FIC: Broken Promises 1/3, fandom: SPN (Sam/Dean, NC-17)
Masterpost
1/3
“No!” The word was painfully retched from his throat. It didn’t matter how many times he saw Dean die, or held his lifeless body; the dead weight of Dean in his arms hurt, cutting him deeper each time, until Sam couldn’t breathe. This time it was different, worse. There was no waking up from this: no starting the day over again, no Trickster. Sam’s breath hitched before coming in shallow pants as he zeroed in on Dean's eyes, open and unseeing. Pain spread throughout Sam’s body and he stumbled over his words as he cried out, “No, Dean…” He didn’t bother to stop the tears and cursed himself that he hadn’t stopped the deal. He had promised Dean, and he had failed.
It wasn’t supposed to go like this.
“Sam?”
Sam heard Bobby but couldn’t turn around or respond. He didn’t want to face Bobby, and see the anguish, pity, sorrow, or accusation that would be reflected in his eyes.
“Sam…”
He felt Bobby jostle him, and try to pull Dean away from him, but Sam held on, frantically shaking his head refusing to let go.
“Damn it, Sam!”
He felt a grip in his hair as Bobby brutally yanked, forcing him to look up, away from Dean. “God damn it, boy, open your eyes! It worked! It’s working, he’s alive! Dean’s alive.”
Barely registering Bobby’s jumbled words, Sam stilled, afraid to move even though he had to know. Painfully slow, his fingers slid up under Dean’s jaw until he came to where a pulse point would be. He felt nothing.
He shook his head, his eyes clamped shut.
“It’s shallow, but there… it’s there. Dean’s breathing.” One hand fastened over his shoulder, holding him in place, and Bobby grabbed and squeezed his jaw hard with the other. “Sam, look at me.”
Slowly Sam opened his eyes and deadlocked with Bobby’s, surprised when he saw the worry and determination that was fixated on him. This time Bobby talked slower, enunciating like Sam was six years old and didn’t understand. “It worked! They got his soul, but we got his body. We got to bandage him up and get the hell out of here now. Have to get Dean safe before they realize he’s not physically dead-You understand me?”
Confused, Sam looked down at Dean, his palm cradling Dean’s face. His brother’s eyes were still open, with a look that reflected Dean’s last thoughts: terror, disbelief, and sorrow.
That was Sam’s fault. He had put that look on Dean’s face, had promised Dean he’d save him and he didn’t.
Bobby was wrong; Dean was dead.
Gently, Sam brushed his fingers over Dean’s face, closing his eyes before he moved just enough to allow Bobby in closer. It was enough as Bobby took over, moving fast and efficiently, Bobby started to clean and dress Dean’s wounds.
Sam thought it was pointless; he didn’t believe Bobby. But Bobby was right about one thing-they needed to get out of there. If that meant he had to let Bobby bandage up Dean’s body? Then he’d allow it. He didn’t see the point of losing time arguing. Once Bobby finished, Sam bent down, gently lifted Dean into his arms and stood.
~*~*~*~
Sam stayed focused after he picked up Dean and made his way toward the car, Bobby following closely behind him. In a roundabout, one-sided way, they argued. Bobby didn’t want him to drive and suggested they could come back for the Impala and allow the family that had survived Lilith to keep it hidden.
Sam shook his head, flatly dismissing the idea. To leave the Impala behind-it would have been like leaving Dean behind: something he’d never consider. Bobby might not understand, but Sam did, knew Dean would kill him if he left his baby behind. Sam adjusted his hold on Dean and made it obvious that the answer was no when he opened the car door, and gently laid Dean out in the backseat.
Sam purposely ignored Bobby’s offer to drive and got in the car, started the engine, and waited.
In the end, Bobby was left cursing the Winchester name as he stomped off to his own truck and climbed in.
The drive back was uneventful after Sam had insisted on driving straight through. Not that he actually told Bobby that, but Bobby quickly got the message when Sam refused to stop for anything other than to fill up on gas.
By the time he pulled into the junkyard, it was close to noon. Sam cut the engine and just sat there staring out of the window, afraid to look behind and see Dean’s body. The heat from the afternoon sun quickly magnified in the confined space, enough so that sweat started to form on his brow. Sam wondered if sitting there waiting for Bobby was the greatest plan, not with a dead… he couldn’t finish the thought.
Needing a distraction, Sam squeezed the handle and rolled his window down breathing in the cooler air.
It didn’t help. Sam sat there suddenly nervous and not sure of what he was supposed to do. Even after everything with the Trickster, remembering the details of each death-not once had it gotten easier.
However, it was that last time, when Sam didn’t wake up to repeat the day and had held Dean’s lifeless body in his arms, that taunted his dreams. He’d felt the wetness when Dean’s blood pooled and saturated his clothes. He had waited but the Trickster didn’t come, didn’t fix it, forcing Sam to go on without Dean. The weighted memory of being forced him to bury and burn his brother’s body. For six months the only thing that kept him going was hunting down the sonofabitch.
Sam couldn’t shake the memory. Though the pain had eased a fraction when he got Dean back-but now he had no one to turn to, no Trickster to save Dean from the pit of Hell.
Slowly, Sam replayed Bobby’s words, ‘He’s alive! Dean’s alive’, but Sam refused to listen and shook his head, closing his eyes and trying to shut off Bobby’s voice. Instead, Bobby’s voice boomed inside his mind. ‘God damn it, boy, open your eyes! It worked! It’s working, he’s alive! Dean’s alive.’
Unable to stop himself, Sam opened his eyes to chance a glance at Dean in the rearview mirror, terrified that it really had only been Bobby’s wishful thinking.
Dean was right where Sam left him, stretched out on the back seat, staring up at nothing. It took Sam a moment to notice if anything was different. He gawked at Dean’s ridiculously long lashes… He could have sworn Dean’s eyes had been closed.
Long minutes passed before Sam’s gaze caught the movement-Dean blinked.
“Dean?” Sam swallowed hard then fumbled with his door, and stepped out to open the back door.
Sam crouched down and climbed in next to Dean, and called out again, “Dean?” Sam held his breath, waiting, but Dean didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge Sam in any way. Then Sam saw it-Dean blinked again. Bobby was right, it’d worked. Dean was alive.
In a rush Sam grabbed Dean, crushing his body to his chest, his body shaking in relief.
Finally Sam exhaled and let Dean go as he scrambled out of the car. He had to get Dean inside. Gently, Sam maneuvered his brother from the backseat. He adjusted his grip and moved toward the house.
Sam’s heart beat faster as he felt the warmth of Dean’s body; he had expected Dean to be stiff and cold as rigor mortis set in. He was in awe that they had done it, and saved Dean.
After a year of putting up with Dean’s frantic worry that doing anything would somehow rescind his deal, it was clear to both of them that any research they did regarding the deal had to be kept from Dean. Before going to New Harmony, he and Bobby came up with a backup plan. It was a long shot, a spell that Bobby had discovered. The spell was activated and hung in wait around Dean’s neck in the form of his charm. At the time, it seemed like their only alternative until they could come up with something better; it was a harmless way to bide for more time. In essence, the spell protected Dean’s body from being pulled into final death, yet it allowed the contract to be fulfilled. Up until they had to leave they were still searching for a way to prevent the crossroad demon from claiming Dean’s soul.
