Yield - SPN fic, gen, PG-13
Title: Yield
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13 for language
Disclaimer: I own nothing except beer. Which I already drank.
A/N: As always the biggest smoox to mgbutterfly for beta, beer and the use of her Sam!Brain. AFU
*+*+*+*
Sam smiled and waved back at the family of four as Dean pulled the Impala away from the curb. As soon as they were out of sight he pulled back the lid of the basket that the grateful woman had packed.
Apparently, banishing a nasty spirit with a taste for pushing people down the stairs was worth a bushel of…. something. This job paid ass and just because they weren't in it for the money didn't mean they would turn some down.
"Oh, man. Look at all this, Dean; it's like an entire home-cooked meal."
"Yeah? Nice." Dean craned his head over a little to look. "Is there any pie?"
"Maybe. Hang on." Sam rummaged around in the basket, a piece of bread hanging out of the side of his mouth. "Here we go," he said triumphantly, holding up a plastic container.
Dean eyed it, wondering what he could promise or threaten Sam with in order to get all the pie to himself. "What kind?"
Sam opened the container and sniffed. "Huh. I think it's rhubarb," he said with a bit of a downward twitch of his mouth.
Dean shook his head at Sam's slight grimace. "You know that was mom's favorite?"
Sam looked at him, mouth open in slight surprise. "I didn't know that. Rhubarb?"
"Yeah. Dad hated it. Couldn't bear to break it to her that he didn't like it so he just used to eat it. He said it used to keep him up all night with heartburn."
"I wish he'd talk more about her." Sam frowned and snorted. "Hell, I wish he'd talk about anything other than hunting."
"If wishes were horses then you would have been the happiest little boy in the whole world…"
Sam shot him a glare. "Just because I read Black Beauty doesn't mean I had some kind of horse fetish, Dean. I'm just saying that it would be nice to have some good memories."
"Aw, don't start this shit, Sam. We have good memories."
"Maybe you do, Dean. All I have is training and hunting and fear and guilt."
Dean hit the steering wheel in frustration. "Sam, dad did the best he could. You know that."
"Hey, I'm not saying it couldn't have been worse. But, the way we were raised, Dean?" Sam let out a mirthless chuckle, "That was pretty fucked up."
"Yeah, well, that's what parents do, Sam. They fuck their kids up. When you grow up you get to decide which of the fucked up bits you're gonna keep and which parts you're gonna throw away. But you were always pretty good at figuring out what you wanted to throw away."
Sam turned to look out the window, his lips pressed together tightly. "Dean, don't make this into something it's not."
"What? You leaving? You're the one who keeps bringing this old shit up. You made your choice, Sam."
Sam turned back to him, incredulous. "Is that what you think? That I had a choice?" Sam took a deep breath and dug his fingernails into his palms. "Dammit Dean, it's not that I hate Dad or how we grew up or what we do. It's that I never got to choose it. It was always our family business, my destiny, my fault for being born-"
"Don't you lie to yourself, Sam," Dean interrupted sharply, "it was never that. Never."
"You think it wasn't? You don't think he hated me just a little for that?" Sam's lips twisted in a bitter smile.
Dean forced himself to relax his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. And God, he should just leave this alone because nothing good ever came of dredging up the past but he had to know. "So, would you have chosen it? If dad or fate or whatever had given you the choice, would you have chosen this life?"
"I don't know, Dean." Sam's voice was quiet, his eyes cast down. "Probably not, but I don't know. I just wanted to have a choice."
"So, dad, hunting, our whole life… that means nothing to you, huh?" Dean swore as the Impala's tires bit the gravel at the side of the road. Impatiently, he yanked the wheel, bringing the car back onto the asphalt. "What about me, Sam? What if I had asked you to stay?"
Sam went still and tense in the seat beside him. Dean waited. They drove for miles, bucolic farms and sloping meadows flashing past the windows. The landscape appearing surreal and flat, painted in the indigos of twilight.
Finally, Sam turned, his lips twisting in a wry smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Dean, that was the only thing I had a choice in - and you never made me choose." He looked Dean in the eye for a brief moment before turning back to the window, slumping against the door. "You just let me go."
The car was quiet for another hundred miles. Finally, forcing his mouth closed on yet another yawn, Dean pulled off at a motel. Turning the car off, he sat for a moment, fingers curled around the door handle, indecision churning in his gut.
"What was I supposed to do, Sam?" Dean asked. "Make you stay... when you made it so goddamn clear that it wasn't where you wanted to be?"
Sam turned and looked at him, meeting his eyes steadily. "Yes. You should have given me a reason to make a choice. You should have asked me to choose, Dean."
