if love sits on your heart like stone (3/5)
three;; and if you are a ghost
His hands are shaking so hard he’s barely able to pick the lock on the abandoned trailer Sam has finally picked to hole up in, his head rushing with so much blood it feels like there’s only static, and then -
In the corner, pulled in impossibly small, bloodied and shaking so hard the entire trailer is shaking as well-
“Sammy.” Like something had just dislodged the lump in his throat, slipped the one word he needed back into him - “Sammy.”
His brother’s head snaps up, eyes immediately zeroing on him, and at that moment, Dean’s world is righted, nudged back into track, pulled back into focus.
“Hiya, little brother,” he rasps, and takes the few strides to reach him, to brush back his shaggy mane, to touch -
And Sam recoils. Flinches back, and the first word out of his mouth isn’t Dean, isn’t even hey, is - “No.”
Dean stops short. Swallows. “Sam - ”
“No,” Sam’s rambling now, muttering more to himself than to Dean, “no - no, meant to get away, you weren’t - no, don’t touch me!”
“I’m not - ” Raising his hands, stepping back, ignoring the amulet-shaped burn on his chest that’s only aching harder. “I’m - Sam, Sammy, it’s me. It’s Dean.”
“Don’t touch me,” Sam says again, like it’s a mantra, like he doesn’t even hear Dean, and it’s too much.
“I’m not... Sam, I’m not going to hurt you,” he pleads, and takes a step towards Sam.
Who’s stopping his muttering to pull a bitchface at Dean- “Not hurt me,” he says, petulant. “He said, he made sure - ” And then he’s scrabbling at his shirt, pulling it aside to bare the skin on his chest, a brand, a symbol, amidst ruined skin.
Dean stops then, takes a step back, and folds his legs, sitting Indian-style across Sam. “Who said what, Sam?” It’s a throwback to when they’d move into unfurnished apartments for a couple months at a time, and had nothing more than mattresses for furniture.
“He branded me,” Sam’s saying now. “He promised me, he promised me I’d never have you. He promised I’d - I’d suck the soul out of you, because mine wasn’t good enough, wasn’t complete, and he’s never lied to me - he promised. He said.”
“You’d what?” Because whatever bullshit he’s ever heard, this was among the most ridiculous.
“You need to get away from me,” Sam’s decided, trying to push himself up on shaky arms. “He promised.”
Those two words break something inside Dean, and he’s standing, trying to ignore the pain, fear and relief warring in Sam’s eyes. And then he’s inches from Sam, and it’s like shushing a fretful Sammy, except he can’t touch, can’t ground himself, can’t soothe the burning in his chest, can’t soothe his baby brother, who’s screaming at Dean and trying to push himself through the walls of the trailer away, away, away. “Shut up, Sam,” he says, finally, choking the words out because nothing else is working and hearing his brother scream just fucking hurts, alright?
Sam stops, blessedly, stops. He’s looking up at him, eyes bloodshot, hair matted with blood and sweat, mouth still stained with demon blood, and he stinks, but right at that moment, looking up at him like maybe he’s the only salvation left, Dean’s brother has never been more beloved a sight.
“He promised, Sam?” Quietly, because just because it’s hurting Sammy doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt him - if that could even make sense to start with. “You’d trust him over your brother, Sammy? Over me?” And then - “Look,” because the amulet beneath his shirt is threatening to burn a hole through his chest, he pulls the fabric aside, baring the scorch mark from where the amulet burned it in, in the last part of the ritual, twin to the one under the brand on Sam’s own. “I have one too. I didn’t mean to hurt you, Sammy - I just... I just wanted to bring you home.” He moves back then, but keeps his eyes on Sam.
The long throat works, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Still?” A hand, trembling, brushes subconsciously at his mouth.
Dean swallows against the flood of emotion threatening to burst forth from his lips. “Yeah, little brother,” he whispers, voice rough. “Always.”
“Promise?” Small now, hesitant - hopeful.
“Cross my heart,” Dean says, daring to crack a smile, and catches himself an armful of baby brother, hands fumbling with fabric, one finally settling over Sam’s heart, the other pressing against the pulse throbbing underneath his fingers. The burning in his chest eases. Sam falls asleep like that, cradled in his big brother’s lap, and Dean - at last - ceases being a living corpse.
---
Sam wakes up with the smell of Dean’s clothes surrounding him, leaning against what his mind immediately supplies as big brother. It’s when he’s taking the second breath, greedily, that realisation drops on him like a ton of bricks, and with it, hot, humiliated rage, because he had promised, he had sworn -
Dean - no, Lucifer - gives a startled yelp when Sam shoves him away and scrambles to the farthest corner of the room, a filthy trailer this time, it seems, and somehow, Lucifer doesn’t follow, just sits half-sprawled on the ground, staring at him. He’s good, Sam thinks, like he’s been practising. “You promised,” he says, trying to ignore the painful pull in his chest towards the Devil in the middle of the room, trying to forget the scent still lingering faintly on his clothes, beneath the stench of sweat and blood. “You fucking promised.”
Dean - Lucifer - looks confused for a moment, then shakes his head, and everything - everything - about him is so much big brother he can’t help but wretchedly, wretchedly want. “Hey,” and that’s the only thing to give it away, because Dean’s voice is never like that, never hoarse to the point of cracking, and he’s stopped talking to Sam that way for years now, soft and vulnerable, like it’s Sammy, like Sam’s a kid. “It’s just me - it’s Dean.”
He’s trying too hard, Sam thinks, and pulls a sneer on his lips, then immediately wishes he hadn’t, because Dean - Lucifer - takes one look at his ugly, twisted face, and his eyes soften with so much - so much love that Sam almost crawls back toward him and begs for his next punishment, because this, having this in front of him and never to be had again is so much worse than anything else Lucifer has done. “No,” he spits, his voice pathetic and shaking, “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to put all this on me, and take him away, and break your promise.”
“What promise?” Lucifer asks, still without a smirk, still soft, still hoarse, still Dean, and Sam almost breaks down then and there.
“You’re not Dean,” Sam says, and he doesn’t know who he’s trying to convince. “I gave you everything so you wouldn’t be Dean. You don’t - you’re not Dean.”
There’s a pause, and Lucifer laughs then, and Sam still startles, because it’s a soft sound, sad and tired but not cruel. “When I was in Hell, you know what broke me after thirty years?”
“You’re not Dean,” Sam mutters, watches as Dean - Lucifer - rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t know where he’s going with that.
“Alastair came in for the seventh time as you,” Lucifer says, “and I almost hated those puppy eyes of yours - almost thought I’d gouge them out - ”
“Dean wouldn’t,” Sam blurts out, because he doesn’t want to hear this - doesn’t want to hear Lucifer talk about how much Dean really hates him, underneath all the layers of caretaker and big brother and look out for Sammy Dad put in place.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t,” he says, quietly. “But he kept coming in as you, and every time he’d watch me get tortured, and then he’d walk out there. I knew it wasn’t you, but I thought - if you did that one more time, if he did that one more time… maybe someday I would look into your eyes and I’d hate you. So when Alastair came in for the seventh time as you, and picked up the scalpel, I said yes.”
“You’re not Dean,” Sam says, but he doesn’t know anymore.