It was the only spell they had come across that wouldn’t technically break the deal or his promise to Dean that he wouldn’t interfere to stop the deal, a promise he hated. Not that Sam wanted to die, and he had told Dean that, but facing Dean now, like this -again- Sam waivered. The truth was he’d rather be dead. Remembering all too clearly what his life had been without Dean-empty and lonely.
Sam softly kicked open the bedroom door, then shifted and shuffled in sideways as he made his way toward the bed, and gently settled Dean down in what was their old room.
Sam barely remembered when they actually met Bobby, but when they had, the bedroom was just an empty spare room. He knows they went there because Dad had been hurt. Both Pastor Jim and Caleb told their Dad that Bobby could be trusted, to go to him if John needed help. They were right. It wasn’t long after that before they started showing up on Bobby’s door step on a semi-regular basis. That same year, Bobby had surprised them with bunk beds. Then for years afterward, Dean always claimed the top, teasing that if Sam ever had an accident he wasn’t going to be the one to get a midnight shower. That usually started their roughhousing until Dad or Bobby put a stop to it. Years later, as they got bigger, Bobby unstacked and converted the beds into the twin beds as it stood now.
The elation he felt was quickly wearing off as Sam stepped back and looked down at his brother. His shoulders shook under the weight of emotions; he had seen Dean like this too many times.
Even recognizing that their plan worked did nothing to sooth the ache that his failure had only saved Dean’s body. Staring down into Dean’s face, Sam saw the body as it was - nothing more than an empty shell. Everything else -- his essence, everything that defined Dean, made him who he was, his soul, that aspect of Dean -- was gone. But Bobby was right, he was alive, and Sam would have to focus on that.
It was a last minute stroke of luck finding and using that particular spell; a gamble that had paid off.
At the time, when they faced Lilith, he hadn’t believed it had worked, and had watched helplessly as Dean was ravaged by invisible hellhounds. He saw the blood pooling, believed they were both going to die. It would end the way Dean had wanted; together they’d go out fighting.
However, something happened, the impossible. Something had stopped Lilith, or if what Ruby had hinted at was true and he had somehow pulled it off, he stopped Lilith. Though it didn’t really matter, he still failed Dean when the hellhounds had gotten to him. He had scrambled over to Dean’s side and it was the expression on Dean’s face that devastated Sam. His eyes were open, lifeless, full of terror - it was too much. It left Sam with no doubt of how badly he let Dean down.
Desperately, Sam clutched Dean’s hand, squeezing. Not that Sam really gives a shit about the why or how, only that the spell worked. Now he has time to concentrate, to find a way to bring Dean back. For that he was grateful, and squeezed Dean’s hand again.
That was also the one problem, time. Although he could focus on research, his biggest concern was exactly how much time they had before Dean lost his sanity. The answer was only a guess. One no one could answer with any certainty. The spell didn’t offer any specifics, especially regarding hell, but Bobby had speculated they only had a small window. That it was a gamble, warning if they waited too long what they’d bring back wouldn’t be Dean. Glancing at the shell that was his brother, Sam knew, he couldn’t allow Dean to stay like this nor could he leave him trapped in Hell. There was no choice; he had to find a way to free Dean’s soul from Hell.
At least this time Dean wasn’t here to force a promise Sam knew he’d no longer keep. Besides, the only promise Sam cared about now was the one he made to himself, that he’d do whatever it took to save Dean, and that was the only one he was determined to keep. Swearing that even if it cost Sam his life, he was going to succeed-he had to.
*~*~*~*
Swallowing, Sam finally let go of Dean’s hand when he noticed the blood soaking through the bandages covering Dean’s chest. Momentarily startled by the sight, Sam tried to focus, shaking his head in order to clear it. Slowly Sam stood, panic setting in as he rushed to the bathroom, grabbing the first-aid kit under the sink. Then he grabbed both a towel and a washcloth, and when he spotted a bowl, he filled it up with warm water.
Kneeling at Dean’s side and putting the items he’d need on the night stand, Sam shifted his arm under Dean’s head and shoulders as he lifted his brother off the bed to take off the remnants of the shredded shirt, throwing it to the side, once Dean’s arms were free.
Dean just laid there, unfazed.
Despite his nervousness, Sam reached out to undo the bandage, but had to stop when he touched it, his fingers shaking uncontrollably.
Emotionally distraught Sam pulled back, his body trembling and inhaled deeply. He clenched his hand into a tight fist, berating himself on failing such a simple task. He tried to center himself to do what needed to be done, something he had done for years, simply tend to Dean’s wounds. Like he was taught and had done for both his brother and father just as they had always tended to his injuries over the years.
Subsequently, a memory surfaced and Sam heard his father’s gravelly voice: Sammy it’s okay, you don’t have to do more than the basics. But son if you intend to use a needle again, you need a firm hand. Otherwise you’ll do more harm than good.
At the time, he was thirteen and his father was stitching up the cut on Dean’s shoulder. It was the same one he had tried to stitch up earlier that night but on the second pass, between his hands shaking and the sweat; Sam slipped and accidently jabbed the needle deeply in Dean’s shoulder. Dean jumped, blurting out a string of curses and though he told Sam he wasn’t mad, he had refused to allow Sam to finish when he was obviously still shaking. The needle was still imbedded with the thread dangling when Dad came back with the food. Instead of being angry like Sam had expected, Dad left the food on the table and just handed Dean a bottle of Jack to sip on while he cleaned and finished what Sam had started.
Later while Dean slept, Dad sat him down and poured Sam a single shot and pushed it toward him. Here. Sam left it on the table, staring at it from under his bangs. Go ahead, drink it. While Dad droned on offering advice he didn’t want to hear. Son, you’re just going to have to work on how to steady your nerves, to detach yourself. It takes practice. No different than target practice. How you take aim and cock the hammer back.
Sam shivered as he remembered the compassion and concern in Dad’s voice. Remembered how he would have run from the shame he felt. He didn’t want Dad’s empathy because he didn’t feel he deserved it. He was too angry, filled with self-loathing and kept glancing at the bedroom door where Dean was sleeping. Knowing how he hurt him and how it had been the last thing Sam wanted to do. Remembered how he curled into himself and refused to meet Dad’s face.
Dad just inched the shot glass closer, silently telling Sam to drink. Finally Sam picked up the shot, and downed it in one gulp just as he had always seen Dad do-had watched Dean do while Dad stitched him up. The liquor burned, but was quickly forgotten when he started to choke. He heard Dad’s chuckle, felt the pounding on his back. Once Sam calmed down the burn settled into a warm fire, and Dad’s hand shifted and moved in soothing circles before he continued talking.
