PART TWELVE
All the heat melts from Sam's skin. He goes icy, the tension drains from his shoulders. He stops struggling. He grasps both of Dean’s hands and twists so they’re facing each other. The smile on his face isn't Sam’s smile but Dean remembers it well: Derek’s always-positive-always-hopeful-always-shit-eating grin.
“Get out of my brother,” Dean growls. “Derek, get the fuck out of my brother. You’re gonna kill him, do you understand that?”
“Have a seat, Dean,” Derek says, easily shaking himself free of Dean's grip. Sam walks to the table by the window, his arm gesturing invitingly toward the chairs around it.
“I’m not sitting, Derek. Get the fuck out of my brother.”
Derek rushes him like ghosts do, somehow even in Sam's body he's in one spot one second and the next they’re standing nose-to-nose. “Sooner we talk, the sooner I vacate Sam. Sit down.”
Derek bows his head and coughs and the sound that comes out of Sam’s lungs-- like the mucus is boiling, like his whole respiratory system is liquefying.
Dean sits. Derek takes the other chair, leans back, crosses Sam’s long legs, and folds his hands into his lap.
“So how’re things, Dean?” He smiles expectantly, like he's conducting some sort of fucked up job interview.
“Derek,” Dean says, leaning forward, “You’re dead, okay? You had a bad lung bleed and you’re dead now. It’s time for you to move on.”
“I know I’m dead,” Derek says with a flippant shrug. “You think I don’t know that? I still think that's a nasty way to put it, though. I mean, my spirit is alive, obviously. Right? Am I right?”
Dean’s not sure, but it seems like Sam’s lips are turning blue. “Yeah, Derek, You’re right, okay? You’re right. Now tell me what the hell you want.”
He didn’t think it was possible for Derek’s smile to grow any wider but it does, it stretches across Sam's cheeks until it's damn near cutting his face in half.
“I want to sit here and kill your brother," he says, the words sliding through Sam's bared teeth. "I want to sit here and kill your brother while I watch you die, Dean. Nice and slow. Like what should have happened to you a long fucking time ago. What you think of that?”
Between the anger and the adrenaline Dean doesn’t feel the cough coming, just all the sudden there it is, forcing its way out of his chest, and the blood comes before he can move his hand, it sprays into his palm and drips in hot wet trails down his arm.
“HA!” Derek laughs, clapping his hands together. “Looks like you’re all ready. All primed."
"Why?" Dean chokes.
"Because no one wants you alive, Dean. You think Sammy wants you alive? I overheard that little convo you had.” Derek makes quotey fingers in the air. “’Oh, I need my brother.’ What a liar. Nobody needs you, Dean. And soon you're gonna be alone. You have any idea how lonely it is, being dead?”
It takes Dean a long moment to get his breath back, it's like his chest has slammed shut, like all the air around him has disappeared and there's nothing left to breathe. Like he's underwater.
Like he's drowning.
When he looks at Derek again he can barely focus his eyes, he wipes blindly at his mouth, still sputtering on blood--
And then it stops. His chest opens up again.
"Not yet, Dean," Derek says with a smirk. "No dying quite yet. I want to savor it. I have all the time in the world. "
"Just take me," Dean heaves. "I'll come with you. Let Sam go."
Derek rolls his eyes with a bemused little smile. "Now that would be pointless. I'm trying to add a little insult to injury here, Dean. I wanna stick in it and break it off."
"Why?" Dean demands again. He spits one last time and straightens himself, gulping air into his lungs. “Come on, Derek. You used to be a nice guy. Annoying as fuck, but nice. What happened?"
Derek-in-Sam’s-body coughs again, longer this time. Until Sam’s face turns red. He throws his head back over the chair, facing the ceiling. Dean watches Sam’s chest heave.
"You still have a chance, Derek. To go somewhere better. This isn't it. But if you... there's still a chance."
Sam’s chest is heaving, heaving heaving. He tilts his head forward so that he's looking at Dean again, Sam's nostrils flaring, his eyes slanted. “You don't know what the fuck you’re talking about. There’s nothing after this, Dean. There's just sitting in the woods in the fucking dark, don't know what's going on, don't know why no one can hear you screaming, don't know why you can't hear yourself screaming. Just dark. Until Deanie Weenie comes long. I could feel you Dean. I could smell you."
