Supernatural: Minotaurs Inside a Maze
Title: Minotaurs Inside a Maze
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: R for sexual content, character death (temporary), character death (bad guy), off-screen character death (Castiel), memory loss (kind of), suicide (kind of), substance abuse (demon blood), violence, morally ambiguous boys, language, and an ending that I think is really happy which might piss people off because somehow my endings always do that.
Word Count: 9,763
Author’s Note: First I would like to thank ordinaryink for making a purgatory fanmix for oddishly that ended up being kind of perfect for this story and inspiring a lot of the decisions I made. It also gave me so many possible titles that, although I already had a perfect Josh Ritter one picked out, I had to use them somewhere else and that is where the structure of this fic came from, but it also gave me a really convenient way to slot in the alternate POV scenes I wanted, so basically yay. This story is also weirdly indebted to J. Jack Halberstam's The Queer Art of Failure, which I was reading for academic reasons this weekend and it ended up vocalizing a lot of jumbled thoughts and ideas I've been meaning to put into fic as well as school work. I'm going to stop talking now before these author's notes get any nerdier. Finally, thanks to wutendeskind for making the final call when I was hung up on whether this fic should be Wincest or gen so that I could stop stressing over that and just write the damn fic already. NO SPOILERS for tonight's episode in this fic and if you spoil me in comments, so help me bacon god, I will cut you. This is unbeta'd because I wanted to post before Season 8 starts and yet I didn't start until the Sunday before, because I clearly hate myself. Apologies if it's completely riddled with typos and general bad writing. ETA 5/7/2013: Thanks to eos_rose, you can now read this in epub format here.
Summary: Sam goes into Purgatory, determined to bring his brother back no matter what the cost, but Dean isn't the same when Sam finds him, and he doesn't want to be saved.
PROLOGUE
The monster killed again last night. All across the riverbank there are mangled bodies, their blood mixing with the water, their limbs scattered from the shore all the way to the edge of the woods.
He can tell which ones went quietly-they died by the trees, their deaths quicker from the easy, rushed slices across their throats and chests. Those who tried to run had it worse. The river offered them no escape, they should have known better than to bother. Once this thing has your trail, it's better to just let it win. It caught them. It had time to play with them now that there was no one else to run after. Half of them died so slowly they drowned before the loss of limbs and blood got them.
They aren’t any worse off than the dead bodies he's been seeing his whole life, and bloodshed is not exactly new to him. But it unsettles him just the same. As far as he can tell, this monster makes no use of its victims: the bodies are not consumed or taken back to its home. It kills for sport or to send a message, there's no knowing with a creature like this one. There is no logic to who or what it kills and no guessing where it will attack next.
He's never hunted anything like this before. Its habits are alien, not the knowable patterns he's grown used to. There is no one he can turn to for advice, no one in this world who knows what it is or where it came from or what it wants. There's only fear in the wake of its destruction.
This thing is not all-powerful. It seemed so vulnerable at first. It smelled rank with terror and desperation and confusion. Its bones crunched easily enough, so small to be a threat to him after all his years of hunting. It can bleed, it can feel pain and suffer from it, and it can die. It has died so many times.
Every time it awoke the next morning, more furious, more dangerous, its need for blood stronger. The children it slaughtered, the dozens who fell trying to defend them, they never did. But their killer goes unharmed. It remembers, this beast. Though its habits are feral, there is some kind of intelligence in the thing. It knows what he did to it, but it doesn't know mercy or compassion. He's stopped trying to hunt it. A lost cause when killing it only makes it angry. Now the best he can do is hide from it, avoid it and hope it forgets about him.
This thing-it has no teeth, no claws, it has no bulk to fight with like the other creatures so familiar to him. It needs instruments to survive: it creates as if it had a soul. It uses blades to hack and bite at its prey. It has only its wits and this one strange advantage: it cannot be killed. And yet, it has managed to decimate this place he calls his home.
He tried to communicate with it, a desperate last hope to protect his home and those he's responsible for. But it was incomprehensible, it has no language. No growling, no hissing, nothing that could pass for speech. Just a steady stream of bumbling, inflectionless nonsense. It had one meaningless sound that it made over and over.
It watched him for a long time as he begged it to understand, its face too unnatural to read, and finally turned, deciding he was no threat and dismissing him. It left, surprisingly quick for so misshapen a body. Only two legs to carry it.
All he knows of the monster is what it told him. The one sound it repeated as it hobbled away: Sam.
ACT I. It's a cruel, cruel world to face on your own.
Sam wipes a hand over his mouth. There's thick warm liquid seeping from the corner, and Sam laughs as the couple passing by draws closer together, giving him a wider berth on the sidewalk. God knows what he looks or smells like right now. Sam doesn't care. What matters is how he feels-powerful, electric, almost happy-and tastes, like iron and sulfur and death.
He finds the door he's looking for, a pub called Crossroads Cantina, and sways drunkenly inside. It's not exactly what Sam would call subtle, but Crowley thinks he's safe now. He thinks he's on top of the food chain. It's always a good day, Sam thinks, when you get to prove a demon wrong.
The bar is chock-full of demons. Sam can smell every damn one. His mouth waters and he wonders briefly if he should make a pit stop. Fill up a little more in case he needs it once he's done with the boss, but he decides against it. Dean has been gone long enough already, and Sam's not giving anyone else the chance to save him this time.
"Hey," says a bartender, her eyes flicking to black as Sam passes by. "You can't go in the back, that's for-"
She chokes on her words, bright red light filtering onto the walls as Sam continues walking. He hears her body fall limply onto the bar and pushes back the demons that try to rush him without even looking at them. Sam really does not have the time.
The hallway is pretty kitsch-not what Sam would have expected from Crowley, actually. The walls are red velvet, the lights red, the whole thing a cheap, trendy parody of Hell. For a moment, memories of Lucifer flood in on him, and Sam stumbles back, terrified. But he drowns the thought in demon blood and stays focused.
He throws the door to Crowley's office open, letting the bang announce his presence.
"Sam, Sam, Sam," Crowley says, shaking his head. "I thought I would at least be rid of you for a month. Don't you have better things to worry about than me right now? Leviathans to kill, brothers and angel boyfriends to find?"
"I was hoping you could help me," Sam says, taking one of the two seats across from Crowley's desk and leaning forward.
Crowley laughs, the scotch in his hand swirling lazily. "And just why would I want to do that?"
"I think it might be in your best interest."
"Last I checked, I was the one who-rather brilliantly, I might add-put you in this situation to begin with." Crowley smiles. "Come on now, mate. We took care of those big mouths together. I'd say we're old hunting buddies by now. I don't want to have to kill you when you might be useful again, but I can't have you harassing me."
Sam nods, doing his best to look disappointed. Hurt. "I just want my brother back. We won't come after you if you tell me where he is."
Crowley pretends to think about it, kicking back his scotch as he does so. He takes his time swallowing, bobbing his head from side to side, and finally says, "Here's the thing, Sam. You boys, despite your appalling lack of intelligence and fashion sense, managed to wipe out every single person ahead of me to inherit the throne. Now, don't get me wrong, I appreciate the help, but what's in it for me? As far as I can tell you're about as useful as a car with no engine without your brother, so why would I help bring Dean back when you're too busy worrying about him to come after me?"
"Because you forgot someone else was ahead of you in line," Sam tells him.
Crowley smiles. "And who's that?"
"Me," Sam answers coldly. "Now, I might let you live if-"
He outright laughs then, signaling at the two demons standing guard on either side of him. Sam shakes his head, and they both fall in a heap on the floor, dead as dust. He meets Crowley's eyes, sees the slow rise of panic the demon is trying to contain, and smiles.
"You know, Crowley, it was a good try, but I gotta say, you made one big error in this plan."
"Did I now?" Crowley says, in a voice like he's starting to suspect it.
Sam feels Crowley trying to prod at him with his powers and twists them back around. "You got rid of the wrong brother."