Dean snorted in disbelief and anger. "Yeah. Fine. Whatever. I'm getting a room." Dean said, opening the door and pulling himself stiffly out of the car.
Sam's voice, soft and low made him pause before he shut the door. "I would've chosen you, Dean. I always will. You just had to ask."
*+*+*
Bait.
Dean struggled futilely against his ropes. He was fucking bait. Again.
The demon had grabbed him outside the coffee shop while Sam was buying a local paper. The last thing he saw before the demon clobbered him with a tire iron was Sam, darting through traffic, his face set in hard lines of concentration and panic.
Dean overheard the demon using his phone, making sure Sam knew where to find them, and Sam… Sam would come. Of course, he'd come. Fucking jerk had no sense of self-preservation.
As if on cue, Sam appeared in the window. And at least he wasn't making it easy, throwing incantations and holy water like they were going out of style. Dean was mildly impressed at the throwing stars inscribed with devils traps. But for every trick Sam had up his sleeve the demon was one step ahead.
Sam came at it sideways, with tricks and sneaky shit that Dean didn't even know much less suspect Sam knew. It had an answer for all of them and eventually, Sam made a mistake. Maybe it had just been toying with Sam the whole time, Dean didn't know. He just knew that his heart stuttered sideways in his chest when Sam finally hit the wall, sliding to the floor in a boneless heap.
Because there was nothing left. They were out of time and out of luck.
*+*
The demon trussed Sam up to the chair opposite Dean's but minus the gag. His head was still hanging loosely on his chest but Dean knew he was awake. Apparently, the demon did too.
"Sammy, quit playing possum." The demon chastised, dragging the tip of a knife down Sam's bicep.
Sam flinched and raised his head, grimacing at the throbbing in his neck and head. And now his arm.
The demon stalked around them, reversing figure eights, making Sam's head swim. Every time it passed by, its hand flicked out, the knife slicing a thin line across some part of Sam's body. Chest, arms, cheek. In his head, Dean catalogued all the ways in which he was going to make this fucking demon pay.
Sam was strangely silent. He just took it, the occasional grunt or cry escaping his lips but not responding to the demons taunts and lies. Not even when it accused Sam of being an abomination that should never have been born. Not even when it said that John was burning in hell.
Sam barely flinched when the demon broke three fingers. Did nothing but draw in a hissing breath when it flayed his side open, deep enough so Dean could see the white winking of ribs every time Sam drew in a ragged breath.
Sam didn't respond at all except to stare, stubborn-faced and baleful, blinking blood from his eyes. And damn if that wasn't as unnerving for Dean as it seemed to be for the demon.
“Daddy’s burning in hell for Dean. He chose to do that for your brother. He’d never do that for you, Sam. He never loved you that much.” The demon stood back and pointed at Sam, twisting his fingers in the air. Sam gasped and pink-tinged spit flew from his mouth. “Oh, yes, Daddy’s real proud of Dean, the good one, the good son. You, on the other hand, Sammy, you were quite the disappointment.”
Dean growled and strained against his ropes, watching helplessly as Sam coughed up blood, his body contorting against the ropes as he tried to escape whatever invisible damage the demon was inflicting.
“If Mary had to die for something, why couldn’t it have been something worth dying for, Sam? Something pure. Something good. Not something tainted like you.” The demon dropped its arm to the side and approached Sam, pulling his head back and stroking a finger down Sam’s bloody cheek. “There’s only one place for things like you, Sam. Tainted things. Things that are forged in fire and darkness.”
It gentled its hold on Sam’s head, stroking his hair back and Sam leaned imperceptibly into the touch. The demon petted him, “That’s right, Sam. There’s no need to fight anymore. You’re one of us; you’ve always been one of us. You just have to accept it, Sam.”
Sam leaned back slightly, his head cocked to the side, his face incapable of hiding his conflicting emotions. He bit his lip, chewing it in indecision. After a long moment Sam's mouth quirked slightly as his eyes skittered to Dean's, a brief moment of contact and reassurance. He pursed his lips and spat directly in the demon's face. “No.”
The gag choked off Dean’s bark of laughter that turned to a curse when the demon backhanded Sam, laying open a new gash on his cheekbone. With a snarl, it lunged forward and grabbed a tattered chunk of Sam’s shirt and this time Dean saw Sam flinch. The demon just laughed as it ripped a piece of Sam’s shirt away, using it wipe the blood and spit from its face.
“Ah, Dean, your brother’s bleeding quite a lot.” The demon pointed to the growing puddle on the floor that Dean had been stoically ignoring for twenty minutes. “You think he’ll change his mind to save himself?”
