Never Look Back 20/21 part 2
Ben shook his father, no longer caring about avoiding the tender wounds that the hellhound had left on the man’s back. All he knew was that his dad had gone deadly still, his breath slow and shallow, face paling as blood dripped steadily form his nose onto his brother’s face.
Slowly, Dean drew in his breath with a hiss of pain, the first sign since he’d ducked his head that he was alive. He blinked, the world suddenly too bright around him. Almost as bright as Sam had shone before ending his life.
The hunter straightened up, his back protesting the movement with a sharp screech of pain that rattled down his spine. He turned to look at his son, wondering why the kid had been so worried.
He could vaguely remember standing up, talking to his brother, and then…
Dean pulled his hand gently from behind Sam’s back, inspecting it for the large tear he could have sworn he’d seen there. The skin was clear of imperfections, slightly tanned and criss-crossed with a tiny network of scars.
“Dad?” Ben asked, shaking Dean out of his slight daze.
Dean shook his head. “Must have nodded off. You ok?”
“You were barely breathing.”
The hunter nodded. “Yeah, sorry.” He looked back at his brother, fighting back another wave of harsh tears as they clawed at his eyes, begging for release. He sighed. Ben was staring up at him with big eyes, trusting him to know the answers, to know what to do.
A single tear slipped out of his control, sliding down his nose and plopping onto Sam’s cheek. He recognized the look, saw his brother in it. It was the same look Sammy had given him all throughout their childhood, especially when their father’s explanations just wouldn’t suffice.
In childhood, he’d had all the answers. Now, he was lost. He was sad and scared and so tired.
And Sam was dead.
Sam was dead, lying in his arms, long limbs hanging limply at his sides, spilling out of Dean’s protective grip as the color slowly returned to his waxen face and his chest rose and fell in short, rhythmic breaths.
“Wait a minute…”
He leaned in close to his brother, pressing an ear softly against a chest that should have been cooling. Instead, it was warm, too warm to be dead. A strong heart beat a rhythm in Dean’s ear as he listened, unable to keep a smile off his face.
“Sammy?”
He leaned away, giving his obviously not dead brother space to breathe. Sam’s eyes fluttered open, confused green orbs darting back and forth as he got his bearings.
Dean helped the younger man sit up, still smiling like an idiot. “Thought I lost you, there.”
Sam looked at him, his expression unreadable. “You don’t remember?”
“Remember what?” Dean asked, unconsciously clenching his fingers into a fist, suddenly needing to make sure he still could.
The younger man dropped his voice. “I believe you. I know what you felt. I felt it, too.”
Recognition dawned in Dean’s eyes as he realized what his brother was talking about. “That wasn’t a dream?”
Sammy grinned. “No. And I’m glad.” He tried to stand, nearly toppling over in his attempt before Dean wrapped a strong arm around him and helped hoist him up. Once he’d gained his balance, Sam stepped away, slipping his arm carefully from the wounds on his brother’s back.
They turned together to look into the valley, assess the damage, and deal with whatever was left of Lilith’s army. Both brothers stared in awe at what they saw.
Every demon in the valley had hit its knees, bowing to the brothers, to Sam, to the winner of the war and their new leader.
“Well,” Dean commented, wrapping an arm around his son and pulling the boy close to his legs. “That’s one way to welcome a guy back from the dead.”
Sam pulled in a choked breath. He thought about running away, of leaving someone else to deal with the responsibility that now knelt before him, and then he looked at Dean. He looked at Dean, and he saw the older man’s soul staring at him with desperate eyes, pleading with bloody lips.
He stayed.
The demons stood, slowly gaining their feet, and stared up at their new leader, the boy king that had finally accepted his throne. A voice rose from the crowd. “What do we do now?”
Sam sighed. “Now,” he said, looking around the valley, at the scattered bodies, the bloody puddles, the limp form of a woman he had loved. “Now?” He wasn’t sure. He didn’t know what he was doing, what took the top priority. They needed to help the wounded, to bury the dead. He needed to apologize to Sarah.
He looked at Dean, at the sharp lines carved down his back, the blood that had only recently stopped trickling from his nose, blood that was rolling slowly down Sam’s own face. Suddenly, he knew what they had to do.
“Now,” Sam said, smiling at his brother, “we rebuild.”
Epilogue