impala.
“Mind if I come with?” Sam manages a grin.
“Duh,” is all Dean says before he takes off, not quite running, Sam on his heels.
The tires screech, Dean blasts the music; Sam smiles.
***
Shrieks, cries, screams.
Pounding in his head. Behind his eyes, ears, all the way to the back of his mind.
He’s given up trying to move; it’s a losing battle, and he stares with eyelids forced open.
Watches them scream.
Their pain sears through his frozen limbs and he would shake if he could. Cry if he could.
But he can’t do a thing.
And then, the worst part, is the pleasure clouding his mind. Drawing strength, amusement from their suffering. His suffering.
It’s the voice in his head that tells him, stop fighting.
“You’re only fighting for nothing.”
***
A hand on his arm and a voice saying his name, close, right in his ear.
“Sam. Sammy, wake up.”
It takes him a moment, two, to remember where he is, and as soon as he realizes, I can move, his eyes fly open and he sits up, fast. Almost knocking Dean over.
The hand grips again, trying to calm him, stop the shivering that moves up and down his body, but he shakes it off. Too much like being held still, held down. Paralyzed.
Sam shudders, rubs his eyes hard. As if he can erase the resurfaced images. He can’t, but he pushes them away, far away into the locked box they escaped from, and waits for his frantic heartbeat, thump, thump, thump, to calm. It’s beating loud in his ears and he almost can’t hear Dean speak.
“Sam, hey. Are you okay?”
Sam wants to roll his eyes, glare, but he doesn’t, because he knows. He needs Dean’s help.
He nods, not trusting himself with speech. Dean just looks, those piercing eyes, and doesn’t say a word. He’s waiting for Sam to talk, tell him what happened, where he was, how he got back. What was waiting in his dreams.
And Sam knows, knows he should. He should tell Dean everything, because he can. Because Dean was there, he’s seen it, seen Hell, felt it. Dean could help. Sam could talk, describe every single thing, and Dean would listen, carefully stoic. But Sam would know how his brother was hurting. How that would only bring back memories, searing recollections of those years; only bring back the pain that Sam knows Dean’s been fighting hard to suppress.
He can’t watch Dean suffer any more.
Sam forces his knees to lock and stands up, willing himself not to shake, not to sway. He looks at Dean, apology in his eyes, before he staggers into the bathroom, flips the lock on the door. He stares into the mirror and waits for the frantic gleam in his eyes to fade.
It does, and it leaves them bloodshot, tired, bruised underneath, and he realizes just how strong his brother really is.
Forty years. Dean spent forty years burning in Hell; tortured and beaten and reduced to a demon, to an entity thriving on the pain of others. And he’d come back. Not perfect, not whole, but not broken beyond repair.
One month. Sam stands here, shoulders hunched and mind haunted, and after only one month he’s broken. More broken than Dean ever was.
Jumping was heroic. It was supposed to be. It was supposed to be Sam’s last good deed; the thing that made him special, worthy. He was going to brave Hell. Sit there and let himself rot and know that it was for the greater good, that he had made a difference. It was supposed to be the gesture that made him strong, powerful, memorable. The gesture that showed the world he was strong.
It only proved his weakness.
***
Dean’s eyes are fixed, glued to a spot on the bathroom door. Brow furrowed, and he’s wishing he knew how to help, wishing he could do something, anything for Sam. Sam was always better with words, with reassurance and soothing speech. He could turn a tear into a smile of gratitude, make Dean laugh in the face of death, the faces of the dead. And now, now that the tables are turned, Dean doesn’t know what to say.
He can’t seem to move.
The buzz of his phone in his pocket makes his muscles jump, and he holds it to his ear, tearing his eyes away.
“Dean.” There’s a voice on the other end, leaving no time for a Hello.
“Cas,” Dean answers. “You’ll never guess…”
“I believe I have a lead. There’s a demon called Victoria, and she…”
“Cas, I have something to…”
“She returned from Hell and has been spreading rumors…”
“Cas!”
“About Michael and Lu…”
“Castiel!”
“What?”
“Cas. Sam… Sam’s back.”
Silence on the other end and Dean keeps talking.
“He just showed up, just. On the side of the road, and he’s not. He’s not a demon. He’s not Lucifer. He’s just Sam, and I don’t know how, but he’s back, Cas. Really back.”
“How?” is all Castiel says in return, curt and clipped and matter-of-fact, and Dean is at a loss.
“I. I don’t know. He just is.”
“I think you should still search for this demon. If she returned from Hell around when Sam did, she might have an idea about why he’s back.”