Dean said something that was lost in the gag but he was pretty sure the demon got the gist of it anyway.
“You’re right of course; he’d rather die than accept this. But is he willing to let you die, Dean?” The demon placed the knife along Dean’s throat, stroking it along his jaw.
Dean heard Sam make a strangled noise as the demon abruptly dug the knife in and sliced upwards. For a minute all Dean was aware of was the blood pounding in his ears. After a moment, he opened his eyes and looked down, seeing only the barest trickle of blood running down his shirt. That’s when he realized that the gag had been cut free. He tossed his head to the side, spitting out the cloth and trying to work some moisture back into his mouth.
Sam was staring at him, eyes glassy and horrified. Dean tried to work up a reassuring smile but it turned into a choked cry as the demon buried the knife in his shoulder. The bastard put it not an inch from where Sam had shot him a few months ago. Dean had a feeling that it wasn’t a coincidence.
Sam just continued staring, lock-jawed, straining against his bonds as the demon walked behind Dean, trailing a hand along Dean’s neck. “Sam, you can’t have this. Haven’t you learned your lesson with your mother? Your father? Jessica?” The demon’s hand closed loosely around Dean’s throat, squeezing, building the pressure gradually.
“You don’t get to have this. You can’t have good things, you’ll just taint them. And if you try to hold onto them, we will take them away from you.”
Dean choked as the demon’s hand closed tight around his throat. For Sam’s sake he tried hard not to thrash and struggle but, Christ, he needed to breathe. As suddenly as the pressure increased it was gone, leaving Dean choking and gasping for air. Before he could recover, the hand was back on the hilt of the knife, giving it a vicious twist.
Dean screamed.
When the spots faded from his eyes and the roaring in his ears died down he heard the demon speaking to Sam in a low voice. “Don’t make me do this, Sam. I don’t want to kill your brother. Just accept who you are, become what you’re meant to be and he can live.” The demon looked back at Dean and crooked a finger. Pain blossomed in Dean’s chest and he struggled to pull in a breath. “You can save him, Sam.”
Dean fought to hold his eyes open against the crushing agony in his chest. Sam was frozen, his breath coming in sharp pants that matched Dean’s attempts to breathe. He wouldn't meet Dean's eyes, his narrowed gaze centered on the knife in Dean's shoulder. After a moment, Sam dropped his head to his chest, body shuddering slightly. When he lifted his head up again, his face was so blank that his features could have been carved in stone.
Oh, fuck. Sam was going to do it.
The demon could sense it too because some of the pressure in Dean’s chest eased a bit allowing him to steal a few breaths, reducing the agony in his chest to something bearable.
Dean flinched at the resignation he saw on Sam's face. It was identical to the look on he wore the night he left for Stanford.
Shit. Dean thought back to the conversation they’d had a few weeks ago and realized that Sam really didn’t think he had a choice in this. In anything.
Sam’s throat worked, his mouth opening slowly, and the demon leaned forward in anticipation.
But Dean found his voice before Sam. "No, Sam. No, not like this.”
The demon chuckled, turning his back on Dean and approaching Sam. “Oh, yes, Sam. Just like this. It’s your only way out.”
“You don't get to leave me again, Sammy, not like this.”
Sam’s face contorted; pain, indecision and weariness twisting his features. Dean held his brother’s gaze. “You have to choose."
"I know, Dean," Sam said, his voice low and anguished, "I want you to live."
"Sammy, if I can't save you then it's over. And I can't…" Dean's voice broke but he cleared his throat viciously and plowed on, "I can't save you right now, so I need you to save yourself. I don't want to lose you, Sam. I want you to stay with me. Choose me, Sam. I'm asking, Jesus Christ, I'm begging you to choose. Please."
Sam blinked once at him, slow and heavy, the blood from his cuts pooling in the corners of his eyes like tears. Then Sam smiled, and it was a pure Sam grin, light and joy and fucking sunshine.
It was the last thing Dean saw before the demon whirled around, pointing at him, and the world went white.
*+*+*
Dean came to slowly, blinking against the juxtaposition of his last memory and his current position, which was upside down against the back wall of the warehouse. He stared at the ceiling for a moment before the memories rushed back. "Sam?" Dean flinched at how weak his voice sounded. He cleared his throat and tried again, "Sammy?"
Dean swung his legs away from the wall and rolled to a sitting position, shaking bits of broken chair away from his arms and legs. He barely caught himself as the action nearly caused him to overbalance right onto his face. When his vision cleared he scanned the room for Sam.
