Singing Louder Than the Guns for geckoholic
Title: Singing Louder Than the Guns
Author: mimblexwimble
Recipient: geckoholic
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3,200
Summary: It's all he has left, to live for or to die for.
Author's Notes: For the prompt: Mystery Spot-coda. He lost Dean every day, saw him die so often, and we all know it had a huge impact on him. How did he handle that afterward, when he got Dean back for the time being?
Sam was eleven when he first figured out that John was no longer keeping on the straight and narrow to support his family. It wasn't for lack of trying, of course. Dean remembered John taking job after job in town after town, on top of trying to hunt, and never being home as a result. John didn't exactly spend all that much time at home once he got into credit card fraud either, but at least there was always money. No more dumpster diving for Dean while Sam stood watch, no more sending Sam into diners to charm the waitresses into giving them a free meal. Sam didn't see it as a good thing, though. He'd been more jittery than usual since finding out about hunting and monsters, but credit card fraud sent him spiraling into panic mode. It's the first time Dean can recall Sam ever screaming at their father and Dean remembers is as the worst fight they had, barring Stanford. Sam was a tiny eleven-year-old, and prone to tears when he got angry. He couldn't get the words out properly around his sobs and hiccups, and John had such trouble understanding him that he sent him to bed without dinner without bothering to figure it out.
Later that night, in bed, Sam had whispered his fears to Dean, tears dripping over the bridge of his small nose and onto the pillow they were sharing.
"Dad can't fight the monsters and the people," he said. "What happens if he gets caught? Or we get caught? Jail is almost the same as being dead, Dean."
To be honest, Dean wanted to laugh. Sam's concerns seemed ridiculous, and Dean was certain that dying was a hundred times worse than jail. But Sam's bloodshot eyes and trembling lips helped Dean tamp down on the urge to tease his baby brother. Instead, he pulled Sam close, and hugging him tight, whispering the same old assurances that he gave for all Sam's worries, "Don't worry so much, Sammy. Nothing bad's gonna happen, I promise. Don't you trust me?"
And Sam whispered, "I trust you," and that was that.
Looking back, Dean can see that Sam's worries were reasonable. If you get caught by monsters you kill them, no questions asked, conscience intact. What do you do when you got caught by people, by police? The poor suckers are only doing their jobs, and if they're running with false information, that ins't entirely their fault. Dean will do almost anything that is required of him in the line of duty but even he isn't ready to kill innocent people yet.
So when the cops catch up to them during a routine salt-and-burn in Athens, Georgia, the only thing to do is run.
-
"I told you you should've stayed in the room," Dean says as Sam ducks out of sight for the fourth time, presumably to hack up another internal organ.
"Shut the fuck up and dig," Sam mutters in between coughs.
Dean rolls his eyes but keeps moving dirt. "You're completely useless right now," he adds as he lifts a shovelful of soil over the edge of the grave. "And also, creepy. If you don't let me go somewhere on my own soon I'm getting a restraining order."
A clod of dirt hits Dean on the back of the head. Dean lets the shovel drop and turns to look at Sam, who is sitting at the edge of the grave, legs dangling into the open space, and smiling sweetly.
"I'll beat you with this shovel," Dean says. "Don't test me." Sam's smile doesn't slip, and Dean goes back to digging.
Dean can feel Sam's eyes on his back as he digs, and the scrutiny makes Dean uncomfortably aware of himself - the drops of sweat winding down his bulging biceps, the tickle of an itch on his left leg, the movement of his hair with the wind. Dean takes a deep breath and tries to concentrate on digging. He's decided that he's just going to have to get used to Sam's staring because it doesn't seem like Sam's going to stop anytime soon. Ever since the Mystery Spot case - which turned out to be a massive waste of time instead of a case (not that Dean can't complain since he'd gotten more sleep in Broward County than he had anywhere for months) - Sam's been freakier than usual. Dean doesn't know why and he hasn't bothered asking. Their agreement these days is that Sam does whatever research shit he wants about the deal as long as Dean doesn't see it or hear about it. Though Dean can't recall Sam ever being out of sight to do any major research, he suspects that Sam finally hit a dead end in Broward County and figured out what Dean's known all along - the deal is ironclad.