Dean sighs. He wants to hang up, ignore the angel’s suggestion. He doesn’t want to hear the lead, the demon’s game. He wants to stop hunting, stop running. Sam’s back. Now that he doesn’t need to search, wander, wonder. Now that he’s not alone. All Dean wants to do is stop running.
He’s so tired of running.
Castiel tells him where to find the demon and Dean writes it down; hangs up the phone.
“Who was that?” Sam emerges, finally, voice tired and cracking, running ringers through his hair.
“Cas,” Dean answers, scrutinizing. The way the ends of his hair are damp - from water or sweat - and the way his eyes still look scared. At the sound of the name they widen more.
“Cas is alive?” There’s surprise laced through his voice and Dean remembers, back in the graveyard. The snap of Sam’s fingers; Cas was gone.
“Yeah, he’s alive.”
Sam’s shoulders relax.
“And Bobby?” Sam looks so guilty, so pained, and Dean’s answer is fast.
“Bobby’s alive. Cas healed him.”
Confusion in Sam’s eyes.
“I don’t know who brought Cas back.” Dean answers the unspoken question.
“I have to…” Sam swallows, looks down. “I have to tell them I’m sorry.”
“Hey.” Dean’s voice is gentle; Sam looks up. “It wasn’t you.”
Sam runs a hand through his hair, pushing through it again and again. “I know. I just… I was there. It wasn’t me, but I was there and I couldn’t stop it and.” The distress is so clear in his voice, cutting through the words, and Dean stands up, lays a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“It’s not your fault. But you can talk to them if that’s what you… if you need to.”
Sam nods, a tiny, grateful smile, and Dean lets him go.
“So, um. Cas has a lead. On a demon that might be able to tell us more about… why you’re here. He’s been, well. We’ve been looking for a way to save you, but now that you’re back, he thought we should try to figure out why. Why you’re, you know. You.” It all comes out in a rush, faster than ever, and Sam’s face goes pale before he finishes.
He’s shaking his head; small, almost imperceptible motions, and Dean thinks maybe shouldn’t have. Shouldn’t have mentioned the demon.
“Um.” Sam swallows. He looks afraid, skittish, curled in on himself. Impossibly small. “Could we not? Look, I mean. I’m back, I just am. Could we not try to figure out why? Can’t we please just let it go?”
Dean can’t stand it, Sam like this. He relents. “Okay. We’ll stop. I’ll stop.” For now, his mind adds.
He understands, though, he does. He can imagine what kind of questions a search would uncover, how many new horrors would be revealed along with the nature of Sam’s return. There’s just one thing, though, one question Dean has to voice.
“Sam. If you’re here, then… Where’s Lucifer?”
Sam’s breath catches, a slight break, but his answer is quick.
“Hell. He’s not here, so he must be in Hell.”
That’s not all, Dean knows, not the whole truth. But he hears the closure in Sam’s answer, the finality. Sam isn’t going to talk any more.
So Dean lets it go.
***
“Ready or not, here I come!”
Branches slap his skin, scratching angrily at his face and arms, but he keeps running.
The sky above is blank, black, no moon in sight, and when Sam looks ahead, the darkness of the woods is just as absolute.
His foot catches on a root and he stumbles, almost falling.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
Sam keeps running. He doesn’t know where he is, where he’s going, but he pushes his legs, faster, faster. Can’t let that voice catch him.
“You can’t run forever, Sammy.”
He’s not fast enough. His head is pounding and his heart is thumping and his limbs are aching, and he knows he’s not fast enough.
He has to be fast enough.
“I’m still here, you know. Sooner or later I’m going to catch you.”
Sam’s eyes dart around, trying to make out a path, a gap in the trees, a star. Anything. There’s nothing there. He keeps moving as if there’s something to run to.
“I’m going to find you and trap you, right inside that pretty little head of yours. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
Run, stumble, thump, thump. Run, stumble, fall. Run, run, run.
“I’m going to find you, Sammy.”
***
He wakes up, shaking, to green eyes and a frantic whisper.
“Sam! Sammy, are you okay?”
The forest is gone, and he’s back to the comfort of motel sheets and red wallpaper.
“I’m fine,” he says.
The lie bites like acid on his tongue.
***
It’s the middle of the night when an angel calls.
“We need to talk,” Castiel says; his way of greeting. Dean sighs.
“Meet me outside.” Sam’s sleeping and he’s quiet. He hasn’t screamed yet.