Panic started to claw its way into his chest before he finally located a messy thatch of hair poking out from behind a stack of broken pallets. He scrambled across the room, sliding to a halt next to Sam's prone form, hands running over limbs, neck, head, assessing damage, checking for pulse and breath.
Other than the damage Dean already knew about, the… whatever the hell happened didn't seem to have hurt Sam much more. Dean tapped him sharply on the cheek, "Sam. Sam!"
With a groan, Sam opened his eyes and batted at Dean's hand, "G'way. Tired."
Dean grinned and manhandled Sam up, slinging Sam's arm around his neck and dragging both their sorry asses to the Impala.
It didn't take long to get to the motel and thank God there was a parking space right in front of the room. Dean kicked the door shut behind him and detoured Sam away from the bed and towards the bathroom. "Sorry, Sam, can’t crash yet. Maids hate blood on the sheets."
Sam just nodded, head heavy against Dean's neck. He managed to stay upright on the toilet while Dean grabbed the first aid kit but as soon as Dean was back in the room he listed toward the sink.
"Whoa, whoa, careful there, Sam." Dean righted his brother and pulled him slightly forward so Sam's forehead rested on Dean's chest. He tucked Sam's arm in between their chests and started tending to the gash on Sam's side. Holy water, alcohol, stitches; a familiar and oddly comforting pattern. Sam drifted in and out during his ministrations and Dean was thankful.
He cleaned and butterflied the other cuts, splinted and taped Sam's broken fingers, washed the blood and sweat and fear from Sam's face and body. Every few minutes Sam reached out and just touched Dean, softly, on the arm, the cheek, the leg. As if to reassure himself that Dean was there, real and solid.
Dean didn't ask, didn't ask why Sam felt the need to do that, because he got it. He also didn't ask the other questions that were screaming in his brain. What did you do? What happened to the demon? Or the most laughable, Are you okay? Because that was idiotic. They weren't okay but they were alive and they were together and that was enough for Dean, for now.
He swallowed his questions and just continued stroking softly over Sam's ribs, cataloging the cracks, searching for further damage, internal damage that had caused Sam to cough up blood. And Sam let him, for a while. Then he reversed the cataloging, running his hands over Dean's throat, his arms, his head. He found a nasty cut on Dean's back and insisted on gluing and butterflying it, would have stitched it if he hadn't been seeing double.
Eventually they stumbled out of the bathroom and Dean deposited Sam on the nearest bed, pulling off Sam’s shoes and throwing a blanket over him. Before collapsing on the other bed, Dean managed to reach over and grab his phone, setting the alarm to blare "For Whom the Bell Tolls" every hour for the next five hours.
He needn't have set the alarm. Dean woke up every twenty or thirty minutes, breath frozen in his lungs and Sam's name on his lips. Each time he got up and checked: pulse, breathing… a flick of holy water on Sam's forehead, just to be sure.
Every hour he woke Sam, ignoring the mumbling incoherent words, ignoring the whimpers and flinches even more. He checked Sam's pupils and bandages, asked Sam his name and the date and knew Sam was okay when he finally responded, "Cleopatra, 2525, now leave me alone you sadistic fuck."
Even though Dean turned off the alarm he still woke every thirty or so minutes, irrational panic ripping through his aching chest. Each time, he got up and went over to the other bed to lay his hand on Sam, just to be sure, to be absolutely sure that he was still there. That he didn't leave.
Around 5 a.m. Dean sat up with a gasp but before he could clamber out of bed Sam was up and stumbling over. Without a word, he climbed into bed with Dean, lying down carefully on his good side, cold feet skittering up Dean’s calves.
Dean wanted to tense up and say Sam, man, what the fuck? but his entire body relaxed as Sam stretched out next to him. Exhaustion pulled him down, his limbs and brain leaden and numb. The comfort of having Sam close, warm and breathing was too soothing for argument.
Sam fidgeted for a moment, trying to get comfortable and Dean made minute adjustments to accommodate him. Finally he laid his arm with the broken fingers over Dean's back and his other arm curled around, his hand finding the top of Dean's head, lying there, heavy and warm.
Dean drifted toward sleep, his sense of the rightness of the world once again balanced to normal. And he was almost under when Sam startled, hard, like he was having a falling dream but Dean doubted it had anything to do with falling. At least physically.
His hand tightened in Dean's hair, his breath hot on Dean's shoulder. After a moment, he relaxed and his breathing evened out. "M'not going anywhere, Dean," Sam whispered. "This is where I chose to be."
Dean bumped his head roughly against Sam's chin in acknowledgement and, finally, Dean slept.