“Yeah, Sammy, I am,” Lucifer - Dean says, and his voice isn’t coming from the middle of the room, is just right there, and Sam looks up, and Dean is right there -
Which means everything - everything, the running away, the demon blood, the killing people with his powers - oh God, the killing people - “Go away,” he snaps.
The lines on Dean’s forehead deepen. “Sammy...”
“Go away!” And then there’s a sickening thud, because Dean isn’t right there anymore, he’s lying across the several feet to the other side of the trailer, and no, no, no no no -
Dean just lies there for a few moments, still like death, and then he’s moving, looking up, and Sam’s twisting away before he can see Dean’s face, because he’s got demon and the Devil in him, and there’s no way Dean will want him back now that he’s seen what Sam can do, what Sam has done - “That what you really want?”
Sam swallows, doesn’t say a word.
“Look at me, Sam.”
Sam. Not Sammy, not little brother. Not Dean’s brother anymore.
“Sammy, look at me.”
“Not Sammy,” Sam says, and the words feel like knives in his throat and poison in his mouth. “Not your little brother.”
Dean sighs. “You’ll always be my little brother,” he says, but there’s a smile in his voice, and rage bubbles in Sam’s chest, unwanted and irrational but there and overpowering -
“No, I’m not,” he spits, and finally looks up at Dean, almost reveling at the fear in his face, because maybe this is his destiny, and if so he’s done with running away from it. “I’m a monster, some - some blood-sucking vampire, just like you said. Just like you predicted. You’re right, Dean - you were fucking right all this time - ”
“Shut the fuck up,” Dean snarls, and it’s the moment it disappears that Sam realises it’s not fear on Dean’s face. He’s crossing the room and fisting his hands in Sam’s dirty shirts, and he’s shaking so hard it makes Sam’s shaking seem mild by comparison. “Shut the fuck up,” he’s growling, even though Sam isn’t saying anything, “He doesn’t get to put these - he doesn’t get to lie to you, I never said - ”
It’s almost an unintelligible roar that comes out of Sam’s mouth then, and his hands are in Dean’s shirt and he’s throwing himself at Dean, grinning fierce and bloody at the breath rushing out of Dean on impact. “Yes you did!” He’s almost screaming now, because fuck him, fuck him - he never wanted Sam and Sam just -
The thump as Dean’s head hits the floor stuns him for a moment, but then Dean is on him again, and it’s pummelling fists and flailing kicks, until Dean’s skull hits the opposite wall with a crack, and he doesn’t move for a few moments.
The sound clears the rage-driven fog in Sam’s mind for a moment, enough for him to hate himself just a little bit more, and when Dean starts moving, he shakes his head resolutely. “Get out,” he says, dully. “I’ll hurt you. I’ll kill you.”
Dean huffs a laugh, but doesn’t move. “Well, I guess you’ll have to try and we’ll have to see then, Sammy.”
“Don’t,” he snaps, harsh - desperate. “I’ll kill you. You know I will. You need to get out.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean says, nonchalant and cocky as only he can be. “If you want to kill me, you only have to try.”
His fist hits the floor before he even knows he’s lifted it. He feels his bones crack, and sees a flash of emotion - fear, probably - pass over Dean’s eyes, but the floor also gives way underneath his fist. “I don’t fucking want to kill you, Dean,” he seethes, and with the power zinging under his fingertips, in his veins, he’s never felt more helpless.
“Then I’m not going anywhere,” Dean says, earnest now. “If the blood wants mine so bad, it’ll just have to go through you to get to me.”
He’s sure Dean doesn’t make sense, but his head his throbbing and his chest is burning, and Dean is so very far away. “I don’t... You said I was a blood-sucking vampire, you said you were gonna end me.”
Dean’s brow furrows. “Is that what he told you, Sammy?”
“He - Lucifer?” The rage, again, demon blood-strengthened, but Sam pushes it down ruthlessly, because tussling as they were hasn’t answered any of his questions. “You - you’re putting this on Lucifer?” He laughs then, an ugly sound, because wow, fuck Dean.
Dean’s staring at him like he’s grown two heads, or better yet - like he’s a blood-sucking demon vampire - and Sam resists the sudden subversive urge to bury his fingers in his brother’s throat. “I’m not putting anything on the Devil, Sam,” he says, sharply. “I’ve never said it, I’d never say it.”
Sam laughs again, too tired to play the game. “Yeah. Well, I heard it. Doesn’t make a difference now - I mean, you’re right.”
“You’re not a monster.”
“You wouldn’t be saying that if you saw the people I killed,” Sam says.
“I did,” Dean says, then almost like a joke, “Attaboy, Sammy.” There’s a moment of stunned silence, because - what? - and then Dean’s speaking again. “You’re not a monster, Sam. I never thought it, ever. Never said it either - but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry I ever made you think you were.” He seems to think that’s the end of the conversation, because he stands up and starts to walk towards the door.
“Where’re you going?” The question comes out too fast, too nervous, and Sam ducks his head when Dean turns to look at him, feeling all of five years old again.
“You wanted me to get out,” Dean says, his voice carefully even. Then, slowly - “Sammy, do you want me to get out?”
Sam stops short. What the hell is he supposed to say to that? No, please stay, don’t ever go away? “Better that way,” he finally mumbles.
“For who, Sammy?” Deceptively casual. “Because I’d rather stay if it’s all the same to you.”
“I’ll hurt you,” Sam says, voice small. “The withdrawal - the blood... You saw.”
Dean pauses. “Not that I’m an expert, Sam, but it’s been three days - I don’t think you’re going to start a murder spree now.”
“It doesn’t have to be for you to get hurt.”
---
Sam is right. Forty minutes in, and nothing Dean does can stop Sam from shaking, or sweating so much he doesn’t know how Sam even has any more fluids inside of him, despite the bottles of water with which Dean plies him, because Sam throws them right up, tinged red, and then turns away, shaking any touch off even though Dean has already noticed that he breathes easier when they’re touching. He recognises shame when he sees it though, and hates himself a little more for not finding Sam earlier.
And then it starts. He falls asleep - five minutes maximum, looking at his watch - and wakes up to Sam’s screams. He’s clutching at his thigh like it’s been severed or impaled, and then he jerks again, and begins to gurgle, choking, his hand leaving his thigh to grab at his own throat. Dean is starting to worry that Sam will choke himself out when Sam drops both hands and resumes breathing. “Fuck you,” he hisses, and Dean barely has time to realise that Sam is glaring at him before he’s thrown to the wall, and seriously, he’s really fucking sick of getting thrown into walls.
Sam looks as surprised as Dean is when Dean looks up at him though, and then he’s screaming again, hands brushing at his chest, his arms, his entire body, and then fingers digging in - “Get them off, please - get them off, get them off, get them off - off off off off off - ” and almost worse than the screaming, a choked-off sob. He’s curling into himself, huddled in a corner, eyes darting between Dean and a spot in the middle of the room, wide, fearful, no hint of recognition in them.