There’s no shame in being scared or upset-to see one of us hurt, but you have to take care of the business at hand. Put whatever you’re feeling aside, no matter how scared you are. You’ve seen Dean stitch me up. How quick and efficient he is, but don’t think for a minute he’s not just as scared, or that I wasn’t just now. It doesn’t stop, but you learn to live with it, shut it down to do what you have to. Dad’s hand moved and sat heavily on his shoulder squeezing offering his support. No one will force you; it’ll be your decision Sam. Whatever reaction Dad wanted seemed pacified as he patted his shoulder and pushed him to get up. Now go on wash up and go to bed. Afterward Sam decided he wanted to learn. Although Dean had offered himself the next time he was injured, Sam only watched as Dad applied the sutures, and only practiced on Dad for almost a year before he attempted to stitch up Dean again.
Exhaling a shaky breath, Sam bit his lip, and focused. This time fortified with determination, Sam did what Dad told him to do-to detach and focus on the job at hand. He grabbed a pair of scissors from the kit. Starting at the bottom, Sam cut the taped gauze up Dean’s side through the soiled bandage. When he finished, Sam dropped the scissors on the bed and very slowly started to lift. He could only lift a small portion, only the areas that were wet with blood. Everywhere else, the blood had dried and adhered the dressing to Dean’s skin.
Sam gazed pointedly at Dean’s wounds. His chest was red, covered in blood, with ragged claw marks that had ripped and imbedded into Dean’s skin - vividly remembering how the hellhounds had grabbed Dean, hearing his brother’s frantic cries for help - suddenly, Sam wanted to hurl, but refused and swallowed the bile, along with his fear, down.
Gradually, he realized what the spell was doing; it was slowly mending the torn flesh, holding Dean’s body, anchoring it here and healing wounds that were meant to kill.
Picking up the washcloth, Sam stared to clean the wounds. Once he finished Sam could clearly see how much work the spell had done - leaving only a couple of claws marks that still appeared to be deep. To strengthen the spells healing, Sam grabbed the scissors and adhesive tape, and started to create several butterfly bandages where he could. Then threaded a needle and made clean sutures down the length of a one of the claw marks that was still bleeding.
Afterwards Sam nervously sat down next to Dean, his eyes zeroing in on Dean’s lips then to his pulse, trying to find the smallest inhale and exhale of each breath.
Dean hadn’t flinched or moaned. Worried Sam searched and found a small mirror to hold up to Dean’s face just to see the evidence. To continuously remind him that Dean was alive and breathing.
An hour later, Bobby arrived and found him like that - sitting at Dean’s side, the mirror within easy reach and a book in hand, researching.
It was hours, if not days, before Sam could easily track his brother’s breathing without the mirror. It was never like Dean was sleeping; there was literally no movement except for his shallow, slow breathing. Off case, prior to that damn deal, he’d toss and turn, kick out, bury his body under the covers, or throw everything off. Between the rustles of sheets and the creaks of the bed’s frame, Dean slept hard - and noisily.
Now there was no response from Dean: to noise, light, or pain - nothing. Not even the rapid shift of eyelids due to REM sleep. Dean’s internal body functioned without the aid of a machine, but nothing beyond that. By definition, Dean was alive. If they took Dean to the hospital, the staff would probably believe and diagnose him as catatonic. Sam knew differently.
Sam’s greatest fear hung over him like a cloak. Every moment was a clear reminder to the months Sam had lived on without Dean, leaving Sam feeling anxious with the only viable avenue - a single-minded belief that he had to find a way to change the outcome. He had to.
Focused on research, Sam geared himself on autopilot and only stopped to eat when Bobby stood there watching to make sure he did so. Initially, he had refused to take any time away from Dean. Bobby didn’t give a damn, and nagged him, but what got to Sam was when Bobby suggested that by, refusing to eat, he could miss the one thing that’d save Dean. It was manipulative, but Sam recognized the truth as fact - he could screw up. Sam blatantly dismissed everything else Bobby said: about needing to rest, to move or fuel his body in order to keep up his strength. With false gusto, Sam grudgingly ate and drank what Bobby brought him.
However, he refused to leave Dean’s side, and though he took the time to sleep, it was in two or three hour intervals before returning back to his research.
Early the next morning was the first time it happened. He hadn’t realized or noticed until Bobby commented on the smell. They both turned toward Dean.
Once Sam realized and understood what the odor was, he merely responded and cleaned Dean up.
Hours later, tired of changing sheets, Bobby left and returned dropping a couple of packages of Depends by the door. Together they inserted and pushed down an nasogastric tube (NG Tube) through Dean’s nose down into his stomach. Taping the tube to Dean’s cheek where it laid, the other end attached to a bag enabling them to essentially care for Dean’s basic needs.
By the fourth day, Bobby finally stopped arguing when Sam refused to leave Dean for any reason other than his own physical needs. He didn’t bother to shower, or shave, and was already sporting the dark rough bristles of growth.
Sam didn’t care about hygiene; he only knew and cared about one thing: getting Dean’s soul out of hell.
*~*~*~
It took about three weeks before Bobby started. Hints that turned into argumentative statements of opinion that Dean needed more care. That it was time to start thinking about getting professional care - that even if they found something to pull him from the pit, what they’d bring back wouldn’t be Dean. That he had been in too long.
Bobby went on saying that he talked to Ellen and she offered them rooms at the roadhouse.
Sam refused to consider it, did his best to tune Bobby out, gut twisting in pain over his failure.
Sam found it after such a combative session when a stack he thought he had already gone through had fallen over. One book he didn’t recognize caught his eye; thumbing through, he found an obscure reference to a binding spell. Reading further Sam discovered it was an ancient ritual to literally bind a couple’s soul together, anchoring them forever - even beyond death.
It was what Sam was looking for.
He ignored the fact that it was designated for soul mates - just as he glossed over the ceremony details for the ritual.
In his excitement, Sam fumbled, nearly dropping the book when he called out for Bobby. His throat was too hoarse to project the volume he needed. Clearing his throat, Sam tried again, yelling out, “I found it!” This time Sam maintained a firm grip while he grabbed a pad and started to write.
Sam heard Bobby race up the stairs to find him writing a list of ingredients he’d need for the ritual. Bobby exclaimed, “What is it?”
Sam didn’t look up as he continued to write what he’d need for the ritual, but handed Bobby the book. “I found it, it was right here all the time.”
Finishing Sam looked up in time to see Bobby’s excitement slowly fade as he scanned the ritual spell, his face open in obvious disapproval. Sam reached out to grab the book back.
He didn’t have to wait long before Bobby spoke up. “You can’t do that.”
Sam didn’t respond only held Bobby’s stare. Bobby shook his head in disbelief. “Are you outta your mind? That’s a binding spell for soul-mates.”
Sam cringed under the weight of Bobby’s objection. Closing his eyes, Sam felt guilt and shame, but then the familiar image of Dean’s dead stare emerged that haunted him beyond his dreams. Because of him, it was a daily reminder that he hadn’t saved Dean, knowing his brother’s soul was trapped in hell - being tortured. He quickly dismissed the idea of walking away, leaving his brother to rot. He couldn’t do that, not when he had the solution. Instead he focused on what the end results would be - he’d have Dean. He could save his brother, make him whole. Opening his eyes, he challenged Bobby to deny him. “Exactly! It’ll be strong enough to pull Dean’s soul from the pit and bind it to me. I can do this, Bobby.”