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13 for language
Disclaimer: I own nothing except beer. Which I already drank.
A/N: As always the biggest smoox to mgbutterfly for beta, beer and the use of her Sam!Brain. AFU
*+*+*+*
Sam smiled and waved back at the family of four as Dean pulled the Impala away from the curb. As soon as they were out of sight he pulled back the lid of the basket that the grateful woman had packed.
Apparently, banishing a nasty spirit with a taste for pushing people down the stairs was worth a bushel of…. something. This job paid ass and just because they weren't in it for the money didn't mean they would turn some down.
"Oh, man. Look at all this, Dean; it's like an entire home-cooked meal."
"Yeah? Nice." Dean craned his head over a little to look. "Is there any pie?"
"Maybe. Hang on." Sam rummaged around in the basket, a piece of bread hanging out of the side of his mouth. "Here we go," he said triumphantly, holding up a plastic container.
Dean eyed it, wondering what he could promise or threaten Sam with in order to get all the pie to himself. "What kind?"
Sam opened the container and sniffed. "Huh. I think it's rhubarb," he said with a bit of a downward twitch of his mouth.
Dean shook his head at Sam's slight grimace. "You know that was mom's favorite?"
Sam looked at him, mouth open in slight surprise. "I didn't know that. Rhubarb?"
"Yeah. Dad hated it. Couldn't bear to break it to her that he didn't like it so he just used to eat it. He said it used to keep him up all night with heartburn."
"I wish he'd talk more about her." Sam frowned and snorted. "Hell, I wish he'd talk about anything other than hunting."
"If wishes were horses then you would have been the happiest little boy in the whole world…"
Sam shot him a glare. "Just because I read Black Beauty doesn't mean I had some kind of horse fetish, Dean. I'm just saying that it would be nice to have some good memories."
"Aw, don't start this shit, Sam. We have good memories."
"Maybe you do, Dean. All I have is training and hunting and fear and guilt."
Dean hit the steering wheel in frustration. "Sam, dad did the best he could. You know that."
"Hey, I'm not saying it couldn't have been worse. But, the way we were raised, Dean?" Sam let out a mirthless chuckle, "That was pretty fucked up."
"Yeah, well, that's what parents do, Sam. They fuck their kids up. When you grow up you get to decide which of the fucked up bits you're gonna keep and which parts you're gonna throw away. But you were always pretty good at figuring out what you wanted to throw away."
Sam turned to look out the window, his lips pressed together tightly. "Dean, don't make this into something it's not."
"What? You leaving? You're the one who keeps bringing this old shit up. You made your choice, Sam."
Sam turned back to him, incredulous. "Is that what you think? That I had a choice?" Sam took a deep breath and dug his fingernails into his palms. "Dammit Dean, it's not that I hate Dad or how we grew up or what we do. It's that I never got to choose it. It was always our family business, my destiny, my fault for being born-"
"Don't you lie to yourself, Sam," Dean interrupted sharply, "it was never that. Never."
"You think it wasn't? You don't think he hated me just a little for that?" Sam's lips twisted in a bitter smile.
Dean forced himself to relax his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. And God, he should just leave this alone because nothing good ever came of dredging up the past but he had to know. "So, would you have chosen it? If dad or fate or whatever had given you the choice, would you have chosen this life?"
"I don't know, Dean." Sam's voice was quiet, his eyes cast down. "Probably not, but I don't know. I just wanted to have a choice."
"So, dad, hunting, our whole life… that means nothing to you, huh?" Dean swore as the Impala's tires bit the gravel at the side of the road. Impatiently, he yanked the wheel, bringing the car back onto the asphalt. "What about me, Sam? What if I had asked you to stay?"
Sam went still and tense in the seat beside him. Dean waited. They drove for miles, bucolic farms and sloping meadows flashing past the windows. The landscape appearing surreal and flat, painted in the indigos of twilight.
Finally, Sam turned, his lips twisting in a wry smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Dean, that was the only thing I had a choice in - and you never made me choose." He looked Dean in the eye for a brief moment before turning back to the window, slumping against the door. "You just let me go."
The car was quiet for another hundred miles. Finally, forcing his mouth closed on yet another yawn, Dean pulled off at a motel. Turning the car off, he sat for a moment, fingers curled around the door handle, indecision churning in his gut.
"What was I supposed to do, Sam?" Dean asked. "Make you stay... when you made it so goddamn clear that it wasn't where you wanted to be?"
Sam turned and looked at him, meeting his eyes steadily. "Yes. You should have given me a reason to make a choice. You should have asked me to choose, Dean."
