The Angel and The Devil, Heavy On Your Shoulders [19/22] Sam/Dean, R
Title: The Angel and The Devil, Heavy on Your Shoulders (Part VI. One.)
Word Count: 2208 [35000 total]
MASTER POST for warnings, author's notes, and link to art
Part VI. This Is Gonna End Bad.
--Chapter One--
The first thing Dean sees is Sam, and Dean knows it’s over.
There’s something in Sam’s expression when he looks up as Dean comes through the door, and Dean doesn’t know what Sam knows but he knows it ain’t good.
And like the good trained killer he is, he snatches the gun from his waistband and trains it on Sam. It’s instinct, it’s self-preservation, and--Dean feels with a clench of his gut--that it’s the worst thing he could have done. I’m sorry, Sammy. He wants to say it, the words press against his lips, desperate like caged birds.
“Dean,” Sam says, “What did you do?”
It’s such a simple question. The way Sam says it, he could be talking to a kid who’s broken his favorite mug. But that’s not who he’s talking to--he’s talking to his murderer.
“I tried, Sam. I did. I did the best I could.” Dean says, and before Sam can ask him what he means, he licks his lips and asks, “How much do you know?”
Sam shrugs, and it looks like it costs him a little energy. “I don’t know anything, really.”
And even though it doesn’t help anything, Dean feels a little relief. He’s feeling silly, staring down the barrel of his gun at Sam, so he lets it drop. He’s somehow got the notion settled in him that this particular battle ain’t gonna end with bullets. No, that would be too fucking easy.
“But I know you didn’t call Bobby,” Sam goes on.
Well fuck.
“Yeah, I thought I’d give him a ring, and he says to tell you not to be a stranger. He’s been worried about us, you know, being out of touch for so long,” Sam says, and he’s in full-on bitch mode. Dean can’t figure why, but it makes him ache to hug his little brother. Until an unsettling thought smacks him like a brick.
“Did you tell Bobby?”
Sam throws his arms out and steps closer to Dean. Dean wants to pull the gun up again, back away-fuck, run away, but he stands his ground and manages to not even flinch. “Tell him what, Dean?” Sam shouts. “That I think my brother is trying to kill me?”
Shit.
Dean’s mouth somehow twists itself into a shaky smile without his permission. “So you know, hunh?”
“I told you Dean, I don’t know anything. I think you’re trying to kill me-to poison me, specifically, with Anenexus, I think you killed Ruby and maybe even Ellen, and I think you’re possessed or a shape shifter or some fucking god damned thing because you can’t be my brother.” And just like that Sam’s tears are running down his face like the rain outside, and Dean can feel a painful twist in his chest. He closes his eyes and remembers Hell, Sam’s hand gripping his heart, strong fingers wrapping around its laboring chambers. Dean’s doing the right thing. He walks closer to Sam, stowing his gun back in his waistband, and put his hands on his brother’s shoulders.
“It might not make sense to you,” Dean says, catching Sam’s cloudy gaze. “But I’m doing this for you.”
Sam sobs out a laugh. “Right. You’re doing me the ultimate favor.” Sam tries to shake Dean off, but Dean grips him tighter. He’s swept up in a sudden flare of fury, and shoves Sam back against the wall. He’s mildly surprised that it holds up.
“You think I don’t know the things you do?” Dean growls. “You read minds. You fuck with people’s heads. You drink demon blood, for fuck’s sake. And I know about the woman you killed.”
Dean feels a pinch of guilt at the way Sam’s face grays, until it matches the rest of his body. “How…?”
“It doesn’t matter. What does matter, Sam, is that what you’re doing, it isn’t right. And what scares the shit out of me, is I don’t even think you know it’s not right.” Sam renews his struggle, but Dean knows his brother is weak and his efforts are useless. Until he feels his arms being wrenched away from Sam’s shoulders and his body shoved back, so hard he ends up on the floor. He only has to wonder for a moment what the fuck just happened until he looks up into Sam’s tear-soaked, enraged face. Sam’s turned his powers on him--Dean realizes that he’s fair game, now.
“Me? You want to talk about my moral fabric, Dean? You lie to me. You drink yourself stupid constantly. Oh, and, you’re killing your brother. That’s wrong on, like, biblical levels.”
Dean pushes himself up, weary now, bordering on afraid. Sam’s stronger than he should be. But Sam’s powers, they don’t come from his soul, they come from the blood. Sam could very well kill him. Seems fair enough to Dean-an eye for an eye, and what’s he care if the world’s left blind? Might be better off, considering the visions that are in store for it…
“You’re right, I won’t deny it,” Dean says, “We’re both lying, murdering, violent, stupid dicks. I’m cracking up and you’re a freak.” He can’t help a weak smile. “And we’re in charge of saving the world.”
Sam snorts. For the life of him, Dean can’t explain why, but he feels himself slowly unravel into an unstoppable kind of laughter. He feels like he’s finally gone adrift off the shore of sanity. He realizes he completely deserves the confused, disapproving glare Sam’s giving him.
“How the fuck is that funny?” Sam asks, and his voice is angry with maybe just an edge of nervous, like he wouldn’t mind having a straightjacket handy right about now.
“It’s not-not funny,” Dean gasps, gripping his sides. “It’s fucking awful.” He bursts into renewed hysterics. He doesn’t know how or why, but it spreads to Sam, who starts with just a small quirk of the lips and a muttered “I guess it is ironic.” By the end, Dean’s gone into a fetal position and Sam’s on all fours, howling with laughter. Dean guesses this is what the end of the world should feel like: helpless, chaotic, nonsensical and hysterical. But underneath it, he feels a clock ticking, and he knows he’s got to grab this moment.