Bobby just stared at him like he was crazy. “It’s for soulmates, Sam….”
Undaunted, Sam stated, “It’ll bring him back, I can bring him back.”
Angry Bobby raised his voice. “God damnit Sam, aren’t you listening, soulmates, it’s for people who are lovers. That ritual, to make it work…” Bobby trailed off when he thought about what Sam would do. It seemed to give Bobby fortitude as he bitterly spat out, “You’d have to.... Jesus, look at him, Sam. What you’re saying? It’d be rape.”
Bobby glared, waiting to see if Sam would deny it, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t what he wanted to do, but there was nothing else. Sam would have been happy to trade places, had already tried to make a deal and had offered himself in trade. This… He’d concede that it wasn’t the optimum solution, but it was close enough, and the only thing they had come across that’d work - even Bobby couldn’t deny that. It was going to work even if he had to… his mind immediately flashed to the spell’s specific instructions - how he’d have to take his brother. Bobby was right it’d be rape, but it would also pull Dean’s soul out of the pit and anchor it to his body. Sam blushed but didn’t turn away from Bobby’s accusing stare.
Sam watched as Bobby’s eyes widened further in shock along with the realization that Sam knew exactly what the spell required of him - and that he had every intention of following the ritual precisely.
Bobby shook his head, despondent. “Dean’s your brother, Sam, blood… Doesn’t that mean anything to you anymore?”
“Dean means everything to me. I promised him, Bobby… and this is going to work. It’s a real chance! One I’m not going to ignore.”
Bobby stared at Sam like he was a stranger; his eyes glistened with unshed tears. Lost, he turned toward Dean’s still body. “I shouldn’t have waited this long, but I couldn’t let go - I wanted to believe.”
Sam saw the defeat as Bobby’s shoulders slouched, pulling off his hat, his arm swiped over his face before he readjusted his hat. Bobby adjusted his stance, stood taller, physically bracing himself.
Sam inhaled as he recognized Bobby’s resolve that he wasn’t going to change his mind, though it didn’t stop Sam from pleading, “Bobby…”
“Sam, it’s not right. That ritual, I can’t let you do it. This has to stop now.” At the door, Bobby hesitated and gripped the door jam. “I made some calls - talked to Ellen. The new place has enough room, we’ll hire help. There’ll be plenty of hunters around to protect Dean, he’ll be safe, have proper care. We’ll move him by the end of the week.”
“No, you can’t.”
The anger was gone, leaving a gruff sadness in its wake as Bobby spoke. “Can and will. What you’re talking about, Sam- its wrong! If you can’t see that…” Bobby shook his head, “I understand why, Lord knows, but your brother he … Dean wouldn’t want this.”
Crushed by Bobby’s reaction Sam hung his head, even as his heart rate increased his mind screaming, No! The next moment Sam was up on his feet, lunging for Bobby as he forcibly pulled him back into the room, his fist drawn back. Sam didn’t stop to think. The only thoughts running through his head was he had to stop Bobby and had to get away with Dean.
The next minute Sam held Bobby’s unconscious body, muttering his apology. “I’m so sorry, Bobby, but you’re wrong.” Sam didn’t waste any time as he dragged Bobby’s dead weight to his bed and laid him down.
Grabbing a pillow, Sam pulled the case off the pillow. Rushing at a frantic pace, Sam threw a few books inside the case, and everything that was on the nightstand, then he did the same in the bathroom. Going around the room, Sam was quick and thorough. With practiced ease he disconnected and unplugged his laptop; packing the lap top and slip case into his duffle, zipping it up in haste. Grabbing everything he could in one trip, Sam ran downstairs and outside to shove it all into the Impalas’ trunk. He ran back upstairs taking two steps at a time. In the doorway, Sam paused briefly to look at Bobby to make sure he was still unconscious.
Moving over to Dean, Sam picked him up and holstered his brother over his shoulder so he had a free hand. Grabbing a chair on his way out, Sam closed the door behind him and jammed the chair under the knob before he headed downstairs. Once he had Dean sitting in the passenger seat and buckled the seat belt around him, Sam ran back into the house and straight for the kitchen and the pantry where Bobby kept various ingredients on hand for different rituals and spells. Spotting a bread basket, Sam grabbed it, dumping the bread, and started gathering everything he’d need for the ritual that Bobby had on hand.
Once he deposited the basket in the trunk, Sam got in the car and took off. Sam glanced back at the house through the rearview mirror until he could no longer see it. Miles down the road he grabbed his cell. It only took a moment before Sam heard Ellen’s familiar voice. “Roadhouse, what can I do for you?”
“Ellen, I’m sorry.”
“Sam?” In just saying his name, Sam heard the instant worry creep into Ellen voice, the panic as she asked. “Sam, is that you?”
“Just tell ‘im that I’m sorry, but I have to do this.” Sam didn’t bother waiting for a reply as he hit end and turned his cell off, then pocketed it. Sam glanced behind him through his rearview mirror again but Bobby was already miles away. Out of the corner of his eye Sam did a double take when he saw Dean - he looked almost normal. Slouched down, leaning against the door, his eyes open, it gave Dean the appearance that he was just staring off in the distance. Nervously, Sam’s hands clenched the steering wheel as he turned to stare back out at the road ahead of him. “He didn’t understand, Dean. I swear I never would have hurt him, not Bobby… but I couldn’t let him take you away - you know that right?”
Dean didn’t answer. Only the constant roar of the Impala’s engine filled the silence. Sam bit worriedly on his bottom lip. God, right now he just wanted to hear Dean’s voice, to hear his brother curse at him, ask him what the hell was wrong with him, what he was thinking to knock Bobby unconscious - how he could have hurt Bobby, how he could have just tied him up and Dean would have been right if Sam had stopped to think about it, but everything had happened too fast.
Under his breath, Sam spoke, “After I bring you back, Bobby will understand…”
Suddenly, Dean’s voice surrounded him. “No, he won’t Sam. Fuck! Once you bring me back it’ll only confirm what he read- that you fucked me.”
Desperate, Sam responded. “It won’t be like that, Dean.”
“No? Then how’s it going to be, Sammy? Fucking my ass was the main ingredient to create that bond. You really prepared to do that? What do you think Dad would say?”
Sam slammed his palm again the steering wheel. “Don’t!”
“Sam, anyway you look at it Bobby’s right, it’s wrong and you know it. It’s rape, fuck it’d be incest…”
Shame and guilt filled Sam, but he brushed it away. “I… there’s no other way. It’ll only be once, Dean, I promise. It’s just to bring you back- once I have you back we can fix it.”
“Sammy…”
“I have to, Dean, I’m sorry, but have to.” Dean didn’t respond. Sam turned toward his brother who hadn’t moved and sat in the same position. Swallowing the lump, Sam realized the conversation had all been in his head. Nodding to the phantom voice of his subconscious, Sam replied, “I can’t - won’t go on without you, Dean - not again.”
Hanging on to his determination, Sam clamped his lips into a thin line, the resolve quieting his doubt as he stepped on the gas. Absently, he pushed in a cassette and turned up the volume and allowed the sounds of AC/DC to drown out Dean’s protest.