The line clicks dead and Dean shuts the door as softly as he can, tiptoeing into the cool night; paranoia rather than necessity. He doesn’t want to wake his brother.
Cas waits at the foot of the steps, turned away, scrutinizing the splintered paint on the walls. He speaks when Dean approaches. Doesn’t meet his eyes. “You are not doing as I suggested, Dean.”
Dean sighs. “I know. I… I told Sam about it, but he didn’t want to go. I… we just wanted to rest.”
Cas’s posture doesn’t change, but he turns to face Dean, voice the same short monotone. “I believe.” A pause. “I believe it would be wise to do as I said, for Sam’s sake. Things are not as they should be in Heaven. Michael is still missing, which leads me to suspect that Sam’s return may be more complicated than you think.”
Dean scoffs, sarcastic. “Yeah, because before I thought it was simple.”
“You cannot just ignore this, Dean.” Castiel brushes away his snipping tone.
Dean’s eyes are heavy. He rubs them hard, pressing with his fists. He feels old. “I know,” he says, because he does. “I’m just so tired.”
A bit of sympathy flashes, black in Cas’s eyes, but it’s gone before he blinks.
“I would not advise you to give up. Michael may be gone, but Heaven will find another use for you. I suggest you find out what role you and Sam play in all of this. Heaven will get the best of you if you are not prepared.”
In his mind, he knows. Dean knows all this, knows what will happen, knows that they’ll get sucked into something bigger than them, something out of their control. If they don’t put themselves a step ahead.
“I know.”
Castiel nods. “Find the demon. I have the feeling Sam was not entirely truthful when he spoke to you about Lucifer.”
Dean really, really can’t go there now. He doesn’t have the energy. Can’t bring himself to doubt Sam, not yet.
“Yeah, thanks Cas.”
Before the angel can disappear, Dean turns on his heel, slouching back to the room, shivering at the breath of warm air. He sighs, quiet relief when he sees Sam, still fast asleep and not yet yelling in fear, and he lets himself lie down.
He lets himself sleep, and it only feels a little like giving up.
part two
Tied at the wrists, joined at the hands, the minds.
They can’t help it, can’t stop it.
Sam falls to the devil and Dean drops to the ground.
As they both fall to pieces.
Down. Down. Down.
***
The deep tones of his father, the echoing voice of his brother.
The sounds ingrained into Sam’s memory; the sounds his mind dredges up whenever someone speaks of a fight.
“I heard you and David fighting last night, what was that about?” says a girl to her friend, and Sam thinks about John’s voice, yelling, telling Sam that he has no right to leave, not when they’ve fought side by side all these years.
Passing a couple on the sidewalk. Hushes of, “let’s not fight anymore.” Sam remembers Dean, his voice booming as Sam turned his back.
“Come back! Do you hear? Dammit, Sammy, come back!”
But when Sam hears Jess’s voice, sweet soft voice, raised and directed at him in a hard line, pummeling, all he can do is flinch. This isn’t supposed to happen. Not here, not now, not in this life. This life is simple; this life is better, better than the one he left behind.
Her tone is shrill, demanding answers, explanation, reason; Sam’s not quite sure he knows what she’s saying. She’s yelling, and he freezes up because memories of his past life are rushing into this one and he can’t have that. He has to keep his lives separate; the distant and the present, the normal and the insane.
This life is built on carefully placed lies that add up to something like peace. That life was chaotic; one long fight after another.
That life can’t be here.
Jess’s eyebrows are furrowed and her eyes are narrow as she glares at Sam, hands on her hips. Usually soft, they look hard as knives. And all he can do is move slowly forward and wrap his arms around her shoulders, waiting, placing kisses on her hair until she melts.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I love you.”
She smiles. “Love you too,” bite gone from her voice, and it’s exactly what Sam needs to hear to make him forget.
For a moment, his life is perfect.
***
It looks warm.
Inviting, innocent, because Sam can’t see the details.
He’s looking through the glass. All he sees is yellow light, Lisa’s blurry silhouette moving in and out of the window’s view. Ben has a shadow too, shorter, and Sam can see it bounce with excitement as it wraps arms, nondescript, around a taller figure. Dean.
To an outsider it’s the happy family. The perfect life. It’s the hunched shoulders of the husband, tired after work; the comforting hand of the wife on his back. But Sam knows, even though he can’t see. He knows Lisa’s face is tense, confused. He knows Dean’s eyes are wet.
Sam can smell poorly-masked despair seeping from the walls, but he still wants to run towards the house. To jump and shout, “I’m okay!”
To see Dean smile.
The streetlamp above his head dies with a spark.
