The Sticking Point, 10/12
ETA: Since July 27th I've posted 52,457 words of SPN fic. Just FYI. I am obsessed.
Title: The Sticking Point, 10/12
Author: sowell
Genre: Angst, action, slash
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Dean, secondary Dean/Cas
Rating: NC-17, eventually
Word count: This part 4,527
Warnings: Language, Wincest, see spoiler warnings
Spoilers: Assumes knowledge of all aired episodes. Very general S8 spoilers:
[here there be spoilers]
Dean gets himself out of Purgatory and Sam has gotten out of the hunting game
Disclaimer: Sooooo not mine
Summary: Dean comes back from Purgatory, but there are consequences attached to his return. Sam and Dean try to reconnect to keep each other safe.
A/N: 1) Unbeta’d - all mistakes are my own. 2) Watson, AR is a real place, but I’ve never been there and thus all details are one hundred percent made up. 3) Beware some nonsensical appropriation of biblical mythology. 4) Comments and concrit are always welcome.
Masterpost
Chapter 10
Friday
Dean had another vision in the morning. One second Sam was watching him scratch at some nonexistent dirt on the Impala, the next he was on his knees, teeth bared in agony and tendons corded.
Sam got to him before he hit his jerking head against anything solid, but it wasn’t quick enough to stop him from biting his tongue. Sam shoved a dirty rag in his mouth and tried not to see the way blood stained his bottom lip.
It was terrifying to see Dean, in pain and out of control. As long as Sam could remember, Dean had always used his body like a weapon. Deliberate movements, sharp and purposeful, even when he was hurt. Or tired. Or drunk or horny or hungry or any of the other things that plagued them on the road. His face might give something away, but never his body. They were both too well-trained for that.
Sam pinned Dean’s shaking body to the ground and tried not to throw up.
After that, Sam took to trailing him everywhere, determined to be there next time Dean went down. Dean snarled at him, and Sam made sure to use his most patient voice when he answered. Dean called him a pain in the ass, and they made their way through the day like that, Sam carrying his laptop like an oxygen tank.
Castiel watched them out of silent blue eyes and said nothing. Sam felt like he was being judged, but that was the norm for Cas. Once he’d gotten that whole free will thing into his head, he really went full-throttle.
“Cas,” Sam said. Dean had gone to the bathroom, and Sam let him go, even though his brain was screaming at him to follow, to protect. His panic was at an ever-present simmer, riding just under his voice and breath.
“Cas, we have to talk about it. We’re out of options.”
“I’ve already given you my opinion.”
“I know but…what other choice do we have? Dean’s dying. Are you honestly just going to let him without lifting a finger?”
Cas’s eyes were troubled, and a little angry. Castiel had spent thousands of years protecting humanity, and Sam figured his first instinct would always be to preserve the safety of the many over the safety of the Winchesters.
But then, Sam figured Castiel was also a little in love with Dean. Sam could use that, if he needed to.
“I wouldn’t bring it up if I didn’t think it work,” Sam said urgently. “But this could save Dean and keep Purgatory closed. Don’t you think it’s worth the risk?”
“I think that Dean wouldn’t - ” And then he cut off, because Dean was standing in the doorway, eyebrows raised.
“Am I interrupting something?” Dean asked, a mixture of wariness and warning in his tone.
“No,” Sam said. “Nothing.”
“Well, that’s convincing,” Dean said.
“Your brother - ” Castiel started, and Sam overrode him with a sharp look.
“It’s nothing,” he repeated. “Nothing important.”
“Fine,” Dean said. “But only middle school girls tell secrets. FYI.”
*****
Four days before Dean’s clock ran out, Sam saw the world end.
It took Dean first, splitting him open from the gullet down, Purgatory’s hordes pouring out of him like swarming bees. Then, as Sam was still screaming for Dean, they took Castiel and speared him through the throat, light exploding out of him with blinding intensity.
The creatures were both like and unlike the things that he and Dean fought. Werewolves, but bigger. Hulking and with dangerously curved claws. Vampires, but stranger - emaciated and feral, with more teeth than they should have. There were dragons breathing fire, things that looked like giant insects, with legs as tall as Sam. And there were things that looked human, but grinned as they peeled the skin from Sam’s friends.
He saw his classmates torched, Becca’s neck broken, his coworkers slaughtered. He saw Jess on the ceiling, and he knew that wasn’t right, because Jess was dead and couldn’t die again. His father stepped out of the blackness with glowing eyes and called him demon, and discharged the Colt into his heart.
Sam drove away from it, but the air was spotted with blood, and the Impala’s windshield wipers couldn’t clear the way. He stumbled out of the car, and when he looked up Dean was laughing at him, still with half his neck flapping open in the hot wind.
When the smoke cleared, and Sam could open his eyes again, there was nothing. The world had been razed, flattened, and for some reason they’d left him alive and alone. He put his hands on the hood of the Impala, and found the paint was melting off. The mountains were turning to sludge on the horizon, the sky lit up red. Everything was slipping away, and he began to hyperventilate. He woke up choking on his tongue.
He rolled over onto all fours immediately, gagging. He could still taste the burning flesh in the air.
He heard a thump from the bedroom, and he forced himself to move.
Dean was sitting on the floor, head in his hands.
“Vision?” Sam managed to ask. His voice sounded like he’d actually been breathing smoke, hoarse and ruined.
“No, nightmare,” Dean said, short and low.
Sam didn’t know how he knew - he just did. “You saw it happen,” he said. “Purgatory opening.”
Dean picked his head up, eyes deep-set and drawn in the dark.
Sam tried for a commiserating smile. “I saw it too.”
“Fuck,” Dean said. “Just - fuck.”
*****
Sam ran in the mornings. He’d gone to the gym every day in Denver. He’d put on headphones and turned on the treadmill and run, not because something was chasing him but because it made him feel healthy, and that was a luxury he had in his new life.