Dean snorted in disbelief and anger. "Yeah. Fine. Whatever. I'm getting a room." Dean said, opening the door and pulling himself stiffly out of the car.
Sam's voice, soft and low made him pause before he shut the door. "I would've chosen you, Dean. I always will. You just had to ask."
*+*+*
Bait.
Dean struggled futilely against his ropes. He was fucking bait. Again.
The demon had grabbed him outside the coffee shop while Sam was buying a local paper. The last thing he saw before the demon clobbered him with a tire iron was Sam, darting through traffic, his face set in hard lines of concentration and panic.
Dean overheard the demon using his phone, making sure Sam knew where to find them, and Sam… Sam would come. Of course, he'd come. Fucking jerk had no sense of self-preservation.
As if on cue, Sam appeared in the window. And at least he wasn't making it easy, throwing incantations and holy water like they were going out of style. Dean was mildly impressed at the throwing stars inscribed with devils traps. But for every trick Sam had up his sleeve the demon was one step ahead.
Sam came at it sideways, with tricks and sneaky shit that Dean didn't even know much less suspect Sam knew. It had an answer for all of them and eventually, Sam made a mistake. Maybe it had just been toying with Sam the whole time, Dean didn't know. He just knew that his heart stuttered sideways in his chest when Sam finally hit the wall, sliding to the floor in a boneless heap.
Because there was nothing left. They were out of time and out of luck.
*+*
The demon trussed Sam up to the chair opposite Dean's but minus the gag. His head was still hanging loosely on his chest but Dean knew he was awake. Apparently, the demon did too.
"Sammy, quit playing possum." The demon chastised, dragging the tip of a knife down Sam's bicep.
Sam flinched and raised his head, grimacing at the throbbing in his neck and head. And now his arm.
The demon stalked around them, reversing figure eights, making Sam's head swim. Every time it passed by, its hand flicked out, the knife slicing a thin line across some part of Sam's body. Chest, arms, cheek. In his head, Dean catalogued all the ways in which he was going to make this fucking demon pay.
Sam was strangely silent. He just took it, the occasional grunt or cry escaping his lips but not responding to the demons taunts and lies. Not even when it accused Sam of being an abomination that should never have been born. Not even when it said that John was burning in hell.
Sam barely flinched when the demon broke three fingers. Did nothing but draw in a hissing breath when it flayed his side open, deep enough so Dean could see the white winking of ribs every time Sam drew in a ragged breath.
Sam didn't respond at all except to stare, stubborn-faced and baleful, blinking blood from his eyes. And damn if that wasn't as unnerving for Dean as it seemed to be for the demon.
“Daddy’s burning in hell for Dean. He chose to do that for your brother. He’d never do that for you, Sam. He never loved you that much.” The demon stood back and pointed at Sam, twisting his fingers in the air. Sam gasped and pink-tinged spit flew from his mouth. “Oh, yes, Daddy’s real proud of Dean, the good one, the good son. You, on the other hand, Sammy, you were quite the disappointment.”
Dean growled and strained against his ropes, watching helplessly as Sam coughed up blood, his body contorting against the ropes as he tried to escape whatever invisible damage the demon was inflicting.
“If Mary had to die for something, why couldn’t it have been something worth dying for, Sam? Something pure. Something good. Not something tainted like you.” The demon dropped its arm to the side and approached Sam, pulling his head back and stroking a finger down Sam’s bloody cheek. “There’s only one place for things like you, Sam. Tainted things. Things that are forged in fire and darkness.”
It gentled its hold on Sam’s head, stroking his hair back and Sam leaned imperceptibly into the touch. The demon petted him, “That’s right, Sam. There’s no need to fight anymore. You’re one of us; you’ve always been one of us. You just have to accept it, Sam.”
Sam leaned back slightly, his head cocked to the side, his face incapable of hiding his conflicting emotions. He bit his lip, chewing it in indecision. After a long moment Sam's mouth quirked slightly as his eyes skittered to Dean's, a brief moment of contact and reassurance. He pursed his lips and spat directly in the demon's face. “No.”
The gag choked off Dean’s bark of laughter that turned to a curse when the demon backhanded Sam, laying open a new gash on his cheekbone. With a snarl, it lunged forward and grabbed a tattered chunk of Sam’s shirt and this time Dean saw Sam flinch. The demon just laughed as it ripped a piece of Sam’s shirt away, using it wipe the blood and spit from its face.
“Ah, Dean, your brother’s bleeding quite a lot.” The demon pointed to the growing puddle on the floor that Dean had been stoically ignoring for twenty minutes. “You think he’ll change his mind to save himself?”