A reminder, it feels like. A jerk back to reality, to cold hard truth. He’s not okay.
He’s alive, sure. His feet are planted firmly on the ground, and cool night air hits his face. But it feels tight, skin having stretched taut during his fast plummet and abrupt return, and he doesn’t think he can do it.
Can’t walk up to that door and knock, because he doesn’t know what, who he is.
The streetlamp was the first clue, a pop and a sizzle that made him realize. He’s not all human, he’s not all Sam.
He doesn’t quite know what brought him back. He should be locked up, inside the cage meant for Lucifer. Locked up tight, unable to control himself. He should be the devil’s plaything, should hear Satan speaking from in between his lips.
But he doesn’t.
Somehow, control is still his. When he tells his hand to curl, his fingers make a fist. He tells his mouth to open, air rushes into his lungs. He tells his feet to move, and they step into the street. There’s no one in his mind, no one lurking to contradict him as he walks towards the house.
The thought that stops him is: Where’s Lucifer?
If he’s here, if Sam’s here on earth, above ground, where’s Lucifer? Sam doesn’t know how he was freed, but somehow he knows that this isn’t right. Lucifer isn’t trapped in that cage where he belongs.
He closes his eyes.
It takes him a minute, two, but then he senses it. The scratching of another mind beside his own, clawing at invisible walls and screaming, screeching, pleading for release. And he knows, just knows. That’s Lucifer.
Somehow, impossibly, immeasurably, Sam has Lucifer trapped. Unable to control him, unable to escape.
Maybe he’s in control, maybe he’s sane, but Sam isn’t alone in his mind, and he doesn’t know how long this mystery box will last. Doesn’t know if, when Lucifer will break free.
Even then, Sam wants to knock. He wants to see the look on Dean’s face when he opens the door, the look of surprise, those shining green eyes.
“Yes, it’s really me. Yes, I’m alive. Yes, Lucifer’s gone.”
He wants to lie.
“Yes, it’s over.”
It’s the desperate urge to tell Dean what he wants to hear, truthful or not, because it’s been such a long time since they could be happy. Since they could relax, just sit back and wait for jobs, wait for their purpose to find them. Lately, it seems all they do is run. From each other, from themselves.
And all Sam wants to do is make it better.
Something stops him, freezes him, when he reaches the lawn. Grass wet in the dark, and he contemplates, unwilling but unable to stop.
His entire childhood was built on lies.
“Dad’s on a business trip.”
“What kind of business?”
“Business.”
He was told what was best, what was safe. It was meant to protect him, shelter him. Blind him.
“Why do we move around so much?”
“Because everywhere we go they get sick of your face.”
They wanted him safe; he gets that. He knows they were right to lie, because when he found out the truth? The first thing he wanted to do was run. Run from the raw new world he’d been thrown into. He wanted to go back, back to when things were simpler, back to a time when monsters were just stories, a shadow in the dark.
And right now, he realizes. He can’t bring the monsters back into Dean’s life. He can’t say that he’s fine. Can’t say that it’s over. And he can’t tell the truth, because the truth brings too many questions, horrible possibilities.
He just wants to let Dean rest.
A single long look back at the window, and Sam bows his head, blinks his eyes once, and walks on.
***
Dean takes his place the minute they leave the house.
He stands up tall, trying to match Sam’s height, and places himself in front of his brother. Steadfast. Resolute. Ready for anything. Ready to shield Sam, to block him from harm, risk his own life.
Dean shakes his head, slightly, breathing chuckle.
He’s always risked his life.
Even before Sammy knew. Even before Dean was allowed to, before he even knew what it meant, even then. He knew he wanted to hunt.
He wasn’t sure why, why he so badly wanted to fling himself in harm’s way, but he knew. He wanted to feel the gun in his hands, the snap as he shot evil in the heart. There was no reason behind it, no explanation he could give Sam as to why he needed to do this. This was him. This was his destiny.
The Impala bumps over the road as Dean drives, city after city, and when he looks up he sees Sam in the mirror. His brother’s face is a mixture of all the things he felt on his first hunt: tense concentration, anticipation, excitement. Smothered in a veil of fear.
Sam’s eyes meet his in the mirror and Dean gives a smile because fear is the thing he sees most in Sam’s eyes. Burning. Reaching out.
Sam’s lips are tight. He smiles back.
It’s a routine hunt. A spirit wreaking havoc, a restless soul, a body to be burned. Dean’s seen this a million times over, but with Sam here it’s new. Everything is sharp, crisp. He’s more aware of every detail, has to be, because the littlest thing is life or death. Sam’s life, Sam’s death.