He gave it up for Dean, but he’d been searching and emailing and making phone calls for two days without any progress, and he thought he’d go insane if he spent one more second in the cabin. So he ran, traipsing through miles of woods.
It turned out to be a terrible idea. When his hands weren’t busy, his mind went into overdrive, and then he saw snippets of his and Dean’s shared dream, playing through his head on repeat. The most gruesome parts - the smell, the initial split of Dean’s throat, his father spitting hate and contempt at him - were the ones that seemed to get stuck.
It felt like a warning, and that was what scared him the most.
Dean was up to his elbows in engine grease when Sam finally made his way back. “Hey,” Sam said, and Dean grunted at him from under the propped hood of the Impala.
“So I was thinking,” Sam started.
“Oh god, we’re not gonna have another talk, are we?” Dean asked. “I’m about out of sentimentality.”
Sam ignored him. “This dream we had. Doesn’t it feel weird to you?”
“We’ve shared dreams before,” Dean said, not looking at him.
“Yeah but…usually there’s a reason, right? I mean, there’s some monster trying to kill us or something trying to manipulate us. Maybe this was just that Nephilim thing, trying to scare you straight.”
“Well, he gets an A+ then,” Dean said. “Because I’m pretty goddamn freaked.”
“But if there’s something else putting pictures in our heads, then it’s probably not real, right? I mean, it doesn’t have to come true.”
Dean stared at the engine, and Sam could see his jaw working. “Maybe,” he said finally.
“Why do I feel like you’re not convinced?”
“Because,” Dean sighed. “Cas said the Nephilim wants us to open Purgatory. If that’s true, why would he be trying to scare us away from it?”
Sam bit down on the inside of his lip. So much for that theory.
“I’ve thought about it,” Dean said, “and there’s another possibility.”
“What?”
“Maybe it’s not the Nephilim trying to scare us. Maybe it’s something else.”
“Like what?”
“Like God.”
Sam stared at him, and Dean slammed down the hood of the Impala, wiping grease on his jeans. “Maybe this is God telling us to back off, Sammy. And maybe we should listen.”
*****
Sam didn’t look at him the rest of the day, but it wasn’t too hard for Dean to figure out what he was feeling. Panic. Frustration. Anger. The usual.
He ran his theory by Castiel, and Cas frowned, considering. “It’s rare,” he said. “But God has taken an interest in you two before. It’s not impossible.”
He changed the oil on the Impala, carefully wiped down the road dirt from the last two weeks, and made adjustments to the engine until she started with a smooth purr. If he had to go, he wasn’t going to leave his car in anything less than perfect condition.
He tried to imagine his dad being proud of him for that, and then he remembered he’d decided to blame his dad for the whole fucked state of his existence and offered a “screw you” to the heavens instead. His dad would probably kick his ass to Timbuktu and back if they ever met again, and Dean found he could look forward to that.
Dean couldn’t face even one more night of canned soup, so he drove out to find them dinner. Sam, of course, got on his ass about driving with his brain still acting like a vision magnet.
“I may only have a few days left to drive my baby,” Dean said. “Don’t take that away from me, bro.”
Sam wasn’t the only one who could manipulate.
Sam had glued himself to his computer again, and even though it made him itchy, Dean couldn’t bring himself to snap at the kid. Dean had done this to him. This was Dean’s fault, showing up and disappearing in his life over and over again. Sam was strong but he had his own brand of crazy to deal with. He’d been managing without Dean. Dean figured the best gift he could give Sam now was to trust him to survive this time and just stay gone.
He made Cas come with him, because angel company was better than no company, and they found a Wendy’s forty miles from their safe house. He got a salad for Sam, two cheeseburgers and fries for himself, and a Baconator for Cas.
Cas looked at him, confused. “I don’t…”
“Come on,” Dean needled. “You can’t knock it till you try it. Horseman-induced cravings don’t count.”
“I’d prefer not to.”
“Cas,” Dean said sternly. “It’s my dying wish. Are you really gonna ignore my dying wish?”
Cas sighed and took a bite. And then another. And then his eyes got really wide and he took three more.
“Good, huh?” Dean said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.
“I admit,” Castiel said slowly. “It’s good. One of God’s miracle.”
“One of Dave Thomas’s miracles,” Dean said. “But close enough.”
*****
“Find anything?” Dean asked when he slid the salad across the table to Sam. Sam blinked at him slowly, like he was having trouble focusing. Dean didn’t like how pale he looked.
“Oh. Uh…not yet. No.”
“Eat,” Dean said.
“I’m not - ”
“Eat or I’ll kick your ass.”
Sam sighed, but he pushed his laptop aside and opened the salad. He picked at it, and Dean wondered, for the millionth time, how this conversation could possibly go. Sam, it’s time for me to die just didn’t seem like good strategy. Not when his brother was six-four and could throw the tantrum to end all tantrums.
He sat down, at the table, watching Sam nibble at his damn lettuce. How he ever got so goddamn big would always be a mystery to Dean.
“Listen,” he started.
Sam looked up at him expectantly, eyes still half-fuzzy from staring at a computer screen all day. Dean couldn’t forget how easily Sam’s skin had split in their dream last night, the precise way his body bent backwards when the bullet buried itself in his forehead. Sometimes Sam was a stranger, so tall and serious that Dean didn’t know what to do with him. And sometimes it was like he hadn’t aged at all, young and scraggly and wide-eyed with trust.
Sam tilted his head. “Dean?”
Dean cleared his throat, tried again. You think you still need me, he wanted to say. But you don't. Live a full life. Eat every once in a goddamn while.
Instead, he said. “Another beer?”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “Sure,” he answered cautiously.
Damn it. Sam didn’t look fooled by the casual tone, because Sam wasn’t a drooling moron. Dean had never been good at prompting these talks. He’d always let Sam prod and needle the truth out of him, and now he was like a goddamn infant with a grenade.
His head was starting to ache, and his muscles tensed without his permission. The visions had begun to multiply. He’d see three different scenes at once, sometimes four. Purgatory was coming for him, bleeding into his brain, and all Dean could do was try to hold it off as long as he could.