Next~
1/3
“No!” The word was painfully retched from his throat. It didn’t matter how many times he saw Dean die, or held his lifeless body; the dead weight of Dean in his arms hurt, cutting him deeper each time, until Sam couldn’t breathe. This time it was different, worse. There was no waking up from this: no starting the day over again, no Trickster. Sam’s breath hitched before coming in shallow pants as he zeroed in on Dean's eyes, open and unseeing. Pain spread throughout Sam’s body and he stumbled over his words as he cried out, “No, Dean…” He didn’t bother to stop the tears and cursed himself that he hadn’t stopped the deal. He had promised Dean, and he had failed.
It wasn’t supposed to go like this.
“Sam?”
Sam heard Bobby but couldn’t turn around or respond. He didn’t want to face Bobby, and see the anguish, pity, sorrow, or accusation that would be reflected in his eyes.
“Sam…”
He felt Bobby jostle him, and try to pull Dean away from him, but Sam held on, frantically shaking his head refusing to let go.
“Damn it, Sam!”
He felt a grip in his hair as Bobby brutally yanked, forcing him to look up, away from Dean. “God damn it, boy, open your eyes! It worked! It’s working, he’s alive! Dean’s alive.”
Barely registering Bobby’s jumbled words, Sam stilled, afraid to move even though he had to know. Painfully slow, his fingers slid up under Dean’s jaw until he came to where a pulse point would be. He felt nothing.
He shook his head, his eyes clamped shut.
“It’s shallow, but there… it’s there. Dean’s breathing.” One hand fastened over his shoulder, holding him in place, and Bobby grabbed and squeezed his jaw hard with the other. “Sam, look at me.”
Slowly Sam opened his eyes and deadlocked with Bobby’s, surprised when he saw the worry and determination that was fixated on him. This time Bobby talked slower, enunciating like Sam was six years old and didn’t understand. “It worked! They got his soul, but we got his body. We got to bandage him up and get the hell out of here now. Have to get Dean safe before they realize he’s not physically dead-You understand me?”
Confused, Sam looked down at Dean, his palm cradling Dean’s face. His brother’s eyes were still open, with a look that reflected Dean’s last thoughts: terror, disbelief, and sorrow.
That was Sam’s fault. He had put that look on Dean’s face, had promised Dean he’d save him and he didn’t.
Bobby was wrong; Dean was dead.
Gently, Sam brushed his fingers over Dean’s face, closing his eyes before he moved just enough to allow Bobby in closer. It was enough as Bobby took over, moving fast and efficiently, Bobby started to clean and dress Dean’s wounds.
Sam thought it was pointless; he didn’t believe Bobby. But Bobby was right about one thing-they needed to get out of there. If that meant he had to let Bobby bandage up Dean’s body? Then he’d allow it. He didn’t see the point of losing time arguing. Once Bobby finished, Sam bent down, gently lifted Dean into his arms and stood.
~*~*~*~
Sam stayed focused after he picked up Dean and made his way toward the car, Bobby following closely behind him. In a roundabout, one-sided way, they argued. Bobby didn’t want him to drive and suggested they could come back for the Impala and allow the family that had survived Lilith to keep it hidden.
Sam shook his head, flatly dismissing the idea. To leave the Impala behind-it would have been like leaving Dean behind: something he’d never consider. Bobby might not understand, but Sam did, knew Dean would kill him if he left his baby behind. Sam adjusted his hold on Dean and made it obvious that the answer was no when he opened the car door, and gently laid Dean out in the backseat.
Sam purposely ignored Bobby’s offer to drive and got in the car, started the engine, and waited.
In the end, Bobby was left cursing the Winchester name as he stomped off to his own truck and climbed in.
The drive back was uneventful after Sam had insisted on driving straight through. Not that he actually told Bobby that, but Bobby quickly got the message when Sam refused to stop for anything other than to fill up on gas.
By the time he pulled into the junkyard, it was close to noon. Sam cut the engine and just sat there staring out of the window, afraid to look behind and see Dean’s body. The heat from the afternoon sun quickly magnified in the confined space, enough so that sweat started to form on his brow. Sam wondered if sitting there waiting for Bobby was the greatest plan, not with a dead… he couldn’t finish the thought.
Needing a distraction, Sam squeezed the handle and rolled his window down breathing in the cooler air.
It didn’t help. Sam sat there suddenly nervous and not sure of what he was supposed to do. Even after everything with the Trickster, remembering the details of each death-not once had it gotten easier.
However, it was that last time, when Sam didn’t wake up to repeat the day and had held Dean’s lifeless body in his arms, that taunted his dreams. He’d felt the wetness when Dean’s blood pooled and saturated his clothes. He had waited but the Trickster didn’t come, didn’t fix it, forcing Sam to go on without Dean. The weighted memory of being forced him to bury and burn his brother’s body. For six months the only thing that kept him going was hunting down the sonofabitch.
Sam couldn’t shake the memory. Though the pain had eased a fraction when he got Dean back-but now he had no one to turn to, no Trickster to save Dean from the pit of Hell.
Slowly, Sam replayed Bobby’s words, ‘He’s alive! Dean’s alive’, but Sam refused to listen and shook his head, closing his eyes and trying to shut off Bobby’s voice. Instead, Bobby’s voice boomed inside his mind. ‘God damn it, boy, open your eyes! It worked! It’s working, he’s alive! Dean’s alive.’
Unable to stop himself, Sam opened his eyes to chance a glance at Dean in the rearview mirror, terrified that it really had only been Bobby’s wishful thinking.
Dean was right where Sam left him, stretched out on the back seat, staring up at nothing. It took Sam a moment to notice if anything was different. He gawked at Dean’s ridiculously long lashes… He could have sworn Dean’s eyes had been closed.
Long minutes passed before Sam’s gaze caught the movement-Dean blinked.
“Dean?” Sam swallowed hard then fumbled with his door, and stepped out to open the back door.
Sam crouched down and climbed in next to Dean, and called out again, “Dean?” Sam held his breath, waiting, but Dean didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge Sam in any way. Then Sam saw it-Dean blinked again. Bobby was right, it’d worked. Dean was alive.
In a rush Sam grabbed Dean, crushing his body to his chest, his body shaking in relief.
Finally Sam exhaled and let Dean go as he scrambled out of the car. He had to get Dean inside. Gently, Sam maneuvered his brother from the backseat. He adjusted his grip and moved toward the house.
Sam’s heart beat faster as he felt the warmth of Dean’s body; he had expected Dean to be stiff and cold as rigor mortis set in. He was in awe that they had done it, and saved Dean.
After a year of putting up with Dean’s frantic worry that doing anything would somehow rescind his deal, it was clear to both of them that any research they did regarding the deal had to be kept from Dean. Before going to New Harmony, he and Bobby came up with a backup plan. It was a long shot, a spell that Bobby had discovered. The spell was activated and hung in wait around Dean’s neck in the form of his charm. At the time, it seemed like their only alternative until they could come up with something better; it was a harmless way to bide for more time. In essence, the spell protected Dean’s body from being pulled into final death, yet it allowed the contract to be fulfilled. Up until they had to leave they were still searching for a way to prevent the crossroad demon from claiming Dean’s soul.