It would explain the disconcerting looks Dean keeps getting from his little brother, like Sam thinks Dean is a mirage that'll disappear if he looks away for too long. And honestly, Dean's not a heartless bastard; he wouldn't mind if all Sam did was stare at him like a lovelorn teenager. After all, Dean's only got seven more weeks to live and doesn't expect Sam to be completely adjusted to the idea. But staring isn't all Sam does. Sam's been doing things a lot more crazy than staring - like following Dean everywhere, sticking to his side when they go out, sitting closer than normal in the Impala, trailing after him into the fucking bathroom with the promise that, "I won't look, Dean, I swear. I'll just stand here. You won't even notice me." Which, for the record, was a complete lie. Who isn't going to notice a Sasquatch hovering over their shoulder while they take a piss? Dean's balls just about shriveled up and retracted into his body. Not to mention performance anxiety - let's just say if Dean expected to live longer than two months he'd be worrying about incontinence.
The thing is, Sam's supposed to be okay after Dean dies. That's the point of this deal. Sam's supposed to be fine. Sam's supposed to live. He's not supposed to be staring at Dean like he's the only thing that makes sense in the world, or following him around like he's the only thing Sam cares about.
A muscle starts twitching in his back and that's it - Dean can't take anymore. Luckily, his shovel chooses that second to hit wood.
"Jackpot," he says as he wrenches the coffin open. He stands up and exchanges the shovel for Sam's hand. Sam levers him up and out of the grave and then reaches for the salt and accelerant, sniffling as he goes.
Police sirens wail nearby, drowning out the chirping of crickets and the croaking of the odd frog. Dean stiffens and Sam pauses in the middle of pacing the length of the grave, probably so he can pour kerosene in strips over the coffin, right over the perfectly even strips of salt Dean bets he's laid down.
The sirens quite but Dean's not taking any chances. "Light the match," he tells Sam, taking a few steps towards the line of trees at the back of the cemetery.
"Don't go," Sam says quickly, striking a match.
"Seriously, Sam? I'm just looking," Dean says exasperatedly, squinting into darkness. Nothing moves. Not even the leaves of the trees seem to be shifting. Dean turns back to Sam.
"You gonna keep this up for two more months?" Dean asks, watching the fire rise from the grave. It throws an orange glare over Sam's cheeks, deepening the bags beneath his eyes and making him seem frail.
"Keep what up?" Sam says, avoiding Dean's gaze as he collects the salt, shovel, flashlights and accelerant and carefully sets them in a duffle.
"I have two months, okay - two months. I not going to drop dead tomorrow so stop acting like I might."
"Shows how much you know," Sam mumbles under his breath, back to Dean.
"The hell does that mean?" Dean asks, stepping forward and turning Sam around by the shoulder.
But Sam doesn't meet Dean's eyes. Instead, his gaze moves over Dean's shoulders and his eyes widen.
Dean hears the unmistakable sound of a bullet whizzing past just as he feels himself being shoved to the ground.
Sam grunts from above and Dean scrambles to his feet.
"Stay down!" Sam says, trying to push him to the grass again.
"Put your hands in the air!" comes a scream from the line of trees. Another bullet shoots past, so close that Dean feels the burn on his cheek.
"Shit, shit, shit," Dean says. "Shit!" He grabs Sam's hand, which is still attempting to force him down.
"Fuck getting down!" he growls at Sam. "We have to go, now!" He grabs the duffle with his free hand and drags Sam forward, head ducked low against the rain of bullet following them.
"Stop! This is the police!" someone shouts. "Put your hands in the air!"
"Jesus," Dean says. "Doesn't take much to get a shoot-to-kill order these days, does it?"
"Well," Sam pants behind him, clutching tight at Dean's hand, "I don't know. How many people have we killed so far?"
"I lost count." He spots the church and changes course, letting go of Sam to heft the duffle onto his shoulder. "Head for the church," he orders.