Derek suddenly propels himself forward, into the space between the two chairs, his hands locking around Dean's biceps.
"Don't you get it? I was everybody's personal Ryan White story. I was everyone's 'Hang in There' poster. Everybody's brave little fucking hero. Then you-- then you come into town. Skinny, sicker than shit, can't even get outta bed some days. Come to school all bruised and beat to shit. Bitch and complain about how you can't breathe, don't feel good. I couldn't ever do that, Dean. I had to be brave. They all wanted me to be brave."
Derek's breath is hot and sour in his face. White froth has gathered in the corners of Sam's mouth and Dean can hear a low, rattling wheeze sounding from deep within his brother's chest.
"You don't-- you don't have to be that anymore, Derek," Dean gasps. "You-- you can move on now."
"Move on," Derek scoffs. "Move on. Do you remember my vest, Dean? Tens of thousands of dollars. I used to brag about it. Do you remember?"
"How could I forget," Dean can't resist quipping. He tries to turn his face away but Derek follows, forcing him to stare into Sam's eyes.
"Daddy bought the vest for me," Derek says, catching Dean by the chin so he can't move his head. "My little sister-- she was healthy-- she couldn't go college cause Daddy wasn't ever going to pay off that vest. But it was worth it to them, see, because it meant they could pretend I wasn't sick. They didn't have to watch, didn't have to hear. They left me alone with my vest, do your treatments like a good boy. Be brave like a good boy. Suck it up like a good boy. Stay alive like a good boy. It made them sick, Dean. It made them sick to see me sick so we pretended, we pretended nothing was wrong."
Dean can't handle Derek's breath, tart with infection, he can hear himself starting to wheeze, feel his chest tightening again. He struggles to move somewhere, anywhere, just away but he's caught in Derek's grip and can't move an inch.
"And you," Derek continues. "Your brother and your daddy, they took care of you. Pounded your back. Your little brother watched you cough up your lungs, sat with you and your pain, took care of you when you were sick, watched you cough up all that gunk and he never complained, did he, Dean? He took care of you like family should. And what do you do? You bitch and complain, bitch and complain. Bitch and complain while I was on some highway somewhere dying alone."
Derek stands up to Sam's full height. He coughs, wipes blood from Sam's lips. "I'm nobody's hero anymore. I don't have to be brave for anyone. I don't have to act like some kind of fucking saint. I can be sick and scared and pissed off now. And guess what, Dean? I am. I'm scared to death and I feel like shit and I'm so angry. And I'm taking you with me because I can."
Under the weight of Sam's frozen hands Dean feels the energy drain from his muscles. Now it's not as if he can't breathe, but that he won't, his chest won't respond to his brain's commands. He can't feel his fingers anymore, his eyes are trying to droop shut. He looks at Sam and sees that the texture of his skin has changed, he looks grey, almost twinkling, kind of sandy like--
He's covered in salt.
"I'll come with you, okay?" he says desperately. "I'll come with you. Just let Sam go. Jesus Christ just let him go."
Derek stares at him coldly. "I'm gonna keep him. I've decided. I'm going to take him with me, see. When I cross over. He's gonna take care of me in the afterlife, and King and the Warden and Georgie and I? We're all gonna be best friends."
"You're a fucking moron, Derek," Dean finds himself roaring breathless and voiceless, "You don't have to have the illness in the afterlife, if you can let fucking go. This isn't for eternity. You don't take diseases with you unless you can't let go! You don't need a nurse, Derek. Just go. Just go and you won't be sick."
Derek smirks. His hands slide almost sensually up and over Dean's shoulders. He cups Dean's face, runs a hand through his hair, curls his fingers around the back of his neck.
"You're a good big brother, Dean," he says. "You really are. Even for a sniveling little ingrate.That's why you keep holding on, holding on, holding on. Keep dragging that air in and out. So we'll do it the hard way, huh? We'll do it the hard way."