He forces Crowley to his knees, and Sam will give credit where it's due, the demon is managing a pretty decent poker face. "So you're back on the good stuff? Your brother will be so disappointed in you, Sammy."
"I'm not a very good person when he's not around," Sam says, yanking hard on Crowley's insides. "I guess you didn't get the memo."
Crowley coughs, black smoke spilling out. "I don't know where he is."
He pulls harder. "Think really hard."
"Pur-purgatory, okay? He's in purgatory."
Sam lets go of the demon, nodding. He'd suspected that. "You have the instructions for getting in. I want them."
Crowley's still on the floor, gasping for breath and rubbing his sore throat. "Yes, and the ingredients. There in the cabinet on the right. Take it. Just leave me alone."
"You always were a smart one," Sam says, holding Crowley frozen in his spot as he fetches the things he needs.
He spreads the ingredients out, preparing the ritual, and smiles once everything is lined up, ready to go. There's just one thing missing.
Sam takes out Ruby's knife and steps toward Crowley, and Crowley's eyes slide to bright red. "You said you would let me live."
"I said might," Sam corrects. "But don't worry. This isn't to kill you. Just need some of your blood, remember?"
"I'd almost forgotten," Crowley says drily. He eyes the knife. "Any chance you want to use any blade but that one? I hear it gives demons a rather uncomfortable sting."
Sam smiles sweetly and knicks Crowley's arm, letting the blood spill into the bowl he's already poured the other ingredients into. His stomach growls for a taste, but he stays focused.
"Good, there. That wasn't so bad now was it?"
Crowley rolls his eyes as Sam moves away, giving himself room to open the doorway. "Anything else I should know before I go in? How to get back?"
"You won't have trouble coming back if you have the right ingredients." Sam nods and starts to pocket vials of blood, bits of bone. Crowley laughs behind him. "Assuming you can convince Dean to return with you."
Sam turns quickly, feeling a thrill of shame and pleasure as his eyes blackout. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, it may not be as easy as you think. Even purgatory might be better to your brother than seeing you all drunk on demon blood again."
The suggestion slams into Sam like a semi, an unwelcome vocalization of the fears Sam's already wasted too much time worrying about. He hesitated weeks before doing this, all because he couldn't stand the thought of Dean hating him again. But he can't leave Dean in purgatory. He can't live without Dean and stay human.
"One more thing, Crowley," Sam says, hesitating on the brink between one world and the next.
"Yes, what's that?"
Sam crushes Crowley's inside just by curling his hand, and Crowley screams out in pain. He's glad he didn't use the knife. That would have been too clean. Too humane. Crowley is crying now, whimpering and begging like-well, like Sam used to do in Hell.
"No one takes my brother from me," he tells Crowley, watching as the King of Hell sobs his way to a very painful death, "and lives."
ACT II. We're just tamer animals.
Sam doesn't know what he's getting himself into. He didn't really have the time to imagine a purgatory before stepping into it. But it strikes him as odd all the same that the world he's just entered is beautiful.
He's standing in a forest, surrounded by thick tree trunks that stretch so high into the sky that he can hardly see the canopies of leaves blocking out the sun. But there is a sun filtering in through the gaps. It reminds Sam of years ago, when he and Dean were young and they would sleep in the woods, waiting for Dad to come back covered in blood, stinking of alcohol, but smiling with triumph. It makes Sam feel like he's fourteen years old again, still chasing after his brother, trying to be wanted.
Weapons, Sam reminds himself. There's no time to be sentimental, he could be standing in a trap already. He came prepared, though. Guns and knives, salt and silver, all tucked into his clothing or nestled in the duffel Sam's got on his shoulder. He reaches back, taking out the gun stuffed into the top of his jeans and raises it, scanning the perimeter.
The door to Earth is open behind him, and he can see the foot of Crowley's vessel. Sam hopes the man will be alive, but he doesn't wait around to see. He closes the portal with a few whispered words.
There's rustling from bushes behind him, and Sam turns in time to see the creature running at him. He fires a shot, hoping whatever this is won't be immune to bullets, and heaves a sigh of relief as the thing drops. The gunshot seems to hang in the still air around him. Sam just has to trust it'll scare monsters away instead of calling for back up.
He walks toward the corpse, kicking it from as much distance as he can manage, just in case it's still alive. It looks like a wolf of some kind, not a were, but maybe what weres were before they mixed with humans. He bends down, taking in the thick black fur, the rabid line of drool leaking from its mouth.
"Direwolf," he muses to himself. It's a powerful creature, majestic in its way. Dean used to tell Sam bedtime stories about it, about how they could talk and do magic before they mixed with regular wolves and people and became scum. Sam always wanted to see one, a real one, and maybe keep it as a pet.
"Almost a shame," says a voice behind him.
Sam freezes, dropping the hand he was stroking through the animal's fur. He stands and turns as quickly as he can, terrified this will be a trick. That it won't be his brother there, just some clever imitation.
Dean is a few yards away, and Sam nearly flings himself into his brother's arms, but he stops cold once he gets a good look. There's a thick scar running down Dean's face, disappearing into the shirt he's wearing. It might go on forever. Dean has been hurt, and badly. Sam failed, he failed. He's already failed.
"Dean," Sam says, his eyes working too fast, taking a survey of all the cuts and bruises, bite marks and stitches on his brother's exposed skin. All of them his fault. Dean looks like Frankenstein's creature, but Sam's breath gets caught in his throat. His memory couldn't come close to how beautiful his brother is. Sam thought he would never see Dean again.
Dean is staring back just as intensely, his green eyes wide and his mouth a perfect 'O'. Sam waits, for a hug, a word, anything, but Dean just keeps looking, his eyes moving up and down. Finally, he meets Sam's gaze and says, "What are you?"
Sam feels the punch in his gut, but he doesn't let himself show it. It's not Dean's fault if he doesn't know. Who can tell how long he's been here? God, look what Sam let them do to him.
"I'm Sam," Sam says.
"Sam," Dean repeats, and Sam feels a rush of relief because there's recognition in Dean's expression. "You're Sam?"
"Yes." Sam smiles just a little. "I'm your brother."
Dean falls at Sam's feet, worshiping.
_______________________________________________________________
Dean lives in a cave. Sam wants to make a joke about it-about how he always acted like a Neanderthal and now look what's happened-but there's not much joking to be had with Dean right now. Sam has finally managed to convince him he doesn't need to act so goddamn weird around him, but even on the walk here, Dean kept sneaking looks at him, his face shining with the kind of faith Sam has only ever seen in demons and angels.
Sam follows as Dean leads him slowly to his home, pointing out things along the way. He knows the landscape well, which is unsurprising. Dad trained them for this kind of living, even if it was never supposed to be permanent.
It's not until halfway through the walk that Sam realizes Dean is favoring his left leg, not quite limping, but he's not walking like he did on Earth. It's impressive, considering the number and severity of the wounds Sam can see just on first glance, that that's the only thing slowing Dean down.
"Home," Dean says, pointing at the mouth of the cave as soon as they reach the river. Dean stoops, taking a drink and then smiling up at Sam. "It's good," he says. "Clean. Not like the other rivers."
Sam nods and drinks, because that seems to be what Dean wants him to do, and then Dean rises, letting his pace relax now that home is in sight. "Come with me," he instructs, looking back at Sam.
Anywhere. Sam goes with him.
Dean has a small torch waiting at the entrance and he grabs it down as he walks in. Sam runs after him, unwilling to let his brother out of his sight for even a moment. Dean is lighting more torches inside, the room filling with light and revealing an almost homey little space.
The cave is large, much bigger than some of the places they lived in growing up, and damn near civilized. There's a table and chairs, made out of stone and wood, two beds, each piled with the fur of dead animals. The whole set up is destabilizing in its familiarity.
"It looks like a motel room," Sam says on a laugh.
"What is a motel room?" Dean turns back to look at him, his expression a mix of confusion and hurt. "You don't like it?"