Then - “Dean?” Small, hopeful, trembling - and Dean almost answers before he blinks sleep-deprived, blurry eyes to see that Sam isn’t looking at him. “Dean, please. I’m sorry - please. Please.” Liquid hazel, puppy eyes - blinking back tears, and then so much worse than the screams, worse than choking himself near into oblivion, he watches the hope drain from those eyes, and Sam nods, once. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. I’m - I’m sorry, Dean.” He nods again, eyes downcast, and then - a jerk, flinching like from something physical. Dean watches as his baby brother’s lips turn downwards, and - “He promised. No Dean, Michael. You can’t...”
---
“You may as well kill me straight out.”
“You’re a coward. I mean, seriously, why’d you get me out anyway? So you’d have some company, but you’re such a coward you just won’t accept that this is me. I’m part demon, Dean - you might as well get that in your head - you starve that part of me, all of me dies. But you just can’t accept fate, can you? You and all of Dad’s rules - you can’t think for yourself. Yeah, well - when this is over and I’m dead, at least you’ll know for sure this time it’s your fucking fault, because you’re a coward. Your little brother is a monster, Dean - you may as well accept it already.”
“You know my first thought when I got out? I thought - well, first I thought, it took you that fucking long? Because seriously, half a year. Half an actual fucking year, Dean. But then you know what I thought? I thought - better get away before he comes.” A laugh. “Yeah, because I knew this would happen. You always hold me back, Dean. Whatever I want, everything - you always hold me back. I just wanted to get away, and you wouldn’t fucking let me.”
“Fuck you, Dean. Fuck. You.”
---
“Dean.” Soft, contrite. Hoarse. Dean picks up a bottle, slips a hand behind Sam’s neck and head, and tilts it over Sam’s mouth. A few moments of eager lapping, and then he pulls the bottle away. Rubs the sweaty mop of hair briefly with a thumb, and then moves back away. The last time he had stayed close, Sam had swung at him, getting one over his left eye, and then proceeded to scream himself hoarse. He doesn’t know why exactly he’s keeping away - if it’s because he doesn’t want Sam to scream himself any hoarser, or because he just can’t stomach the reminder that his brother can’t stand to be near him. Maybe that makes him the worst brother on earth, but at least that’s nothing he doesn’t know already, or that Sam hasn’t already told him.
It’s when his gaze is wandering that he notices the little aborted movements Sam’s making, like he’s trying to stop himself from moving towards Dean.
Their eyes meet, and for a moment Dean can read the want and the shame in Sam’s eyes, and then he’s ducking his head again, tucking his hands in between his legs and his chest, like if he hides them Dean won’t remember what he just saw.
When Dean stands up, Sam flinches, and that’s enough, because staying away, doing anything - selfish or selfless, was never to hurt Sam, and he’s done with Sam thinking otherwise. “Shh,” he says, like he’s calming a spooked animal, Standing) beside him, Dean rubs his hand gently on the crown of Sam’s head. Sam shudders, full-body, and then he’s so still he’s barely even breathing. Dean lets his hand drop to Sam’s neck, thumb brushing over the stubble on Sam’s jaw. “Shh, little brother,” and Sam makes a noise like a whimper, pushes his cheek into Dean’s touch.
Sam’s skin is wet and fast growing sticky beneath his thumb and he’s taking deep, shuddering breaths, and he smells really fucking bad, but Dean just presses down until Sam gets the hint and buries his face in Dean’s neck. A wayward hand finds the middle of Dean’s chest where the mark from the amulet still is, and presses down. Dean doesn’t think he knows he’s doing it, but when he puts his hand on the exact same place on Sam’s chest gingerly, mindful of the lattice of cuts and burns there, Sam whines and pushes up into his touch. Half a minute passes, and then, stutteringly, “I-I’m sorry, Dean. I’m s-sorry. Please.”
Dean shuts his eyes then, love for this kid - his kid - grinding down so hard on his heart he feels he might suffocate from the pressure. “Yeah,” he chokes out. “We’re okay, Sammy. We’re good, little brother. You’re okay. We’re okay.”
Sam is silent for a moment, and then Dean feels his heart thumping faster beneath his palm, and Sam’s hand on Dean’s chest tightens into a fist over his shirt. He takes a quick, pained breath, and then another one, then - “I want it, Dean,” said so falteringly and stammeringly Dean has to take a quick breath of his own. Sam must misinterpret it as fear or dismay, however, because he’s pushing away, hand in Dean’s shirt flexing to release - “I’m sorry - ” Dean quickly snakes his hand still on Sam’s neck down and presses it right back, pulls Sam back in.
“We’re okay,” he breathes, when he can. “I’ve got you, brother. We’re going to get through this, you and me, yeah? I’m not going anywhere. You’re going to be just fine.”
Sam just moans into his skin, the sound distressed and helpless, and Dean tightens his arms, takes his hand off Sam’s chest just long enough to hoist him up and pull him into his lap. It must look stupid, two grown men huddled together in a bizarre position - but this has always been their life, and Dean can’t find it in him to wish it different. If that makes him a little twisted, so be it. Sam whines again, a choked sound, and presses in closer, until the backs of their hands are on each other, crushed together so hard it’s hurting him and must be hurting Sam, like Sam is trying to hide within Dean. “I - I need, D-Dean, I need - ”
“Shh,” he whispers brokenly, and on a desperate impulse turns his head, presses his lips into the closest part of Sam, hard. “Shh.” His face is hot with too much - too much everything, and if it grows wet, nobody will know that it’s not just Sam’s sweat.
They shake, together, from the force of Sam’s tremors, and Dean wonders if anything could have torn him from his brother’s side if they’d done this the very first time.
---
Sam is really fucking heavy, is what Dean thinks as he pulls Sam’s arm around his shoulders, starts half-dragging, half-carrying him to the car. Still shivering, but only because December is already on them, and it’s really Sammy’s own fault that he decided to run for nearly an entire month instead of staying overnight in the cemetery to wait for him. The memory of that still stings though, like acid on an open wound, far more than it warrants with Sam leaning pliant on his side, so Dean drops the thought and concentrates on moving Sam forward.
His body is shaky from the exertion when he gets Sam into the passenger seat of the Impala. At least Sam is all but unconscious to the world, so Dean threads his fingers through Sam’s (honestly filthy) hair, leaves a well-placed pinky on the pulse under Sam’s jaw, and tries not to think too much about how the weight of Sam’s head on his thigh feels like coming home.
He checks them in at the first motel they come across, stares for a moment at Sam’s face, lax with exhaustion, before lugging their things from the trunk into the room. The protective sigils drawn with clear glue stick, along with the salt, are second nature, and then he’s opening the passenger door where Sam is still asleep. “Hey,” he says, voice still hoarse - from disuse or exhaustion or all the shouting he’s been doing, “wake up, Sam.”
Sam shifts a little, and his eyes stay shut, but Dean knows he’s awake, and he can’t begrudge his brother a few seconds to gather what reserves he has left. “We’re here?” Sam finally says, and if possible, his voice is even worse than Dean’s, all but wrecked to pieces.
“Yeah, wherever here is,” Dean says, then pats Sam’s thigh twice, quickly. “C’mon, it’s freezing out here - we gotta get you cleaned up.”
That gets Sam moving, the clean freak, and Dean grabs whatever part of Sam has the fewest injuries and pulls him up.
