unsaid.
title: Unsaid
rating: PG; for language
word count: 3438
disclaimer: if they were mine, i'd keep them jollygood happy, hopped up on sugar and forever in prank war mode.
a/n: gen, in general. wincest if you really squint. sam-centric (which is weirding me out because i'm a total dean girl but i kept on writing on behalf of sam. *shrug*) and also sort-of angsty. comments and crits would be wonderful. :)
accompanying song: Bring On the Wonder by Susan Enan
summary: dean is thinking and talking a lot about death.
Unsaid
It was Dean’s idea that they get themselves a home. A proper home. Preferably somewhere quiet and not so cold with a humongous backyard and woods nearby. When Sam asked why, Dean just smiled.
“Maybe I have some psychic powers myself.”
Sam didn’t know how true that was until now.
*
There were times when Dean told Sam he loves him without even saying it. Dad raised them more like warriors than siblings. They grew up as little armies than little boys. But Sam was sure if there’s one thing they have in common with normal people is their incapability of admitting how they love each other. They’re dudes anyway. And siblings are supposed to hate each other’s guts no matter what. No matter how much they really actually love one another. That’s another thing about Dad’s way of bringing them up. They grew to have each other’s backs, to protect each other. To die for the other.
To be brothers. In all sense of the word.
*
They were in Michigan some three years ago. The sun was setting against the horizon and Dean was wearing his Ray Ban. The radio wasn’t turned on and it was awfully quiet. Sam listened as the Impala emitted a weird clanking noise now and then. Dean was intent on the road ahead, letting the wispy air ruffled his hair. It was much longer now. Sam noted that it had been more than three months since Dean got a hair cut. He let his head lolled to the driver’s side, clearing his throat.
“Don’t you want to cut your hair?”
Dean scowled, taking his eyes off the road for a split second. “I think you need it more than I do, Samantha.”
“You know why I keep my hair long and I know why you always keep your hair short. Dad wanted us to be good little soldiers and being a good little soldier you are, you couldn’t let your hair grow past your collar,” Sam observed shrewdly.
He was sure Dean would snap - Well, Dad’s not here now, is he?!
Instead Dean smirked. “I read somewhere that chicks like to be able to run their hands through a dude’s hair. So I figured I’d save the hair cut money - ‘cause you don’t possess the hair cutting skills that I do, man - and attract more chicks. Just as long as I don’t look like one of them,” he leered at Sam pointedly.
Sam chuckled. “Now where did you read that? Marie Claire?”
Dean cleared his throat. “I think it was in the latest Playboy.”
Sam shook his head idly, leaning his head against the bench seat. The Impala groaned and choked. Dean frowned, his grip on the steering wheel tightened.
“I think she needs some serious servicing, Dean. And maybe some oiling on the doors while we’re at it.”
Dean’s voice was dead serious. “Dude. You’re my brother and I love you to death but if you speak about her that way again, I’d fucking slit your throat.”
Sam looked out the window on his side and smiled secretly.
*
Dean relented the they’velostcount-th time Sam asked him about the spur behind the getting a home base somewhere quiet with a huge backyard and nearby woods.
Dean shrugged, cocking the rifle he just cleaned. “Woods is for hunting practice.”
“And the house?” Sam had sounded a little bit too biting than he intended.
“Thought it’d be nice to have a place to come home to after a long hunt, don’t you think?”
Sam had smirked. “And I bet the backyard is for planting and rearing chickens, huh?”
Dean grumbled. “Of course not,” he frowned, finally locking Sam with a gaze. “It’s so you’d have a place to bury me. I don’t think you could afford a fancy plot at a cemetery when I bit the dust.”
The cold, blunt way Dean had spoken sliced at Sam’s chest and he found himself suffocating a little, his thorax washed down with ice.
Dean continued, not affected whatsoever. “I don’t want you to cremate me like we did Dad because I want to be able to come back and haunt you should you treat my car with even a speck of disrespect.”
His brother was still smiling that ghost of a smile of his when Sam finally digested the words, assimilating the non-too-plastic giddiness Dean incorporated in his voice. Sam had been inhumanly silent the rest of the day. Only when it was time for supper did he speak - Dean was about to pour ketchup onto his head, anyway. He had no other choice.
“Don’t!” he bit.
Dean beamed his irritating smirk. “Thank god. I thought you were going mute.”