He paused for a second, head stuck in the cooler, crisp air hitting his eyelids. It was temporary relief in the stale air of the cabin.
He made it as far as the doorway, and then it hit him. Too quick, no warning. He’d gotten better at judging the timing; he usually had at least an hour of pounding temples before the vision took him. It came for him painfully fast this time, new and shocking in its power. The damp bottles slipped out of his fingers and rolled across the linoleum
He felt his head bounce off the table’s edge before he went down. Sam appeared above him, shouting. Images washed over him - dark violence and blood, vein-bursting adrenaline, the fear of being hunted. He’d been ripped apart before, but this was different. It was a thousand creatures, a thousand agonies, all without the outlet of a scream. He didn’t have enough air in his lungs.
Sam was hauling him up, pinning him down to something soft. A t-shirt, shoved in his mouth, and that made it worse. Purgatory was pulling him down. He tried to keep his focus on Sam’s hands around his wrist, on Sam’s deep voice shouting, but the sensations slid away. The world rippled around him, and he went under.
*****
Dean Winchester is coming back. That, at least, is something to look forward to.
He liked being Dick Roman, but Purgatory is manageable, too. He’s top of the food chain anyway, even without his brethren. The food here is disgusting, but he’ll survive.
The main problem is the boredom. Everything is too easy to kill here. There’s no need to hide or plot or put even the slightest bit of creativity into his kills. There’s no inspiration. Now that Eve is gone, the only thing that’s any fun at all is the Nephilim. Without the stone, they’re evenly matched.
The stone is gone, according to that last creature he’d eaten. Lost by Dean Winchester, which is just one more reason to make him suffer instead of eating him outright. All his careful planning, smuggling it out of Purgatory, threatening those mutant bloodsuckers, and Dean Winchester had turned it over to the demon king.
But his failure means he’s coming back, if rumors are true. Back in Purgatory, without the protection of his angel. It’s almost too perfect to contemplate.
A scream rips through the air, and he knows it’s the Nephilim, torturing some soul for information. The Nephilim is the gatekeeper, slave to God’s will, loyal in his own primitive way. He’s not as old as the Leviathan, but he’s old enough to remember Earth before humans ruined it. Just like the rest of them, he wants out.
The Winchester brothers might tear down the walls to Purgatory. They might be stupid enough to do it. Doesn’t matter. He’ll find them anyway. He’ll make Dean watch as he tears Sam to shreds, and then he’ll eat them both. Slowly. While they’re still alive. The angel will be tougher, but at the very least he’ll suffer at the death of his friends.
He could amuse himself for hours, just thinking of the ways he’ll torture Dean Winchester.
He pictures him, bones cracking like straw, face a rictus of agony, jagged stumps for arms. He can almost taste the blood, wants to lick at the air in anticipation. He never thought he would waste hatred on a human, but it burns through him.
In his mind, he spears Dean Winchester from behind, intestines tumbling out of him onto the dirt. He yanks on the viscera until the body stops jerking, until the eyes go blank. Then he leans down and begins to eat.
*****
The first thing Dean noticed when he woke was the heaviness. He felt waterlogged, pinned down by some second skin. His mouth was tacky and bitter, and he recognized the aftermath of blood on his tongue. His eyes were stinging, and he could still feel the razor-sharp tang on his tongue, the sickness of Dick Roman, hungering for his blood.
He was in the cabin’s small bedroom. The flimsy curtains were pulled over the windows, but outside Dean could see the dark outline of the trees. Night, which meant he’d been out for at least a few hours.
Sam appeared at the bedroom door, then stopped short when he saw Dean’s eyes open.
“You’re awake,” he said.
“No shit, Sherlock,” was what Dean wanted to say, but his tongue felt as heavy as the rest of him. He focused on nodding instead.
Sam dropped his tall form onto the foot of the bed, staring. Dean’s head was still pounding, which wasn’t a good sign. Before, he’d gotten a break between visions. Now it was just a steady pain. He might not get any warning before the next one.
“How long was I out?”
Sam lifted a despondent shoulder. “Six hours.”
Dean cursed and tried to sit up. “Six fucking hours?” Sam moved to help him up, and Dean shrugged him off. Six hours meant it was almost morning again. Another night wasted
“How could you let me sleep that long? You might as well have shoved me right in the casket.” Sam’s faced twisted, but Dean was too tired and battered to apologize. Dean sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the heaviness to lift, for his limbs to push him up. It didn’t happen.
“Dean,” Sam said. “We need to talk about the ritual.”
“Nothing to talk about. Some sigils, some Latin, and presto. Aloha Purgatory.” Fuck, his head.
“Not that ritual.”
Dean looked at him sharply. “I burned that fucking book for a reason, Sam.”
“I kept a copy,” Sam said. Not angry, but stubborn. Resolved.
“Of course you did,” Dean muttered.
“Look, “ Sam said. “We’ve been searching. Cas and me. And…there’s no other way. We’ve looked everywhere. If I thought there was another solution….”
Dean looked away, disgusted. Not with Sam, but with himself, for considering this insane plan.
“Fine,” Dean said. “Talk.”
“I know you’re scared - ”
“Pissed we’re even talking about this, actually.”
“And I know you think it’s risky - ”
“Completely stupid.”
“But hear me out. We have almost everything we need. We just need to figure out this maker thing, and then we’re good. All it takes is for you to hold on to me, and me to hold on to you. We’ve been doing that our whole lives. It can work, Dean.”
Sam’s face was open, earnest, eyes wide and bright. Dean couldn’t stand it, that look.
“Yeah?” he said, voice low. “And what happens when the strain is too much, and you split apart?”
Sam’s eyes dropped.
“He dies,” came Castiel’s cool voice from the doorway. “Or if he survives, he’ll probably go insane. Or maybe he’ll lose his soul again in the process. Or he could come out of it a completely different person. No one knows exactly what will happen when a broken soul pieces itself back together.”