"I…" Sam brushes his fingers over the smooth stone table, wondering at how perfectly formed it all is. "It's not what I expected. How did you get all of this?"
"I had a friend. A long time ago," Dean says. "He was a monster, but he was not like the others. He could make things by touching them."
"Magic?" Sam asks.
"Grace," Dean answers. "He called it grace."
Sam's smile slips from his face. Called. Past tense. "Castiel."
Dean's eyebrows draw together. "Castiel?"
"What happened to him? What happened to Cas?"
"Castiel," Dean says again, now as if the word means something to him. He pauses for a moment, then nods sadly. "Yes, that was his name. His name was Castiel. He was a good friend."
"Dean, what happened to him?"
Sam only catches a glimpse of his pained expression before it's his brother's back he's looking at. "He was one of them. He was a monster. He was not like me." Dean turns to face Sam, the flame casting a strange glow over his face. His voice is an odd mix of detached and pained, as if he's telling a sad story that happened to someone else. "I tried to protect him. We fought very hard to stay alive back then. But he wasn't like me."
"What does that mean?" Sam asks. "Dean, where is he?"
"They were so angry with him, the monsters. They wouldn't stop coming after him." Dean's face contorts with sorrow. "When he died, he did not come back."
ACT III. Stranger, you know me too much.
They're quiet for a long time. Dean moves through the cave as if he was alone. Every now and then he brings Sam something, food or drink, laying it on the table in front of Sam like an offering. He doesn't talk to Sam, won't even look at him directly unless Sam says something first, but Sam catches the glances Dean keeps darting at him.
"Soup," Dean tells him, putting the bowl down with a wooden spoon. "You'll like it. It's good."
Sam reaches out, fingers wrapping around Dean's wrist and holding him. Dean stops, his face stunned, terrified, hopeful.
"Do you even know who I am?" Sam asks. He's been waiting hours for Dean to say something to make him sure. He would have thrown his brother over his shoulder and taken him back to Earth the moment they found each other, but Dean still hasn't given him a damn sign that he even wants that.
"Sam," Dean whispers reverently. His other hand moves toward Sam's face hesitantly before it brushes against Sam's cheek. "I believe you are what you say. You look like a Sam should look."
Sam closes his eyes and leans into the contact. Dean's touches are as gentle and callused as they ever were on Earth, but his words cut like a knife. "But who am I?"
Dean shakes his head. "I've been waiting for you to come. My whole life. I've been waiting for you to tell me."
"No. No, your whole life-you don't remember?" Sam looks down at the table. "Home, Dean. Do you remember our world?"
"This is my home," his brother tells him. "I've been alone since they took Castiel, but I knew you would come. I had faith that you would come."
That's not the answer Sam wanted. "You carried me out of a burning house. You taught me how to read and tie my shoes. You died for me, and I died for you. Dean, don't you remember me at all?"
Dean blinks, then nods, turning away. He grabs the torch off the wall and gestures at Sam to follow him. Sam lets the spoon in his hand fall into the bowl and abandons it on the table.
It's much darker out now, and Sam knows the only light they'll have to guide them soon will be the stars, if Purgatory even has stars. He wonders if that will be enough for Dean, if he's really been here long enough to learn how to see in the dark and forget how to be Sam's big brother.
They walk for what must be miles before Dean stops. They're standing in a wasteland-a valley full of bones. Dean walks right through them, and Sam winces at the crunching sounds as his brother leads the way. But he gets over it. It's not like it's the first time he desecrates a body, not by a long shot.
"What is this place?" he asks.
Dean doesn't even look back as he cuts through it. "Battleground. There was a war here."
Sam nods, his heart sinking with the horror of it. Earth, Purgatory, Heaven. The only place Sam's ever been without war was Hell. There was no chance for the other side in Hell.
There's a sharp cliff at the end of the valley, a rock wall that splits up out of the earth in a way that wouldn't be possible in their world. But this is Purgatory, Sam reminds himself. No reason the landscape should follow the same rules here. They finally stop once they reach it, and Dean walks alongside the rock until they stand in the shade of a huge oak tree.
Dean turns to look at Sam, then holds his torch up to the bottom of the rock wall. There are letters three feet high, bright red, spelling out Sam's name. Sam steps back in horror, but Dean smiles and urges him closer.
"Every time, I come back remembering less. Every time I lose something. But I didn't let myself lose you."
"Every time what?"
"Every time I die," Dean says, as if it should be obvious.
Sam flinches, and suddenly he understands how Dean survived all those injuries with nothing more than a limp and some scars. He didn't.
"This was my lifeblood. I knew we couldn't survive the battle, and I didn't want to come back without-I don't remember you or the world you call ours. But yes, I remember dying for you. I remember dying so I wouldn't forget Sam."
Sam steps forward, brushing his fingers over the letters, his eyes stinging with tears he won't let himself shed. It's a fucked up, confusing mess, and all Dean knows of him are three letters, soaked in blood. "I'm your brother," Sam says.
"Yes," Dean answers from behind him. "You mentioned that."
He turns to look at Dean. "Do you know what that means?"
Dean's eyes dodge from the wall back to Sam and he shrugs. "It means that's your blood, too."
Good enough.
_______________________________________________________________
On the walk back, there seem to be monsters in every bush, ducking behind trees, flying overhead. They shouldn't have come out at night, Sam thinks, but Dean isn't concerned.
"There's a lake nearby. It isn't poisonous. We'll stop for water there," he says.
Sam nods. Dean has had to walk him back most of the way, because Sam can see almost nothing except for the glowing red eyes of the beasts surrounding them. He's not happy with the odds, but Dean's hand on his is making it hard to be afraid.
"Stay here," Dean tells him. "Drink. I need to take a piss."
"Good to know we still piss in Purgatory."
"Shut up," Dean replies, waving a hand in his direction.
Sam watches him leave, then sits on the bank, letting his fingers rest against the surface of the water. Something blinks at him, and Sam stumbles back, trying to get his gun out, but a tentacle breaks the surface and snakes around his hand, holding him still. Sam cries out, but the thing muffles him just as easily with another limb around his mouth, and then it rises from the lake, eight feet tall, its body nearly impossible to see beneath the mass of slithering appendages. Sam swallows hard, ready to die, but the monster stares at him, its eyes wide and black in the dark.
"Help," it says. Sam can't see its mouth, can't even really make out where the sound is coming from, but the words are clear. "Please, help."
Sam tilts his head to the side. "You want my help."
"The monster," the creature says, its voice trembling and terrified. "Don't let the monster get us."
"Sam! Watch out!"
Sam turns his head and sees that Dean has returned. His knife is out, and he's leaping forward, slicing at a tentacle. The creature whimpers and says, "Please don't."
"Dean, stop," Sam yells. "It's okay, it's not trying to hurt me."
Dean must not hear him, because he cuts into the creature again, and it collapses on the riverbank, its grip on Sam releasing. Sam moves back, out of its range, and watches as it…lies there. Just lies there and stares, and doesn't fight back against Dean.
He runs to his brother, grabbing his empty hand, then the one Dean has his weapon in. He twists Dean's wrist until it falls to the floor-a blade made of rock so sharp it might as well be a machete.
"What are you doing, Sam?" Dean asks, struggling in his grasp. "It's gonna get away."
"Dean, it didn't try to hurt me. It just wanted to talk to me."
Dean laughs, even as he keeps fighting. The monster is still for a few minutes, watching as Sam struggles to keep Dean from killing it. Then it grows a fucking brain and slithers back into the lake, disappearing under the surface.
Dean watches it dejectedly, then stops moving in Sam's embrace. His whole body slumps. "Why did you do that?"
"I know what it looked like, but it wasn't trying to hurt me, Dean. It just wanted help. It thought something was coming for it."
"I was coming for it," Dean replies.
Sam lets him go, turns his brother so he can look at him. "It didn't want to hurt you."
"Doesn't matter. It's a monster. That's what I do, I kill monsters."