“Sam, listen to me,” he says, recovering, and Sam wipes his cheeks and gives Dean his attention. “I chose this for a reason. When I said I know the shit you’ve done, I didn’t mean that I’m better than you. But, man, I can’t watch this happen to you.”
“What do you mean?” Sam asks. He shakes his head slowly, and Dean wonders if Sam’s really never looked down the long dark road they’re on. Dean knows exactly where it leads. Hell, he’s been there, and if he can help it, he’s never going back. And he’ll be fucked if they get their hands on Sam.
“Sam, we ain’t exactly saints. Even if you don’t go dark-side, and kid, you’re skating the line, I’m pretty sure you aren’t on the guest list for the pearly gates,” Dean tries to say it with a light heart, but the memories (fire pain please no) are pressing down on him, and it’s hard to breath. He reaches into his shirt pocket, and pulls out the vials stowed there. One is filled with viscous black, the other with milky white. He holds up the black one. “This here, this is how I can save you from Hell. If your soul is dead, if this shit does its trick and you die body and spirit, those sadistic sons of bitches don’t get to touch you.”
Sam stares at him with that familiar knit brow and tight lips, the one that means he’s trying to make sense of what’s given to him. Dean expects some logic, some well-developed rationale to come out of Sam. Instead, it’s only a weak and sad little plea, “Please, Dean. Don’t let me die.”
“Sam…”
The waterworks have started again, and Dean has to look away. “I know,” Sam says, “I’ve kinda fucked this all up. I-I let you go to Hell, that was me, that was my fault.” Dean tries to protest and Sam shushes him and keeps on. “That was the start. I can see now that I got…obsessed,” Sam is trying to speak calmly and evenly, and it’s almost working. “But I swear, I want the same things as you, Dean. I want to ice Lillith. I want to stop the Apocalypse. I want to save people. I want to go back.” Sam hiccups a little, and Dean knows if he risks looking at his brother now, he’ll come undone, so he studies the water damage on the ceiling instead. “Please, Dean, look at me.”
When Dean turns his head, it’s so against his own willpower that he wonders if Sam had a hand in it.
“Please, Dean,” Sam sniffs. “Help me.”
And there he is, his little brother, his Sammy, looking pale--sick--his cheeks coated in layers of drying salty sadness. If they were still little, Dean would take his hand, wipe the last of the tears from his face, and put Sam to bed. He would take care of his little brother. Dean looks down at the white liquid in the vial in his hand, and knows he is literally holding Sam’s life in his hand. He wants nothing more than to take Sam away from the world and Heaven and Hell and everything that’s been killing them slowly their whole damn lives. He wants to hide Sam from all the things that will take him to pieces, and make him into something new and ugly-hell, wasn’t that exactly what he was trying to do with the Anenexus? But it’s too late. The angels are on his ass and the demons are knocking on the door, and there’s just no good way out for them now.
“Sam,” Dean says gently. He’s not sure what to say next, how to say, No, you have to die. “There’s nothing to go back to. Hell wants both our asses. And the angels are on to you. You’re in too deep with this demon shit. They’ll never leave us alone, you know that. And on top of it all, you can never trust me again. Face it, we’re boned.”
Sam looks off towards a window partially obscured by dusty, moth-bitten curtains. The moonlight paints a streak of ivory on one side of his face. It occurs to Dean that his brother really is beautiful. Every beat of Dean’s heart hurts like hell, and he wants to take it all back, oh god, he wants to take it all back.
“I love you, Dean,” Sam says simply. He takes a deep breath nods to himself. “And I think I understand what you’re doing.” Sam looks right at him, and Dean’s got a feeling like his soul is showing. It leaves him breathless and heartbroken. “I can’t say I like it, obviously but I understand. I mean, from your perspective, you’re saving the world from me, and saving me from Hell. You really are doing the best you can.”
Dean is silent and still for a moment, before tears find their way to his eyes and down his cheeks. He lets his head drop and he cries in a way he hasn’t since he was in Hell. He shakes with hard sobs, and only cries harder when he feels Sam drop down next to him and put an arm around his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he mutters over and over. He knows it’s stupid and pointless, but it’s all he can seem to say or do. Sam shushes him and holds him the best he can with his dying limbs. Finally, Dean holds out his hand to Sam, the hand cradling the vial of pearly fluid. They both stare at it quietly, the chorus of crickets outside overtaking even the sound of their uneven breathing.
“Are you sure?” Sam asks.
“No,” Dean admits. It’s honest. “But if I’m wrong, I’d rather have you around to say I told you so.” He attempts a smile at Sam and, god, the moment is lousy with snot and tears and for the first time in months, Dean feels the dead hope in him bring in a shallow breath. Sam picks the vial out of Dean’s palm and looks at it. “That’s a new beginning in that vial, Sam,” Dean says. “And that means we gotta start clean.”
Sam looks at him, all earnest eyes and serious frown, and Dean hates to do it, but he’s got to let Sam know the situation he’s in. He has to know what they’re going to be facing. Dean feels truly, achingly sorry for the kid-he knows how Sam once felt about angels.
“Sam,” Dean begins. “It’s about Castiel and-“
It’s then the door explodes inward in a shower of splinters. And speak of the devil…son of a bitch always did have lousy timing.
Dean has suspected it for a long time, but now feels pretty god damn sure-this isn’t gonna end well.
-part VI.two-