Sam still wasn’t looking at him.
Cas kept talking. “Even with a healthy soul, one that hasn’t been through what Sam’s been through, it could mean death. For Sam…”
Dean had heard enough. “You know I can’t let you,” he said. “Sammy, I’m sorry, but don’t ask me to do this.” The heaviness in his voice was more than exhaustion. Sam was looking at him, mouth pressed together like he didn’t know what to do anymore, and Dean didn’t have an answer for him.
Sam stood up and walked out, motions quick and jerky.
“It’s the best choice,” Castiel said quietly. “You can’t risk the consequences.”
The world burned to nothing, or Sam shattered into a million pieces. Unlivable choices, both of them.
“Yeah,” Dean said.
He pushed himself off the mattress, taking a second to stabilize himself on the floorboards. Cas watched him with clinical eyes. “The visions are getting worse,” he said. “It won’t be long now.”
“You’re just a bucket of sunshine, aren’t you?” Dean said sourly.
Sam was sulking, somewhere in the cabin or out in the woods, and Dean was okay with a lot of messed-up things, but dying with Sam still mad at him wasn’t one of them.
Sam was on the couch where he’d taken his two-day nap, staring bleakly out the window.
“Sam,” Dean said.
“How can you just give up like this?” Sam asked, hushed. “How fucked up are you, that you’re just going to lay down and take it, like it doesn’t matter, like…”
“Hey,” Dean said sharply. “This isn’t giving up. But there are lines I won’t cross. You should know that by now.”
“Fuck you and your stupid lines,” Sam said, still not looking at him.
Dean dragged himself over to Sam, stood right in front of him until Sam had no choice but to look up into his face.
“You and me, we’ve been through pretty much everything,” Dean said, forcing his eyes to stay locked to Sam’s. “We’re both living on borrowed time now, and maybe…maybe this is…”
“Don’t say it,” Sam cut him off, quick and desperate.
Dean bit his tongue and said nothing.
“It’s just…” Sam’s eyes were getting that teary look. Dean wanted to grab him by the face to make it stop, or maybe put hands on his shoulders and shake him. Hurt on more hurt. He wished he’d figured out another way.
“Once you’re gone,” Sam said, controlling his voice with effort, “what the hell am I supposed to do?”
“Do what you were doing before,” Dean said helplessly. “Live your life. Just like you told me to do when you locked Lucifer back in the cage. That’s always been your dream, right?”
“Maybe when I thought you were really gone,” Sam said in a low voice. “But knowing what will happen in Purgatory - I’ll never be okay with that.”
It was still too dark out to work on the car, and the vision of himself as Dick Roman's next meal was still too fresh for him to want breakfast. He lay down in the dark, eyes closed, but sleep didn’t come. Instead, he listened to the clicking of Sam’s keyboard and the swishing steps of Castiel, pacing slowly in the front yard.
The sky was starting to lighten when Sam appeared in the doorway, pressing his hands against the frame.
“Dean,” he said.
“What?” Dean asked, even though he was pretty sure he knew.
Sam took a few tentative steps toward him. He crawled on to the foot of the bed and over Dean’s body, holding himself there. Dean looked up at him, the feverish intensity in his face. He swallowed, and Sam saw it, traced the movement of Dean’s throat with his eyes.
Sam leaned down and put his mouth against Dean’s Adam’s apple, sucking. His long hair dragged against Dean’s collarbone, and Dean felt his own breathing lose its rhythm.
Sam lowered himself down, more than covering Dean’s length, and Dean grunted. “You weigh a ton.”
Sam’s arms went around his neck, and then they breathed together, chest to chest. Sam was shivering a little, and Dean closed his eyes.
“Your stupid deals,” Sam said against his throat, and he sounded thirteen years old. Dean felt his fingers, pressing.
Dean knew the feeling. He’d been certain, at times, that the only way to keep Sam tethered to life was to physically hold him, anchor him down with two hands no matter how much he squirmed.
Sam’s Stanford years had been hell, not only because Dean missed him like a hole in the chest, but because Sam was physically gone and therefore vulnerable. A phone call would have been nice, but it wouldn’t have quelled the way Dean was constantly turning his head, searching the night and hearing his father’s voice say, “Where’s Sammy?”
Dad felt it too, and that just made it all the worse. Dean would see him turn to look for Sam, then remember and stop, his mouth pressing white. Sam’s absence was more disruptive than his presence ever could have been, and Dean remembered taking him to the ground the night he’d broken into his Stanford apartment, pinning him there under his hands, and finally breathing for the first time in years.
But Sam had died once with Dean’s hands right on him, uselessly trying to protect him against something that was already done. They couldn’t protect each other with hands or lips, no matter how hard they fought.
Sam grew hard against him, and Dean felt him moving in little jerks, rubbing himself off. His mouth was still in the same spot, endlessly licking and sucking in a way that would leave a massive hickey tomorrow.
“Slow down, tiger,” Dean said, working one hand down between them. He slid it under Sam’s shorts and cupped him, and Sam groaned, vibrating against his neck. He worked Sam off slowly, coating them both in sweat and fuzzy arousal. Sam came too soon, and Dean wanted to kiss his shoulder, maybe roll them both over and fuck him. His neck was damp, and he didn’t think it was all sweat.
He heaved Sam to his side instead, and Sam went, boneless. The circles under his eyes were stark in the bright moonlight. Dean curled into him and drew his legs up, arranging them forehead to forehead on the pillows. Sam reached for him with one endless arm, found where he was hard under his boxers.
“Don’t,” Dean said.
“But you’re - ”
“Go to sleep, Sam.”
He could tell Sam wanted to say something bitchy, but he closed his eyes instead and was asleep in minutes, dead to the world.
Dean watched him, following the steady motion of his chest and the way his mouth went soft in sleep. His cock ached, but he didn’t want to jerk off in the bathroom, by himself. He wanted this: Sam safe and sleeping, hand curled on Dean’s arm like an anchor.