Suddenly, his priority isn’t merely to char the bones. His priority is Sam, and now Dean knows. Now he has a reason, a reason to fight, to carry on. Something he’s fighting for.
Sam.
***
A numbness settles over Dean’s limbs.
He looks at his hands, wiggles his fingers, and doesn’t process the fact that they’re connected to his body. His feet are weights gluing him to the floor, eyelashes just as heavy with held back tears. His head aches.
It’s warm in the house and Dean looks outside, the Impala in the driveway, half on the lawn because he couldn’t care about parking.
Dean’s mind tells him, he should be in the car. His blood should be boiling, bubbling with desire for revenge. He should be speeding across states, smoke from his tires, rain on his windshield. Desperately, searching for something to help, anything to ease his pain. To bring Sam back.
But the numbness has settled in his mind, blurring his senses and smothering his thirst. His thirst for action, for the hunt.
His eyes flicker up and Ben is staring at him. Dean meets his eyes and they move away as the clipping of Lisa’s heels sound, loud against tile.
She sits next to Dean on the couch. Warmth passes between them, contrasted by the cool glass of the beer now in his hand. He looks at her; tries to smile. His free hand in hers and he knows she understands. Not everything that happened -Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever tell her - but she understands how to make him forget. How to comfort him without pushing; keep him together without binding him down.
He feels it, then, feels the weight of it in his hand. This is what life could be, what it should be. This is what he’s been missing, what he’s been avoiding, what he didn’t know he was craving. It’s like a preview, the barest hint of what could be. If he just stayed.
It’s the life Sam wanted but never got. Dean feels like he owes this, owes it to his brother.
Sam’s life is gone; for him there’s no hope. Not like there is for Dean. He could stay here; play the father and the husband and the innocent man. Break the curse; banish the misery from above their heads.
He could be happy.
A facsimile of happy, still, a lonely happiness without Sam. Better than nothing.
“I just want to get away,” Sam had pleaded with him.
“Please, Dean. I just want to have a normal life.”
A happy life.
And Dean realizes; this is what he wants. He can’t keep fighting, can’t get back in that car and drive, because with no Sam in the passenger seat he won’t have the energy. Sam gave him the motivation. To fight after he’d lost his drive, his conviction. His faith.
“We’ve got work to do,” Sam would say, and there was the excitement, the eagerness.
Now he’s just tired.
He can’t picture himself going on, not without Sam by his side, in the passenger seat, backing him up with a loaded gun, smiling at the empty sky.
He’s exhausted and numb and doesn’t know where to turn next, so he turns his head; rests it on Lisa’s shoulder. She rubs his shoulder and he lets her, feeling the ghost of pain from the bones Castiel healed.
He can, he thinks. He can do this. He can let himself rest.
He can stop fighting, now, stop fighting for good.
There’s nothing to fight for.
***
Dust flies in the air, billowing with every step.
Sam coughs again, clearing his lungs, but the dust doesn’t stop as he walks. He’s steadfast, trekking the shoulder of the road, not slowing even though his joints are stinging and creaking.
He’s lost count of the cars, speeding past incessantly since he left the last town. Drivers glancing, curious, in his direction. But he never waves them down, never sticks out his thumb.
His mind is as stubborn as his stride; he avoids human contact; skirting past bus stops, taking back roads, not highways.
He hardly lets himself think about why. How he’s afraid, afraid of the people, of how he doesn’t know who’s a demon, who’s an angel. And how he doesn’t want to run into either. He’s not ready for a fight; demonic, or the truth; angelic.
So he just keeps walking.
The sun hovers above the horizon, and Sam finally gives in. Sits down heavy on the side of the road with feet on gravel and grass tickling his back. He watches cars, the headlights sweeping past him.
He wonders about the people in them. Where they came from. What they’re looking for. What they’re running from, what they’re moving towards. If they saw him, would they want to kill him.
A red Ford pick-up. Silver Subaru Forrester. Black Chevy Impala.
It takes him a moment, but the name hits him. Sam can almost feel the weight of the car slamming into him and shocks him to his feet. The car is still moving forward. It doesn’t see him; the headlights don’t reach that far.
Sam stares, tells himself he’s crazy.
Can’t be.
But then, then he sees the license plate, those numbers, and he’s wandered into the road. There’s a honk behind him and he skitters out of the way.
The headlights of the Impala are moving, away, and Sam thinks the moment is lost, the chance, the car is gone.
It screeches to a halt.