"That's what you've always done," Sam says. He feels a terrible suspicion creeping under his skin. This is their world. And if this is their world, Dean is the thing that doesn't belong. Dean is the thing that goes bump in the night. "Why kill this one?"
Dean blinks at him. He opens his mouth, then closes it.
"It wasn't going to hurt me. It didn't want to fight you. There's no one else to protect." Sam picks up Dean's blade and hands it back to his brother. "Why kill it?"
"They killed Cas," Dean says.
"All of them? Every creature in purgatory?"
Dean shakes his head. "I killed the one that did it. And everything that looked like the same species."
Sam lets go of Dean, taking a disgusted step back. "So who are you trying to get revenge on?"
Dean reaches slowly toward Sam, taking his hand again, tentatively. "They made me forget you."
"Maybe," Sam says, licking his lips, "maybe they'd stop killing you if you'd stop killing them."
"They have stopped killing me," Dean says. "They're not completely stupid."
Sam shakes his head. He's torn between wanting to take Dean back right now, back to where he hunts the right things and is a hero, and never wanting to let this version of his brother loose on their world.
"You sound like a monster, Dean," Sam tells him. "You sound like what we used to hunt."
Dean shrugs and turns, continuing their walk back to his cave. "I'll try to be more careful next time."
INTERMISSION
He watches them for days before he has the courage to approach. The monster has not killed a soul since the other arrived.
They are the same species, completely indistinguishable by looks. They share the same distorted frame and habits, but he can tell them apart by the smell. The new one does not have the same scent as the monster, whose blood was delectable and addicting, such an impossible lure in so dangerous a trap. This one's blood smells like a punishment from another world.
At first that's what they thought it was. Another monster-the thing somehow multiplying. If this one had come in as violent as the one before it, his kind would not last another lifetime against the two of them. But the other is a mercy sent by their Mother, a sign that she has forgiven them and they will now be protected.
He knows, because the other saved his life.
They are not often alone now that they have found each other. He has watched them interact. He doesn't know yet if it's beautiful or terrifying, but if a monster can love, it is love that he has seen between the two creatures.
He approaches by the river, hoping to have better luck than he did by the lake. The monster has left, as he does every morning, to hunt down some animal and bring his companion back a meal. Animals-birds and fish and sometimes larger game, but nothing with a soul. They don't eat souls, and he is beginning to suspect they might be souls themselves.
The other is sitting on a rock by the water, an object propped in its hands. It is staring at this object very intensely with its discolored eyes, so it is not hard to sneak up on it. He takes care not to grab it, not to startle it like he did last time. He does not want it calling the monster.
He sends a greeting into the creature's mind, and the thing puts down its object, looking up at him with surprise. "Hello," it says.
The sound it makes, though nonsensical, is easy enough to translate. This thing is not like the monster. It wants to be understood.
"You must help us," he tells it, getting to the point quickly. He only has until the monster returns and sees him, and then he will either escape or fall. Either way, he hopes he will have time to make the other see what he must do. "You must help us kill the monster. Permanently."
"He's not a monster," says the other monster. "He's just as scared as you are."
Scared. The monster scared. He laughs. "Your monster cannot feel fear. Only hatred."
"No, you're wrong," it tells him. "When he got here, he thought you were monsters, and then you killed him. You killed our friend. You proved him right. And now it's been so long he can't remember what makes a monster, just that he has to fight them. That's as much your fault as his."
"It was a mistake," he tells the thing. "We made a mistake. We have paid dearly for it."
"What mistake?" The thing makes a strange, crackle of a sound. "You accidentally ate him?"
"We thought it was meant to be prey-just a brute animal. How were we to know better? It had no language, no kin. We did not think it was a soul. It was an honest mistake. We have tried to make it understand our contrition, but it does not forgive us our sins."
"He has kin," the thing replies. "And if you can talk to me, you know his language."
"No, we tried. It did not want to understand us or be understood. How can I speak with a thing like that?"
The creature takes its bottom lip between its teeth. "That does sound like Dean," it says, voice low, as if talking to itself. They are a very strange animal, these monsters. "So you wouldn't have eaten him if you knew he had a soul?"
"Is a soul," he corrects. "It did not act like one or smell like one. The smell and taste of the monster was so delicious. We were glad when it returned the first time. The same feast two nights in a row. A taste for every soul in Purgatory."
The other stands then, pulling a strange instrument from behind him. They hide their claws. Somehow, in so little body, they find places to hide them. It is deceitful. All the other souls in purgatory let their threats show. It aims at him, and he only knows this is dangerous because he heard whispers of what this thing did to the direwolf. He begins to slink back toward the water.
"That's my brother you snacked on, you son of a bitch."
"Mercy," he begs, shying away, raising his limbs to defend himself. The thing's face, hard to distinguish as it is, makes more sense to him now that he has been speaking with it. It seems to soften when it sees the wounded stubs where his brother cut.
He's sorry-he really is sorry. He didn't think he ever would be for killing a monster. "We didn't know it could be a brother. It was a gift from our Mother, we thought, to nourish us back to health. We needed that. After the angel swallowed us, chewed us up, spit us back out. We were weak. We have been hungry. And its taste made us stronger. We took our children to nurse on the blood; the monster took our children with it when it fell. So many died that night before we could restrain it. So many have died since."
The other lowers its weapon. "The angel," it says. "You killed him, too."
"He imprisoned us. He hurt us. The angel we are not sorry for." He tries to let the other see his sincerity in his expression. "The soul we are sorry for."
"He was a friend, too," the thing says, its tiny, malformed limbs falling to its sides. "He was a brother. All of this death. That war never had to happen if you'd taken the time to-"
"War?" he asks. "We had no word for war until your brother brought it here."
The other closes his eyes, its body swaying as if it had been attacked. "You didn't have war?"
"We are all souls from the same Mother. Though we may be different, we do not slay our kin."
"You're better than people," it says.
He does not know what this means. "What is people?"
"People-humans. That's what my brother and I are. And in our world, your kind come and you steal us and hurt us and kill our children. He was raised to save people. We were raised to do good, he doesn't know better than to hate you."
The idea of the monster helping instead of destroying seems like a joke, but the other seems so sincere. It trusts its god to protect it, just as he trusts his Mother. No need to spoil the illusion. "But you teach him. You saved me."
"Yes," the thing tells him, its small head turning toward the ground. "I'm a monster, too."
"No, you are not like him. You must save us from him."
"My blood, it's-" It shakes its head and does not finish its thought. "You think your Mother sent me?"
"To save us from him," he tells it. "Our Mother always protects her children."
"Your Mother is…" The thing stops, looking away sharply.
"She is not here," he tells it. "But she will return. And she has sent you in her place."
"Yeah, she-okay. I'll help." The thing shakes its head, it's strange limbs flying to both sides in a confused gesture. "What do I do?"
"You must kill it."
The other's head snaps up too quickly, its already miniscule eyes narrowing. He can read anger in its movements. He must be approaching this the wrong way.
"I'm not killing him. I will never kill him." The thing-the human-sighs. "I just want to take him home."
He feels a thrill of joy. "You're going to take it away from us?"
"If he'll follow me."
ACT IV. It's like a dark paradise.
Sam watches the thing sliver and drop back into the river, disappearing in the shallow stream as if it's made of water itself. Maybe it is. He picks up his book and closes it, not bothering to fold the page. He's read it three times already since he got here; it doesn’t matter where he picks back up. If he'd known it would be so hard to get Dean to leave purgatory, he would have brought a library.
Home-Dean's cave-is just a few feet away from the water, but Sam doesn't want to be in the open right now. Not that he feels threatened, though the creature mentioned before it left that some of the souls in purgatory don't trust him to help and want him dead as much as Dean. He just doesn't want to be out where they can see him.
Dean killed their kids. And Sam knows, he understands that Dean must not even be able to tell which ones are grown and which are young. Dean never was good at seeing the grey area when it came to hunting. They were trying to hurt him; he was trying to stay alive. But it still makes Sam feel out of place. Sam never thought he'd be ashamed of his big brother.
"Don't think so hard. Your giant head will burst."
Sam looks up to find Dean standing across from him at the table, smiling proudly as he unloads the rabbits he caught for them to eat. Dean looks so happy to see him, so pleased with his idiotic joke, that Sam remembers right away. He doesn't care if Dean is someone else's monster. He will always feel this crushing affection every time he looks at him.
"You seem happy," Sam says stupidly, because he does. Not just happy for Dean. Happy, like he never could be back on Earth. He likes it here, and every time Sam suggests they go home, Dean just says that they are home.
Dean rolls his eyes now and starts preparing the meal. Sam watches him, listening as Dean whistles songs that sound almost like Led Zeppelin. He's forgotten how they actually go, just like he's forgotten Sam. But he's happy.
It's been less than an hour since Sam promised that creature he would take Dean away, but the temptation to forget that is strong. This wild world is more humane than Earth ever was to them. They could never find peace there. Heaven was a copy-phoney and too dependent on memories of a life they hated. Hell was, well, Sam doesn't really want to think about it.
Purgatory, though. Purgatory is quiet and still, a moment of peace that stretches on forever. A clean slate where Dean doesn't have to remember mom or dad or the millions of times Sam let him down. All the souls that live here, that belong here, they die just like humans do on Earth. But Dean doesn't die in this world. Maybe he could stay here for eternity-not hurting anyone so they won't hurt him-and finally get to live the way he's always deserved.
What if they both could?
"You're zoning out, man."
"Do you remember Heaven?" Sam asks.
Dean looks up from his work uncomfortably. "Sammy, I've told you already. I don't-"
"It's different. It's a different-oh, forget it."
Dean shakes his head, wiping bloody hands off on a towel. "Can you stop asking me to remember things?"
"You don't wonder about-?"
"No," Dean says, slamming his hands on the table. "I remember enough of it, Sam. Snapshots. I remember women on ceilings and kids with their faces missing and you, okay? I lied. I remember you. I remember you lying on a bed dead and you weren't coming back. I don't know what happened, but I don't want to. That's the only thing I had of you until you came back and now I've got you alive. What's so great about remembering?"
Sam opens his mouth and closes it, completely stunned. Not by Dean's answer, but by the fact that it never would have occurred to him. Memory is an ugly thing for them. It hangs on so hard to the bad things, to Ruby and Lilith and the bullet in Bobby's brain. The nights they spent watching the stars, quiet and content, have all blurred together. That doesn't seem fair.
If Sam could forget, like Dean has, he wouldn't know that his body is aching for demon blood. He wouldn't feel like he's keeping a secret from Dean. Hell, he could say it to Dean right now, and Dean wouldn't care. He doesn't know what a demon is. He never went to Hell. All he knows is killing and Sam, and if Sam could just train one of those out of him, they could stay here, where there are no demons, so Sam can't trip up and poison himself again and he can stay Dean's brother forever. He could die a few times and forget Lucifer and Hell and Michael and Lucifer.
But he made a promise to keep this world safe, and he has to take Dean out of it to do that.
They eat without saying a word, and Sam decides to go to bed right after. He lies down on the bigger, softer of the two makeshift mattresses, and Dean stands in the center of the room, stripping his shirt off over his head.
Sam watches his brother move in the dim firelight of the two torches that haven't gone out yet. Dean's body is a maze of deep cut lines, torn flesh. Sam wants to put his mouth on every inch of it, taste all that skin that came back together when it shouldn't have.
Dean turns and sees him looking, and Sam's face flushes hotly, but he can't look away.
"Night, Sam," Dean says quietly.
He moves toward the other bed, but Sam lifts the pelt he's got wrapped around him. "Sleep here."
Dean doesn't question it. Sam is surprised, because back on Earth, Dean was so good at dancing away from this. He never shared Sam's bed, not after-
"One more," Sam whispers, turning to rest on his side so he can face Dean. Dean's hair has grown long-not long enough to tug, but long enough to run his fingers through. Longer than it ever has been, so Sam lets himself indulge, his fingers carding through the light brown strands over Dean's temples. "Just let me ask for one more memory, and then I'll never do it again."
Dean is looking up at the cavern ceiling, but his eyes move over to Sam and he smiles softly. "You don't quit, do you?"
"Do you remember the night before I left for college?"
Dean laughs. "I don't even know what that means, Sam."
Sam hesitates, then lets his fingers rest low on Dean's belly. Like Dean had, when Sam was too exhausted from fighting Dad to keep fighting this and Dean was too afraid of losing him. It was the only time. They'd never talked about it after that, but it had haunted Sam so many nights. Dean's hand around his dick, grip sure and eager to please. The keening sound Dean had made against his skin as he took Sam in his mouth and finished into his own fist.
It had been a sin then. It was a terrible, terrible thing to need in that world. There's no one here to care.
Dean doesn't try to escape the touch, so Sam slides his hand down lower, under the elastic of Dean's boxers, and finds his brother's cock. It springs to life in Sam's palm, and Sam licks his lips.
"Is this okay?" he asks.
Dean's breath is heavy, but he nods.
"I'm your brother," Sam reminds him. "I've got the same blood as you."
"Yes," Dean agrees, hitching his hips up into Sam's touch. "Good."
"You don't care?" Sam twists at the head, and Dean gasps, his body arching.
"I care," he says, his eyes fixing on Sam's intensely. "I've wanted you for a thousand years."
Sam's rhythm stutters there, but he doesn't let himself wonder if that's an exaggeration or not. He doesn't try to do the math. Who knows how old either of them is at this point? The important thing is that Dean is shaking loose in Sam's hand after far, far too many lifetimes of aching.
Sam bends down and seals his mouth against his brother's and never wants to know a world where this isn't okay.
ACT V. Go to Sleep, my man.
He wakes up draped around his brother. Sam lets go, turning onto his back, and Dean must already be awake, because as soon as Sam shifts, he says, "Wanna hear something embarrassing?"
Sam stares at what he can see of Dean-one perfect, freckled shoulder blade with a long set of teeth marks permanently embedded in the flesh. "Sure."
"I forgot sex," he says. He turns, a sheepish look on his face. "Can you imagine? Until you touched me. I completely forgot sex."
Sam laughs, leaning down to kiss him. "Good thing I didn't bring any whiskey, then."
Dean doesn't look like he gets the joke, and a part of Sam can't really believe his luck. He's so happy he can't hold himself together, but there's still that botch on this whole thing. They aren't supposed to stay here. They aren't welcome, and Sam doesn't know how to prove to the souls in purgatory that they're no longer a threat without leaving.
"I missed you," Dean says. "Don't think for a moment that I forgot that."
"No," Sam says distractedly. "I wouldn't." He sits up. "Would you follow me?"
"Anywhere."
"Back to Earth?"
Dean's lips thin, but he gives Sam a stilted nod. "If you're that intent on leaving."
"I like it here, though," Sam admits.
Dean reaches up, his hands sliding over Sam's back, sending a hot wave of desire all the way to Sam's toes. "Good. I do, too."
"But we can't stay if you're going to kill." Sam looks over at him, catching Dean's eyes out of the corner of his own. "You get that, right? I won't let you keep killing here."
"I don't kill then," Dean says. "I'm not so angry anymore."
Sam wipes a hand over his mouth. "And if I died?"
"Don't say that."
"I'm not just-it could happen. If something killed me, do you promise not to get revenge?"
"No."
"Then I'll leave."
Dean shakes his head. "I don't get you."
"We should be protecting them. That's what we've always done, we protect. If we’re going to stay, we can't hurt them. It's their world we're trying to live in."
"But if they kill you-"
"Promise me, Dean. Promise you won't get revenge. Or hurt anything that isn't trying to hurt you."
"You'll stay?" Dean nods. "I'll do anything to keep you and not have to go back."
"Good," Sam says, rising from the bed. He finds his clothes and starts putting them on.
Dean watches him, an amused expression on his face. "Where are you going?"
"To die," Sam says. "I'm going to go die."
"Sam, don't be crazy. At least don't go tempting fate. I can keep you alive and safe. I kept Cas alive for decades. And they were really pissed at him."
Sam shakes his head, stupidly excited now that the idea has come to him. This is the only way. He can prove to the monsters Dean won't hurt them anymore. He'll stop trembling for demon blood. Sam doesn't want to spend decades worrying about staying alive, or make Dean spend decades on edge trying to keep him that way. He just wants a blank space in his mind where there's self-loathing and fear, and his brother. He wants his brother and Purgatory and to belong here for as long as forever lasts.
Dean is standing at his side by the time Sam's made up his mind. He looks at his brother, determined enough to let Dean know he won't be changing his mind.
"I love you," Sam tells him. "You still know what that means, right?"
Dean's lips rise on one side. "I know you're not supposed to just come out and say it like that, you big girl."
Sam grabs Dean and pushes him back into the rock wall of their home. He kisses so hard it hurts, because that-that is exactly what his brother would say. It's not the memories that make Dean Dean. It's that goddamn insufferable smirk he wears after insulting Sam's manhood, and the smirk tastes so good Sam could melt into it.
He nods when he pulls away, and Dean catches his shirt. "I still think this is a stupid idea."
"Do you trust me?" Sam asks. "Just trust me, okay?"
Dean nods worriedly, and Sam gives him another quick kiss. "Don't come with me. Don't watch this. It'll make you angry. I don't want you angry."
Sam leaves then, because if he stays any longer, he'll lose his nerve. Dying is never fun, and the fact that Sam can make that statement with firsthand experience just reaffirms how much he doesn't want anything to do with the life he's leaving behind. He snatches his duffel off the table and takes out the instructions on how to open the door back to Earth. There's a torch already lit by the cave mouth, so Sam doesn't even have to go out of his way to burn them.
Outside he rushes to the riverbank and puts his hand in, trying to get the creature he's already met twice to come out again. It rises slowly, tentatively, as if unsure whether it will be Sam or Dean, death or salvation, waiting for him. Sam's hoping it'll be a bit of both.
"We're staying," he says.
The creature makes a hissing sound from under its thick mane of tentacles. Maybe that's what its language sounds like when it's not filtered through Sam's mind, or maybe it's just a cry of agony. Either way, Sam reaches out, putting his hand against the nearest slime-covered limb in an attempt to soothe it.
"He won't hurt you again. Neither of us will. Please, we just want to belong."
"How can you belong?" it asks.
"If you let us, you won't even know we're here."
"If I agree to this, I will be allowing him to kill us. I will be welcoming the destruction he brings."
"No, he won't hurt you. I can prove it." Sam licks his lips, looking back to the cave where Dean is now standing. Of course he is. He can't take instruction to save his life. "You can kill me. He won't get revenge on you. And when I come back, you'll see that we just want to live here, same as you do."
"It's not yours to live in."
"I know," Sam says. "But our world-it made him into what he was. You gotta understand why we can't go back."
The creature sways on the surface of the water. "I want to believe you, but, even if I do, the others never will."
"So show them. Show them. Kill something he cares about and watch him let it happen."
"I don't want to kill you," says the creature. "I don't even want to kill him. I want to grow old with my children and know they aren't in danger."
"We want that for you, too. And we can help. We're strong. We know how to fight. We won't ever let another threat come near you. We can protect your family for generations after you've died, because we won't. Not here."
"If your brother is what I think he is instead of what you think, he will butcher me for obeying you. You will return and I will not."
"I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't sure," Sam says, as imploring as he can manage. "Please, just take this chance. It might be the only one you have to bring peace here. Forever."
The monster's tendrils are thick around Sam's neck. So thick and so tight. Sam has a moment of regret as he lets his eyes move back and gets a glimpse of his brother looking on in horror. Dean is the last thing he ever sees. The world goes black. It's not a long death this time.
_______________________________________________________________
Sam blinks his eyes slowly open, feeling the sharp pain of light as it reaches him for the first time. The first time in his life. This life. Whatever that means.
It's a long minute of staring up before he figures out what he's looking at. It's a face. It's a good face, Sam loves this face.
"Sammy," it says, hands on each side of Sam's head.
Sam doesn't even really know who he is or how he got here. All he knows are four letters, and those four letters spell out his universe. "Dean."
Yes, Dean. The face is his brother's and his brother is smiling. "Thank god," he says, and then he pulls Sam up against his chest, into an embrace that smells like rich soil and sweat and things that don't exist in this world, like leather and aftershave. Sam remembers those smells, remembers that they belonged to Dean. He remembers a beautiful, long black car, but not what a car is.
He remembers dying and why he did it. "Did you do it?" he asks. "Did you get revenge?"
"Didn't even remember to want to," Dean says quietly, his fingers caught in Sam's hair. "I was too damn worried your dumbass plan would backfire and you wouldn't wake up. I tried to save your life, but it was too late."
"Good," Sam says. "That's good."
"Yeah, maybe for you," Dean is saying, "but I'll fucking kill you if you die again."
Sam laughs lightly as he sits up and looks around. Everything is exactly how he left it. He's home.
EPILOGUE
Her grandfather used to tell stories about them. He would swear up and down, to anyone in the lake who would listen, that he knew Sam and Dean personally.
She only ever half believed him. Even now, she's not so sure. The guardians have always existed as far as she can tell. But grandpa said they came from another world. He said the Mother sent them as protection, because this was a terrible place back then. There was a monster loose before they came, and it had no soul or compassion, it killed everything in its path.
The guardians slew it. Well, that's everyday history. They've killed every bad thing in this world since the dawn of time. But grandpa told another version. He used to say they were the monsters, once upon a time. He told her it was amazing, the things that could happen to a good creature lost and alone.
That was the part she could never believe. Imagining a Purgatory without the guardians is one thing, but imagining one guardian without its mate-she doesn't think they would work like that. Any child could see, they're more one soul than two.
But grandpa told his stories, and she listened because they were good, if a little ridiculous. She asked them once. She'd been a child, so young and stupid that she'd walked right up to Sam and Dean and started talking like she had a right to be on their land.
They had been kind to her. They hadn't laughed, not even when she told them grandpa's story and asked if it was true. They just exchanged a look and instructed her to let her grandpa know they said hello.
Ever since, they've waved at her as she flows down their river. It's not hard to know where they'll be. They've lived there since the Mother built the world around them, and unlike her, they never left.
Some say the Mother is dead. She knows it's a sin, but she doesn't think it really matters much. As long as the guardians are here to look after her children, Purgatory will always be safe.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: R for sexual content, character death (temporary), character death (bad guy), off-screen character death (Castiel), memory loss (kind of), suicide (kind of), substance abuse (demon blood), violence, morally ambiguous boys, language, and an ending that I think is really happy which might piss people off because somehow my endings always do that.
Word Count: 9,763
Author’s Note: First I would like to thank ordinaryink for making a purgatory fanmix for oddishly that ended up being kind of perfect for this story and inspiring a lot of the decisions I made. It also gave me so many possible titles that, although I already had a perfect Josh Ritter one picked out, I had to use them somewhere else and that is where the structure of this fic came from, but it also gave me a really convenient way to slot in the alternate POV scenes I wanted, so basically yay. This story is also weirdly indebted to J. Jack Halberstam's The Queer Art of Failure, which I was reading for academic reasons this weekend and it ended up vocalizing a lot of jumbled thoughts and ideas I've been meaning to put into fic as well as school work. I'm going to stop talking now before these author's notes get any nerdier. Finally, thanks to wutendeskind for making the final call when I was hung up on whether this fic should be Wincest or gen so that I could stop stressing over that and just write the damn fic already. NO SPOILERS for tonight's episode in this fic and if you spoil me in comments, so help me bacon god, I will cut you. This is unbeta'd because I wanted to post before Season 8 starts and yet I didn't start until the Sunday before, because I clearly hate myself. Apologies if it's completely riddled with typos and general bad writing. ETA 5/7/2013: Thanks to eos_rose, you can now read this in epub format here.