Two days, Dean thought.
Chapter 11
Title: The Sticking Point, 10/12
Author: sowell
Genre: Angst, action, slash
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Dean, secondary Dean/Cas
Rating: NC-17, eventually
Word count: This part 4,527
Warnings: Language, Wincest, see spoiler warnings
Spoilers: Assumes knowledge of all aired episodes. Very general S8 spoilers:
[here there be spoilers]
Dean gets himself out of Purgatory and Sam has gotten out of the hunting game
Disclaimer: Sooooo not mine
Summary: Dean comes back from Purgatory, but there are consequences attached to his return. Sam and Dean try to reconnect to keep each other safe.
A/N: 1) Unbeta’d - all mistakes are my own. 2) Watson, AR is a real place, but I’ve never been there and thus all details are one hundred percent made up. 3) Beware some nonsensical appropriation of biblical mythology. 4) Comments and concrit are always welcome.
Masterpost
Chapter 10
Friday
Dean had another vision in the morning. One second Sam was watching him scratch at some nonexistent dirt on the Impala, the next he was on his knees, teeth bared in agony and tendons corded.
Sam got to him before he hit his jerking head against anything solid, but it wasn’t quick enough to stop him from biting his tongue. Sam shoved a dirty rag in his mouth and tried not to see the way blood stained his bottom lip.
It was terrifying to see Dean, in pain and out of control. As long as Sam could remember, Dean had always used his body like a weapon. Deliberate movements, sharp and purposeful, even when he was hurt. Or tired. Or drunk or horny or hungry or any of the other things that plagued them on the road. His face might give something away, but never his body. They were both too well-trained for that.
Sam pinned Dean’s shaking body to the ground and tried not to throw up.
After that, Sam took to trailing him everywhere, determined to be there next time Dean went down. Dean snarled at him, and Sam made sure to use his most patient voice when he answered. Dean called him a pain in the ass, and they made their way through the day like that, Sam carrying his laptop like an oxygen tank.
Castiel watched them out of silent blue eyes and said nothing. Sam felt like he was being judged, but that was the norm for Cas. Once he’d gotten that whole free will thing into his head, he really went full-throttle.
“Cas,” Sam said. Dean had gone to the bathroom, and Sam let him go, even though his brain was screaming at him to follow, to protect. His panic was at an ever-present simmer, riding just under his voice and breath.
“Cas, we have to talk about it. We’re out of options.”
“I’ve already given you my opinion.”
“I know but…what other choice do we have? Dean’s dying. Are you honestly just going to let him without lifting a finger?”
Cas’s eyes were troubled, and a little angry. Castiel had spent thousands of years protecting humanity, and Sam figured his first instinct would always be to preserve the safety of the many over the safety of the Winchesters.
But then, Sam figured Castiel was also a little in love with Dean. Sam could use that, if he needed to.
“I wouldn’t bring it up if I didn’t think it work,” Sam said urgently. “But this could save Dean and keep Purgatory closed. Don’t you think it’s worth the risk?”
“I think that Dean wouldn’t - ” And then he cut off, because Dean was standing in the doorway, eyebrows raised.
“Am I interrupting something?” Dean asked, a mixture of wariness and warning in his tone.
“No,” Sam said. “Nothing.”
“Well, that’s convincing,” Dean said.
“Your brother - ” Castiel started, and Sam overrode him with a sharp look.
“It’s nothing,” he repeated. “Nothing important.”
“Fine,” Dean said. “But only middle school girls tell secrets. FYI.”
*****
Four days before Dean’s clock ran out, Sam saw the world end.
It took Dean first, splitting him open from the gullet down, Purgatory’s hordes pouring out of him like swarming bees. Then, as Sam was still screaming for Dean, they took Castiel and speared him through the throat, light exploding out of him with blinding intensity.
The creatures were both like and unlike the things that he and Dean fought. Werewolves, but bigger. Hulking and with dangerously curved claws. Vampires, but stranger - emaciated and feral, with more teeth than they should have. There were dragons breathing fire, things that looked like giant insects, with legs as tall as Sam. And there were things that looked human, but grinned as they peeled the skin from Sam’s friends.
He saw his classmates torched, Becca’s neck broken, his coworkers slaughtered. He saw Jess on the ceiling, and he knew that wasn’t right, because Jess was dead and couldn’t die again. His father stepped out of the blackness with glowing eyes and called him demon, and discharged the Colt into his heart.
Sam drove away from it, but the air was spotted with blood, and the Impala’s windshield wipers couldn’t clear the way. He stumbled out of the car, and when he looked up Dean was laughing at him, still with half his neck flapping open in the hot wind.
When the smoke cleared, and Sam could open his eyes again, there was nothing. The world had been razed, flattened, and for some reason they’d left him alive and alone. He put his hands on the hood of the Impala, and found the paint was melting off. The mountains were turning to sludge on the horizon, the sky lit up red. Everything was slipping away, and he began to hyperventilate. He woke up choking on his tongue.
He rolled over onto all fours immediately, gagging. He could still taste the burning flesh in the air.
He heard a thump from the bedroom, and he forced himself to move.
Dean was sitting on the floor, head in his hands.
“Vision?” Sam managed to ask. His voice sounded like he’d actually been breathing smoke, hoarse and ruined.
“No, nightmare,” Dean said, short and low.
Sam didn’t know how he knew - he just did. “You saw it happen,” he said. “Purgatory opening.”
Dean picked his head up, eyes deep-set and drawn in the dark.
Sam tried for a commiserating smile. “I saw it too.”
“Fuck,” Dean said. “Just - fuck.”
*****
Sam ran in the mornings. He’d gone to the gym every day in Denver. He’d put on headphones and turned on the treadmill and run, not because something was chasing him but because it made him feel healthy, and that was a luxury he had in his new life.
He gave it up for Dean, but he’d been searching and emailing and making phone calls for two days without any progress, and he thought he’d go insane if he spent one more second in the cabin. So he ran, traipsing through miles of woods.