It was the only spell they had come across that wouldn’t technically break the deal or his promise to Dean that he wouldn’t interfere to stop the deal, a promise he hated. Not that Sam wanted to die, and he had told Dean that, but facing Dean now, like this -again- Sam waivered. The truth was he’d rather be dead. Remembering all too clearly what his life had been without Dean-empty and lonely.
Sam softly kicked open the bedroom door, then shifted and shuffled in sideways as he made his way toward the bed, and gently settled Dean down in what was their old room.
Sam barely remembered when they actually met Bobby, but when they had, the bedroom was just an empty spare room. He knows they went there because Dad had been hurt. Both Pastor Jim and Caleb told their Dad that Bobby could be trusted, to go to him if John needed help. They were right. It wasn’t long after that before they started showing up on Bobby’s door step on a semi-regular basis. That same year, Bobby had surprised them with bunk beds. Then for years afterward, Dean always claimed the top, teasing that if Sam ever had an accident he wasn’t going to be the one to get a midnight shower. That usually started their roughhousing until Dad or Bobby put a stop to it. Years later, as they got bigger, Bobby unstacked and converted the beds into the twin beds as it stood now.
The elation he felt was quickly wearing off as Sam stepped back and looked down at his brother. His shoulders shook under the weight of emotions; he had seen Dean like this too many times.
Even recognizing that their plan worked did nothing to sooth the ache that his failure had only saved Dean’s body. Staring down into Dean’s face, Sam saw the body as it was - nothing more than an empty shell. Everything else -- his essence, everything that defined Dean, made him who he was, his soul, that aspect of Dean -- was gone. But Bobby was right, he was alive, and Sam would have to focus on that.
It was a last minute stroke of luck finding and using that particular spell; a gamble that had paid off.
At the time, when they faced Lilith, he hadn’t believed it had worked, and had watched helplessly as Dean was ravaged by invisible hellhounds. He saw the blood pooling, believed they were both going to die. It would end the way Dean had wanted; together they’d go out fighting.
However, something happened, the impossible. Something had stopped Lilith, or if what Ruby had hinted at was true and he had somehow pulled it off, he stopped Lilith. Though it didn’t really matter, he still failed Dean when the hellhounds had gotten to him. He had scrambled over to Dean’s side and it was the expression on Dean’s face that devastated Sam. His eyes were open, lifeless, full of terror - it was too much. It left Sam with no doubt of how badly he let Dean down.
Desperately, Sam clutched Dean’s hand, squeezing. Not that Sam really gives a shit about the why or how, only that the spell worked. Now he has time to concentrate, to find a way to bring Dean back. For that he was grateful, and squeezed Dean’s hand again.
That was also the one problem, time. Although he could focus on research, his biggest concern was exactly how much time they had before Dean lost his sanity. The answer was only a guess. One no one could answer with any certainty. The spell didn’t offer any specifics, especially regarding hell, but Bobby had speculated they only had a small window. That it was a gamble, warning if they waited too long what they’d bring back wouldn’t be Dean. Glancing at the shell that was his brother, Sam knew, he couldn’t allow Dean to stay like this nor could he leave him trapped in Hell. There was no choice; he had to find a way to free Dean’s soul from Hell.
At least this time Dean wasn’t here to force a promise Sam knew he’d no longer keep. Besides, the only promise Sam cared about now was the one he made to himself, that he’d do whatever it took to save Dean, and that was the only one he was determined to keep. Swearing that even if it cost Sam his life, he was going to succeed-he had to.
*~*~*~*
Swallowing, Sam finally let go of Dean’s hand when he noticed the blood soaking through the bandages covering Dean’s chest. Momentarily startled by the sight, Sam tried to focus, shaking his head in order to clear it. Slowly Sam stood, panic setting in as he rushed to the bathroom, grabbing the first-aid kit under the sink. Then he grabbed both a towel and a washcloth, and when he spotted a bowl, he filled it up with warm water.
Kneeling at Dean’s side and putting the items he’d need on the night stand, Sam shifted his arm under Dean’s head and shoulders as he lifted his brother off the bed to take off the remnants of the shredded shirt, throwing it to the side, once Dean’s arms were free.
Dean just laid there, unfazed.
Despite his nervousness, Sam reached out to undo the bandage, but had to stop when he touched it, his fingers shaking uncontrollably.
Emotionally distraught Sam pulled back, his body trembling and inhaled deeply. He clenched his hand into a tight fist, berating himself on failing such a simple task. He tried to center himself to do what needed to be done, something he had done for years, simply tend to Dean’s wounds. Like he was taught and had done for both his brother and father just as they had always tended to his injuries over the years.
Subsequently, a memory surfaced and Sam heard his father’s gravelly voice: Sammy it’s okay, you don’t have to do more than the basics. But son if you intend to use a needle again, you need a firm hand. Otherwise you’ll do more harm than good.
At the time, he was thirteen and his father was stitching up the cut on Dean’s shoulder. It was the same one he had tried to stitch up earlier that night but on the second pass, between his hands shaking and the sweat; Sam slipped and accidently jabbed the needle deeply in Dean’s shoulder. Dean jumped, blurting out a string of curses and though he told Sam he wasn’t mad, he had refused to allow Sam to finish when he was obviously still shaking. The needle was still imbedded with the thread dangling when Dad came back with the food. Instead of being angry like Sam had expected, Dad left the food on the table and just handed Dean a bottle of Jack to sip on while he cleaned and finished what Sam had started.
Later while Dean slept, Dad sat him down and poured Sam a single shot and pushed it toward him. Here. Sam left it on the table, staring at it from under his bangs. Go ahead, drink it. While Dad droned on offering advice he didn’t want to hear. Son, you’re just going to have to work on how to steady your nerves, to detach yourself. It takes practice. No different than target practice. How you take aim and cock the hammer back.
Sam shivered as he remembered the compassion and concern in Dad’s voice. Remembered how he would have run from the shame he felt. He didn’t want Dad’s empathy because he didn’t feel he deserved it. He was too angry, filled with self-loathing and kept glancing at the bedroom door where Dean was sleeping. Knowing how he hurt him and how it had been the last thing Sam wanted to do. Remembered how he curled into himself and refused to meet Dad’s face.
Dad just inched the shot glass closer, silently telling Sam to drink. Finally Sam picked up the shot, and downed it in one gulp just as he had always seen Dad do-had watched Dean do while Dad stitched him up. The liquor burned, but was quickly forgotten when he started to choke. He heard Dad’s chuckle, felt the pounding on his back. Once Sam calmed down the burn settled into a warm fire, and Dad’s hand shifted and moved in soothing circles before he continued talking.
There’s no shame in being scared or upset-to see one of us hurt, but you have to take care of the business at hand. Put whatever you’re feeling aside, no matter how scared you are. You’ve seen Dean stitch me up. How quick and efficient he is, but don’t think for a minute he’s not just as scared, or that I wasn’t just now. It doesn’t stop, but you learn to live with it, shut it down to do what you have to. Dad’s hand moved and sat heavily on his shoulder squeezing offering his support. No one will force you; it’ll be your decision Sam. Whatever reaction Dad wanted seemed pacified as he patted his shoulder and pushed him to get up. Now go on wash up and go to bed. Afterward Sam decided he wanted to learn. Although Dean had offered himself the next time he was injured, Sam only watched as Dad applied the sutures, and only practiced on Dad for almost a year before he attempted to stitch up Dean again.
Exhaling a shaky breath, Sam bit his lip, and focused. This time fortified with determination, Sam did what Dad told him to do-to detach and focus on the job at hand. He grabbed a pair of scissors from the kit. Starting at the bottom, Sam cut the taped gauze up Dean’s side through the soiled bandage. When he finished, Sam dropped the scissors on the bed and very slowly started to lift. He could only lift a small portion, only the areas that were wet with blood. Everywhere else, the blood had dried and adhered the dressing to Dean’s skin.
Sam gazed pointedly at Dean’s wounds. His chest was red, covered in blood, with ragged claw marks that had ripped and imbedded into Dean’s skin - vividly remembering how the hellhounds had grabbed Dean, hearing his brother’s frantic cries for help - suddenly, Sam wanted to hurl, but refused and swallowed the bile, along with his fear, down.
Gradually, he realized what the spell was doing; it was slowly mending the torn flesh, holding Dean’s body, anchoring it here and healing wounds that were meant to kill.
Picking up the washcloth, Sam stared to clean the wounds. Once he finished Sam could clearly see how much work the spell had done - leaving only a couple of claws marks that still appeared to be deep. To strengthen the spells healing, Sam grabbed the scissors and adhesive tape, and started to create several butterfly bandages where he could. Then threaded a needle and made clean sutures down the length of a one of the claw marks that was still bleeding.
Afterwards Sam nervously sat down next to Dean, his eyes zeroing in on Dean’s lips then to his pulse, trying to find the smallest inhale and exhale of each breath.
Dean hadn’t flinched or moaned. Worried Sam searched and found a small mirror to hold up to Dean’s face just to see the evidence. To continuously remind him that Dean was alive and breathing.
An hour later, Bobby arrived and found him like that - sitting at Dean’s side, the mirror within easy reach and a book in hand, researching.
It was hours, if not days, before Sam could easily track his brother’s breathing without the mirror. It was never like Dean was sleeping; there was literally no movement except for his shallow, slow breathing. Off case, prior to that damn deal, he’d toss and turn, kick out, bury his body under the covers, or throw everything off. Between the rustles of sheets and the creaks of the bed’s frame, Dean slept hard - and noisily.
Now there was no response from Dean: to noise, light, or pain - nothing. Not even the rapid shift of eyelids due to REM sleep. Dean’s internal body functioned without the aid of a machine, but nothing beyond that. By definition, Dean was alive. If they took Dean to the hospital, the staff would probably believe and diagnose him as catatonic. Sam knew differently.
Sam’s greatest fear hung over him like a cloak. Every moment was a clear reminder to the months Sam had lived on without Dean, leaving Sam feeling anxious with the only viable avenue - a single-minded belief that he had to find a way to change the outcome. He had to.
Focused on research, Sam geared himself on autopilot and only stopped to eat when Bobby stood there watching to make sure he did so. Initially, he had refused to take any time away from Dean. Bobby didn’t give a damn, and nagged him, but what got to Sam was when Bobby suggested that by, refusing to eat, he could miss the one thing that’d save Dean. It was manipulative, but Sam recognized the truth as fact - he could screw up. Sam blatantly dismissed everything else Bobby said: about needing to rest, to move or fuel his body in order to keep up his strength. With false gusto, Sam grudgingly ate and drank what Bobby brought him.
However, he refused to leave Dean’s side, and though he took the time to sleep, it was in two or three hour intervals before returning back to his research.
Early the next morning was the first time it happened. He hadn’t realized or noticed until Bobby commented on the smell. They both turned toward Dean.
Once Sam realized and understood what the odor was, he merely responded and cleaned Dean up.
Hours later, tired of changing sheets, Bobby left and returned dropping a couple of packages of Depends by the door. Together they inserted and pushed down an nasogastric tube (NG Tube) through Dean’s nose down into his stomach. Taping the tube to Dean’s cheek where it laid, the other end attached to a bag enabling them to essentially care for Dean’s basic needs.
By the fourth day, Bobby finally stopped arguing when Sam refused to leave Dean for any reason other than his own physical needs. He didn’t bother to shower, or shave, and was already sporting the dark rough bristles of growth.
Sam didn’t care about hygiene; he only knew and cared about one thing: getting Dean’s soul out of hell.
*~*~*~
It took about three weeks before Bobby started. Hints that turned into argumentative statements of opinion that Dean needed more care. That it was time to start thinking about getting professional care - that even if they found something to pull him from the pit, what they’d bring back wouldn’t be Dean. That he had been in too long.
Bobby went on saying that he talked to Ellen and she offered them rooms at the roadhouse.
Sam refused to consider it, did his best to tune Bobby out, gut twisting in pain over his failure.
Sam found it after such a combative session when a stack he thought he had already gone through had fallen over. One book he didn’t recognize caught his eye; thumbing through, he found an obscure reference to a binding spell. Reading further Sam discovered it was an ancient ritual to literally bind a couple’s soul together, anchoring them forever - even beyond death.
It was what Sam was looking for.
He ignored the fact that it was designated for soul mates - just as he glossed over the ceremony details for the ritual.
In his excitement, Sam fumbled, nearly dropping the book when he called out for Bobby. His throat was too hoarse to project the volume he needed. Clearing his throat, Sam tried again, yelling out, “I found it!” This time Sam maintained a firm grip while he grabbed a pad and started to write.
Sam heard Bobby race up the stairs to find him writing a list of ingredients he’d need for the ritual. Bobby exclaimed, “What is it?”
Sam didn’t look up as he continued to write what he’d need for the ritual, but handed Bobby the book. “I found it, it was right here all the time.”
Finishing Sam looked up in time to see Bobby’s excitement slowly fade as he scanned the ritual spell, his face open in obvious disapproval. Sam reached out to grab the book back.
He didn’t have to wait long before Bobby spoke up. “You can’t do that.”
Sam didn’t respond only held Bobby’s stare. Bobby shook his head in disbelief. “Are you outta your mind? That’s a binding spell for soul-mates.”
Sam cringed under the weight of Bobby’s objection. Closing his eyes, Sam felt guilt and shame, but then the familiar image of Dean’s dead stare emerged that haunted him beyond his dreams. Because of him, it was a daily reminder that he hadn’t saved Dean, knowing his brother’s soul was trapped in hell - being tortured. He quickly dismissed the idea of walking away, leaving his brother to rot. He couldn’t do that, not when he had the solution. Instead he focused on what the end results would be - he’d have Dean. He could save his brother, make him whole. Opening his eyes, he challenged Bobby to deny him. “Exactly! It’ll be strong enough to pull Dean’s soul from the pit and bind it to me. I can do this, Bobby.”
Bobby just stared at him like he was crazy. “It’s for soulmates, Sam….”
Undaunted, Sam stated, “It’ll bring him back, I can bring him back.”
Angry Bobby raised his voice. “God damnit Sam, aren’t you listening, soulmates, it’s for people who are lovers. That ritual, to make it work…” Bobby trailed off when he thought about what Sam would do. It seemed to give Bobby fortitude as he bitterly spat out, “You’d have to.... Jesus, look at him, Sam. What you’re saying? It’d be rape.”
Bobby glared, waiting to see if Sam would deny it, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t what he wanted to do, but there was nothing else. Sam would have been happy to trade places, had already tried to make a deal and had offered himself in trade. This… He’d concede that it wasn’t the optimum solution, but it was close enough, and the only thing they had come across that’d work - even Bobby couldn’t deny that. It was going to work even if he had to… his mind immediately flashed to the spell’s specific instructions - how he’d have to take his brother. Bobby was right it’d be rape, but it would also pull Dean’s soul out of the pit and anchor it to his body. Sam blushed but didn’t turn away from Bobby’s accusing stare.
Sam watched as Bobby’s eyes widened further in shock along with the realization that Sam knew exactly what the spell required of him - and that he had every intention of following the ritual precisely.
Bobby shook his head, despondent. “Dean’s your brother, Sam, blood… Doesn’t that mean anything to you anymore?”
“Dean means everything to me. I promised him, Bobby… and this is going to work. It’s a real chance! One I’m not going to ignore.”
Bobby stared at Sam like he was a stranger; his eyes glistened with unshed tears. Lost, he turned toward Dean’s still body. “I shouldn’t have waited this long, but I couldn’t let go - I wanted to believe.”
Sam saw the defeat as Bobby’s shoulders slouched, pulling off his hat, his arm swiped over his face before he readjusted his hat. Bobby adjusted his stance, stood taller, physically bracing himself.
Sam inhaled as he recognized Bobby’s resolve that he wasn’t going to change his mind, though it didn’t stop Sam from pleading, “Bobby…”
“Sam, it’s not right. That ritual, I can’t let you do it. This has to stop now.” At the door, Bobby hesitated and gripped the door jam. “I made some calls - talked to Ellen. The new place has enough room, we’ll hire help. There’ll be plenty of hunters around to protect Dean, he’ll be safe, have proper care. We’ll move him by the end of the week.”
“No, you can’t.”
The anger was gone, leaving a gruff sadness in its wake as Bobby spoke. “Can and will. What you’re talking about, Sam- its wrong! If you can’t see that…” Bobby shook his head, “I understand why, Lord knows, but your brother he … Dean wouldn’t want this.”
Crushed by Bobby’s reaction Sam hung his head, even as his heart rate increased his mind screaming, No! The next moment Sam was up on his feet, lunging for Bobby as he forcibly pulled him back into the room, his fist drawn back. Sam didn’t stop to think. The only thoughts running through his head was he had to stop Bobby and had to get away with Dean.
The next minute Sam held Bobby’s unconscious body, muttering his apology. “I’m so sorry, Bobby, but you’re wrong.” Sam didn’t waste any time as he dragged Bobby’s dead weight to his bed and laid him down.
Grabbing a pillow, Sam pulled the case off the pillow. Rushing at a frantic pace, Sam threw a few books inside the case, and everything that was on the nightstand, then he did the same in the bathroom. Going around the room, Sam was quick and thorough. With practiced ease he disconnected and unplugged his laptop; packing the lap top and slip case into his duffle, zipping it up in haste. Grabbing everything he could in one trip, Sam ran downstairs and outside to shove it all into the Impalas’ trunk. He ran back upstairs taking two steps at a time. In the doorway, Sam paused briefly to look at Bobby to make sure he was still unconscious.
Moving over to Dean, Sam picked him up and holstered his brother over his shoulder so he had a free hand. Grabbing a chair on his way out, Sam closed the door behind him and jammed the chair under the knob before he headed downstairs. Once he had Dean sitting in the passenger seat and buckled the seat belt around him, Sam ran back into the house and straight for the kitchen and the pantry where Bobby kept various ingredients on hand for different rituals and spells. Spotting a bread basket, Sam grabbed it, dumping the bread, and started gathering everything he’d need for the ritual that Bobby had on hand.
Once he deposited the basket in the trunk, Sam got in the car and took off. Sam glanced back at the house through the rearview mirror until he could no longer see it. Miles down the road he grabbed his cell. It only took a moment before Sam heard Ellen’s familiar voice. “Roadhouse, what can I do for you?”
“Ellen, I’m sorry.”
“Sam?” In just saying his name, Sam heard the instant worry creep into Ellen voice, the panic as she asked. “Sam, is that you?”
“Just tell ‘im that I’m sorry, but I have to do this.” Sam didn’t bother waiting for a reply as he hit end and turned his cell off, then pocketed it. Sam glanced behind him through his rearview mirror again but Bobby was already miles away. Out of the corner of his eye Sam did a double take when he saw Dean - he looked almost normal. Slouched down, leaning against the door, his eyes open, it gave Dean the appearance that he was just staring off in the distance. Nervously, Sam’s hands clenched the steering wheel as he turned to stare back out at the road ahead of him. “He didn’t understand, Dean. I swear I never would have hurt him, not Bobby… but I couldn’t let him take you away - you know that right?”
Dean didn’t answer. Only the constant roar of the Impala’s engine filled the silence. Sam bit worriedly on his bottom lip. God, right now he just wanted to hear Dean’s voice, to hear his brother curse at him, ask him what the hell was wrong with him, what he was thinking to knock Bobby unconscious - how he could have hurt Bobby, how he could have just tied him up and Dean would have been right if Sam had stopped to think about it, but everything had happened too fast.
Under his breath, Sam spoke, “After I bring you back, Bobby will understand…”
Suddenly, Dean’s voice surrounded him. “No, he won’t Sam. Fuck! Once you bring me back it’ll only confirm what he read- that you fucked me.”
Desperate, Sam responded. “It won’t be like that, Dean.”
“No? Then how’s it going to be, Sammy? Fucking my ass was the main ingredient to create that bond. You really prepared to do that? What do you think Dad would say?”
Sam slammed his palm again the steering wheel. “Don’t!”
“Sam, anyway you look at it Bobby’s right, it’s wrong and you know it. It’s rape, fuck it’d be incest…”
Shame and guilt filled Sam, but he brushed it away. “I… there’s no other way. It’ll only be once, Dean, I promise. It’s just to bring you back- once I have you back we can fix it.”
“Sammy…”
“I have to, Dean, I’m sorry, but have to.” Dean didn’t respond. Sam turned toward his brother who hadn’t moved and sat in the same position. Swallowing the lump, Sam realized the conversation had all been in his head. Nodding to the phantom voice of his subconscious, Sam replied, “I can’t - won’t go on without you, Dean - not again.”
Hanging on to his determination, Sam clamped his lips into a thin line, the resolve quieting his doubt as he stepped on the gas. Absently, he pushed in a cassette and turned up the volume and allowed the sounds of AC/DC to drown out Dean’s protest.
Next~