"You do know we're moving away from the Impala, right?"
"I'm not about to run into a line of armed cops, Sammy - we'll go around the church and see if we can double back that way."
Dean's guessing the cops they heard earlier must have seen the smoke from the grave fire, because it doesn't sound like there's a SWAT team after them. So it's not a planned ambush or anything, which is good. Means that if they can get away fast enough they should be okay.
They make it to the whitewashed church building without dying. Dean drops the duffle and presses against the wall and pulls out his gun. He expects Sam to object but Sam is gasping for breath and trying to muffle a cough in his sleeve. Dean motions to Sam to switch places with him and then creeps forward and peers around the corner of the building. He can hear the officers still, but it doesn't look like they followed and all Dean can hope is that they got turned around in the darkness of the cemetery.
"Okay," he whispers to Sam. "I think we can make it. Let's go." He slips the gun back into his waistband.
"I don't think I can," Sam wheezes.
"Christ Sam! I told you you should've stayed in the room."
"It's not the cold," he whispers weakly. Sweat sheens on his forehead, illuminated by the silvery moonlight. He looks down and Dean follows his gaze. He's got a hand over his stomach and Dean doesn't need light to see the red winding down his fingers and spilling into the glass.
"Oh fuck," Dean says, dropping to yank a flashlight out of the duffle. Sam follows him, sliding down the wall, his breathing shallow.
Dean switches on his light and the beam catches the strip of red on the whitewashed wall that Sam's resting against.
-
The bullet went right through Sam. When he moves his hand to let Dean check the wound it's like a dam's been broken. Blood overflows, spills down and drenches Sam's legs. Pulling Sam's shirt off makes it worse. Dean drops the flashlight and yanks off his own coat and shirt. He folds the shirt lengthwise with trembling hands and presses it around Sam's side in the hopes that it'll cover the entry and exit wound.
"Hold this," he barks at Sam, and Sam raises his hands sluggishly, pressing one to his abdomen and the other to his back.
Dean listens, distantly, for sounds of the police. Their luck seems to be holding on that front at least. Dean tugs Sam's legs straight and then yanks the shoelaces off his brown Pumas. He ties the two laces together and ties the length around Sam's waist, as tight as it can go. Sam's skin is hot under his hands, and drenched in sweat.
Dean sits back on his haunches. In the flashlight's beam, Sam's pallor is sickly gray. He's breathing heavily and his eyes are closed. Dean shakes Sam's foot.
"Stay awake!"
"I'm awake," Sam whispers.
"I can't fix this," Dean says.
Sam opens his eyes at that and looks right at Dean. If Dean was a complete fucking dumbass he'd say the look on Sam's face is relief.
"It's okay," Sam mumbles. "It's okay. It's better this way."
"The fuck are you talking about?" Dean hisses. He gets to his feet and reaches for Sam's hand. "Get up. We have to go to the hospital."
Sam doesn't even try to move. "It's okay," he says earnestly. "I promise. This is how it's supposed to be. This is how I can save you." The idea seems to invigorate him and his eyes seem brighter as he gazes up at Dean.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Dean snarls, panic and anger and fear colliding in the pit of his stomach and rising in his throat. "I sell my soul for you and the second you're in danger you fucking lay down and die? Is that what I mean to you? Fucking nothing? Do you ever think of anyone but yourself?"
Sam looks like he's been slapped but Dean couldn't give a fuck. If it gets Sam to move, he's not taking it back.
"Get up!" he snarls. "Get up. We're going to the hospital."
This time when Dean tugs on Sam's hand Sam moves. It takes most of Dean's strength to haul Sam up and even then Sam's legs wobble precariously beneath him. He's breathing hot and harsh against Dean's neck, head lolling on Dean's shoulder.
It hits a nerve deep inside Dean. A nerve he never wants touched again.
"Move," he says angrily, stepping forward, forcing Sam along with him. "Move you stubborn bastard. Fucking move!"
Sam moves. Somehow, he moves, taking step after step along with Dean. The move around the church, going the way they intended. The cops seem to have vanished, but Dean doesn't think they're gone for good. More likely they've called for reinforcements.