It turned out to be a terrible idea. When his hands weren’t busy, his mind went into overdrive, and then he saw snippets of his and Dean’s shared dream, playing through his head on repeat. The most gruesome parts - the smell, the initial split of Dean’s throat, his father spitting hate and contempt at him - were the ones that seemed to get stuck.
It felt like a warning, and that was what scared him the most.
Dean was up to his elbows in engine grease when Sam finally made his way back. “Hey,” Sam said, and Dean grunted at him from under the propped hood of the Impala.
“So I was thinking,” Sam started.
“Oh god, we’re not gonna have another talk, are we?” Dean asked. “I’m about out of sentimentality.”
Sam ignored him. “This dream we had. Doesn’t it feel weird to you?”
“We’ve shared dreams before,” Dean said, not looking at him.
“Yeah but…usually there’s a reason, right? I mean, there’s some monster trying to kill us or something trying to manipulate us. Maybe this was just that Nephilim thing, trying to scare you straight.”
“Well, he gets an A+ then,” Dean said. “Because I’m pretty goddamn freaked.”
“But if there’s something else putting pictures in our heads, then it’s probably not real, right? I mean, it doesn’t have to come true.”
Dean stared at the engine, and Sam could see his jaw working. “Maybe,” he said finally.
“Why do I feel like you’re not convinced?”
“Because,” Dean sighed. “Cas said the Nephilim wants us to open Purgatory. If that’s true, why would he be trying to scare us away from it?”
Sam bit down on the inside of his lip. So much for that theory.
“I’ve thought about it,” Dean said, “and there’s another possibility.”
“What?”
“Maybe it’s not the Nephilim trying to scare us. Maybe it’s something else.”
“Like what?”
“Like God.”
Sam stared at him, and Dean slammed down the hood of the Impala, wiping grease on his jeans. “Maybe this is God telling us to back off, Sammy. And maybe we should listen.”
*****
Sam didn’t look at him the rest of the day, but it wasn’t too hard for Dean to figure out what he was feeling. Panic. Frustration. Anger. The usual.
He ran his theory by Castiel, and Cas frowned, considering. “It’s rare,” he said. “But God has taken an interest in you two before. It’s not impossible.”
He changed the oil on the Impala, carefully wiped down the road dirt from the last two weeks, and made adjustments to the engine until she started with a smooth purr. If he had to go, he wasn’t going to leave his car in anything less than perfect condition.
He tried to imagine his dad being proud of him for that, and then he remembered he’d decided to blame his dad for the whole fucked state of his existence and offered a “screw you” to the heavens instead. His dad would probably kick his ass to Timbuktu and back if they ever met again, and Dean found he could look forward to that.
Dean couldn’t face even one more night of canned soup, so he drove out to find them dinner. Sam, of course, got on his ass about driving with his brain still acting like a vision magnet.
“I may only have a few days left to drive my baby,” Dean said. “Don’t take that away from me, bro.”
Sam wasn’t the only one who could manipulate.
Sam had glued himself to his computer again, and even though it made him itchy, Dean couldn’t bring himself to snap at the kid. Dean had done this to him. This was Dean’s fault, showing up and disappearing in his life over and over again. Sam was strong but he had his own brand of crazy to deal with. He’d been managing without Dean. Dean figured the best gift he could give Sam now was to trust him to survive this time and just stay gone.
He made Cas come with him, because angel company was better than no company, and they found a Wendy’s forty miles from their safe house. He got a salad for Sam, two cheeseburgers and fries for himself, and a Baconator for Cas.
Cas looked at him, confused. “I don’t…”
“Come on,” Dean needled. “You can’t knock it till you try it. Horseman-induced cravings don’t count.”
“I’d prefer not to.”
“Cas,” Dean said sternly. “It’s my dying wish. Are you really gonna ignore my dying wish?”
Cas sighed and took a bite. And then another. And then his eyes got really wide and he took three more.
“Good, huh?” Dean said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.
“I admit,” Castiel said slowly. “It’s good. One of God’s miracle.”
“One of Dave Thomas’s miracles,” Dean said. “But close enough.”
*****
“Find anything?” Dean asked when he slid the salad across the table to Sam. Sam blinked at him slowly, like he was having trouble focusing. Dean didn’t like how pale he looked.
“Oh. Uh…not yet. No.”
“Eat,” Dean said.
“I’m not - ”
“Eat or I’ll kick your ass.”
Sam sighed, but he pushed his laptop aside and opened the salad. He picked at it, and Dean wondered, for the millionth time, how this conversation could possibly go. Sam, it’s time for me to die just didn’t seem like good strategy. Not when his brother was six-four and could throw the tantrum to end all tantrums.
He sat down, at the table, watching Sam nibble at his damn lettuce. How he ever got so goddamn big would always be a mystery to Dean.
“Listen,” he started.
Sam looked up at him expectantly, eyes still half-fuzzy from staring at a computer screen all day. Dean couldn’t forget how easily Sam’s skin had split in their dream last night, the precise way his body bent backwards when the bullet buried itself in his forehead. Sometimes Sam was a stranger, so tall and serious that Dean didn’t know what to do with him. And sometimes it was like he hadn’t aged at all, young and scraggly and wide-eyed with trust.
Sam tilted his head. “Dean?”
Dean cleared his throat, tried again. You think you still need me, he wanted to say. But you don't. Live a full life. Eat every once in a goddamn while.
Instead, he said. “Another beer?”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “Sure,” he answered cautiously.
Damn it. Sam didn’t look fooled by the casual tone, because Sam wasn’t a drooling moron. Dean had never been good at prompting these talks. He’d always let Sam prod and needle the truth out of him, and now he was like a goddamn infant with a grenade.
His head was starting to ache, and his muscles tensed without his permission. The visions had begun to multiply. He’d see three different scenes at once, sometimes four. Purgatory was coming for him, bleeding into his brain, and all Dean could do was try to hold it off as long as he could.