Dean said something that was lost in the gag but he was pretty sure the demon got the gist of it anyway.
“You’re right of course; he’d rather die than accept this. But is he willing to let you die, Dean?” The demon placed the knife along Dean’s throat, stroking it along his jaw.
Dean heard Sam make a strangled noise as the demon abruptly dug the knife in and sliced upwards. For a minute all Dean was aware of was the blood pounding in his ears. After a moment, he opened his eyes and looked down, seeing only the barest trickle of blood running down his shirt. That’s when he realized that the gag had been cut free. He tossed his head to the side, spitting out the cloth and trying to work some moisture back into his mouth.
Sam was staring at him, eyes glassy and horrified. Dean tried to work up a reassuring smile but it turned into a choked cry as the demon buried the knife in his shoulder. The bastard put it not an inch from where Sam had shot him a few months ago. Dean had a feeling that it wasn’t a coincidence.
Sam just continued staring, lock-jawed, straining against his bonds as the demon walked behind Dean, trailing a hand along Dean’s neck. “Sam, you can’t have this. Haven’t you learned your lesson with your mother? Your father? Jessica?” The demon’s hand closed loosely around Dean’s throat, squeezing, building the pressure gradually.
“You don’t get to have this. You can’t have good things, you’ll just taint them. And if you try to hold onto them, we will take them away from you.”
Dean choked as the demon’s hand closed tight around his throat. For Sam’s sake he tried hard not to thrash and struggle but, Christ, he needed to breathe. As suddenly as the pressure increased it was gone, leaving Dean choking and gasping for air. Before he could recover, the hand was back on the hilt of the knife, giving it a vicious twist.
Dean screamed.
When the spots faded from his eyes and the roaring in his ears died down he heard the demon speaking to Sam in a low voice. “Don’t make me do this, Sam. I don’t want to kill your brother. Just accept who you are, become what you’re meant to be and he can live.” The demon looked back at Dean and crooked a finger. Pain blossomed in Dean’s chest and he struggled to pull in a breath. “You can save him, Sam.”
Dean fought to hold his eyes open against the crushing agony in his chest. Sam was frozen, his breath coming in sharp pants that matched Dean’s attempts to breathe. He wouldn't meet Dean's eyes, his narrowed gaze centered on the knife in Dean's shoulder. After a moment, Sam dropped his head to his chest, body shuddering slightly. When he lifted his head up again, his face was so blank that his features could have been carved in stone.
Oh, fuck. Sam was going to do it.
The demon could sense it too because some of the pressure in Dean’s chest eased a bit allowing him to steal a few breaths, reducing the agony in his chest to something bearable.
Dean flinched at the resignation he saw on Sam's face. It was identical to the look on he wore the night he left for Stanford.
Shit. Dean thought back to the conversation they’d had a few weeks ago and realized that Sam really didn’t think he had a choice in this. In anything.
Sam’s throat worked, his mouth opening slowly, and the demon leaned forward in anticipation.
But Dean found his voice before Sam. "No, Sam. No, not like this.”
The demon chuckled, turning his back on Dean and approaching Sam. “Oh, yes, Sam. Just like this. It’s your only way out.”
“You don't get to leave me again, Sammy, not like this.”
Sam’s face contorted; pain, indecision and weariness twisting his features. Dean held his brother’s gaze. “You have to choose."
"I know, Dean," Sam said, his voice low and anguished, "I want you to live."
"Sammy, if I can't save you then it's over. And I can't…" Dean's voice broke but he cleared his throat viciously and plowed on, "I can't save you right now, so I need you to save yourself. I don't want to lose you, Sam. I want you to stay with me. Choose me, Sam. I'm asking, Jesus Christ, I'm begging you to choose. Please."
Sam blinked once at him, slow and heavy, the blood from his cuts pooling in the corners of his eyes like tears. Then Sam smiled, and it was a pure Sam grin, light and joy and fucking sunshine.
It was the last thing Dean saw before the demon whirled around, pointing at him, and the world went white.
*+*+*
Dean came to slowly, blinking against the juxtaposition of his last memory and his current position, which was upside down against the back wall of the warehouse. He stared at the ceiling for a moment before the memories rushed back. "Sam?" Dean flinched at how weak his voice sounded. He cleared his throat and tried again, "Sammy?"
Dean swung his legs away from the wall and rolled to a sitting position, shaking bits of broken chair away from his arms and legs. He barely caught himself as the action nearly caused him to overbalance right onto his face. When his vision cleared he scanned the room for Sam.