And then Dean feels Sam's thumbs shove into his throat. His already blurred vision goes instantly gray, his lungs vibrate in his chest, the skin of his face swells and tightens. He opens his mouth to call out to Sam but his tongue is swelling and spasming, bobbing over his throat like a drain plug. He tugs feebly at Sam's hands but the energy is being sucked from him like air.
He manages to say "Dekkkk" out loud and mouths the rest: "Wait. Please."
Derek rolls Sam's eyes and loosens his stranglehold just enough for Dean to suck in another breath. "What? Make it quick. I think I feel your brother's lungs collapsing."
"Just... before... wait..." Dean spits out with what's left of his voice. "Let me... give you quick pound, okay? It'll feel good, I promise. It'll feel good."
Derek studies him. He keeps his hands around Dean's neck, his thumbs still resting over his throat. "A pound?"
"Yeah. Manual PT. Like Sammy did for me. Like my Dad did for me. I want to do it for you, Derek. And then... and then we'll go."
"Nobody ever did that for me," Derek says. He lets go of Dean, sits back on his haunches. "Never."
" I'll do it for you, okay? I'll do it for you. Come on. Turn around."
Derek thinks on it a moment, eyeing him suspiciously. "Nobody ever did that for me," he repeats.
"Well I will. Come on. Come on, Derek. Turn around."
"You won't try anything stupid, will you? I'll just kill you instantly, Dean. I'm strong. I'll snap your neck. I'll make you throw up a lung."
"I won't do anything stupid, Derek. Just PT, okay? Just PT."
Derek nods, turns and kneels on the floor with his back to Dean. Dean slides his hand's over Sam's shoulders, squeezing them. Maybe to reassure him, if he's still in there. Maybe to say goodbye. He doesn't know. And then he begins to pound on Sam's back with cupped hands.
"I don't wanna die, Dean." Derek says. "I was just a kid. How could they put that on me? I don't wanna die. What if there's nothing up there?"
"There's something, okay? There's something there and it's... it's better than this."
Derek leans forward, letting out a wheezy moan of pleasure as Dean pounds a steady rhythm on Sam's shoulder blades. "The blood just kept coming and coming, Dean, and I couldn't breathe, and I was alone. Couldn't even scream. The blood just kept coming and coming and I was alone."
"I know, Derek. I know what's it's like." Dean can hear Sam's lungs growing more and more congested. Derek is coughing singular, explosive coughs that sound moist and gravely. As he pounds the salt is falling away from Sam's skin. They're running out of time.
"You're not alone now, okay?" Dean says, his voice high and desperate. He pounds a little faster. "I'm here, and you're not alone, you don't have to die alone, okay? I'm right here with you."
Sam's head dips forward then rights itself again, like he's dozing off. Dean can see his face from across the room, in the reflection of the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. Derek peers at him, childlike, skin gray and yellow and textured.
His eyelids flutter, his mouth goes slack.
It's working. Dean pounds faster.
"What's happening?" Derek says.
"You're leaving, Derek. I'm giving you want you want. You're not alone. I'm taking care of you. You're leaving."
Sam's eyes begin to roll. His head sways on his neck. "I'm scared. Goddamn it, Dean. I'm scared."
"It's okay. Right here with you, okay? Right here with you."
And then it happens very quickly. Sam's skin glows orange. There's another rush of arctic air, and it wraps itself around Dean and grows warm and heavy like a quilt. Sam's head rolls to his chest.
Then, with a long, rattling breath, Derek is gone
For a long, terrifying minute Sam is completely still, limp like a still-warm corpse. Dean gets down on the floor and holds him, rubs knuckles back and forth hard on his chest.
"Come on, Sammy," Dean says in almost a whimper, "Come on. Please."
Sam gasps, jolts upright, his arms flailing. He moans something that doesn't make sense. It sounds like there's fluid collecting in the back of his throat. He chokes on it, leaning forward and spitting on the floor. "Dean... can't... hurt... can't..."
"Relax, Sammy." Dean catches his brother's wild arms, trapping both hands between his own. "Relax, remember? Slow deep breaths, just like you're always bitching at me, huh? Come on. Slow and deep. Please, Sammy."
Sam's head falls on Dean's shoulder. He hitches and coughs and sputters into Dean's neck and then, finally, he manages a breath.
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN