#4 - Bound.
#4 - Bound.
From the moment that the witch looks at them and smiles, Dean figures that they might be in trouble. True, they figured he’d know who they were - they had, after all, parked the Impala right outside of the store-front windows and made no effort to hide the way they’d tucked their guns in the back of their pants.
He’d naively assumed that they’d get the typical reaction - a little bit of snark, some sputtered defences and a lot of fear; especially aimed towards Sam. Ever since they’d rescued another hunter from a werewolf, word had spread like hot-fire that Sam Winchester had not only beaten Lucifer and leapt into the pit to save the world, he’d also one-upped the devil again by achieving the one thing that the archangel never had: he’d dragged himself back out.
Initially, Sam had asked Bobby to spread the word that he hadn’t managed to drag himself free, but rather had been pulled out by Castiel (who neither of them had seen since). After the first hunt where a vampire had taken one look at Sam and promptly thrown his hands into the air and begged for mercy, the three of them had decided that it was best just to let people believe that Sam had freed himself.
This witch, however, appeared to be quite confident in his abilities, considering the way that he casually leans across the counter.
“If it isn’t the infamous Winchester brothers.” He says mildly, eyeing them up as if he hasn’t a care in the world. “I wondered when the two of you would wander my way - no doubt you heard about the other hunters?”
They had. Four young hunters; according to Bobby’s contacts, they’d been working together, had only been hunting for a year or so. They’d checked in with a friend before heading into the town, and he hadn’t heard another word - eventually, four bodies had been recovered from a river, the local authorities labelling it a strange case of murder-suicide.
It had been Bobby’s contact that had dragged the Winchesters into it, insistent that the brothers were the only ones that would be able to handle the case. Dean had been reluctant, had hated witches ever since he was younger and one had cast some kind of spell on Sam that had left him bleeding from a minor wound for long enough that discussions had turned to hospital trips and blood transfusions.
Bobby and Sam had tag-teamed him until he’d given in, throwing out offhanded comments about leaving other hunters to clear up things that they weren’t capable of handling. It was a decision that Dean was already regretting.
Still, he nodded evenly, leaning casually against the end of the counter.
“Four of them, right?” He asked casually, smiling as a little old lady lay down a few herbs and waited patiently for the witch to ring them up. She tottered for a moments counting her change, before offering them all a polite smile and retreating out of the store, leaving them alone with the witch for the first time. “I’m gonna be honest here, man. You’d probably be a lot safer if you’d just let those hunters take away your grimoire and stopped practicing, rather than killing them. They were a lot nicer than us.”
If anything, the witch’s grin grew.
“Dean,” He sighed, sounding vaguely exasperated, as if wondering why Dean just didn’t understand. “I didn’t kill them. We were just having some fun.”
Across the room, Sam swore.
Dean turned just in time to see his brother flying through the air, slamming into the store’s front door and toppling out when it swung open at the impact; the kid hit the concrete hard and didn’t move.
Dean didn’t give a second thought to the witch, just raced after his brother, dropping down to his knees next to Sam’s side, gently rolling him over.
There was a gash across his brother’s temple, bleeding sluggishly, and his eyes were still closed, but otherwise he appeared completely unharmed.
“Sammy.” Dean said softly, nudging the kid’s shoulder. “Come on, you’ve got to open your eyes for me, kiddo.”
Sam groaned, his head twisting away from Dean slightly as his eyes fluttered open. He seemed to struggle to focus for a few moments, finally twisting his head back around to face his brother and blinking owlishly.
“Decided to take a flying lesson without me, huh?” He asked, reaching a hand to wipe the blood away from his brother’s face. The instant that his fingers touched Sam’s temple, the world around him seemed to disappear in a flash of white light, and Dean felt his body rocked backwards, fingers tangling in his brother’s jacket.
What followed was almost too quick for Dean to make sense of - flashes of images and sound, thoughts and feelings; jumbled and messy, with no particular order. There was no doubt in his own mind as to who’s life he was watching in super fast-forward; he knew Sam better than anyone.
Watching out of the window as Dean and John returned from another hunt. Curling up in the backseat with a flashlight and a torch. Blood on leather; on skin and dried in hair. Bruises and grazes, weapons and charms. John’s hunting buddies, Dean’s long string of one night stands. Fear that, one day, his brother and father might not come home.
Friends from his high schools, from college - a long-forgotten guidance councillor pressing a Stanford brochure into his hands with a smile and a few carefully-selected words of encouragement. The night he’d left; the betrayal he’d felt when his brother and father had taken his dream into their hands and dismissed it. Fear of striking out on his own, of no longer having Dean there to watch his back.
Jessica, the sun in her hair and her eyes shining bright.
The night of the fire; Jess on the ceiling, bleeding and screaming. Her headstone, surrounded by flowers. Madison, pressing a gun into his hands, eyes resolute. Madison, with a bloody hole in her forehead. Dean, sick in a hospital, all fake bravado and certainty of death - finding the healer, fighting the reaper. Fear that it might not work, that he might have to hold Dean’s body in his arms as his skin turned cold.
The sensation of a knife in his back, white hot pain, Dean’s hands catching him as he sunk into the mud, whispering words of comfort to him; the fear of not knowing what Dean would do. Frantically finding a way to save his brother from the deal, searching when he should be sleeping, mind constantly working. The FBI, Victor Henrickson.
Dean dying, over and over, and then once more when the hellhounds tore the flesh from his bones. Drinking himself into oblivion, the crossroads demon mocking and teasing. (“Your soul was always ours, Sam. Why would we deal for it?”) The helplessness of failed attempt after failed attempt, fear the he might not ever be enough, might not ever be able to pull his brother from Hell.
Dean coming back.
Castiel, the proof that he’d always hoped for of a God, looking at him with disgust in his eyes. Calling him tainted. Ruby and power and demon blood. Exorcisms with his mind and the blinding headaches that they left behind; nosebleeds and dizziness, collapsing to his knees even as Ruby yanked him back to his feet. Adam and his mother, ghouls slicing into his flesh, tasting his blood. The hope that, maybe, he could die like that - the fear that, despite everything Sam had done, Dean might save him anyway.
A teacher, sitting at a desk and regarding him carefully, curiously. Asking, “are you happy, Sam?” and Sam’s fear that he never would be, didn’t deserve it.
Lilith; the rage and determination that accompanied her name, the certainty that he had to kill her. Dean, disappointment clear on his face. The bright white light of Lucifer rising. The fear of what he’d done and, worse, what he’d become.
Withdrawal. Hallucinations that Dean had known nothing about - himself, his mother, even a younger version of Sam’s very self accusing him of being evil. The knowledge of being locked in the panic room, sure that he’d been left there to die.
Castiel, opening the door to free him.
Zachariah. Anna. Angel after angel, none of them good or pure or anything the bible had promised him - none of them offering him salvation.
Heaven.
A message Dean had never left. Calling him a monster, a freak, telling him that he should be hunted. Dean, pulling Ruby’s knife from his belt and the fear that Dean might kill him before he had the chance for one more apology, and then his brother pressing it into his hand.
Lucifer, in his dreams. Trying over and over to get Sam to say yes. Sam resisting, uncaring of what the angel did to him as long as he didn’t disappoint his brother once more. Sam drinking jugs of demon blood, ashamed of himself even as the steady thrum of power coursed through his veins; disgust in Dean’s eyes even as he said goodbye.
Saying yes. Listening Lucifer tell him all of the ways that he’d been manipulated, listing the people in his life that had coerced him down the path of evil. Reminding him, over and over, that as soon as Dean said yes his own bare hands would throttle the life from him. Michael, meeting him in Stull Cemetery. His own fists, smashing into his brother’s face relentlessly, feeling skin swell and tear; the glint of sunlight off the Impala, the glimpse of a tiny army man wedged into an ashtray.
Control enough to do what had to be done, throwing himself in; sure that he was finally getting what he deserved. Lucifer’s voice in his head, promising him punishment for his betrayal. Lucifer smiling, a hand stroking sweetly through his hair, down to the tender skin of his neck-
No.
A fresh bolt of pain worked through his head, a strange sensation of something slamming shut accompanying it, and Dean found that he could blink his eyes open.
Somehow he’d managed to stay upright, had fallen onto his bottom but was otherwise in the same position he’d been in before, hands curled in Sam’s jacket. The kid had rolled onto his side, retching painfully. His brain was still jumbled, linked to Sam so deeply that it took him a few seconds to realise that he wasn’t the one being sick.
“Whoa,” He breathed, and then blinked out loud as he heard the word repeated in Sam’s mind, where the kid had heard him. He considered, for a brief moment, giving up on words entirely before admitting to himself that there was a kind of comfort in them.
He clambered unsteadily to his feet, his brain frantically trying to work out how tall he was, how much he weighed - for a few seconds, he thought he’d topple back over, and then his body adjusted and he fell back into himself, his brain automatically shifting Sam’s thoughts to the background, allowing only him to occupy the main part of his brain.
“Okay,” He muttered to himself, brushing his jeans off quickly, sending a quick glance at the door of the magic shop, unsurprised to find it shut - shutters drawn down and looking for all of the world empty. “It’s cool Dean, you’ve got this.”
Slowly, as to avoid another embarrassing episode (he was painfully aware of the people around them staring, knew that they had to get out of there before people started asking questions), he leant over and slipped an arm underneath Sam’s chest, slowly easing him upwards.
“Come on, Sammy,” He muttered quietly, steadying the kid when he wavered, feeling Sam’s pain in the back of his mind, registering before he even saw the unequal pupils that the younger hunter had one hell of a concussion. “Up we go - whoa, steady there. I’ve got you, okay? I’m not letting go.”
Sam let himself be manhandled gently and efficiently to his feet, Dean keeping him upright with a practiced ease that spoke of too many years experience whilst the kid fought admirably to get his thoughts together.
Finally, his fuzzy eyes - greener now that they were full of pain - met Dean’s and he slipped a hand down, his hand tangling in his brother’s sleeve in a similar fashion to the way that Dean had gripped him only moments before.
“We need to… motel. We need to get back to the motel.” His eyes flickered to the storefront, wandering for a few moments before landing back on Dean. “Bobby should be able to help… I can probably draw the symbols that I saw. Trying to argue with the witch won’t get us anywhere today, and killing him won’t help.”
“Okay,” Dean nodded, nudging his brother back towards the car. There was two simultaneous flares of pain from Sam’s side of the link (head and back, Dean quickly identified) but he followed Dean’s lead regardless, sinking gratefully in the seat as soon as Dean managed to fumble the door open for him. “How you feeling, kid?”
Sam grinned, tipping his head back to rest it against the back of the seat and slumping down slightly to ease the pressure on the back. “You already know the answer to that.”
It was true; Sam’s pain was transmitting as a discomfort in the back of his brain, a strange buzzing that was entirely impossible to ignore. Curiously, he concentrated on the sensation, only to immediately shut it out again as best as he could when pain filled his body - radiating from the right hand side of his back and head.
“Yeah,” Dean grimaced. “I do.”
He shut the car door as carefully as he could; trying not to make his brother’s head hurt any worse, and it seemed to do the trick, Sam easing his head against the doorframe with a sigh of relief. Annoyed that he’d let the hunt get this far out of control, Dean slid into his own seat and started his baby’s engine, retreating back to the safety of the motel room.
*
The first thing Dean did upon arriving at the motel room was to grab their sadly depleted med kit and some pain pills, and to order Sammy to strip down to his boxers. After too many years of too little privacy, Sam didn’t even question the order - struggling to manoeuvre his shirts off his injured back and aching body. After a few moments, Dean silently stepped up to help him, and between the two of them, they managed to get Sam free of them.
It was easy to see which part of him had hit the floor first. Almost the entire right-hand side of his back was grazed, skin missing and blood drying in trails along the less injured parts. Bruises had already blossomed, extending past the middle of his back and whilst it wasn’t the worst injury Dean had seen (his eyes automatically fell to the scar that lay further down and he shivered when he thought of his hands pressing tight against his brother, blood spilling between his fingers) it would hurt for a while.
“Okay,” He told his brother evenly, gently squeezing the side of his neck in a comforting gesture. Sam flinched, and Dean remembered that last memory, Lucifer smiling as his hands stroked calmingly, got closer and closer to Sam’s throat. “I’ll clean your back first - it’s mostly grazes, but I’ll see how much of it I can cover up, and then I’ll sort your head out, alright?”
Sam nodded vaguely, and Dean felt the buzzing in his brain peak a split-second before Sam stumbled; Dean had anticipated the problem, had already moved to support his brother, and a relief (Sam’s relief) washed over him as Sam relaxed back into his hold, letting Dean prop him up whilst he once more fought to calm the pain racing through his head. Dean didn’t envy him the task, could recognise how much self-control it took just to stop the world around him from filtering out into nothingness.
Sam always had been a stubborn kid.
Finally the younger man straightened again, wavering unsteadily for a few moments before catching his balance.
“Chair or bed?” He asked quietly, and Dean gently nudged him towards the latter of the two, watching as Sam carefully eased himself down onto the soft surface. The angle of the light on his back made his injuries seem significantly more gory than they had only moments before, and Dean couldn’t help a second sympathetic wince when he dragged the medical kit over.
Sam didn’t respond, though Dean knew that he would have picked up on Dean’s reaction just as easily as Dean was feeling his brother’s pain.
“One or two of these might need a few stitches,” Dean frowned, tipping a liberal amount of antiseptic onto a gauze pad and leaning forwards; in the seconds it took him to bring gauze to flesh, Sam had already tensed up considerably, Dean’s brain giving him the perfect warning of what was about to happen.
Dean was sure that if it had been him, he would have cried out, made some noise of pain. Sam lay still and steady, breathing deep and even, and somehow that was worse.
Haltingly, Dean pulled forwards the first good memory he could find - him and Sammy, the fourth of july in some farmer’s field with a box of fireworks. Sammy hugging him round the waist, “you’re the best Dean” and hero-worshipping eyes.
Beneath his hands, Sam relaxed some and Dean smiled, gradually pulling forwards more to serve as a distraction.
Two year-old Sammy, toddling unsteadily towards him as Dean held out his arms, ready to catch his brother if he needed to. A slightly bigger Sammy, curled up in Dean’s lap as the elder boy taught him to read, patiently and with pride. Dean watching Sammy play soccer, watching his long legs eat up the grass and the casual way in which he avoided the other players - watched his brother dominate the field, scoring goal after goal. Saw him being presented with his trophy, a bright smile on his face… John, tucked further back in the stands, dirtied and bloodied from the hunt but wearing a proud smile nonetheless.
From the bed, Sam’s body tensed again, this time in surprise.
“Jesus.” He breathed. “He never even told me he was there - said that he’d gotten in too late to see it, and that soccer was a waste of time anyways.”
Dean shrugged. “He came half-way through, didn’t want to tell you that he’d seen it - that he was proud of you, had liked watching you play - because he thought it’d make it harder for you when he wanted you to quit.”
“I always wondered why, out of all of the trophies, it was that one that he saved.”
Dean could feel his brother turning thoughtful, didn’t want to turn this into another session where Sam did his best to understand their father and always ended up annoyed when he couldn’t. When his own memory failed him, he reached across the bond and tugged on Sam’s. Underneath the pain, memories spilled across.
Dean, patiently handing his brother crayons as a four-year-old Sam constructed a ‘masterpiece’ out of scribbles and lines. Carving their initials into the seat, a silent declaration that the Impala was theirs - theirs to share. Evenings spent in motel rooms with a box of pizza and a late-night horror flick, the two of them laughing at the ridiculousness of plot lines.
Sam sick, feeling a little better every time Dean’s hand stroked through his hair, soothing him. Dean’s hands rubbing his back, Dean’s lips on his forehead. Dean hugging him, helping him back to the car after a hard hunt, Dean pulling him into his arms on cold nights, when Sam worried he might shiver right out of his bones. John, stone-faced and watching the two of them with disapproval clear on his face; drunk and angry, slamming doors and yelling insults.
Sam on his first day a Stanford, clutching the pocket knife that Dean had given him, imagining his brother stood next to him, what Dean would say. Feeling sick at the thought that he might never see his brother and father again. An empty dorm room, books stacked neatly on the desk and no decoration save for one photo: the Winchester men, arms around each other and smiling.
Hands still moving steadily over his brother’s back, Dean winced.
Regret washed over him from his brother, and he felt Sam tugging back, trying to retreat into himself - hiding the part of him that would always remember their father as cold and angry from Dean, who had idolised that same man since the age of four.
“Hey,” Dean frowned. “Don’t do that. No more secrets, okay? My guess is, this is the same thing that got the other hunters - maybe the police weren’t too far off when they dubbed it a murder-suicide. I mean… suddenly having three other people in your head? I think I’d go a little crazy, too.”
He recognised his mistake too late to retract it, felt embarrassment wash over Sam even as that same inexplicable presence as before wash through his brother’s very being; the memory of cold hands ghosting down through his hair, pressing against his neck. Pointed nails bit into sensitive flesh, surged deeper and deeper inside his skin-
A sensation not unlike that of a door being slammed shut in front of Dean’s face, every part of Sam screaming no at the same time, forcing the memories of pointed nails and soft caresses beyond his brother’s reach.
“Sam.” Dean said carefully. “It’s fine-“
“No.” Sam interrupted, fierce determination forced out in a whisper. “That’s not for you.”
*
Sleep that night didn’t come easy.
Sam’s presence in Dean’s mind was muted, the wall still down as effectively as Sam could manage with less than a day’s practice. Small slivers of emotion leaked through - not enough to get a handle on what Sam was thinking (although it wasn’t hard to work out), but enough to tell that it wasn’t good. Across the room, the younger man lay still and silent on his good side, his still figure silhouetted by the glimpses of light peeking through the curtains.
“Sam.” Dean whispered after a few hours of them lying there in silence. “Your memories… nothing you could show me would ever change the way I think of you.”
Sam shifted, but didn’t speak for a long moment. When he did it was barely audible, a whisper Dean wasn’t sure that he was supposed to hear.
“I won’t let him break you too, Dean. I owe you more than that.”
*
When Dean finally did sleep, he dreamt of big stone walls and heavy gates that - no matter how hard Dean pushed and shoved - refused to open. Inside, he could hear his brother - screaming, sobbing. Desperate and broken, and Dean unable to reach him.
When he woke up, it was to the sight of his brother curled up against the headboard of his bed, dark bags under his eyes and the TV running infomercials on mute.
“You didn’t sleep?” Dean questioned, sliding upright and running a hand through his short hair. Across the room, Sam shrugged, gesturing absently at his side with the remote control.
“Sore, I guess.”
It was a lie and they both knew it - as a general rule, the more Sam hurt the more he slept. When he’d been fourteen and undergone emergency surgery to remove his spleen after a hunt gone wrong, he’d slept for almost eighteen hours straight the day after they’d busted him from the hospital. Dean and John had been worried sick, reluctant to wake him but convinced that if they didn’t, he might never wake up.
Still, Dean didn’t call him on it.
“Okay.” He nodded, standing and stretching. “Bobby said last night that it might take him a few days to work out how to break the curse, so I guess that for now we just deal?”
Sam nodded, even as a surge panic leaked through the cracks in his wall.
“I figured as much.” He allowed, nodding a little. Dean felt the answering spike of pain and sighed, struck once more by the fact that his little brother really did never catch a break.
“You need more meds?” Dean offered, eyeing the dark black bruise that had blossomed across his brother’s temple overnight, the colour contrasting starkly with the dark red of the gash in the centre. Not for the first time, Dean wondered if some butterfly strips were needed. “I think we’re pretty much out, but I can probably dredge up some Advil or something from somewhere.”
Sam waved him off. “’M fine - just sore, like I said.”
“Okay,” Dean nodded, eyes flitting from his brother over the motel’s small, poorly-stocked kitchen. “Okay, well. We have no food in here, so I guess that the most logical step is for us to go shopping, right? I mean, it seems like we might be here for a while.”
Sam nodded again, apparently content to ignore the pain that the movement caused him, and climbed awkwardly to his feet. His movements were stiff and Dean knew that his back must be giving him serious grief about his little tumble the day before.
Still, Sam had never been one to complain (he’d once limped over six and a half miles before John had realised that his ankle was a little more than sprained, and never once complained at the fast pace or what must have been overwhelming pain) and today was no exception. He spent a few moments twisting this way and that, testing the range of movement that was possible, before heading towards his duffel.
“Baggy clothes today, huh?” Dean asked, venturing to his own open bag and doing his best to clamp down on Sam’s pain, to block it out and ignore it in the same way that his brother seemed intent on doing.
“Seems like,” Sam replied with a dim smile. His eyes were tight with pain, but the smile - however small - seemed genuine enough. “Unfortunately, it probably also means that the less time spent in the Impala, the better.”
Dean sighed dramatically, eyeing his keys as if annoyed, but they both knew that he didn’t really mind.
“You think you’ll make the drive to Walmart and back?” He asked genuinely. “I mean, if you think it’ll be a problem you can always stay here-“
“It’s fine,” Sam smiled. “I’m sure I’ll be able to cope for a few minutes there and back.”
*
Grocery shopping took a little longer than Dean had initially anticipated; it turned out that the store was further than they thought, and it had taken Sam only a few moments to go all logical on him and point out that whilst they were in store, they might as well top up as much of the med kit as they could and grab some new clothes.
Reluctantly, Dean had conceded that his brother probably had a point - after his tumble the day before, Sam was down to two t-shirts, a flannel that had a tear in a place so awkward that there was really no point in trying to sew it back up, and a single pair of threadbare, well-worn jeans. His boots were on their way out and his jacket was so well-worn that it was a wonder that it kept him warm at all.
Dean had fared a little better - probably due to having stocked up for a year while his brother was in hell. He’d left Lisa’s with his duffel the heaviest that it had ever been and - nearly nine months later - he was still pretty well stocked.
Four pairs of jeans, one of which was nearly as threadbare as Sam’s and the other three in reasonably good condition, shoved in alongside a spare jacket (because he still wore his trusty leather one by default) and various band shirts; two plain black ones and a white, along with a single flannel. His boots were just as bad as Sam’s, however, and his belt wasn’t doing much other than looking useful.
As kids, John had been adamant that whilst his kids clothes were from charity shops or supermarkets, they could never be tattered or well-worn enough to attract attention; he’d retained the same rule for himself, ensuring that he looked fairly presentable at all times, and until recent years Dean had been pretty confident that none of his clothes were shabby enough that people might do a double-take.
Now it was obvious that was no longer the case.
Trying to find clothes to fit Sam was a lot easier now that he’d lost a lot of the bulk he’d gained before his stint in the pit, but his long legs were still awkward to shop for and by the time they were loading their shopping into the Impala’s trunk, the pain coming from Sam’s side of the bond was a lot more noticeable than it had been when they’d set off.
“Come on,” He muttered, nudging his brother towards the passenger seat. “Just sit down before you fall down, would you? I can manage the rest of the bags.”
Sam protested weakly, but gave in after a few seconds and lowered himself into the passenger seat of the car. By the time that Dean was climbing into his own seat, Sam was well on the way to sleep - barely glancing at him as he fired up the engine and turned the music down.
Somehow, they made it back to the motel room before Sam had fully drifted off and Dean didn’t even attempt to get him out of the car until he’d shepherded their shopping into the room. Finally he eased the door open, watching as Sam sleepily adjusted himself and let his eyes fall shut again.
“Sorry Sammy,” He grinned, gently tapping the uninjured side of the younger man’s face. “No can do. We’ve got to get you inside before you can sleep, Buddy.”
Dean’s grin widened as fuzzy annoyance leaked through to him, his brother clearly irritated at the fact that he was being roused, but the kid was practically hard-wired to do what Dean told him now, especially when his brain wasn’t exactly running on all cylinders, and blearily tipped himself towards Dean.
Laughing despite himself, Dean managed to hook his arm around his brother as best as he could without causing him any more pain and hoisted both of them upright. Sam’s pain flared despite his best intentions, but the kid just mumbled something incoherent and leant further into his brother’s warmth.
It had been a long time since Dean had really taken a moment to step back and accept the blind trust that Sam unwaveringly offered him. The elder hunter knew that if anyone else had tried to prise Sam from the car, he’d have had his ever present switchblade pressed against their throats in a split-second on instinct alone, regardless of how out of it or drowsy he was; hell, he’d even done it to Bobby and their father on a few memorable occasions.
It was only because his brain had registered Dean that he was so relaxed, that he’d tipped himself into arms he couldn’t see simply out of the faith that they’d be there to catch him. Over the years since Stanford, they’d had their moments - there’s been times when Dean had seriously considered picking up and leaving for good, and he’d always figured that it had been the same for Sam.
It wasn’t until that crazy witch had shown him things through Sam’s eyes that he’d finally understood that there’d never been a moment that Sam had doubted him, save for the moment that Sam had looked to him with tears in his eyes - his entire future in his hands - and Dean had looked away.
Through demon blood and deals and centuries in Lucifer’s own pit, Sam’s trust had been constant. It was a humbling realisation.
“Thinking too much,” Sam slurred, sinking gratefully into his bed when Dean backed him up against it. “’s turning into a chick flick moment.”
Dean snorted, affectionately running his fingers through his brother’s hair.
“One won’t hurt.” He acknowledged, and then, “Get some sleep, kiddo.”
Sam smiled dazedly, drifting off almost instantly and Dean shook his head with a small smile, carefully tucking the covers up around his brother. The kid looked almost peaceful, the lines of pain easing from around his eyes for the first time all day; in Dean’s head, the only thing he felt when he reached for Sam was peace and calm.
Quietly, he slipped Sam’s laptop from its case and set it up on the motel table, resolving to check his emails for any updates from Bobby. A quick scan revealed two messages from the older hunter, neither of them marked with a tell-tale smiley face in the subject line (Bobby’s ‘subtle code’ for an email detailing the solution to a hunt), but Dean sighed and opened them anyways.
The first had a few attachments that he read through leisurely - a few scanned newspaper reports and two obits that were proof enough that the hunter’s weren’t the first kills that this witch had made, the connections between the witch and the victims marked on nearly illegibly in red biro, Bobby’s scrawl even worse than usual.
The email itself was - like the hunter that had sent it - short and straight to the point.
“Witch is bad news - stay out of the way until I break the curse. Got a contact that says he might have been targeting the two of you specifically, will look into it. Hang tight. -B.”
Dean’s heart sunk at the revelation that this guy might have killed people just to get to them - the Winchester body count was high enough without psycho witches adding to the count. Bobby’s email suggested that, if he was right, they’d be adding another ten names to their sum total.
Running a hand over his face, Dean reluctantly pressed the helpful little ‘up’ arrow to access the next email. The four attachments were pretty much the same - two further news articles with lines circled and Bobby’s notes jotted onto them, and two coroner’s reports.
“Witch is VERY bad news. Curse had a target line - hunters. Looks nasty, will try to double-time it. -B.”
Well, that was reassuring.
The older Winchester sat back in his seat, feeling the tension eep from his back as his spine popped in a series of satisfying clicks, and wearily ran a hand over his face. He was just considering whether or not getting up to make coffee was worth the effort when Sam’s calm presence in the back of his mind reared back and was replaced with panic.
Eyes widening, Dean twisted back towards his brother, half expecting to see him under attack. Instead, his eyes fell on his brother’s still-sleeping form and he felt his body relax a little as he realised that his brother was just having a nightmare. Shaking his head at his paranoia, he rose to his feet; in the same instant that he hit vertical, a bolt of panic from Sam washed through him so intensely that he wavered on his feet.
Under the force of his nightmare, Sam’s wall crumbled and Dean lost himself in the sound of his brother screaming.
“You shouldn’t have crossed me, Sam. Couldn’t you see that I loved you? I could have given you everything.” Lucifer’s ethereal form loomed over him, shaking its heads. “Now I must punish you.”
Sound was lost in a wash of agony; sight to Lucifer’s brightness. Claws tore into his skin, pulled out his organs and toyed with them; a hand caressed his face lovingly, before gripping his jaw and ripping it clean off. Over and over, he was rebuilt just to be torn apart, and through it all Lucifer whispered sweet nothings.
Ice washed over him, and then fire - his fingers froze, turned to ash and fell away into the darkness that surrounded him. His screams were swallowed by the sounds of laughter, the angels delighting in finding new ways to inflict pain before starting over. Fingernails ripped out over and over until his fingers turned numb. Eyes melted, plucked out by the sharp beaks of the crows that Lucifer would imagine into life just for that occasion. Bones snapped, broken and ground into dust. His heart torn from his chest, shredded, torn and then fed to him.
When he broke, when he lost himself in a pain he could no longer process, there was sweet comfort. Lucifer sweeping him into his arms and cradling him like a small child, piecing him together slowly, treating him with tenderness and love. Shielding him and protecting him from his brother’s rage.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Sam. I’m sorry - hush, now, it’ll be better, you’ll see.”
Sam let himself believe, revelled in the sensation of being cared for and cherished, and had almost forgotten the pain when Lucifer’s hand trailed down from his hair, when the fallen angel pressed pointed nails through skin and cartilage and tore out his throat before he had a chance to scream.
Dean wasn’t sure how long it was before he managed to find his way back to himself, to the safety of his own mind. By the time his mind rejoined with his body, he was on his knees retching (thankfully, into a fortunately placed trash can) and Sam was blinking his eyes open.
“Dean?” He frowned, sitting further upright and looking at his older brother with concern. “Are you okay? What happened-“
Realisation dawned on his face and he slumped.
“You saw.” It wasn’t a question, just a bleak-sounding statement of fact. Dean found himself nodding anyway, pulling himself back together and slumping to sit fully on the floor, wiping the sleeve of his flannel over his mouth before pulling the item of clothing off and tossing it aside.
“Sorry,” he muttered, feeling in his mind as Sam’s walls snapped back into place with his awareness. “I guess when you weren’t concentrating on the wall, it fell - I wasn’t like, prying, or anything.”
Sam nodded vaguely for a few moments before standing and stumbling towards the bathroom; Dean watched him go in silence, knew he should stop him but couldn’t find the words. The taste of bile was acrid in his mouth and he somehow found his feet, crossed the room slowly and carefully extracted a glass from the cupboard. It was dusty and he cleaned it methodically, filling it with water only when it was sparkling.
Once satisfied that the taste was gone from his mouth and acknowledged that - just as his brother was hiding in the bathroom, he too had taken sanctuary in the kitchen, and that wasn’t fair. Sam was the victim in all of this. It was Sam who had suffered such cruelty, and it was Sam whose privacy had been violated in the worst way - however unintentional.
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Dean crossed the room and lightly knocked on the back of the bathroom door with his knuckles.
“Sammy?” He called, gingerly testing the handle. The door didn’t open and Dean winced - neither of them had made a habit of locking the bathroom door as kids, nor as adults, and Dean was suddenly reminded of that great door in his dream that he couldn’t open.
“Just give me few minutes.”
Sam’s voice was soft, and it took Dean a few seconds to work out that his brother was probably sitting on the floor with his back to the door. Reassured that Sam was at least willing to talk to him, Dean mirrored the position, sliding down the wooden panelling to rest against the door, knowing that Sam would feel the subtle shift of wood even if he couldn’t read the intentions in Dean’s mind.
“I really didn’t mean too, kid.” He offered quietly, tipping his head back to stare at the stained ceiling. “But I want you to know that I meant what I said before. What I saw back there doesn’t change anything.”
“I didn’t want you to see that.”
Sam’s whisper is almost lost in the thick wood of the door, and it takes Dean a few seconds to piece together the words in the chaotic mess that his brain has become. By the time he’s worked out what his brother had said, Sam’s talking again, voice hushed and uneven.
“I never wanted you to see the way after everything he put me through, I’d just crawl back to him - for the first century I was determined not to give him the satisfaction. I didn’t want him to know that he could do anything he wanted and that I’d forgive him in an instant for just the promise of comfort and a break, and then one day I dropped to my knees and did just that. I never wanted you to know how weak I was.”
Dean listens carefully, and frowns.
“You think that makes you weak?” He asks honestly, wishing that he could see his brother’s face. “Because it doesn’t, Sam. If anything, it makes you stronger - if you were weak you wouldn’t be walking and talking right now, you’d still be down there in that pit, tortured into an unrecognisable mess.”
Sam doesn’t respond, but Dean continues regardless.
“I broke, Sammy. I climbed off that rack and I tortured people, and I would have done it twice as fast if Alastair had shown even an ounce of compassion. You could have broken, too - one day you could have stopped crawling back, stopped resisting altogether and just curled into a ball for the rest of eternity - but you didn’t. You’re the strongest person that I’ve ever met Sam, and nothing you say to me… nothing you can show me will ever change my mind about that.”
“How can you say that?” Sam asked. “You don’t know half the things I did down there - half the things he made me do. What you saw? That wasn’t even the half of it.”
Dean shrugged, eyes still on the ceiling.
“You’re right, Sam. I don’t know what you did down there; hell, I probably never will. But I know you and you’re a good person, Sam - your whole life, all you’ve ever had is people pushing you to be evil, but you were stronger than all of them. Don’t you see that? You had all of heaven and hell against you, literally, and when I look at you I can still see the innocent little baby that dad pressed into my arms the night of the fire. You’re good, Sam, and there’s not a force on this universe that has ever been able to change that.”
From the other side of the door, there came a distinctly wet-sounding sniffle and Dean grimaced, reaching across to snag his duffel and pull it closer, rooting through it for his lock-picking kit.
“Don’t bother,” Sam said quietly, and the sound of the lock being undone seemed to echo across the room. To Dean, it felt like it opened in slow motion to reveal Sam stood there, eyes red-rimmed and shoulders hunched inwards.
He was moving before either of them registered it, wrapping his arms around his brother in a tight bear hug.
“I love you, you moron.” He whispered into his brother’s hair. “No matter what."
#3 - Meddlesome. | #5 - Veteran.
I may have got a little carried away with this one. Whoops! Art will be coming later.