The door swings open and Sam thinks maybe he should run. Hide himself in the bushes, out of the way, out of sight. A mirage, a ghost, a trick of the light.
But a figure is walking towards him, irregular steps, and Sam can’t move.
Not until he sees it; the gun pointed directly at his heart.
Dean’s face, steely in the half light; mouth tight and frowning, eyes on fire. Sam thinks, if looks could kill, then raises his hands above his head.
“Don’t shoot.” Sam’s voice is pleading, high pitched and scratching at his throat, and Dean’s hand doesn’t falter, finger on the trigger.
“What are you.”
It’s not a question; there’s a certainty to Dean’s words. Like he’s sure Sam’s evil, to be exterminated, something that belongs in Hell.
“I’m not a demon.”
Dean opens his mouth.
“I’m not a spirit.”
Narrow eyes.
“Try it, Dean. Holy water, salt, silver. Try it.”
And Dean does.
Sam just stands.
“Then you’re.” Dean swallows. “You’re him.”
Lucifer.
“It’s me, Dean.”
A shake of Dean’s head. “Can’t be.” Low and gruff.
“It’s me.”
Their eyes lock. Sam can’t do anything, so he looks at Dean, looks straight through, strains his mind to convince without words. It’s really me, he thinks. It works.
Because the safety clicks and the gun drops, clattering onto the asphalt.
There’s a beat of silence, two, three, four, and Dean’s arms are around him. He smells different; less like blood and more like home. Sam’s shaking; they both are. And for once, Dean doesn’t seem to mind. Doesn’t care that Sam can feel him falling apart, can hear the sounds coming from his mouth. Barely muffled.
“Sammy.”
A whisper that sounds final, like realization and amazement and raw disbelief.
Sam rubs Dean’s back as cars rush by, and he can almost feel a click. His world fixing its broken spine.
And he knows he can’t run anymore.
Dean pulls away then, blinking eyes as if Sam doesn’t know they were wet.
“What are you…? Jesus, Sammy. What happened?” Dean asks finally, hoarse, and he doesn’t sound like he needs an answer, and Sam can’t give him one. He shrugs.
Dean shakes his head, wide eyes, impossibly wide. He stares and Sam lets him. Nothing he can say. Nothing he can do. Until he realizes.
“Dean, why are you here? Where’s… what about Lisa?”
Dean glances away, scratching his neck like someone guilty.
“I, um. Went for groceries.”
It’s a lie, clear as day, but Sam doesn’t push.
“So you’re heading into town, then?”
There’s a nod, a vague gesture towards the Impala.
“Mind if I come with?” Sam manages a grin.
“Duh,” is all Dean says before he takes off, not quite running, Sam on his heels.
The tires screech, Dean blasts the music; Sam smiles.
***
Shrieks, cries, screams.
Pounding in his head. Behind his eyes, ears, all the way to the back of his mind.
He’s given up trying to move; it’s a losing battle, and he stares with eyelids forced open.
Watches them scream.
Their pain sears through his frozen limbs and he would shake if he could. Cry if he could.
But he can’t do a thing.
And then, the worst part, is the pleasure clouding his mind. Drawing strength, amusement from their suffering. His suffering.
It’s the voice in his head that tells him, stop fighting.
“You’re only fighting for nothing.”
***
A hand on his arm and a voice saying his name, close, right in his ear.
“Sam. Sammy, wake up.”
It takes him a moment, two, to remember where he is, and as soon as he realizes, I can move, his eyes fly open and he sits up, fast. Almost knocking Dean over.
The hand grips again, trying to calm him, stop the shivering that moves up and down his body, but he shakes it off. Too much like being held still, held down. Paralyzed.
Sam shudders, rubs his eyes hard. As if he can erase the resurfaced images. He can’t, but he pushes them away, far away into the locked box they escaped from, and waits for his frantic heartbeat, thump, thump, thump, to calm. It’s beating loud in his ears and he almost can’t hear Dean speak.
“Sam, hey. Are you okay?”
Sam wants to roll his eyes, glare, but he doesn’t, because he knows. He needs Dean’s help.
He nods, not trusting himself with speech. Dean just looks, those piercing eyes, and doesn’t say a word. He’s waiting for Sam to talk, tell him what happened, where he was, how he got back. What was waiting in his dreams.
And Sam knows, knows he should. He should tell Dean everything, because he can. Because Dean was there, he’s seen it, seen Hell, felt it. Dean could help. Sam could talk, describe every single thing, and Dean would listen, carefully stoic. But Sam would know how his brother was hurting. How that would only bring back memories, searing recollections of those years; only bring back the pain that Sam knows Dean’s been fighting hard to suppress.