They move like old men, and by the time they get into the room, Sam has already evidently forgotten about cleaning up, starting towards the bed. Dean makes a noise and steers them away towards the bathroom instead. It shouldn’t be this easy, undressing his grown brother like a two-year-old, but exhaustion seems to have made Sam forget pride and his age along with it, leaning heavily on Dean and squirming impatiently to get in the water.
He washes them both efficiently, because Sam seems disinclined to do anything but stand under the hot spray, still leaning on Dean, and he would far rather get out before his own knees decide to buckle under the weight of them both. Sam jolts when he touches the ruined, abused skin in the center of his chest riddled with a truly sadistic web of cuts and burns, and Dean shushes him, removing his hand from the tiled wall beside him to lay it flat against Sam’s back. He stays stoically silent when Dean washes the grime from the other cuts on his body though, as though pain hasn’t even registered, and Dean doesn’t know which is more heartbreaking.
Drying Sam off is easy, because Sam has already fallen half-asleep on his feet, but patching up his wounds takes another two hours. Sam wakes up for that, ironically enough, dark eyes tracking his every move listlessly, opaque and unreadable. He makes a noise in his throat when Dean finally reaches the area on his chest, dabbing the cuts with disinfectant. Little help they’ll do now, scabbed over and already leaking pus that Dean carefully wipes away, and Dean has decoded enough of Sam’s noises to know that it’s not pain in his voice but need. On a whim, he presses a palm over the skin, and watches as Sam swallows hard, eyes slamming shut and face turning away. Dean only catches a glimpse of wetness on the corners of Sam’s eyes before he stands up abruptly, twisting away from the sight, hating himself more than ever.
He doesn’t see the look Sam casts his way, ashamed longing mixed in with soul-deep despondency, before his eyes drift shut.
---
Sam wakes up to an empty room, and there is no sign of Dean anywhere in the room from what he can ascertain from his vantage point in bed. The fierce sense of dejection that balloons within his ribcage is startling, like his lungs and heart and kidneys have been crushed against the too-small cage that is his body. His tear glands are just reacting then, when he finds his face suddenly wet and his breath hitching.
It’s no surprise then when he misses the flutter of wings that herald Castiel’s appearance. “Dean isn’t here,” Cas says, rather pointlessly, then - “I’m glad to see you out of the Cage, Sam.”
For a moment, Sam even hates Cas, because he wants Dean, and he wants Dean to be glad to see Sam out of the Cage, to fucking act like it, but he just swipes a hand over his face, and nods.
There’s a moment of silence and Sam almost laughs at the awkwardness. Good old Cas.
“Yeah,” he finally says. “You’re not dead either, huh - with the... with the - ”
“Lucifer killed me,” Cas says, “but I was resurrected by God.”
“Good,” Sam says, and means it. “I didn’t - I wish I had - before...”
“You overcame Lucifer for Dean.” There’s something strange in his voice when he says that. “He was devastated without you.”
Neither of them say anything much for a while after that, because what on earth do you say to an Angel of the Lord telling you your brother was a mess when you were in Hell?
“He was getting better though,” Cas says, eventually. “He was with Lisa, and I think he was getting better.” He’s looking at Sam closely, but Sam can’t help the confusion showing on his face, because if he was getting better, then - “Then he started to hear you. Your soul - crying out, for help. You were in a lot of pain.”
He doesn’t have a name for the emotion that surges from deep in his stomach then, something a lot like horror and shame and pain he can’t speak how it’s choking his airway.
“It’s not your fault - you couldn’t have helped it.”
He almost laughs at that, because he was gone, finally gone from Dean’s life, and Dean was getting on, moving on - and now he’s back again, a burden Dean never even wanted, never had the choice to want or not want. “How - how did he do it?” He finally asks, when he finds his voice.
“I don’t know - but he appears to have been possessed by part of your soul,” and if Cas says anything after that, he doesn’t hear it, because there’s only one word in his mind, echoing infinitely like on a very bad loop - possessed, possessed, possessed -
“I need to - I need to get it out,” he chokes out, pleading, willing Cas to have a solution, willing anyone to have a solution. “He - I can’t - I need to get it out, destroy it, whatever -”
Predictably, Cas is silent. “It will hurt,” he says, finally. “A lot. But you and Dean are soulmates - Dean’s soul recognises yours as his own, he doesn’t know. It’s your soul that is tethered to the part that it still misses.” He pauses. “It will be like severing a part of you, Sam.”
“I don’t care,” Sam says, desperately. “I don’t care - get it out. Please. Just.”
“Alright,” Cas says, after what seems like an eternity, and then he reaches in.
---
The door slams open with such force Sam looks up from his pain-filled stupor, startled. Dean appears behind the door, and his eyes are frantic. A moment later, Dean’s hands are on his shoulders, and he’s shaking Sam like a salt shaker. Or a pepper shaker. “What,” he growls, right into Sam’s face, and Dean really needs to have a drink - water, not alcohol, “the fuck did you do?”
Sam takes a moment to sort through the sentence - six words, one profanity - and Dean swears again, a hand leaving Sam to clutch at his chest. He seems to be in discomfort, but Sam can’t see Dean too well through the haze, which, speaking of - why is there haze in the room?
Dean makes a sound again, releases Sam to sit on the bed beside his, and then pain hits Sam like an anvil - on his head too, because then he’s out.
He wakes up to complete silence and an ache in his chest he thinks he’s going to have to grow used to. And Dean staring stonily at him from his bed. “Um,” he says.
“What did you do,” Dean says, still stonily.
“Nothing,” Sam replies, honestly, because it was Cas who did anything at all, and Sam just lay there trying not to pass out. He notices Dean’s hand touching his over the bedspread, remembers what Cas said, and pulls back a little.
Dean is staring at the space between their hands when he looks up, and the expression on his face is bitter and angry and somehow almost - sad - at the same time. He stands up. Sam really shouldn’t feel the loss so absolutely ridiculously but he does. Then - “Let’s try that again, Sam - ” with the voice he reserves for monsters who’ve hurt little kids or the equivalent, like, say, his little brother, “what in the ever-loving fuck did you do? And don’t say nothing, because I went out to get fucking Advil for your fucking headache, and look what I came back with.” He spreads his arms, and Sam squints, because there’s nothing in his hands, as far as he can see, which isn’t very far - what with the killer headache that Dean’s right about. “Nothing,” Dean spits, and he has got to be really pissed, “because you did something, and I want to know what the fuck I ran three red lights for.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Sam says, then hurries on before Dean decides to then and there murder his flesh and blood - even if it doesn’t seem quite half as terrible as it did initially. “I just. ” He pauses. “It’s just the soul - the soul thing,” he says. “I had - I had some of my soul in your body, so I just - I just took it out. Well, Cas did, actually - ”
“You wanted to take your soul out,” Dean says, kind of faintly, and Sam can’t tell if it’s a question or a statement or quite what at all.
No, he wants to say, because he didn’t - doesn’t, but it’s done and he asked for it and why the fuck isn’t Dean happy now? “Yeah,” he finally says. “Yeah, I guess.” Then, because Dean is still silent and he hates it, “It’s all good now.”