"We can't - to the hospital," Sam gasps. "The cops-"
Dean doesn't respond. He can see the Impala. All that matters now is getting Sam fixed up, whatever the cost.
-
It doesn't take long for Sam's blood to pool on the seat of the car and dampen Dean's jeans. The wet heat is like a brand against his skin and he presses down on the accelerator all the faster.
"It's better this way," Sam's saying. "It's better. Can't go to the hospital. Please."
"Just put pressure on the wound and shut up, Sam," Dean snaps.
"I can't do it. I can't. You don't know what I become!"
"Become when?"
"When you die!" Sam says in a strangled voice. He gasps loudly and then hacks out a cough. Blood sprays onto the windshield.
Dean pulls out his cell with hands he can't feel, doing his best to watch the road and not Sam's blood as it drips down the glass.
"Please," Sam says.
"Shut up," Dean mutters, pressing two on his phone. "You'll be fine. You'll be fine."
Bobby picks up on the second ring. Dean doesn't wait for a hello. "Bobby, I need someone who can patch up a gunshot near Athens, Georgia."
Dean hears rustling over the phone. "Hospital?" Bobby says urgently.
"Can't - it was the police."
"Shit. Gimme a minute. I'll call you back."
Dean hangs up and looks at Sam, whose head is slumped against the back of the seat, hands splayed awkwardly on his lap, chest heaving. He reaches out and brushes the hair out of Sam's face. He leaves his hand on Sam's face for longer than necessary.
"Stay awake, Sammy," he pleads. "Please. You're gonna be fine. You're gonna be okay."
"Stop saying that," Sam whispers. He opens his eyes and when Dean looks over, he sees tears slip down Sam's cheek. "I won't be okay. You don't even know. You don't even know what I turn into."
Dean feels icy cold dismay sink into him, drowning out the red-hot rage and fiery panic for a moment. Sam's not talking about now. Sam's not talking about here. Sam's been strange since Broward County and Sam wants Dean to let him die and Dean sold his soul for Sam because Sam was meant to live, Sam was meant to survive, this life was never meant to take Sam. Sam is supposed to be fine, Sam has to be fine, that's what Dean is banking on. None of this is worth shit if Sam isn't okay.
"What are you talking about Sammy?" Dean asks despairingly.
But Sam can't answer. His eyes are shut and as Dean watches, taking his eyes off the road for a precious moment, Sam slides limply down the backrest. His hand falls into Dean's foot well and Dean is overcome by a piercing urge to scream or sob or hit something. Instead he swallows hard and tugs Sam carefully towards him until he can get his poor brother's head on his lap. He pets through Sam's hair feverishly.
The phone rings. Dean grabs it.
"Take down this address, boy," Bobby says immediately.
The address is ten minutes away and Dean allows himself a moment to hope. He can fix this. He can make it okay. He makes a U-turn on the empty street, wheels screeching as the car swings around.
"You have to be okay, Sammy," he whispers. "Please be okay."
It's all he has left, to live for or to die for.
It's all he has left.
-
When Sam was eleven he worried about a lot of things. He worried about school, and money, and the neighbors' cat Lucky who went missing two days earlier. He worried about the news and politics and world peace. And of course, he worried about monsters under the bed. Dean was the earpiece for all his concerns, small and big. And when a teary Sam told Dean, ""Dad can't fight the monsters and the people. What happens if he gets caught? Or we get caught? Jail is almost the same as being dead, Dean," Dean told him what he always told him: "Don't worry so much, Sammy. Nothing bad's gonna happen, I promise. Don't you trust me?"
And Sam whispered, "I trust you."
But that wasn't really that. Because though Sam rolled over and seemed to settle, his whispering voice floated into Dean's ear not ten minutes later.
"Dear God, please keep Dean and Dad safe," he was saying. "Please help them hunt monsters and help Dad get money and please don't let him get caught by the police. I'll do anything. I'll be so good and I'll never ask for anything ever again. Just let Dean and Dad be okay, God. Please. They're all I have. Amen."