He can’t watch Dean suffer any more.
Sam forces his knees to lock and stands up, willing himself not to shake, not to sway. He looks at Dean, apology in his eyes, before he staggers into the bathroom, flips the lock on the door. He stares into the mirror and waits for the frantic gleam in his eyes to fade.
It does, and it leaves them bloodshot, tired, bruised underneath, and he realizes just how strong his brother really is.
Forty years. Dean spent forty years burning in Hell; tortured and beaten and reduced to a demon, to an entity thriving on the pain of others. And he’d come back. Not perfect, not whole, but not broken beyond repair.
One month. Sam stands here, shoulders hunched and mind haunted, and after only one month he’s broken. More broken than Dean ever was.
Jumping was heroic. It was supposed to be. It was supposed to be Sam’s last good deed; the thing that made him special, worthy. He was going to brave Hell. Sit there and let himself rot and know that it was for the greater good, that he had made a difference. It was supposed to be the gesture that made him strong, powerful, memorable. The gesture that showed the world he was strong.
It only proved his weakness.
***
Dean’s eyes are fixed, glued to a spot on the bathroom door. Brow furrowed, and he’s wishing he knew how to help, wishing he could do something, anything for Sam. Sam was always better with words, with reassurance and soothing speech. He could turn a tear into a smile of gratitude, make Dean laugh in the face of death, the faces of the dead. And now, now that the tables are turned, Dean doesn’t know what to say.
He can’t seem to move.
The buzz of his phone in his pocket makes his muscles jump, and he holds it to his ear, tearing his eyes away.
“Dean.” There’s a voice on the other end, leaving no time for a Hello.
“Cas,” Dean answers. “You’ll never guess…”
“I believe I have a lead. There’s a demon called Victoria, and she…”
“Cas, I have something to…”
“She returned from Hell and has been spreading rumors…”
“Cas!”
“About Michael and Lu…”
“Castiel!”
“What?”
“Cas. Sam… Sam’s back.”
Silence on the other end and Dean keeps talking.
“He just showed up, just. On the side of the road, and he’s not. He’s not a demon. He’s not Lucifer. He’s just Sam, and I don’t know how, but he’s back, Cas. Really back.”
“How?” is all Castiel says in return, curt and clipped and matter-of-fact, and Dean is at a loss.
“I. I don’t know. He just is.”
“I think you should still search for this demon. If she returned from Hell around when Sam did, she might have an idea about why he’s back.”
Dean sighs. He wants to hang up, ignore the angel’s suggestion. He doesn’t want to hear the lead, the demon’s game. He wants to stop hunting, stop running. Sam’s back. Now that he doesn’t need to search, wander, wonder. Now that he’s not alone. All Dean wants to do is stop running.
He’s so tired of running.
Castiel tells him where to find the demon and Dean writes it down; hangs up the phone.
“Who was that?” Sam emerges, finally, voice tired and cracking, running ringers through his hair.
“Cas,” Dean answers, scrutinizing. The way the ends of his hair are damp - from water or sweat - and the way his eyes still look scared. At the sound of the name they widen more.
“Cas is alive?” There’s surprise laced through his voice and Dean remembers, back in the graveyard. The snap of Sam’s fingers; Cas was gone.
“Yeah, he’s alive.”
Sam’s shoulders relax.
“And Bobby?” Sam looks so guilty, so pained, and Dean’s answer is fast.
“Bobby’s alive. Cas healed him.”
Confusion in Sam’s eyes.
“I don’t know who brought Cas back.” Dean answers the unspoken question.
“I have to…” Sam swallows, looks down. “I have to tell them I’m sorry.”
“Hey.” Dean’s voice is gentle; Sam looks up. “It wasn’t you.”
Sam runs a hand through his hair, pushing through it again and again. “I know. I just… I was there. It wasn’t me, but I was there and I couldn’t stop it and.” The distress is so clear in his voice, cutting through the words, and Dean stands up, lays a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“It’s not your fault. But you can talk to them if that’s what you… if you need to.”
Sam nods, a tiny, grateful smile, and Dean lets him go.
“So, um. Cas has a lead. On a demon that might be able to tell us more about… why you’re here. He’s been, well. We’ve been looking for a way to save you, but now that you’re back, he thought we should try to figure out why. Why you’re, you know. You.” It all comes out in a rush, faster than ever, and Sam’s face goes pale before he finishes.