Summary: Sam goes into Purgatory, determined to bring his brother back no matter what the cost, but Dean isn't the same when Sam finds him, and he doesn't want to be saved.
PROLOGUE
The monster killed again last night. All across the riverbank there are mangled bodies, their blood mixing with the water, their limbs scattered from the shore all the way to the edge of the woods.
He can tell which ones went quietly-they died by the trees, their deaths quicker from the easy, rushed slices across their throats and chests. Those who tried to run had it worse. The river offered them no escape, they should have known better than to bother. Once this thing has your trail, it's better to just let it win. It caught them. It had time to play with them now that there was no one else to run after. Half of them died so slowly they drowned before the loss of limbs and blood got them.
They aren’t any worse off than the dead bodies he's been seeing his whole life, and bloodshed is not exactly new to him. But it unsettles him just the same. As far as he can tell, this monster makes no use of its victims: the bodies are not consumed or taken back to its home. It kills for sport or to send a message, there's no knowing with a creature like this one. There is no logic to who or what it kills and no guessing where it will attack next.
He's never hunted anything like this before. Its habits are alien, not the knowable patterns he's grown used to. There is no one he can turn to for advice, no one in this world who knows what it is or where it came from or what it wants. There's only fear in the wake of its destruction.
This thing is not all-powerful. It seemed so vulnerable at first. It smelled rank with terror and desperation and confusion. Its bones crunched easily enough, so small to be a threat to him after all his years of hunting. It can bleed, it can feel pain and suffer from it, and it can die. It has died so many times.
Every time it awoke the next morning, more furious, more dangerous, its need for blood stronger. The children it slaughtered, the dozens who fell trying to defend them, they never did. But their killer goes unharmed. It remembers, this beast. Though its habits are feral, there is some kind of intelligence in the thing. It knows what he did to it, but it doesn't know mercy or compassion. He's stopped trying to hunt it. A lost cause when killing it only makes it angry. Now the best he can do is hide from it, avoid it and hope it forgets about him.
This thing-it has no teeth, no claws, it has no bulk to fight with like the other creatures so familiar to him. It needs instruments to survive: it creates as if it had a soul. It uses blades to hack and bite at its prey. It has only its wits and this one strange advantage: it cannot be killed. And yet, it has managed to decimate this place he calls his home.
He tried to communicate with it, a desperate last hope to protect his home and those he's responsible for. But it was incomprehensible, it has no language. No growling, no hissing, nothing that could pass for speech. Just a steady stream of bumbling, inflectionless nonsense. It had one meaningless sound that it made over and over.
It watched him for a long time as he begged it to understand, its face too unnatural to read, and finally turned, deciding he was no threat and dismissing him. It left, surprisingly quick for so misshapen a body. Only two legs to carry it.
All he knows of the monster is what it told him. The one sound it repeated as it hobbled away: Sam.
ACT I. It's a cruel, cruel world to face on your own.
Sam wipes a hand over his mouth. There's thick warm liquid seeping from the corner, and Sam laughs as the couple passing by draws closer together, giving him a wider berth on the sidewalk. God knows what he looks or smells like right now. Sam doesn't care. What matters is how he feels-powerful, electric, almost happy-and tastes, like iron and sulfur and death.
He finds the door he's looking for, a pub called Crossroads Cantina, and sways drunkenly inside. It's not exactly what Sam would call subtle, but Crowley thinks he's safe now. He thinks he's on top of the food chain. It's always a good day, Sam thinks, when you get to prove a demon wrong.
The bar is chock-full of demons. Sam can smell every damn one. His mouth waters and he wonders briefly if he should make a pit stop. Fill up a little more in case he needs it once he's done with the boss, but he decides against it. Dean has been gone long enough already, and Sam's not giving anyone else the chance to save him this time.
"Hey," says a bartender, her eyes flicking to black as Sam passes by. "You can't go in the back, that's for-"
She chokes on her words, bright red light filtering onto the walls as Sam continues walking. He hears her body fall limply onto the bar and pushes back the demons that try to rush him without even looking at them. Sam really does not have the time.
The hallway is pretty kitsch-not what Sam would have expected from Crowley, actually. The walls are red velvet, the lights red, the whole thing a cheap, trendy parody of Hell. For a moment, memories of Lucifer flood in on him, and Sam stumbles back, terrified. But he drowns the thought in demon blood and stays focused.
He throws the door to Crowley's office open, letting the bang announce his presence.
"Sam, Sam, Sam," Crowley says, shaking his head. "I thought I would at least be rid of you for a month. Don't you have better things to worry about than me right now? Leviathans to kill, brothers and angel boyfriends to find?"
"I was hoping you could help me," Sam says, taking one of the two seats across from Crowley's desk and leaning forward.
Crowley laughs, the scotch in his hand swirling lazily. "And just why would I want to do that?"
"I think it might be in your best interest."
"Last I checked, I was the one who-rather brilliantly, I might add-put you in this situation to begin with." Crowley smiles. "Come on now, mate. We took care of those big mouths together. I'd say we're old hunting buddies by now. I don't want to have to kill you when you might be useful again, but I can't have you harassing me."
Sam nods, doing his best to look disappointed. Hurt. "I just want my brother back. We won't come after you if you tell me where he is."
Crowley pretends to think about it, kicking back his scotch as he does so. He takes his time swallowing, bobbing his head from side to side, and finally says, "Here's the thing, Sam. You boys, despite your appalling lack of intelligence and fashion sense, managed to wipe out every single person ahead of me to inherit the throne. Now, don't get me wrong, I appreciate the help, but what's in it for me? As far as I can tell you're about as useful as a car with no engine without your brother, so why would I help bring Dean back when you're too busy worrying about him to come after me?"
"Because you forgot someone else was ahead of you in line," Sam tells him.
Crowley smiles. "And who's that?"
"Me," Sam answers coldly. "Now, I might let you live if-"
He outright laughs then, signaling at the two demons standing guard on either side of him. Sam shakes his head, and they both fall in a heap on the floor, dead as dust. He meets Crowley's eyes, sees the slow rise of panic the demon is trying to contain, and smiles.
"You know, Crowley, it was a good try, but I gotta say, you made one big error in this plan."
"Did I now?" Crowley says, in a voice like he's starting to suspect it.
Sam feels Crowley trying to prod at him with his powers and twists them back around. "You got rid of the wrong brother."
He forces Crowley to his knees, and Sam will give credit where it's due, the demon is managing a pretty decent poker face. "So you're back on the good stuff? Your brother will be so disappointed in you, Sammy."
"I'm not a very good person when he's not around," Sam says, yanking hard on Crowley's insides. "I guess you didn't get the memo."
Crowley coughs, black smoke spilling out. "I don't know where he is."
He pulls harder. "Think really hard."
"Pur-purgatory, okay? He's in purgatory."
Sam lets go of the demon, nodding. He'd suspected that. "You have the instructions for getting in. I want them."
Crowley's still on the floor, gasping for breath and rubbing his sore throat. "Yes, and the ingredients. There in the cabinet on the right. Take it. Just leave me alone."
"You always were a smart one," Sam says, holding Crowley frozen in his spot as he fetches the things he needs.
He spreads the ingredients out, preparing the ritual, and smiles once everything is lined up, ready to go. There's just one thing missing.
Sam takes out Ruby's knife and steps toward Crowley, and Crowley's eyes slide to bright red. "You said you would let me live."
"I said might," Sam corrects. "But don't worry. This isn't to kill you. Just need some of your blood, remember?"
"I'd almost forgotten," Crowley says drily. He eyes the knife. "Any chance you want to use any blade but that one? I hear it gives demons a rather uncomfortable sting."
Sam smiles sweetly and knicks Crowley's arm, letting the blood spill into the bowl he's already poured the other ingredients into. His stomach growls for a taste, but he stays focused.
"Good, there. That wasn't so bad now was it?"