Dean’s head snaps up like Sam had just announced he wants Dean to sell the Impala, and then he huffs a laugh. “Yeah,” he says. A pause. “Go to sleep, Sam,” quietly, and Sam doesn’t hear Dean’s voice for the next three days after.
four;; then my body is haunted
His hands are shaking so hard he’s barely able to pick the lock on the abandoned trailer Sam has finally picked to hole up in, his head rushing with so much blood it feels like there’s only static, and then -
In the corner, pulled in impossibly small, bloodied and shaking so hard the entire trailer is shaking as well-
“Sammy.” Like something had just dislodged the lump in his throat, slipped the one word he needed back into him - “Sammy.”
His brother’s head snaps up, eyes immediately zeroing on him, and at that moment, Dean’s world is righted, nudged back into track, pulled back into focus.
“Hiya, little brother,” he rasps, and takes the few strides to reach him, to brush back his shaggy mane, to touch -
And Sam recoils. Flinches back, and the first word out of his mouth isn’t Dean, isn’t even hey, is - “No.”
Dean stops short. Swallows. “Sam - ”
“No,” Sam’s rambling now, muttering more to himself than to Dean, “no - no, meant to get away, you weren’t - no, don’t touch me!”
“I’m not - ” Raising his hands, stepping back, ignoring the amulet-shaped burn on his chest that’s only aching harder. “I’m - Sam, Sammy, it’s me. It’s Dean.”
“Don’t touch me,” Sam says again, like it’s a mantra, like he doesn’t even hear Dean, and it’s too much.
“I’m not... Sam, I’m not going to hurt you,” he pleads, and takes a step towards Sam.
Who’s stopping his muttering to pull a bitchface at Dean- “Not hurt me,” he says, petulant. “He said, he made sure - ” And then he’s scrabbling at his shirt, pulling it aside to bare the skin on his chest, a brand, a symbol, amidst ruined skin.
Dean stops then, takes a step back, and folds his legs, sitting Indian-style across Sam. “Who said what, Sam?” It’s a throwback to when they’d move into unfurnished apartments for a couple months at a time, and had nothing more than mattresses for furniture.
“He branded me,” Sam’s saying now. “He promised me, he promised me I’d never have you. He promised I’d - I’d suck the soul out of you, because mine wasn’t good enough, wasn’t complete, and he’s never lied to me - he promised. He said.”
“You’d what?” Because whatever bullshit he’s ever heard, this was among the most ridiculous.
“You need to get away from me,” Sam’s decided, trying to push himself up on shaky arms. “He promised.”
Those two words break something inside Dean, and he’s standing, trying to ignore the pain, fear and relief warring in Sam’s eyes. And then he’s inches from Sam, and it’s like shushing a fretful Sammy, except he can’t touch, can’t ground himself, can’t soothe the burning in his chest, can’t soothe his baby brother, who’s screaming at Dean and trying to push himself through the walls of the trailer away, away, away. “Shut up, Sam,” he says, finally, choking the words out because nothing else is working and hearing his brother scream just fucking hurts, alright?
Sam stops, blessedly, stops. He’s looking up at him, eyes bloodshot, hair matted with blood and sweat, mouth still stained with demon blood, and he stinks, but right at that moment, looking up at him like maybe he’s the only salvation left, Dean’s brother has never been more beloved a sight.
“He promised, Sam?” Quietly, because just because it’s hurting Sammy doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt him - if that could even make sense to start with. “You’d trust him over your brother, Sammy? Over me?” And then - “Look,” because the amulet beneath his shirt is threatening to burn a hole through his chest, he pulls the fabric aside, baring the scorch mark from where the amulet burned it in, in the last part of the ritual, twin to the one under the brand on Sam’s own. “I have one too. I didn’t mean to hurt you, Sammy - I just... I just wanted to bring you home.” He moves back then, but keeps his eyes on Sam.
The long throat works, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Still?” A hand, trembling, brushes subconsciously at his mouth.
Dean swallows against the flood of emotion threatening to burst forth from his lips. “Yeah, little brother,” he whispers, voice rough. “Always.”
“Promise?” Small now, hesitant - hopeful.
“Cross my heart,” Dean says, daring to crack a smile, and catches himself an armful of baby brother, hands fumbling with fabric, one finally settling over Sam’s heart, the other pressing against the pulse throbbing underneath his fingers. The burning in his chest eases. Sam falls asleep like that, cradled in his big brother’s lap, and Dean - at last - ceases being a living corpse.
---
Sam wakes up with the smell of Dean’s clothes surrounding him, leaning against what his mind immediately supplies as big brother. It’s when he’s taking the second breath, greedily, that realisation drops on him like a ton of bricks, and with it, hot, humiliated rage, because he had promised, he had sworn -
Dean - no, Lucifer - gives a startled yelp when Sam shoves him away and scrambles to the farthest corner of the room, a filthy trailer this time, it seems, and somehow, Lucifer doesn’t follow, just sits half-sprawled on the ground, staring at him. He’s good, Sam thinks, like he’s been practising. “You promised,” he says, trying to ignore the painful pull in his chest towards the Devil in the middle of the room, trying to forget the scent still lingering faintly on his clothes, beneath the stench of sweat and blood. “You fucking promised.”
Dean - Lucifer - looks confused for a moment, then shakes his head, and everything - everything - about him is so much big brother he can’t help but wretchedly, wretchedly want. “Hey,” and that’s the only thing to give it away, because Dean’s voice is never like that, never hoarse to the point of cracking, and he’s stopped talking to Sam that way for years now, soft and vulnerable, like it’s Sammy, like Sam’s a kid. “It’s just me - it’s Dean.”
He’s trying too hard, Sam thinks, and pulls a sneer on his lips, then immediately wishes he hadn’t, because Dean - Lucifer - takes one look at his ugly, twisted face, and his eyes soften with so much - so much love that Sam almost crawls back toward him and begs for his next punishment, because this, having this in front of him and never to be had again is so much worse than anything else Lucifer has done. “No,” he spits, his voice pathetic and shaking, “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to put all this on me, and take him away, and break your promise.”
“What promise?” Lucifer asks, still without a smirk, still soft, still hoarse, still Dean, and Sam almost breaks down then and there.
“You’re not Dean,” Sam says, and he doesn’t know who he’s trying to convince. “I gave you everything so you wouldn’t be Dean. You don’t - you’re not Dean.”
There’s a pause, and Lucifer laughs then, and Sam still startles, because it’s a soft sound, sad and tired but not cruel. “When I was in Hell, you know what broke me after thirty years?”
“You’re not Dean,” Sam mutters, watches as Dean - Lucifer - rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t know where he’s going with that.
“Alastair came in for the seventh time as you,” Lucifer says, “and I almost hated those puppy eyes of yours - almost thought I’d gouge them out - ”
“Dean wouldn’t,” Sam blurts out, because he doesn’t want to hear this - doesn’t want to hear Lucifer talk about how much Dean really hates him, underneath all the layers of caretaker and big brother and look out for Sammy Dad put in place.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t,” he says, quietly. “But he kept coming in as you, and every time he’d watch me get tortured, and then he’d walk out there. I knew it wasn’t you, but I thought - if you did that one more time, if he did that one more time… maybe someday I would look into your eyes and I’d hate you. So when Alastair came in for the seventh time as you, and picked up the scalpel, I said yes.”
“You’re not Dean,” Sam says, but he doesn’t know anymore.
“Yeah, Sammy, I am,” Lucifer - Dean says, and his voice isn’t coming from the middle of the room, is just right there, and Sam looks up, and Dean is right there -
Which means everything - everything, the running away, the demon blood, the killing people with his powers - oh God, the killing people - “Go away,” he snaps.
The lines on Dean’s forehead deepen. “Sammy...”
“Go away!” And then there’s a sickening thud, because Dean isn’t right there anymore, he’s lying across the several feet to the other side of the trailer, and no, no, no no no -
Dean just lies there for a few moments, still like death, and then he’s moving, looking up, and Sam’s twisting away before he can see Dean’s face, because he’s got demon and the Devil in him, and there’s no way Dean will want him back now that he’s seen what Sam can do, what Sam has done - “That what you really want?”
Sam swallows, doesn’t say a word.
“Look at me, Sam.”
Sam. Not Sammy, not little brother. Not Dean’s brother anymore.
“Sammy, look at me.”
“Not Sammy,” Sam says, and the words feel like knives in his throat and poison in his mouth. “Not your little brother.”
Dean sighs. “You’ll always be my little brother,” he says, but there’s a smile in his voice, and rage bubbles in Sam’s chest, unwanted and irrational but there and overpowering -
“No, I’m not,” he spits, and finally looks up at Dean, almost reveling at the fear in his face, because maybe this is his destiny, and if so he’s done with running away from it. “I’m a monster, some - some blood-sucking vampire, just like you said. Just like you predicted. You’re right, Dean - you were fucking right all this time - ”
“Shut the fuck up,” Dean snarls, and it’s the moment it disappears that Sam realises it’s not fear on Dean’s face. He’s crossing the room and fisting his hands in Sam’s dirty shirts, and he’s shaking so hard it makes Sam’s shaking seem mild by comparison. “Shut the fuck up,” he’s growling, even though Sam isn’t saying anything, “He doesn’t get to put these - he doesn’t get to lie to you, I never said - ”
It’s almost an unintelligible roar that comes out of Sam’s mouth then, and his hands are in Dean’s shirt and he’s throwing himself at Dean, grinning fierce and bloody at the breath rushing out of Dean on impact. “Yes you did!” He’s almost screaming now, because fuck him, fuck him - he never wanted Sam and Sam just -
The thump as Dean’s head hits the floor stuns him for a moment, but then Dean is on him again, and it’s pummelling fists and flailing kicks, until Dean’s skull hits the opposite wall with a crack, and he doesn’t move for a few moments.
The sound clears the rage-driven fog in Sam’s mind for a moment, enough for him to hate himself just a little bit more, and when Dean starts moving, he shakes his head resolutely. “Get out,” he says, dully. “I’ll hurt you. I’ll kill you.”
Dean huffs a laugh, but doesn’t move. “Well, I guess you’ll have to try and we’ll have to see then, Sammy.”
“Don’t,” he snaps, harsh - desperate. “I’ll kill you. You know I will. You need to get out.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean says, nonchalant and cocky as only he can be. “If you want to kill me, you only have to try.”
His fist hits the floor before he even knows he’s lifted it. He feels his bones crack, and sees a flash of emotion - fear, probably - pass over Dean’s eyes, but the floor also gives way underneath his fist. “I don’t fucking want to kill you, Dean,” he seethes, and with the power zinging under his fingertips, in his veins, he’s never felt more helpless.
“Then I’m not going anywhere,” Dean says, earnest now. “If the blood wants mine so bad, it’ll just have to go through you to get to me.”
He’s sure Dean doesn’t make sense, but his head his throbbing and his chest is burning, and Dean is so very far away. “I don’t... You said I was a blood-sucking vampire, you said you were gonna end me.”
Dean’s brow furrows. “Is that what he told you, Sammy?”
“He - Lucifer?” The rage, again, demon blood-strengthened, but Sam pushes it down ruthlessly, because tussling as they were hasn’t answered any of his questions. “You - you’re putting this on Lucifer?” He laughs then, an ugly sound, because wow, fuck Dean.
Dean’s staring at him like he’s grown two heads, or better yet - like he’s a blood-sucking demon vampire - and Sam resists the sudden subversive urge to bury his fingers in his brother’s throat. “I’m not putting anything on the Devil, Sam,” he says, sharply. “I’ve never said it, I’d never say it.”
Sam laughs again, too tired to play the game. “Yeah. Well, I heard it. Doesn’t make a difference now - I mean, you’re right.”
“You’re not a monster.”
“You wouldn’t be saying that if you saw the people I killed,” Sam says.
“I did,” Dean says, then almost like a joke, “Attaboy, Sammy.” There’s a moment of stunned silence, because - what? - and then Dean’s speaking again. “You’re not a monster, Sam. I never thought it, ever. Never said it either - but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry I ever made you think you were.” He seems to think that’s the end of the conversation, because he stands up and starts to walk towards the door.
“Where’re you going?” The question comes out too fast, too nervous, and Sam ducks his head when Dean turns to look at him, feeling all of five years old again.
“You wanted me to get out,” Dean says, his voice carefully even. Then, slowly - “Sammy, do you want me to get out?”
Sam stops short. What the hell is he supposed to say to that? No, please stay, don’t ever go away? “Better that way,” he finally mumbles.
“For who, Sammy?” Deceptively casual. “Because I’d rather stay if it’s all the same to you.”
“I’ll hurt you,” Sam says, voice small. “The withdrawal - the blood... You saw.”
Dean pauses. “Not that I’m an expert, Sam, but it’s been three days - I don’t think you’re going to start a murder spree now.”
“It doesn’t have to be for you to get hurt.”
---
Sam is right. Forty minutes in, and nothing Dean does can stop Sam from shaking, or sweating so much he doesn’t know how Sam even has any more fluids inside of him, despite the bottles of water with which Dean plies him, because Sam throws them right up, tinged red, and then turns away, shaking any touch off even though Dean has already noticed that he breathes easier when they’re touching. He recognises shame when he sees it though, and hates himself a little more for not finding Sam earlier.
And then it starts. He falls asleep - five minutes maximum, looking at his watch - and wakes up to Sam’s screams. He’s clutching at his thigh like it’s been severed or impaled, and then he jerks again, and begins to gurgle, choking, his hand leaving his thigh to grab at his own throat. Dean is starting to worry that Sam will choke himself out when Sam drops both hands and resumes breathing. “Fuck you,” he hisses, and Dean barely has time to realise that Sam is glaring at him before he’s thrown to the wall, and seriously, he’s really fucking sick of getting thrown into walls.
Sam looks as surprised as Dean is when Dean looks up at him though, and then he’s screaming again, hands brushing at his chest, his arms, his entire body, and then fingers digging in - “Get them off, please - get them off, get them off, get them off - off off off off off - ” and almost worse than the screaming, a choked-off sob. He’s curling into himself, huddled in a corner, eyes darting between Dean and a spot in the middle of the room, wide, fearful, no hint of recognition in them.
Then - “Dean?” Small, hopeful, trembling - and Dean almost answers before he blinks sleep-deprived, blurry eyes to see that Sam isn’t looking at him. “Dean, please. I’m sorry - please. Please.” Liquid hazel, puppy eyes - blinking back tears, and then so much worse than the screams, worse than choking himself near into oblivion, he watches the hope drain from those eyes, and Sam nods, once. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. I’m - I’m sorry, Dean.” He nods again, eyes downcast, and then - a jerk, flinching like from something physical. Dean watches as his baby brother’s lips turn downwards, and - “He promised. No Dean, Michael. You can’t...”