He’s shaking his head; small, almost imperceptible motions, and Dean thinks maybe shouldn’t have. Shouldn’t have mentioned the demon.
“Um.” Sam swallows. He looks afraid, skittish, curled in on himself. Impossibly small. “Could we not? Look, I mean. I’m back, I just am. Could we not try to figure out why? Can’t we please just let it go?”
Dean can’t stand it, Sam like this. He relents. “Okay. We’ll stop. I’ll stop.” For now, his mind adds.
He understands, though, he does. He can imagine what kind of questions a search would uncover, how many new horrors would be revealed along with the nature of Sam’s return. There’s just one thing, though, one question Dean has to voice.
“Sam. If you’re here, then… Where’s Lucifer?”
Sam’s breath catches, a slight break, but his answer is quick.
“Hell. He’s not here, so he must be in Hell.”
That’s not all, Dean knows, not the whole truth. But he hears the closure in Sam’s answer, the finality. Sam isn’t going to talk any more.
So Dean lets it go.
***
“Ready or not, here I come!”
Branches slap his skin, scratching angrily at his face and arms, but he keeps running.
The sky above is blank, black, no moon in sight, and when Sam looks ahead, the darkness of the woods is just as absolute.
His foot catches on a root and he stumbles, almost falling.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
Sam keeps running. He doesn’t know where he is, where he’s going, but he pushes his legs, faster, faster. Can’t let that voice catch him.
“You can’t run forever, Sammy.”
He’s not fast enough. His head is pounding and his heart is thumping and his limbs are aching, and he knows he’s not fast enough.
He has to be fast enough.
“I’m still here, you know. Sooner or later I’m going to catch you.”
Sam’s eyes dart around, trying to make out a path, a gap in the trees, a star. Anything. There’s nothing there. He keeps moving as if there’s something to run to.
“I’m going to find you and trap you, right inside that pretty little head of yours. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
Run, stumble, thump, thump. Run, stumble, fall. Run, run, run.
“I’m going to find you, Sammy.”
***
He wakes up, shaking, to green eyes and a frantic whisper.
“Sam! Sammy, are you okay?”
The forest is gone, and he’s back to the comfort of motel sheets and red wallpaper.
“I’m fine,” he says.
The lie bites like acid on his tongue.
***
It’s the middle of the night when an angel calls.
“We need to talk,” Castiel says; his way of greeting. Dean sighs.
“Meet me outside.” Sam’s sleeping and he’s quiet. He hasn’t screamed yet.
The line clicks dead and Dean shuts the door as softly as he can, tiptoeing into the cool night; paranoia rather than necessity. He doesn’t want to wake his brother.
Cas waits at the foot of the steps, turned away, scrutinizing the splintered paint on the walls. He speaks when Dean approaches. Doesn’t meet his eyes. “You are not doing as I suggested, Dean.”
Dean sighs. “I know. I… I told Sam about it, but he didn’t want to go. I… we just wanted to rest.”
Cas’s posture doesn’t change, but he turns to face Dean, voice the same short monotone. “I believe.” A pause. “I believe it would be wise to do as I said, for Sam’s sake. Things are not as they should be in Heaven. Michael is still missing, which leads me to suspect that Sam’s return may be more complicated than you think.”
Dean scoffs, sarcastic. “Yeah, because before I thought it was simple.”
“You cannot just ignore this, Dean.” Castiel brushes away his snipping tone.
Dean’s eyes are heavy. He rubs them hard, pressing with his fists. He feels old. “I know,” he says, because he does. “I’m just so tired.”
A bit of sympathy flashes, black in Cas’s eyes, but it’s gone before he blinks.
“I would not advise you to give up. Michael may be gone, but Heaven will find another use for you. I suggest you find out what role you and Sam play in all of this. Heaven will get the best of you if you are not prepared.”
In his mind, he knows. Dean knows all this, knows what will happen, knows that they’ll get sucked into something bigger than them, something out of their control. If they don’t put themselves a step ahead.
“I know.”
Castiel nods. “Find the demon. I have the feeling Sam was not entirely truthful when he spoke to you about Lucifer.”
Dean really, really can’t go there now. He doesn’t have the energy. Can’t bring himself to doubt Sam, not yet.
“Yeah, thanks Cas.”
Before the angel can disappear, Dean turns on his heel, slouching back to the room, shivering at the breath of warm air. He sighs, quiet relief when he sees Sam, still fast asleep and not yet yelling in fear, and he lets himself lie down.
He lets himself sleep, and it only feels a little like giving up.
part two