Panic started to claw its way into his chest before he finally located a messy thatch of hair poking out from behind a stack of broken pallets. He scrambled across the room, sliding to a halt next to Sam's prone form, hands running over limbs, neck, head, assessing damage, checking for pulse and breath.
Other than the damage Dean already knew about, the… whatever the hell happened didn't seem to have hurt Sam much more. Dean tapped him sharply on the cheek, "Sam. Sam!"
With a groan, Sam opened his eyes and batted at Dean's hand, "G'way. Tired."
Dean grinned and manhandled Sam up, slinging Sam's arm around his neck and dragging both their sorry asses to the Impala.
It didn't take long to get to the motel and thank God there was a parking space right in front of the room. Dean kicked the door shut behind him and detoured Sam away from the bed and towards the bathroom. "Sorry, Sam, can’t crash yet. Maids hate blood on the sheets."
Sam just nodded, head heavy against Dean's neck. He managed to stay upright on the toilet while Dean grabbed the first aid kit but as soon as Dean was back in the room he listed toward the sink.
"Whoa, whoa, careful there, Sam." Dean righted his brother and pulled him slightly forward so Sam's forehead rested on Dean's chest. He tucked Sam's arm in between their chests and started tending to the gash on Sam's side. Holy water, alcohol, stitches; a familiar and oddly comforting pattern. Sam drifted in and out during his ministrations and Dean was thankful.
He cleaned and butterflied the other cuts, splinted and taped Sam's broken fingers, washed the blood and sweat and fear from Sam's face and body. Every few minutes Sam reached out and just touched Dean, softly, on the arm, the cheek, the leg. As if to reassure himself that Dean was there, real and solid.
Dean didn't ask, didn't ask why Sam felt the need to do that, because he got it. He also didn't ask the other questions that were screaming in his brain. What did you do? What happened to the demon? Or the most laughable, Are you okay? Because that was idiotic. They weren't okay but they were alive and they were together and that was enough for Dean, for now.
He swallowed his questions and just continued stroking softly over Sam's ribs, cataloging the cracks, searching for further damage, internal damage that had caused Sam to cough up blood. And Sam let him, for a while. Then he reversed the cataloging, running his hands over Dean's throat, his arms, his head. He found a nasty cut on Dean's back and insisted on gluing and butterflying it, would have stitched it if he hadn't been seeing double.
Eventually they stumbled out of the bathroom and Dean deposited Sam on the nearest bed, pulling off Sam’s shoes and throwing a blanket over him. Before collapsing on the other bed, Dean managed to reach over and grab his phone, setting the alarm to blare "For Whom the Bell Tolls" every hour for the next five hours.
He needn't have set the alarm. Dean woke up every twenty or thirty minutes, breath frozen in his lungs and Sam's name on his lips. Each time he got up and checked: pulse, breathing… a flick of holy water on Sam's forehead, just to be sure.
Every hour he woke Sam, ignoring the mumbling incoherent words, ignoring the whimpers and flinches even more. He checked Sam's pupils and bandages, asked Sam his name and the date and knew Sam was okay when he finally responded, "Cleopatra, 2525, now leave me alone you sadistic fuck."
Even though Dean turned off the alarm he still woke every thirty or so minutes, irrational panic ripping through his aching chest. Each time, he got up and went over to the other bed to lay his hand on Sam, just to be sure, to be absolutely sure that he was still there. That he didn't leave.
Around 5 a.m. Dean sat up with a gasp but before he could clamber out of bed Sam was up and stumbling over. Without a word, he climbed into bed with Dean, lying down carefully on his good side, cold feet skittering up Dean’s calves.
Dean wanted to tense up and say Sam, man, what the fuck? but his entire body relaxed as Sam stretched out next to him. Exhaustion pulled him down, his limbs and brain leaden and numb. The comfort of having Sam close, warm and breathing was too soothing for argument.
Sam fidgeted for a moment, trying to get comfortable and Dean made minute adjustments to accommodate him. Finally he laid his arm with the broken fingers over Dean's back and his other arm curled around, his hand finding the top of Dean's head, lying there, heavy and warm.
Dean drifted toward sleep, his sense of the rightness of the world once again balanced to normal. And he was almost under when Sam startled, hard, like he was having a falling dream but Dean doubted it had anything to do with falling. At least physically.
His hand tightened in Dean's hair, his breath hot on Dean's shoulder. After a moment, he relaxed and his breathing evened out. "M'not going anywhere, Dean," Sam whispered. "This is where I chose to be."
Dean bumped his head roughly against Sam's chin in acknowledgement and, finally, Dean slept.