He paused for a second, head stuck in the cooler, crisp air hitting his eyelids. It was temporary relief in the stale air of the cabin.
He made it as far as the doorway, and then it hit him. Too quick, no warning. He’d gotten better at judging the timing; he usually had at least an hour of pounding temples before the vision took him. It came for him painfully fast this time, new and shocking in its power. The damp bottles slipped out of his fingers and rolled across the linoleum
He felt his head bounce off the table’s edge before he went down. Sam appeared above him, shouting. Images washed over him - dark violence and blood, vein-bursting adrenaline, the fear of being hunted. He’d been ripped apart before, but this was different. It was a thousand creatures, a thousand agonies, all without the outlet of a scream. He didn’t have enough air in his lungs.
Sam was hauling him up, pinning him down to something soft. A t-shirt, shoved in his mouth, and that made it worse. Purgatory was pulling him down. He tried to keep his focus on Sam’s hands around his wrist, on Sam’s deep voice shouting, but the sensations slid away. The world rippled around him, and he went under.
*****
Dean Winchester is coming back. That, at least, is something to look forward to.
He liked being Dick Roman, but Purgatory is manageable, too. He’s top of the food chain anyway, even without his brethren. The food here is disgusting, but he’ll survive.
The main problem is the boredom. Everything is too easy to kill here. There’s no need to hide or plot or put even the slightest bit of creativity into his kills. There’s no inspiration. Now that Eve is gone, the only thing that’s any fun at all is the Nephilim. Without the stone, they’re evenly matched.
The stone is gone, according to that last creature he’d eaten. Lost by Dean Winchester, which is just one more reason to make him suffer instead of eating him outright. All his careful planning, smuggling it out of Purgatory, threatening those mutant bloodsuckers, and Dean Winchester had turned it over to the demon king.
But his failure means he’s coming back, if rumors are true. Back in Purgatory, without the protection of his angel. It’s almost too perfect to contemplate.
A scream rips through the air, and he knows it’s the Nephilim, torturing some soul for information. The Nephilim is the gatekeeper, slave to God’s will, loyal in his own primitive way. He’s not as old as the Leviathan, but he’s old enough to remember Earth before humans ruined it. Just like the rest of them, he wants out.
The Winchester brothers might tear down the walls to Purgatory. They might be stupid enough to do it. Doesn’t matter. He’ll find them anyway. He’ll make Dean watch as he tears Sam to shreds, and then he’ll eat them both. Slowly. While they’re still alive. The angel will be tougher, but at the very least he’ll suffer at the death of his friends.
He could amuse himself for hours, just thinking of the ways he’ll torture Dean Winchester.
He pictures him, bones cracking like straw, face a rictus of agony, jagged stumps for arms. He can almost taste the blood, wants to lick at the air in anticipation. He never thought he would waste hatred on a human, but it burns through him.
In his mind, he spears Dean Winchester from behind, intestines tumbling out of him onto the dirt. He yanks on the viscera until the body stops jerking, until the eyes go blank. Then he leans down and begins to eat.
*****
The first thing Dean noticed when he woke was the heaviness. He felt waterlogged, pinned down by some second skin. His mouth was tacky and bitter, and he recognized the aftermath of blood on his tongue. His eyes were stinging, and he could still feel the razor-sharp tang on his tongue, the sickness of Dick Roman, hungering for his blood.
He was in the cabin’s small bedroom. The flimsy curtains were pulled over the windows, but outside Dean could see the dark outline of the trees. Night, which meant he’d been out for at least a few hours.
Sam appeared at the bedroom door, then stopped short when he saw Dean’s eyes open.
“You’re awake,” he said.
“No shit, Sherlock,” was what Dean wanted to say, but his tongue felt as heavy as the rest of him. He focused on nodding instead.
Sam dropped his tall form onto the foot of the bed, staring. Dean’s head was still pounding, which wasn’t a good sign. Before, he’d gotten a break between visions. Now it was just a steady pain. He might not get any warning before the next one.
“How long was I out?”
Sam lifted a despondent shoulder. “Six hours.”
Dean cursed and tried to sit up. “Six fucking hours?” Sam moved to help him up, and Dean shrugged him off. Six hours meant it was almost morning again. Another night wasted
“How could you let me sleep that long? You might as well have shoved me right in the casket.” Sam’s faced twisted, but Dean was too tired and battered to apologize. Dean sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the heaviness to lift, for his limbs to push him up. It didn’t happen.
“Dean,” Sam said. “We need to talk about the ritual.”
“Nothing to talk about. Some sigils, some Latin, and presto. Aloha Purgatory.” Fuck, his head.
“Not that ritual.”
Dean looked at him sharply. “I burned that fucking book for a reason, Sam.”
“I kept a copy,” Sam said. Not angry, but stubborn. Resolved.
“Of course you did,” Dean muttered.
“Look, “ Sam said. “We’ve been searching. Cas and me. And…there’s no other way. We’ve looked everywhere. If I thought there was another solution….”
Dean looked away, disgusted. Not with Sam, but with himself, for considering this insane plan.
“Fine,” Dean said. “Talk.”
“I know you’re scared - ”
“Pissed we’re even talking about this, actually.”
“And I know you think it’s risky - ”
“Completely stupid.”
“But hear me out. We have almost everything we need. We just need to figure out this maker thing, and then we’re good. All it takes is for you to hold on to me, and me to hold on to you. We’ve been doing that our whole lives. It can work, Dean.”
Sam’s face was open, earnest, eyes wide and bright. Dean couldn’t stand it, that look.
“Yeah?” he said, voice low. “And what happens when the strain is too much, and you split apart?”
Sam’s eyes dropped.
“He dies,” came Castiel’s cool voice from the doorway. “Or if he survives, he’ll probably go insane. Or maybe he’ll lose his soul again in the process. Or he could come out of it a completely different person. No one knows exactly what will happen when a broken soul pieces itself back together.”
Sam still wasn’t looking at him.