Author: mimblexwimble
Recipient: geckoholic
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3,200
Summary: It's all he has left, to live for or to die for.
Author's Notes: For the prompt: Mystery Spot-coda. He lost Dean every day, saw him die so often, and we all know it had a huge impact on him. How did he handle that afterward, when he got Dean back for the time being?
Sam was eleven when he first figured out that John was no longer keeping on the straight and narrow to support his family. It wasn't for lack of trying, of course. Dean remembered John taking job after job in town after town, on top of trying to hunt, and never being home as a result. John didn't exactly spend all that much time at home once he got into credit card fraud either, but at least there was always money. No more dumpster diving for Dean while Sam stood watch, no more sending Sam into diners to charm the waitresses into giving them a free meal. Sam didn't see it as a good thing, though. He'd been more jittery than usual since finding out about hunting and monsters, but credit card fraud sent him spiraling into panic mode. It's the first time Dean can recall Sam ever screaming at their father and Dean remembers is as the worst fight they had, barring Stanford. Sam was a tiny eleven-year-old, and prone to tears when he got angry. He couldn't get the words out properly around his sobs and hiccups, and John had such trouble understanding him that he sent him to bed without dinner without bothering to figure it out.
Later that night, in bed, Sam had whispered his fears to Dean, tears dripping over the bridge of his small nose and onto the pillow they were sharing.
"Dad can't fight the monsters and the people," he said. "What happens if he gets caught? Or we get caught? Jail is almost the same as being dead, Dean."
To be honest, Dean wanted to laugh. Sam's concerns seemed ridiculous, and Dean was certain that dying was a hundred times worse than jail. But Sam's bloodshot eyes and trembling lips helped Dean tamp down on the urge to tease his baby brother. Instead, he pulled Sam close, and hugging him tight, whispering the same old assurances that he gave for all Sam's worries, "Don't worry so much, Sammy. Nothing bad's gonna happen, I promise. Don't you trust me?"
And Sam whispered, "I trust you," and that was that.
Looking back, Dean can see that Sam's worries were reasonable. If you get caught by monsters you kill them, no questions asked, conscience intact. What do you do when you got caught by people, by police? The poor suckers are only doing their jobs, and if they're running with false information, that ins't entirely their fault. Dean will do almost anything that is required of him in the line of duty but even he isn't ready to kill innocent people yet.
So when the cops catch up to them during a routine salt-and-burn in Athens, Georgia, the only thing to do is run.
-
"I told you you should've stayed in the room," Dean says as Sam ducks out of sight for the fourth time, presumably to hack up another internal organ.
"Shut the fuck up and dig," Sam mutters in between coughs.
Dean rolls his eyes but keeps moving dirt. "You're completely useless right now," he adds as he lifts a shovelful of soil over the edge of the grave. "And also, creepy. If you don't let me go somewhere on my own soon I'm getting a restraining order."
A clod of dirt hits Dean on the back of the head. Dean lets the shovel drop and turns to look at Sam, who is sitting at the edge of the grave, legs dangling into the open space, and smiling sweetly.
"I'll beat you with this shovel," Dean says. "Don't test me." Sam's smile doesn't slip, and Dean goes back to digging.
Dean can feel Sam's eyes on his back as he digs, and the scrutiny makes Dean uncomfortably aware of himself - the drops of sweat winding down his bulging biceps, the tickle of an itch on his left leg, the movement of his hair with the wind. Dean takes a deep breath and tries to concentrate on digging. He's decided that he's just going to have to get used to Sam's staring because it doesn't seem like Sam's going to stop anytime soon. Ever since the Mystery Spot case - which turned out to be a massive waste of time instead of a case (not that Dean can't complain since he'd gotten more sleep in Broward County than he had anywhere for months) - Sam's been freakier than usual. Dean doesn't know why and he hasn't bothered asking. Their agreement these days is that Sam does whatever research shit he wants about the deal as long as Dean doesn't see it or hear about it. Though Dean can't recall Sam ever being out of sight to do any major research, he suspects that Sam finally hit a dead end in Broward County and figured out what Dean's known all along - the deal is ironclad.