*
There is no such thing as beginner’s luck. So when Dean first held up a crossbow to kill and the silver tipped arrow hit the full grown werewolf in its heart, it was sheer, unadulterated skill, honed near perfect by years of training and Dad’s drill sergeant’s barks. If the man was proud, he sure didn’t show it. So Dean whooped a little, got embarrassed for acting like a normal, eleven-year-old kid that he was and kept only his wide smile all the way back to the motel. When Dad was snoring on the bed next to his and Sam, Dean dictated the whole detail to wide-eyed, impressed little Sam who was struggling to stifle a yawn or two. Finally, seeing the trickle of tears at the corner of his brother’s eyes - and Dean was sure it was from the fighting of lethargy and not tears of pride and joy - Dean told Sam to get some sleep and that he’d finish his story tomorrow morning at breakfast.
Sam didn’t think Dean’s first kill would turn back and bite him on the ass. But hell - if they were already believing in all these supernatural shits, they should believe in plain ol’ karma as well. Except that, when Dean shot the werewolf, it wasn’t really a bad thing. It was gobbling up boys and girls, after all. Sam didn’t think it was really justice; what happened.
They were back where Dean had his first kill, two years ago. It was the same deal. Children found in shreds in the woods or by the roadside. Except now kids are going missing even in broad daylight. Dean figured the son of bitches evolved or something. But that also means they could hunt those bastards down in the sunlight instead of relying on flashlights and the werewolves having the advantage of having night visions.
When they bumped into one after two hours of tracking in the dense woods, they instantly knew Dean had been right about the evolution thing. The creature was gigantic, twice Sam’s size. Its coat was shiny, not black as the brothers know from books and old scripts but almost golden brown, much like the hair on Dean’s head. Sam was about to make a crude joke about Dean having a secret affair with a she-wolf and bearing a litter of wolf puppies when the werewolf before them rose on two legs and snarled, longass canine teeth and sticky saliva on display.
Sam all but whimpered. “Are they supposed to be this huge?”
Dean gnawed at his lower lip. “Don’t remember them being this big before. And I was fucking eleven. Well, let’s just hope this ain’t the baby we’re dealing with here.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, they heard deep, guttural growls from around them. At least two sources, from behind the thick shrubs.
Dean cursed under his breath. “Hunts in packs. How could I forget?” he grumbled before aiming and shooting the one in front of them precisely in the heart.
A shrill, ear-splitting sort-of scream and all hell broke lose. Sam and him split ways, two on his tail and one running after Sam. The one chasing after Sam was slightly bigger than the one Dean killed, probably an elder family member. And that just meant it was fucking pissed to be witnessing its baby or younger sibling or whatever shot in the heart like that. The wolf was amazingly fast and Sam was fast losing his breath, sharp branches of trees snagging his jacket and scratching his face. He wasn’t really far from where he split up with Dean when he stumbled on a raised tree root, the crossbow in his hand flying a couple of feet away under a wild bush. Sam scrambled, turning his self around and stared up at the gleaming green eyes, breath hitched in his throat. He absentmindedly reached for the handgun at the waistband of his jeans, pretty certain it wasn’t going to help much.
Trust Dean to make a grand entrance. Stomping on a dead log, he was looking pretty worn out but still as cocky as ever, crossbow ready at hand. “Hey!” he hollered as the wolf bared its teeth. “You wouldn’t want to eat him. He’s skinny as fuck. I’m the one with all the meat,” he grinned. Sam half expected him to wriggle his brows. “Besides,” Dean drawled, his voice a slight slur. “I was the kid that killed your great grand…cousin. Or whatever.”
For a moment, the creature looked as if he was assimilating the fact. Then, in a flurry of rush, it was leaping in Dean’s direction. Dean barely had enough time to bolt backward into the brush. Sam was pinned in place, more staggered about his brother than himself. There were some harsh roars and Dean’s groans then silence. Sam stopped breathing. Then Dean came walking out like a drunk, his gait unsteady.
“That was harsh,” he grunted, reaching out for Sam’s hand. “You okay, little brother?”
Sam was about to answer when Dean swayed forward, his eyes rolling back into his head. Sam finally caught his breath when Dean’s dead weight landed on top of him, Sam’s hand on his back came back wet and crimson. There were a couple of dozens of deep gashes on Dean’s broad back, most already gushing dark red blood, from the two werewolves he fought and some barely oozing, from the one he saved Sam from.
Sam had never seen Dean bled so much, it wasn’t a wonder he burst out crying on spot, his scream of Dean’s name echoing through the forest.
*
It wasn’t until they were staying still in some insignificant town a couple of months later that Sam discovered they weren’t werewolves at all. Nothing remarkable had made the Winchester alarm went off and Sam insisted Dean needed a few more weeks of rest after being sliced up by those non-werewolves so they took a long break, Sam doing odd jobs to gather money for rent, food and Dean’s medications. Dean had bitched about being dependent on his little brother for a week. Pride should be the middle names of all Winchesters, Sam thought.
Sam found the time for research and so he did. Dean thought it was absurd. They dealt with the thing, granted Dean slain them all, it was old news. But Sam, forever thoughtful, wanted to know why the pack they came across seemed so different.
They were called Raksha, some sources linked it to be the origin of vampires, the first blood sucking demon from deep ancient society of India. After a few generation, some inbreeds were no longer able to resemble human beings, much like today’s vampires. And so they were always mistaken as werewolves. Sam was just glad they could still be killed with silver. The final passage of the script made Sam’s heart jumped up his throat.
Apparently when one killed the primary female of Raksha, they gave themselves into it. The next breed would have some pieces of them inside. And it goes on, the pack evolving and adapting, taking forms of the one that eradicated their queen gradually. And it takes the one that “fathered” them to wipe them off the face of the planet. But of course, it also meant that the person would have to sacrifice a part of himself in doing so. It explained why Dean was so battered after dealing with four of the creatures.
Sam choked at the thought of Dean having to kill a part of himself to save Sam.
“Did you find anything on the bastards?”
Sam’s smile was genuine enough. “No.”
“Told you it’d be a waste of time,” Dean rolled his eyes.
*
Sam was tired of asking Dean what had made the thought of dying and being buried in the backyard of some tucked in country home popped out all of a sudden. Dean would just roll his shoulder in that boyish way of his and muttered, “You and I both know it’s bound to happen, Sammy. So let it go.”
Then Sam proceeded to ask what made Dean think it wasn’t him that Dean would bury first.
“Because I’d always be the one to keep your ass alive and not the other way around and so I’d be the one to die first and when I do, I want you to stop this hunting shit and stay in the home we bought and plant an apple tree to mark my grave and pluck juicy, red apples fertilized with my decomposing body ‘cause it’s a fact that I’m able to fertilize even when I’m dead.”
Which was gross and all, but also strangely fond in Sam’s opinion.
It was a year ago and they were lying across the Impala’s hood, heads bumping against each other. The sky was filled with stars and the Kansas breeze was relaxing. Sam blinked and a shooting star passed through their sight.
“Did you just do that?” Dean asked idly.
Sam pondered. “I don’t think I’m that powerful, Dean.”
Dean snickered. “True.”
Sam exhaled. “If you have one wish, Dean, what would it be?”
“To be Jennifer Love Hewitt,” Dean answered immediately, the smirk evident in his tone. “So I could stare at my boobs in the mirror all day long.”
“You’re useless,” Sam spat.
Dean sent him a faux hurt look, his brows wavering. After a while, he smiled. “I’d wish that none of this happen. That you’d get to meet Mom and we’d be together like a normal family…” Dean gave time for Sam to react. As he expected, Sam was propping himself up, looking at Dean like a puppy dog, about to vocalize how grateful he was and how Dean had the sweetest thoughts. “Maybe if we have Mom with us, you wouldn’t grow up to be such a girl.”
Sam glowered a bit then jabbed at Dean’s closed eyes with his fingers.
“Goddamnit!” echoed through the dark night.
They bought the house the next week. It was exactly the way Dean wanted and he started on the furnishing and decorating immediately because although Sam is a girl, he wasn’t an interior designer.
*
Sam should’ve known. He was the psychic. Instead, it was Dean that saw it coming. That was why he shoved Sam to the side when the preserved remains puffed out the stale mist of dusts heading straight to them. When the dust hit him, Dean was forced to inhale and he let out a strangled choke, his sclera turning blue for an instant. Sam struggled to his feet and caught Dean as he fell lifeless into Sam’s arms. The notion at the back of his mind told Sam to drive Dean straight to the hospital and he did. Remorse promptly bit when the doctor gave her diagnosis. It was out of the world but Dean’s organs were obliterating, almost liquefying with the passing minute.
Sam’s whole world shut down as he slid onto the hospital floor, sobbing like a little child. Dean escaped Death numerous times but somehow, this time, Sam could feel the hopelessness clench at his conscience, intermingling with Dean’s words.
“We should look for the house soon, Sammy. I think my expiration date is looming.”
“Would you stop saying that?”
“You’re just pissed because your little psychic ability is rubbing off on me.”
“It’s not that, Dean. And you know it!”
“Aww…You love me, don’t you, Sammy? It’s okay. I wuff you too.”
Sam wondered if Dean knew. If it was a given that Sam loves him, as it was a given that Dean loves him. Perhaps he needed to tell Dean. Perhaps the words need to be said after all.
Sam burst into Dean’s room to find his brother sleeping soundly. Dean looked small, somehow. Frail and boneless. All the time Sam saw his brother lying on a hospital bed, this is the worst Dean had looked. Sam bit at his lower lip to fight the tears. He stayed on Dean’s side all through the night. Dean’s fingers in his hand twitched at the break of dawn, awakening Sam from a restless slumber. Dean smiled weakly.
“Take me home, Sammy,” he breathed.
It had been a month since their return and the air in the house was damp, reeking with stale mildew. All the furniture was dusty. Sam wiped the pile of dust off Dean’s favourite armchair and set his brother on it.
“I’m sorry I didn’t have the time to clean.”
Dean smiled. It seemed like it was the only thing he’s doing these days. “It’s okay, Sam. It still feels like home.”
Sam left Dean sitting in the chair as he cleared the house off dust, glancing at Dean frequently just to make sure Dean was still there, breathing. Dean had dozed off most of the time, lethargy tolling. His whole body seemed to be paler and paler and Sam had to fight the urge to cry simply over that. He finished dusting and woke Dean up, hauling his brother to the bedroom.
Sam prepared dinner and brought it into the master bedroom, Dean’s bedroom. Dean was holding the framed picture of Mom and Dad they collected from the old house a long time ago. It seemed like ages since Sam had first discovered his powers. Sam felt the vile anger bubbling as he was reminded how useless his ability had been. It should’ve been me - he thought as he watched Dean’s gaze ran over the old photo. Sam set the bowl of soup on the bedside table next to Dean’s favourite gun and sat himself on the edge of the bed.
Dean’s eyelashes settled against his freckled cheeks. “Do you think it’s possible for me to meet with them again? You know, in the afterlife?” Dean’s voice was almost child-like, his finger tracing the features of their parents.
“Maybe,” Sam whispered.
Dean exhaled labouredly. “I was raised a fighter, Sam. I shouldn’t die like this. Maybe with a fucking battle axe stuck on my back or some creature’s claw twisting up my intestines but not like this. Almost like dying of old age. As if all my previous fights had been redundant. Worthless.”
Sam ran a hand through Dean’s messy hair. “You’ll always be a hero, Dean. You’re a Winchester.”
Dean’s lower lip trembled, tears already wetting his face. “Yeah, I am. I shouldn’t go like this. Not like this. Not a warrior’s death.”
“Hey - you saved me, Dean. If that’s not heroic, I don’t know what is.”
“I saved you because you’re my brother,” Dean murmured, his breath hitching.
“No. That’s not it.”
Dean looked up at Sam with weary eyes and nodded, not saying it but knowing full well that Sam knows. A moment passed when Dean’s breath suddenly quickened and he was gasping for air. Sam gathered him tight against his torso, knowing Dean’s time was near. He gripped a handful of Dean’s hair and buried his tears-wet face in Dean’s crown, sobbing. Dean’s whole body was wracked with a cold, his usually perfect lips now pallid, his hazel green eyes almost gray and soulless.
“Please, please…” Dean wheezed, hanging on to Sam’s shirt and palming his brother’s cheek. “I don’t want to go, Sammy. I want to stay.”
Sam’s tears were endless, his voice already hoarse. “I want you to stay too, Dean. I really do.”
Dean’s eyes rolled back, staring at Sam. “Why do I have to go then, Sammy?”
“I don’t know,” Sam wept. “I don’t know.”
Dean’s voice was more desperate now, choking. “Sam, it’s time.”
“Dean, I can’t have you leave.”
Dean managed to nod. “I know, Sam. I love you too.”
Then, as soon as it started it was over. Sam stayed on the bed, rocking Dean in his arms like a child for hours and hours until the earliest ray of sunlight peeked through the drapes and shone across Dean’s peaceful features.
Sam pressed a soft kiss against Dean’s cold forehead, whispering, “I love you, Dean.”
The End
hope.
rating: PG; for language
word count: 3438
disclaimer: if they were mine, i'd keep them jollygood happy, hopped up on sugar and forever in prank war mode.
a/n: gen, in general. wincest if you really squint. sam-centric (which is weirding me out because i'm a total dean girl but i kept on writing on behalf of sam. *shrug*) and also sort-of angsty. comments and crits would be wonderful. :)
accompanying song: Bring On the Wonder by Susan Enan
summary: dean is thinking and talking a lot about death.
Unsaid
It was Dean’s idea that they get themselves a home. A proper home. Preferably somewhere quiet and not so cold with a humongous backyard and woods nearby. When Sam asked why, Dean just smiled.
“Maybe I have some psychic powers myself.”
Sam didn’t know how true that was until now.
*
There were times when Dean told Sam he loves him without even saying it. Dad raised them more like warriors than siblings. They grew up as little armies than little boys. But Sam was sure if there’s one thing they have in common with normal people is their incapability of admitting how they love each other. They’re dudes anyway. And siblings are supposed to hate each other’s guts no matter what. No matter how much they really actually love one another. That’s another thing about Dad’s way of bringing them up. They grew to have each other’s backs, to protect each other. To die for the other.
To be brothers. In all sense of the word.
*
They were in Michigan some three years ago. The sun was setting against the horizon and Dean was wearing his Ray Ban. The radio wasn’t turned on and it was awfully quiet. Sam listened as the Impala emitted a weird clanking noise now and then. Dean was intent on the road ahead, letting the wispy air ruffled his hair. It was much longer now. Sam noted that it had been more than three months since Dean got a hair cut. He let his head lolled to the driver’s side, clearing his throat.
“Don’t you want to cut your hair?”
Dean scowled, taking his eyes off the road for a split second. “I think you need it more than I do, Samantha.”
“You know why I keep my hair long and I know why you always keep your hair short. Dad wanted us to be good little soldiers and being a good little soldier you are, you couldn’t let your hair grow past your collar,” Sam observed shrewdly.
He was sure Dean would snap - Well, Dad’s not here now, is he?!
Instead Dean smirked. “I read somewhere that chicks like to be able to run their hands through a dude’s hair. So I figured I’d save the hair cut money - ‘cause you don’t possess the hair cutting skills that I do, man - and attract more chicks. Just as long as I don’t look like one of them,” he leered at Sam pointedly.
Sam chuckled. “Now where did you read that? Marie Claire?”
Dean cleared his throat. “I think it was in the latest Playboy.”
Sam shook his head idly, leaning his head against the bench seat. The Impala groaned and choked. Dean frowned, his grip on the steering wheel tightened.
“I think she needs some serious servicing, Dean. And maybe some oiling on the doors while we’re at it.”
Dean’s voice was dead serious. “Dude. You’re my brother and I love you to death but if you speak about her that way again, I’d fucking slit your throat.”
Sam looked out the window on his side and smiled secretly.
*
Dean relented the they’velostcount-th time Sam asked him about the spur behind the getting a home base somewhere quiet with a huge backyard and nearby woods.
Dean shrugged, cocking the rifle he just cleaned. “Woods is for hunting practice.”
“And the house?” Sam had sounded a little bit too biting than he intended.
“Thought it’d be nice to have a place to come home to after a long hunt, don’t you think?”
Sam had smirked. “And I bet the backyard is for planting and rearing chickens, huh?”
Dean grumbled. “Of course not,” he frowned, finally locking Sam with a gaze. “It’s so you’d have a place to bury me. I don’t think you could afford a fancy plot at a cemetery when I bit the dust.”
The cold, blunt way Dean had spoken sliced at Sam’s chest and he found himself suffocating a little, his thorax washed down with ice.
Dean continued, not affected whatsoever. “I don’t want you to cremate me like we did Dad because I want to be able to come back and haunt you should you treat my car with even a speck of disrespect.”
His brother was still smiling that ghost of a smile of his when Sam finally digested the words, assimilating the non-too-plastic giddiness Dean incorporated in his voice. Sam had been inhumanly silent the rest of the day. Only when it was time for supper did he speak - Dean was about to pour ketchup onto his head, anyway. He had no other choice.
“Don’t!” he bit.
Dean beamed his irritating smirk. “Thank god. I thought you were going mute.”
*
There is no such thing as beginner’s luck. So when Dean first held up a crossbow to kill and the silver tipped arrow hit the full grown werewolf in its heart, it was sheer, unadulterated skill, honed near perfect by years of training and Dad’s drill sergeant’s barks. If the man was proud, he sure didn’t show it. So Dean whooped a little, got embarrassed for acting like a normal, eleven-year-old kid that he was and kept only his wide smile all the way back to the motel. When Dad was snoring on the bed next to his and Sam, Dean dictated the whole detail to wide-eyed, impressed little Sam who was struggling to stifle a yawn or two. Finally, seeing the trickle of tears at the corner of his brother’s eyes - and Dean was sure it was from the fighting of lethargy and not tears of pride and joy - Dean told Sam to get some sleep and that he’d finish his story tomorrow morning at breakfast.
Sam didn’t think Dean’s first kill would turn back and bite him on the ass. But hell - if they were already believing in all these supernatural shits, they should believe in plain ol’ karma as well. Except that, when Dean shot the werewolf, it wasn’t really a bad thing. It was gobbling up boys and girls, after all. Sam didn’t think it was really justice; what happened.
They were back where Dean had his first kill, two years ago. It was the same deal. Children found in shreds in the woods or by the roadside. Except now kids are going missing even in broad daylight. Dean figured the son of bitches evolved or something. But that also means they could hunt those bastards down in the sunlight instead of relying on flashlights and the werewolves having the advantage of having night visions.
When they bumped into one after two hours of tracking in the dense woods, they instantly knew Dean had been right about the evolution thing. The creature was gigantic, twice Sam’s size. Its coat was shiny, not black as the brothers know from books and old scripts but almost golden brown, much like the hair on Dean’s head. Sam was about to make a crude joke about Dean having a secret affair with a she-wolf and bearing a litter of wolf puppies when the werewolf before them rose on two legs and snarled, longass canine teeth and sticky saliva on display.
Sam all but whimpered. “Are they supposed to be this huge?”
Dean gnawed at his lower lip. “Don’t remember them being this big before. And I was fucking eleven. Well, let’s just hope this ain’t the baby we’re dealing with here.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, they heard deep, guttural growls from around them. At least two sources, from behind the thick shrubs.
Dean cursed under his breath. “Hunts in packs. How could I forget?” he grumbled before aiming and shooting the one in front of them precisely in the heart.
A shrill, ear-splitting sort-of scream and all hell broke lose. Sam and him split ways, two on his tail and one running after Sam. The one chasing after Sam was slightly bigger than the one Dean killed, probably an elder family member. And that just meant it was fucking pissed to be witnessing its baby or younger sibling or whatever shot in the heart like that. The wolf was amazingly fast and Sam was fast losing his breath, sharp branches of trees snagging his jacket and scratching his face. He wasn’t really far from where he split up with Dean when he stumbled on a raised tree root, the crossbow in his hand flying a couple of feet away under a wild bush. Sam scrambled, turning his self around and stared up at the gleaming green eyes, breath hitched in his throat. He absentmindedly reached for the handgun at the waistband of his jeans, pretty certain it wasn’t going to help much.
Trust Dean to make a grand entrance. Stomping on a dead log, he was looking pretty worn out but still as cocky as ever, crossbow ready at hand. “Hey!” he hollered as the wolf bared its teeth. “You wouldn’t want to eat him. He’s skinny as fuck. I’m the one with all the meat,” he grinned. Sam half expected him to wriggle his brows. “Besides,” Dean drawled, his voice a slight slur. “I was the kid that killed your great grand…cousin. Or whatever.”
For a moment, the creature looked as if he was assimilating the fact. Then, in a flurry of rush, it was leaping in Dean’s direction. Dean barely had enough time to bolt backward into the brush. Sam was pinned in place, more staggered about his brother than himself. There were some harsh roars and Dean’s groans then silence. Sam stopped breathing. Then Dean came walking out like a drunk, his gait unsteady.
“That was harsh,” he grunted, reaching out for Sam’s hand. “You okay, little brother?”
Sam was about to answer when Dean swayed forward, his eyes rolling back into his head. Sam finally caught his breath when Dean’s dead weight landed on top of him, Sam’s hand on his back came back wet and crimson. There were a couple of dozens of deep gashes on Dean’s broad back, most already gushing dark red blood, from the two werewolves he fought and some barely oozing, from the one he saved Sam from.
Sam had never seen Dean bled so much, it wasn’t a wonder he burst out crying on spot, his scream of Dean’s name echoing through the forest.
*
It wasn’t until they were staying still in some insignificant town a couple of months later that Sam discovered they weren’t werewolves at all. Nothing remarkable had made the Winchester alarm went off and Sam insisted Dean needed a few more weeks of rest after being sliced up by those non-werewolves so they took a long break, Sam doing odd jobs to gather money for rent, food and Dean’s medications. Dean had bitched about being dependent on his little brother for a week. Pride should be the middle names of all Winchesters, Sam thought.
Sam found the time for research and so he did. Dean thought it was absurd. They dealt with the thing, granted Dean slain them all, it was old news. But Sam, forever thoughtful, wanted to know why the pack they came across seemed so different.
They were called Raksha, some sources linked it to be the origin of vampires, the first blood sucking demon from deep ancient society of India. After a few generation, some inbreeds were no longer able to resemble human beings, much like today’s vampires. And so they were always mistaken as werewolves. Sam was just glad they could still be killed with silver. The final passage of the script made Sam’s heart jumped up his throat.
Apparently when one killed the primary female of Raksha, they gave themselves into it. The next breed would have some pieces of them inside. And it goes on, the pack evolving and adapting, taking forms of the one that eradicated their queen gradually. And it takes the one that “fathered” them to wipe them off the face of the planet. But of course, it also meant that the person would have to sacrifice a part of himself in doing so. It explained why Dean was so battered after dealing with four of the creatures.
Sam choked at the thought of Dean having to kill a part of himself to save Sam.
“Did you find anything on the bastards?”
Sam’s smile was genuine enough. “No.”
“Told you it’d be a waste of time,” Dean rolled his eyes.
*
Sam was tired of asking Dean what had made the thought of dying and being buried in the backyard of some tucked in country home popped out all of a sudden. Dean would just roll his shoulder in that boyish way of his and muttered, “You and I both know it’s bound to happen, Sammy. So let it go.”
Then Sam proceeded to ask what made Dean think it wasn’t him that Dean would bury first.
“Because I’d always be the one to keep your ass alive and not the other way around and so I’d be the one to die first and when I do, I want you to stop this hunting shit and stay in the home we bought and plant an apple tree to mark my grave and pluck juicy, red apples fertilized with my decomposing body ‘cause it’s a fact that I’m able to fertilize even when I’m dead.”
Which was gross and all, but also strangely fond in Sam’s opinion.
It was a year ago and they were lying across the Impala’s hood, heads bumping against each other. The sky was filled with stars and the Kansas breeze was relaxing. Sam blinked and a shooting star passed through their sight.
“Did you just do that?” Dean asked idly.
Sam pondered. “I don’t think I’m that powerful, Dean.”
Dean snickered. “True.”
Sam exhaled. “If you have one wish, Dean, what would it be?”
“To be Jennifer Love Hewitt,” Dean answered immediately, the smirk evident in his tone. “So I could stare at my boobs in the mirror all day long.”
“You’re useless,” Sam spat.
Dean sent him a faux hurt look, his brows wavering. After a while, he smiled. “I’d wish that none of this happen. That you’d get to meet Mom and we’d be together like a normal family…” Dean gave time for Sam to react. As he expected, Sam was propping himself up, looking at Dean like a puppy dog, about to vocalize how grateful he was and how Dean had the sweetest thoughts. “Maybe if we have Mom with us, you wouldn’t grow up to be such a girl.”
Sam glowered a bit then jabbed at Dean’s closed eyes with his fingers.
“Goddamnit!” echoed through the dark night.
They bought the house the next week. It was exactly the way Dean wanted and he started on the furnishing and decorating immediately because although Sam is a girl, he wasn’t an interior designer.
*
Sam should’ve known. He was the psychic. Instead, it was Dean that saw it coming. That was why he shoved Sam to the side when the preserved remains puffed out the stale mist of dusts heading straight to them. When the dust hit him, Dean was forced to inhale and he let out a strangled choke, his sclera turning blue for an instant. Sam struggled to his feet and caught Dean as he fell lifeless into Sam’s arms. The notion at the back of his mind told Sam to drive Dean straight to the hospital and he did. Remorse promptly bit when the doctor gave her diagnosis. It was out of the world but Dean’s organs were obliterating, almost liquefying with the passing minute.
Sam’s whole world shut down as he slid onto the hospital floor, sobbing like a little child. Dean escaped Death numerous times but somehow, this time, Sam could feel the hopelessness clench at his conscience, intermingling with Dean’s words.
“We should look for the house soon, Sammy. I think my expiration date is looming.”
“Would you stop saying that?”
“You’re just pissed because your little psychic ability is rubbing off on me.”
“It’s not that, Dean. And you know it!”
“Aww…You love me, don’t you, Sammy? It’s okay. I wuff you too.”
Sam wondered if Dean knew. If it was a given that Sam loves him, as it was a given that Dean loves him. Perhaps he needed to tell Dean. Perhaps the words need to be said after all.
Sam burst into Dean’s room to find his brother sleeping soundly. Dean looked small, somehow. Frail and boneless. All the time Sam saw his brother lying on a hospital bed, this is the worst Dean had looked. Sam bit at his lower lip to fight the tears. He stayed on Dean’s side all through the night. Dean’s fingers in his hand twitched at the break of dawn, awakening Sam from a restless slumber. Dean smiled weakly.
“Take me home, Sammy,” he breathed.
It had been a month since their return and the air in the house was damp, reeking with stale mildew. All the furniture was dusty. Sam wiped the pile of dust off Dean’s favourite armchair and set his brother on it.
“I’m sorry I didn’t have the time to clean.”
Dean smiled. It seemed like it was the only thing he’s doing these days. “It’s okay, Sam. It still feels like home.”
Sam left Dean sitting in the chair as he cleared the house off dust, glancing at Dean frequently just to make sure Dean was still there, breathing. Dean had dozed off most of the time, lethargy tolling. His whole body seemed to be paler and paler and Sam had to fight the urge to cry simply over that. He finished dusting and woke Dean up, hauling his brother to the bedroom.
Sam prepared dinner and brought it into the master bedroom, Dean’s bedroom. Dean was holding the framed picture of Mom and Dad they collected from the old house a long time ago. It seemed like ages since Sam had first discovered his powers. Sam felt the vile anger bubbling as he was reminded how useless his ability had been. It should’ve been me - he thought as he watched Dean’s gaze ran over the old photo. Sam set the bowl of soup on the bedside table next to Dean’s favourite gun and sat himself on the edge of the bed.
Dean’s eyelashes settled against his freckled cheeks. “Do you think it’s possible for me to meet with them again? You know, in the afterlife?” Dean’s voice was almost child-like, his finger tracing the features of their parents.
“Maybe,” Sam whispered.
Dean exhaled labouredly. “I was raised a fighter, Sam. I shouldn’t die like this. Maybe with a fucking battle axe stuck on my back or some creature’s claw twisting up my intestines but not like this. Almost like dying of old age. As if all my previous fights had been redundant. Worthless.”
Sam ran a hand through Dean’s messy hair. “You’ll always be a hero, Dean. You’re a Winchester.”
Dean’s lower lip trembled, tears already wetting his face. “Yeah, I am. I shouldn’t go like this. Not like this. Not a warrior’s death.”
“Hey - you saved me, Dean. If that’s not heroic, I don’t know what is.”
“I saved you because you’re my brother,” Dean murmured, his breath hitching.
“No. That’s not it.”
Dean looked up at Sam with weary eyes and nodded, not saying it but knowing full well that Sam knows. A moment passed when Dean’s breath suddenly quickened and he was gasping for air. Sam gathered him tight against his torso, knowing Dean’s time was near. He gripped a handful of Dean’s hair and buried his tears-wet face in Dean’s crown, sobbing. Dean’s whole body was wracked with a cold, his usually perfect lips now pallid, his hazel green eyes almost gray and soulless.
“Please, please…” Dean wheezed, hanging on to Sam’s shirt and palming his brother’s cheek. “I don’t want to go, Sammy. I want to stay.”
Sam’s tears were endless, his voice already hoarse. “I want you to stay too, Dean. I really do.”
Dean’s eyes rolled back, staring at Sam. “Why do I have to go then, Sammy?”
“I don’t know,” Sam wept. “I don’t know.”
Dean’s voice was more desperate now, choking. “Sam, it’s time.”
“Dean, I can’t have you leave.”
Dean managed to nod. “I know, Sam. I love you too.”
Then, as soon as it started it was over. Sam stayed on the bed, rocking Dean in his arms like a child for hours and hours until the earliest ray of sunlight peeked through the drapes and shone across Dean’s peaceful features.
Sam pressed a soft kiss against Dean’s cold forehead, whispering, “I love you, Dean.”
The End
hope.