Cas kept talking. “Even with a healthy soul, one that hasn’t been through what Sam’s been through, it could mean death. For Sam…”
Dean had heard enough. “You know I can’t let you,” he said. “Sammy, I’m sorry, but don’t ask me to do this.” The heaviness in his voice was more than exhaustion. Sam was looking at him, mouth pressed together like he didn’t know what to do anymore, and Dean didn’t have an answer for him.
Sam stood up and walked out, motions quick and jerky.
“It’s the best choice,” Castiel said quietly. “You can’t risk the consequences.”
The world burned to nothing, or Sam shattered into a million pieces. Unlivable choices, both of them.
“Yeah,” Dean said.
He pushed himself off the mattress, taking a second to stabilize himself on the floorboards. Cas watched him with clinical eyes. “The visions are getting worse,” he said. “It won’t be long now.”
“You’re just a bucket of sunshine, aren’t you?” Dean said sourly.
Sam was sulking, somewhere in the cabin or out in the woods, and Dean was okay with a lot of messed-up things, but dying with Sam still mad at him wasn’t one of them.
Sam was on the couch where he’d taken his two-day nap, staring bleakly out the window.
“Sam,” Dean said.
“How can you just give up like this?” Sam asked, hushed. “How fucked up are you, that you’re just going to lay down and take it, like it doesn’t matter, like…”
“Hey,” Dean said sharply. “This isn’t giving up. But there are lines I won’t cross. You should know that by now.”
“Fuck you and your stupid lines,” Sam said, still not looking at him.
Dean dragged himself over to Sam, stood right in front of him until Sam had no choice but to look up into his face.
“You and me, we’ve been through pretty much everything,” Dean said, forcing his eyes to stay locked to Sam’s. “We’re both living on borrowed time now, and maybe…maybe this is…”
“Don’t say it,” Sam cut him off, quick and desperate.
Dean bit his tongue and said nothing.
“It’s just…” Sam’s eyes were getting that teary look. Dean wanted to grab him by the face to make it stop, or maybe put hands on his shoulders and shake him. Hurt on more hurt. He wished he’d figured out another way.
“Once you’re gone,” Sam said, controlling his voice with effort, “what the hell am I supposed to do?”
“Do what you were doing before,” Dean said helplessly. “Live your life. Just like you told me to do when you locked Lucifer back in the cage. That’s always been your dream, right?”
“Maybe when I thought you were really gone,” Sam said in a low voice. “But knowing what will happen in Purgatory - I’ll never be okay with that.”
It was still too dark out to work on the car, and the vision of himself as Dick Roman's next meal was still too fresh for him to want breakfast. He lay down in the dark, eyes closed, but sleep didn’t come. Instead, he listened to the clicking of Sam’s keyboard and the swishing steps of Castiel, pacing slowly in the front yard.
The sky was starting to lighten when Sam appeared in the doorway, pressing his hands against the frame.
“Dean,” he said.
“What?” Dean asked, even though he was pretty sure he knew.
Sam took a few tentative steps toward him. He crawled on to the foot of the bed and over Dean’s body, holding himself there. Dean looked up at him, the feverish intensity in his face. He swallowed, and Sam saw it, traced the movement of Dean’s throat with his eyes.
Sam leaned down and put his mouth against Dean’s Adam’s apple, sucking. His long hair dragged against Dean’s collarbone, and Dean felt his own breathing lose its rhythm.
Sam lowered himself down, more than covering Dean’s length, and Dean grunted. “You weigh a ton.”
Sam’s arms went around his neck, and then they breathed together, chest to chest. Sam was shivering a little, and Dean closed his eyes.
“Your stupid deals,” Sam said against his throat, and he sounded thirteen years old. Dean felt his fingers, pressing.
Dean knew the feeling. He’d been certain, at times, that the only way to keep Sam tethered to life was to physically hold him, anchor him down with two hands no matter how much he squirmed.
Sam’s Stanford years had been hell, not only because Dean missed him like a hole in the chest, but because Sam was physically gone and therefore vulnerable. A phone call would have been nice, but it wouldn’t have quelled the way Dean was constantly turning his head, searching the night and hearing his father’s voice say, “Where’s Sammy?”
Dad felt it too, and that just made it all the worse. Dean would see him turn to look for Sam, then remember and stop, his mouth pressing white. Sam’s absence was more disruptive than his presence ever could have been, and Dean remembered taking him to the ground the night he’d broken into his Stanford apartment, pinning him there under his hands, and finally breathing for the first time in years.
But Sam had died once with Dean’s hands right on him, uselessly trying to protect him against something that was already done. They couldn’t protect each other with hands or lips, no matter how hard they fought.
Sam grew hard against him, and Dean felt him moving in little jerks, rubbing himself off. His mouth was still in the same spot, endlessly licking and sucking in a way that would leave a massive hickey tomorrow.
“Slow down, tiger,” Dean said, working one hand down between them. He slid it under Sam’s shorts and cupped him, and Sam groaned, vibrating against his neck. He worked Sam off slowly, coating them both in sweat and fuzzy arousal. Sam came too soon, and Dean wanted to kiss his shoulder, maybe roll them both over and fuck him. His neck was damp, and he didn’t think it was all sweat.
He heaved Sam to his side instead, and Sam went, boneless. The circles under his eyes were stark in the bright moonlight. Dean curled into him and drew his legs up, arranging them forehead to forehead on the pillows. Sam reached for him with one endless arm, found where he was hard under his boxers.
“Don’t,” Dean said.
“But you’re - ”
“Go to sleep, Sam.”
He could tell Sam wanted to say something bitchy, but he closed his eyes instead and was asleep in minutes, dead to the world.
Dean watched him, following the steady motion of his chest and the way his mouth went soft in sleep. His cock ached, but he didn’t want to jerk off in the bathroom, by himself. He wanted this: Sam safe and sleeping, hand curled on Dean’s arm like an anchor.
Two days, Dean thought.
Chapter 11