It would explain the disconcerting looks Dean keeps getting from his little brother, like Sam thinks Dean is a mirage that'll disappear if he looks away for too long. And honestly, Dean's not a heartless bastard; he wouldn't mind if all Sam did was stare at him like a lovelorn teenager. After all, Dean's only got seven more weeks to live and doesn't expect Sam to be completely adjusted to the idea. But staring isn't all Sam does. Sam's been doing things a lot more crazy than staring - like following Dean everywhere, sticking to his side when they go out, sitting closer than normal in the Impala, trailing after him into the fucking bathroom with the promise that, "I won't look, Dean, I swear. I'll just stand here. You won't even notice me." Which, for the record, was a complete lie. Who isn't going to notice a Sasquatch hovering over their shoulder while they take a piss? Dean's balls just about shriveled up and retracted into his body. Not to mention performance anxiety - let's just say if Dean expected to live longer than two months he'd be worrying about incontinence.
The thing is, Sam's supposed to be okay after Dean dies. That's the point of this deal. Sam's supposed to be fine. Sam's supposed to live. He's not supposed to be staring at Dean like he's the only thing that makes sense in the world, or following him around like he's the only thing Sam cares about.
A muscle starts twitching in his back and that's it - Dean can't take anymore. Luckily, his shovel chooses that second to hit wood.
"Jackpot," he says as he wrenches the coffin open. He stands up and exchanges the shovel for Sam's hand. Sam levers him up and out of the grave and then reaches for the salt and accelerant, sniffling as he goes.
Police sirens wail nearby, drowning out the chirping of crickets and the croaking of the odd frog. Dean stiffens and Sam pauses in the middle of pacing the length of the grave, probably so he can pour kerosene in strips over the coffin, right over the perfectly even strips of salt Dean bets he's laid down.
The sirens quite but Dean's not taking any chances. "Light the match," he tells Sam, taking a few steps towards the line of trees at the back of the cemetery.
"Don't go," Sam says quickly, striking a match.
"Seriously, Sam? I'm just looking," Dean says exasperatedly, squinting into darkness. Nothing moves. Not even the leaves of the trees seem to be shifting. Dean turns back to Sam.
"You gonna keep this up for two more months?" Dean asks, watching the fire rise from the grave. It throws an orange glare over Sam's cheeks, deepening the bags beneath his eyes and making him seem frail.
"Keep what up?" Sam says, avoiding Dean's gaze as he collects the salt, shovel, flashlights and accelerant and carefully sets them in a duffle.
"I have two months, okay - two months. I not going to drop dead tomorrow so stop acting like I might."
"Shows how much you know," Sam mumbles under his breath, back to Dean.
"The hell does that mean?" Dean asks, stepping forward and turning Sam around by the shoulder.
But Sam doesn't meet Dean's eyes. Instead, his gaze moves over Dean's shoulders and his eyes widen.
Dean hears the unmistakable sound of a bullet whizzing past just as he feels himself being shoved to the ground.
Sam grunts from above and Dean scrambles to his feet.
"Stay down!" Sam says, trying to push him to the grass again.
"Put your hands in the air!" comes a scream from the line of trees. Another bullet shoots past, so close that Dean feels the burn on his cheek.
"Shit, shit, shit," Dean says. "Shit!" He grabs Sam's hand, which is still attempting to force him down.
"Fuck getting down!" he growls at Sam. "We have to go, now!" He grabs the duffle with his free hand and drags Sam forward, head ducked low against the rain of bullet following them.
"Stop! This is the police!" someone shouts. "Put your hands in the air!"
"Jesus," Dean says. "Doesn't take much to get a shoot-to-kill order these days, does it?"
"Well," Sam pants behind him, clutching tight at Dean's hand, "I don't know. How many people have we killed so far?"
"I lost count." He spots the church and changes course, letting go of Sam to heft the duffle onto his shoulder. "Head for the church," he orders.
"You do know we're moving away from the Impala, right?"
"I'm not about to run into a line of armed cops, Sammy - we'll go around the church and see if we can double back that way."
Dean's guessing the cops they heard earlier must have seen the smoke from the grave fire, because it doesn't sound like there's a SWAT team after them. So it's not a planned ambush or anything, which is good. Means that if they can get away fast enough they should be okay.
They make it to the whitewashed church building without dying. Dean drops the duffle and presses against the wall and pulls out his gun. He expects Sam to object but Sam is gasping for breath and trying to muffle a cough in his sleeve. Dean motions to Sam to switch places with him and then creeps forward and peers around the corner of the building. He can hear the officers still, but it doesn't look like they followed and all Dean can hope is that they got turned around in the darkness of the cemetery.
"Okay," he whispers to Sam. "I think we can make it. Let's go." He slips the gun back into his waistband.
"I don't think I can," Sam wheezes.
"Christ Sam! I told you you should've stayed in the room."
"It's not the cold," he whispers weakly. Sweat sheens on his forehead, illuminated by the silvery moonlight. He looks down and Dean follows his gaze. He's got a hand over his stomach and Dean doesn't need light to see the red winding down his fingers and spilling into the glass.
"Oh fuck," Dean says, dropping to yank a flashlight out of the duffle. Sam follows him, sliding down the wall, his breathing shallow.
Dean switches on his light and the beam catches the strip of red on the whitewashed wall that Sam's resting against.
-
The bullet went right through Sam. When he moves his hand to let Dean check the wound it's like a dam's been broken. Blood overflows, spills down and drenches Sam's legs. Pulling Sam's shirt off makes it worse. Dean drops the flashlight and yanks off his own coat and shirt. He folds the shirt lengthwise with trembling hands and presses it around Sam's side in the hopes that it'll cover the entry and exit wound.
"Hold this," he barks at Sam, and Sam raises his hands sluggishly, pressing one to his abdomen and the other to his back.
Dean listens, distantly, for sounds of the police. Their luck seems to be holding on that front at least. Dean tugs Sam's legs straight and then yanks the shoelaces off his brown Pumas. He ties the two laces together and ties the length around Sam's waist, as tight as it can go. Sam's skin is hot under his hands, and drenched in sweat.
Dean sits back on his haunches. In the flashlight's beam, Sam's pallor is sickly gray. He's breathing heavily and his eyes are closed. Dean shakes Sam's foot.
"Stay awake!"
"I'm awake," Sam whispers.
"I can't fix this," Dean says.
Sam opens his eyes at that and looks right at Dean. If Dean was a complete fucking dumbass he'd say the look on Sam's face is relief.
"It's okay," Sam mumbles. "It's okay. It's better this way."
"The fuck are you talking about?" Dean hisses. He gets to his feet and reaches for Sam's hand. "Get up. We have to go to the hospital."
Sam doesn't even try to move. "It's okay," he says earnestly. "I promise. This is how it's supposed to be. This is how I can save you." The idea seems to invigorate him and his eyes seem brighter as he gazes up at Dean.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Dean snarls, panic and anger and fear colliding in the pit of his stomach and rising in his throat. "I sell my soul for you and the second you're in danger you fucking lay down and die? Is that what I mean to you? Fucking nothing? Do you ever think of anyone but yourself?"
Sam looks like he's been slapped but Dean couldn't give a fuck. If it gets Sam to move, he's not taking it back.
"Get up!" he snarls. "Get up. We're going to the hospital."
This time when Dean tugs on Sam's hand Sam moves. It takes most of Dean's strength to haul Sam up and even then Sam's legs wobble precariously beneath him. He's breathing hot and harsh against Dean's neck, head lolling on Dean's shoulder.
It hits a nerve deep inside Dean. A nerve he never wants touched again.
"Move," he says angrily, stepping forward, forcing Sam along with him. "Move you stubborn bastard. Fucking move!"
Sam moves. Somehow, he moves, taking step after step along with Dean. The move around the church, going the way they intended. The cops seem to have vanished, but Dean doesn't think they're gone for good. More likely they've called for reinforcements.
"We can't - to the hospital," Sam gasps. "The cops-"
Dean doesn't respond. He can see the Impala. All that matters now is getting Sam fixed up, whatever the cost.
-
It doesn't take long for Sam's blood to pool on the seat of the car and dampen Dean's jeans. The wet heat is like a brand against his skin and he presses down on the accelerator all the faster.
"It's better this way," Sam's saying. "It's better. Can't go to the hospital. Please."
"Just put pressure on the wound and shut up, Sam," Dean snaps.
"I can't do it. I can't. You don't know what I become!"
"Become when?"
"When you die!" Sam says in a strangled voice. He gasps loudly and then hacks out a cough. Blood sprays onto the windshield.
Dean pulls out his cell with hands he can't feel, doing his best to watch the road and not Sam's blood as it drips down the glass.
"Please," Sam says.
"Shut up," Dean mutters, pressing two on his phone. "You'll be fine. You'll be fine."
Bobby picks up on the second ring. Dean doesn't wait for a hello. "Bobby, I need someone who can patch up a gunshot near Athens, Georgia."
Dean hears rustling over the phone. "Hospital?" Bobby says urgently.
"Can't - it was the police."
"Shit. Gimme a minute. I'll call you back."
Dean hangs up and looks at Sam, whose head is slumped against the back of the seat, hands splayed awkwardly on his lap, chest heaving. He reaches out and brushes the hair out of Sam's face. He leaves his hand on Sam's face for longer than necessary.
"Stay awake, Sammy," he pleads. "Please. You're gonna be fine. You're gonna be okay."
"Stop saying that," Sam whispers. He opens his eyes and when Dean looks over, he sees tears slip down Sam's cheek. "I won't be okay. You don't even know. You don't even know what I turn into."
Dean feels icy cold dismay sink into him, drowning out the red-hot rage and fiery panic for a moment. Sam's not talking about now. Sam's not talking about here. Sam's been strange since Broward County and Sam wants Dean to let him die and Dean sold his soul for Sam because Sam was meant to live, Sam was meant to survive, this life was never meant to take Sam. Sam is supposed to be fine, Sam has to be fine, that's what Dean is banking on. None of this is worth shit if Sam isn't okay.
"What are you talking about Sammy?" Dean asks despairingly.
But Sam can't answer. His eyes are shut and as Dean watches, taking his eyes off the road for a precious moment, Sam slides limply down the backrest. His hand falls into Dean's foot well and Dean is overcome by a piercing urge to scream or sob or hit something. Instead he swallows hard and tugs Sam carefully towards him until he can get his poor brother's head on his lap. He pets through Sam's hair feverishly.
The phone rings. Dean grabs it.
"Take down this address, boy," Bobby says immediately.
The address is ten minutes away and Dean allows himself a moment to hope. He can fix this. He can make it okay. He makes a U-turn on the empty street, wheels screeching as the car swings around.
"You have to be okay, Sammy," he whispers. "Please be okay."
It's all he has left, to live for or to die for.
It's all he has left.
-
When Sam was eleven he worried about a lot of things. He worried about school, and money, and the neighbors' cat Lucky who went missing two days earlier. He worried about the news and politics and world peace. And of course, he worried about monsters under the bed. Dean was the earpiece for all his concerns, small and big. And when a teary Sam told Dean, ""Dad can't fight the monsters and the people. What happens if he gets caught? Or we get caught? Jail is almost the same as being dead, Dean," Dean told him what he always told him: "Don't worry so much, Sammy. Nothing bad's gonna happen, I promise. Don't you trust me?"
And Sam whispered, "I trust you."
But that wasn't really that. Because though Sam rolled over and seemed to settle, his whispering voice floated into Dean's ear not ten minutes later.
"Dear God, please keep Dean and Dad safe," he was saying. "Please help them hunt monsters and help Dad get money and please don't let him get caught by the police. I'll do anything. I'll be so good and I'll never ask for anything ever again. Just let Dean and Dad be okay, God. Please. They're all I have. Amen."