---
“You may as well kill me straight out.”
“You’re a coward. I mean, seriously, why’d you get me out anyway? So you’d have some company, but you’re such a coward you just won’t accept that this is me. I’m part demon, Dean - you might as well get that in your head - you starve that part of me, all of me dies. But you just can’t accept fate, can you? You and all of Dad’s rules - you can’t think for yourself. Yeah, well - when this is over and I’m dead, at least you’ll know for sure this time it’s your fucking fault, because you’re a coward. Your little brother is a monster, Dean - you may as well accept it already.”
“You know my first thought when I got out? I thought - well, first I thought, it took you that fucking long? Because seriously, half a year. Half an actual fucking year, Dean. But then you know what I thought? I thought - better get away before he comes.” A laugh. “Yeah, because I knew this would happen. You always hold me back, Dean. Whatever I want, everything - you always hold me back. I just wanted to get away, and you wouldn’t fucking let me.”
“Fuck you, Dean. Fuck. You.”
---
“Dean.” Soft, contrite. Hoarse. Dean picks up a bottle, slips a hand behind Sam’s neck and head, and tilts it over Sam’s mouth. A few moments of eager lapping, and then he pulls the bottle away. Rubs the sweaty mop of hair briefly with a thumb, and then moves back away. The last time he had stayed close, Sam had swung at him, getting one over his left eye, and then proceeded to scream himself hoarse. He doesn’t know why exactly he’s keeping away - if it’s because he doesn’t want Sam to scream himself any hoarser, or because he just can’t stomach the reminder that his brother can’t stand to be near him. Maybe that makes him the worst brother on earth, but at least that’s nothing he doesn’t know already, or that Sam hasn’t already told him.
It’s when his gaze is wandering that he notices the little aborted movements Sam’s making, like he’s trying to stop himself from moving towards Dean.
Their eyes meet, and for a moment Dean can read the want and the shame in Sam’s eyes, and then he’s ducking his head again, tucking his hands in between his legs and his chest, like if he hides them Dean won’t remember what he just saw.
When Dean stands up, Sam flinches, and that’s enough, because staying away, doing anything - selfish or selfless, was never to hurt Sam, and he’s done with Sam thinking otherwise. “Shh,” he says, like he’s calming a spooked animal, Standing) beside him, Dean rubs his hand gently on the crown of Sam’s head. Sam shudders, full-body, and then he’s so still he’s barely even breathing. Dean lets his hand drop to Sam’s neck, thumb brushing over the stubble on Sam’s jaw. “Shh, little brother,” and Sam makes a noise like a whimper, pushes his cheek into Dean’s touch.
Sam’s skin is wet and fast growing sticky beneath his thumb and he’s taking deep, shuddering breaths, and he smells really fucking bad, but Dean just presses down until Sam gets the hint and buries his face in Dean’s neck. A wayward hand finds the middle of Dean’s chest where the mark from the amulet still is, and presses down. Dean doesn’t think he knows he’s doing it, but when he puts his hand on the exact same place on Sam’s chest gingerly, mindful of the lattice of cuts and burns there, Sam whines and pushes up into his touch. Half a minute passes, and then, stutteringly, “I-I’m sorry, Dean. I’m s-sorry. Please.”
Dean shuts his eyes then, love for this kid - his kid - grinding down so hard on his heart he feels he might suffocate from the pressure. “Yeah,” he chokes out. “We’re okay, Sammy. We’re good, little brother. You’re okay. We’re okay.”
Sam is silent for a moment, and then Dean feels his heart thumping faster beneath his palm, and Sam’s hand on Dean’s chest tightens into a fist over his shirt. He takes a quick, pained breath, and then another one, then - “I want it, Dean,” said so falteringly and stammeringly Dean has to take a quick breath of his own. Sam must misinterpret it as fear or dismay, however, because he’s pushing away, hand in Dean’s shirt flexing to release - “I’m sorry - ” Dean quickly snakes his hand still on Sam’s neck down and presses it right back, pulls Sam back in.
“We’re okay,” he breathes, when he can. “I’ve got you, brother. We’re going to get through this, you and me, yeah? I’m not going anywhere. You’re going to be just fine.”
Sam just moans into his skin, the sound distressed and helpless, and Dean tightens his arms, takes his hand off Sam’s chest just long enough to hoist him up and pull him into his lap. It must look stupid, two grown men huddled together in a bizarre position - but this has always been their life, and Dean can’t find it in him to wish it different. If that makes him a little twisted, so be it. Sam whines again, a choked sound, and presses in closer, until the backs of their hands are on each other, crushed together so hard it’s hurting him and must be hurting Sam, like Sam is trying to hide within Dean. “I - I need, D-Dean, I need - ”
“Shh,” he whispers brokenly, and on a desperate impulse turns his head, presses his lips into the closest part of Sam, hard. “Shh.” His face is hot with too much - too much everything, and if it grows wet, nobody will know that it’s not just Sam’s sweat.
They shake, together, from the force of Sam’s tremors, and Dean wonders if anything could have torn him from his brother’s side if they’d done this the very first time.
---
Sam is really fucking heavy, is what Dean thinks as he pulls Sam’s arm around his shoulders, starts half-dragging, half-carrying him to the car. Still shivering, but only because December is already on them, and it’s really Sammy’s own fault that he decided to run for nearly an entire month instead of staying overnight in the cemetery to wait for him. The memory of that still stings though, like acid on an open wound, far more than it warrants with Sam leaning pliant on his side, so Dean drops the thought and concentrates on moving Sam forward.
His body is shaky from the exertion when he gets Sam into the passenger seat of the Impala. At least Sam is all but unconscious to the world, so Dean threads his fingers through Sam’s (honestly filthy) hair, leaves a well-placed pinky on the pulse under Sam’s jaw, and tries not to think too much about how the weight of Sam’s head on his thigh feels like coming home.
He checks them in at the first motel they come across, stares for a moment at Sam’s face, lax with exhaustion, before lugging their things from the trunk into the room. The protective sigils drawn with clear glue stick, along with the salt, are second nature, and then he’s opening the passenger door where Sam is still asleep. “Hey,” he says, voice still hoarse - from disuse or exhaustion or all the shouting he’s been doing, “wake up, Sam.”
Sam shifts a little, and his eyes stay shut, but Dean knows he’s awake, and he can’t begrudge his brother a few seconds to gather what reserves he has left. “We’re here?” Sam finally says, and if possible, his voice is even worse than Dean’s, all but wrecked to pieces.
“Yeah, wherever here is,” Dean says, then pats Sam’s thigh twice, quickly. “C’mon, it’s freezing out here - we gotta get you cleaned up.”
That gets Sam moving, the clean freak, and Dean grabs whatever part of Sam has the fewest injuries and pulls him up.
They move like old men, and by the time they get into the room, Sam has already evidently forgotten about cleaning up, starting towards the bed. Dean makes a noise and steers them away towards the bathroom instead. It shouldn’t be this easy, undressing his grown brother like a two-year-old, but exhaustion seems to have made Sam forget pride and his age along with it, leaning heavily on Dean and squirming impatiently to get in the water.
He washes them both efficiently, because Sam seems disinclined to do anything but stand under the hot spray, still leaning on Dean, and he would far rather get out before his own knees decide to buckle under the weight of them both. Sam jolts when he touches the ruined, abused skin in the center of his chest riddled with a truly sadistic web of cuts and burns, and Dean shushes him, removing his hand from the tiled wall beside him to lay it flat against Sam’s back. He stays stoically silent when Dean washes the grime from the other cuts on his body though, as though pain hasn’t even registered, and Dean doesn’t know which is more heartbreaking.
Drying Sam off is easy, because Sam has already fallen half-asleep on his feet, but patching up his wounds takes another two hours. Sam wakes up for that, ironically enough, dark eyes tracking his every move listlessly, opaque and unreadable. He makes a noise in his throat when Dean finally reaches the area on his chest, dabbing the cuts with disinfectant. Little help they’ll do now, scabbed over and already leaking pus that Dean carefully wipes away, and Dean has decoded enough of Sam’s noises to know that it’s not pain in his voice but need. On a whim, he presses a palm over the skin, and watches as Sam swallows hard, eyes slamming shut and face turning away. Dean only catches a glimpse of wetness on the corners of Sam’s eyes before he stands up abruptly, twisting away from the sight, hating himself more than ever.
He doesn’t see the look Sam casts his way, ashamed longing mixed in with soul-deep despondency, before his eyes drift shut.
---
Sam wakes up to an empty room, and there is no sign of Dean anywhere in the room from what he can ascertain from his vantage point in bed. The fierce sense of dejection that balloons within his ribcage is startling, like his lungs and heart and kidneys have been crushed against the too-small cage that is his body. His tear glands are just reacting then, when he finds his face suddenly wet and his breath hitching.
It’s no surprise then when he misses the flutter of wings that herald Castiel’s appearance. “Dean isn’t here,” Cas says, rather pointlessly, then - “I’m glad to see you out of the Cage, Sam.”
For a moment, Sam even hates Cas, because he wants Dean, and he wants Dean to be glad to see Sam out of the Cage, to fucking act like it, but he just swipes a hand over his face, and nods.
There’s a moment of silence and Sam almost laughs at the awkwardness. Good old Cas.
“Yeah,” he finally says. “You’re not dead either, huh - with the... with the - ”
“Lucifer killed me,” Cas says, “but I was resurrected by God.”
“Good,” Sam says, and means it. “I didn’t - I wish I had - before...”
“You overcame Lucifer for Dean.” There’s something strange in his voice when he says that. “He was devastated without you.”
Neither of them say anything much for a while after that, because what on earth do you say to an Angel of the Lord telling you your brother was a mess when you were in Hell?
“He was getting better though,” Cas says, eventually. “He was with Lisa, and I think he was getting better.” He’s looking at Sam closely, but Sam can’t help the confusion showing on his face, because if he was getting better, then - “Then he started to hear you. Your soul - crying out, for help. You were in a lot of pain.”
He doesn’t have a name for the emotion that surges from deep in his stomach then, something a lot like horror and shame and pain he can’t speak how it’s choking his airway.
“It’s not your fault - you couldn’t have helped it.”
He almost laughs at that, because he was gone, finally gone from Dean’s life, and Dean was getting on, moving on - and now he’s back again, a burden Dean never even wanted, never had the choice to want or not want. “How - how did he do it?” He finally asks, when he finds his voice.
“I don’t know - but he appears to have been possessed by part of your soul,” and if Cas says anything after that, he doesn’t hear it, because there’s only one word in his mind, echoing infinitely like on a very bad loop - possessed, possessed, possessed -
“I need to - I need to get it out,” he chokes out, pleading, willing Cas to have a solution, willing anyone to have a solution. “He - I can’t - I need to get it out, destroy it, whatever -”
Predictably, Cas is silent. “It will hurt,” he says, finally. “A lot. But you and Dean are soulmates - Dean’s soul recognises yours as his own, he doesn’t know. It’s your soul that is tethered to the part that it still misses.” He pauses. “It will be like severing a part of you, Sam.”
“I don’t care,” Sam says, desperately. “I don’t care - get it out. Please. Just.”
“Alright,” Cas says, after what seems like an eternity, and then he reaches in.
---
The door slams open with such force Sam looks up from his pain-filled stupor, startled. Dean appears behind the door, and his eyes are frantic. A moment later, Dean’s hands are on his shoulders, and he’s shaking Sam like a salt shaker. Or a pepper shaker. “What,” he growls, right into Sam’s face, and Dean really needs to have a drink - water, not alcohol, “the fuck did you do?”
Sam takes a moment to sort through the sentence - six words, one profanity - and Dean swears again, a hand leaving Sam to clutch at his chest. He seems to be in discomfort, but Sam can’t see Dean too well through the haze, which, speaking of - why is there haze in the room?
Dean makes a sound again, releases Sam to sit on the bed beside his, and then pain hits Sam like an anvil - on his head too, because then he’s out.
He wakes up to complete silence and an ache in his chest he thinks he’s going to have to grow used to. And Dean staring stonily at him from his bed. “Um,” he says.
“What did you do,” Dean says, still stonily.
“Nothing,” Sam replies, honestly, because it was Cas who did anything at all, and Sam just lay there trying not to pass out. He notices Dean’s hand touching his over the bedspread, remembers what Cas said, and pulls back a little.
Dean is staring at the space between their hands when he looks up, and the expression on his face is bitter and angry and somehow almost - sad - at the same time. He stands up. Sam really shouldn’t feel the loss so absolutely ridiculously but he does. Then - “Let’s try that again, Sam - ” with the voice he reserves for monsters who’ve hurt little kids or the equivalent, like, say, his little brother, “what in the ever-loving fuck did you do? And don’t say nothing, because I went out to get fucking Advil for your fucking headache, and look what I came back with.” He spreads his arms, and Sam squints, because there’s nothing in his hands, as far as he can see, which isn’t very far - what with the killer headache that Dean’s right about. “Nothing,” Dean spits, and he has got to be really pissed, “because you did something, and I want to know what the fuck I ran three red lights for.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Sam says, then hurries on before Dean decides to then and there murder his flesh and blood - even if it doesn’t seem quite half as terrible as it did initially. “I just. ” He pauses. “It’s just the soul - the soul thing,” he says. “I had - I had some of my soul in your body, so I just - I just took it out. Well, Cas did, actually - ”
“You wanted to take your soul out,” Dean says, kind of faintly, and Sam can’t tell if it’s a question or a statement or quite what at all.
No, he wants to say, because he didn’t - doesn’t, but it’s done and he asked for it and why the fuck isn’t Dean happy now? “Yeah,” he finally says. “Yeah, I guess.” Then, because Dean is still silent and he hates it, “It’s all good now.”
Dean’s head snaps up like Sam had just announced he wants Dean to sell the Impala, and then he huffs a laugh. “Yeah,” he says. A pause. “Go to sleep, Sam,” quietly, and Sam doesn’t hear Dean’s voice for the next three days after.
four;; then my body is haunted