Crowley rolls his eyes as Sam moves away, giving himself room to open the doorway. "Anything else I should know before I go in? How to get back?"
"You won't have trouble coming back if you have the right ingredients." Sam nods and starts to pocket vials of blood, bits of bone. Crowley laughs behind him. "Assuming you can convince Dean to return with you."
Sam turns quickly, feeling a thrill of shame and pleasure as his eyes blackout. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, it may not be as easy as you think. Even purgatory might be better to your brother than seeing you all drunk on demon blood again."
The suggestion slams into Sam like a semi, an unwelcome vocalization of the fears Sam's already wasted too much time worrying about. He hesitated weeks before doing this, all because he couldn't stand the thought of Dean hating him again. But he can't leave Dean in purgatory. He can't live without Dean and stay human.
"One more thing, Crowley," Sam says, hesitating on the brink between one world and the next.
"Yes, what's that?"
Sam crushes Crowley's inside just by curling his hand, and Crowley screams out in pain. He's glad he didn't use the knife. That would have been too clean. Too humane. Crowley is crying now, whimpering and begging like-well, like Sam used to do in Hell.
"No one takes my brother from me," he tells Crowley, watching as the King of Hell sobs his way to a very painful death, "and lives."
ACT II. We're just tamer animals.
Sam doesn't know what he's getting himself into. He didn't really have the time to imagine a purgatory before stepping into it. But it strikes him as odd all the same that the world he's just entered is beautiful.
He's standing in a forest, surrounded by thick tree trunks that stretch so high into the sky that he can hardly see the canopies of leaves blocking out the sun. But there is a sun filtering in through the gaps. It reminds Sam of years ago, when he and Dean were young and they would sleep in the woods, waiting for Dad to come back covered in blood, stinking of alcohol, but smiling with triumph. It makes Sam feel like he's fourteen years old again, still chasing after his brother, trying to be wanted.
Weapons, Sam reminds himself. There's no time to be sentimental, he could be standing in a trap already. He came prepared, though. Guns and knives, salt and silver, all tucked into his clothing or nestled in the duffel Sam's got on his shoulder. He reaches back, taking out the gun stuffed into the top of his jeans and raises it, scanning the perimeter.
The door to Earth is open behind him, and he can see the foot of Crowley's vessel. Sam hopes the man will be alive, but he doesn't wait around to see. He closes the portal with a few whispered words.
There's rustling from bushes behind him, and Sam turns in time to see the creature running at him. He fires a shot, hoping whatever this is won't be immune to bullets, and heaves a sigh of relief as the thing drops. The gunshot seems to hang in the still air around him. Sam just has to trust it'll scare monsters away instead of calling for back up.
He walks toward the corpse, kicking it from as much distance as he can manage, just in case it's still alive. It looks like a wolf of some kind, not a were, but maybe what weres were before they mixed with humans. He bends down, taking in the thick black fur, the rabid line of drool leaking from its mouth.
"Direwolf," he muses to himself. It's a powerful creature, majestic in its way. Dean used to tell Sam bedtime stories about it, about how they could talk and do magic before they mixed with regular wolves and people and became scum. Sam always wanted to see one, a real one, and maybe keep it as a pet.
"Almost a shame," says a voice behind him.
Sam freezes, dropping the hand he was stroking through the animal's fur. He stands and turns as quickly as he can, terrified this will be a trick. That it won't be his brother there, just some clever imitation.
Dean is a few yards away, and Sam nearly flings himself into his brother's arms, but he stops cold once he gets a good look. There's a thick scar running down Dean's face, disappearing into the shirt he's wearing. It might go on forever. Dean has been hurt, and badly. Sam failed, he failed. He's already failed.
"Dean," Sam says, his eyes working too fast, taking a survey of all the cuts and bruises, bite marks and stitches on his brother's exposed skin. All of them his fault. Dean looks like Frankenstein's creature, but Sam's breath gets caught in his throat. His memory couldn't come close to how beautiful his brother is. Sam thought he would never see Dean again.
Dean is staring back just as intensely, his green eyes wide and his mouth a perfect 'O'. Sam waits, for a hug, a word, anything, but Dean just keeps looking, his eyes moving up and down. Finally, he meets Sam's gaze and says, "What are you?"
Sam feels the punch in his gut, but he doesn't let himself show it. It's not Dean's fault if he doesn't know. Who can tell how long he's been here? God, look what Sam let them do to him.
"I'm Sam," Sam says.
"Sam," Dean repeats, and Sam feels a rush of relief because there's recognition in Dean's expression. "You're Sam?"
"Yes." Sam smiles just a little. "I'm your brother."
Dean falls at Sam's feet, worshiping.
_______________________________________________________________
Dean lives in a cave. Sam wants to make a joke about it-about how he always acted like a Neanderthal and now look what's happened-but there's not much joking to be had with Dean right now. Sam has finally managed to convince him he doesn't need to act so goddamn weird around him, but even on the walk here, Dean kept sneaking looks at him, his face shining with the kind of faith Sam has only ever seen in demons and angels.
Sam follows as Dean leads him slowly to his home, pointing out things along the way. He knows the landscape well, which is unsurprising. Dad trained them for this kind of living, even if it was never supposed to be permanent.
It's not until halfway through the walk that Sam realizes Dean is favoring his left leg, not quite limping, but he's not walking like he did on Earth. It's impressive, considering the number and severity of the wounds Sam can see just on first glance, that that's the only thing slowing Dean down.
"Home," Dean says, pointing at the mouth of the cave as soon as they reach the river. Dean stoops, taking a drink and then smiling up at Sam. "It's good," he says. "Clean. Not like the other rivers."
Sam nods and drinks, because that seems to be what Dean wants him to do, and then Dean rises, letting his pace relax now that home is in sight. "Come with me," he instructs, looking back at Sam.
Anywhere. Sam goes with him.
Dean has a small torch waiting at the entrance and he grabs it down as he walks in. Sam runs after him, unwilling to let his brother out of his sight for even a moment. Dean is lighting more torches inside, the room filling with light and revealing an almost homey little space.
The cave is large, much bigger than some of the places they lived in growing up, and damn near civilized. There's a table and chairs, made out of stone and wood, two beds, each piled with the fur of dead animals. The whole set up is destabilizing in its familiarity.
"It looks like a motel room," Sam says on a laugh.
"What is a motel room?" Dean turns back to look at him, his expression a mix of confusion and hurt. "You don't like it?"
"I…" Sam brushes his fingers over the smooth stone table, wondering at how perfectly formed it all is. "It's not what I expected. How did you get all of this?"
"I had a friend. A long time ago," Dean says. "He was a monster, but he was not like the others. He could make things by touching them."
"Magic?" Sam asks.
"Grace," Dean answers. "He called it grace."
Sam's smile slips from his face. Called. Past tense. "Castiel."
Dean's eyebrows draw together. "Castiel?"
"What happened to him? What happened to Cas?"
"Castiel," Dean says again, now as if the word means something to him. He pauses for a moment, then nods sadly. "Yes, that was his name. His name was Castiel. He was a good friend."
"Dean, what happened to him?"
Sam only catches a glimpse of his pained expression before it's his brother's back he's looking at. "He was one of them. He was a monster. He was not like me." Dean turns to face Sam, the flame casting a strange glow over his face. His voice is an odd mix of detached and pained, as if he's telling a sad story that happened to someone else. "I tried to protect him. We fought very hard to stay alive back then. But he wasn't like me."
"What does that mean?" Sam asks. "Dean, where is he?"
"They were so angry with him, the monsters. They wouldn't stop coming after him." Dean's face contorts with sorrow. "When he died, he did not come back."
ACT III. Stranger, you know me too much.
They're quiet for a long time. Dean moves through the cave as if he was alone. Every now and then he brings Sam something, food or drink, laying it on the table in front of Sam like an offering. He doesn't talk to Sam, won't even look at him directly unless Sam says something first, but Sam catches the glances Dean keeps darting at him.
"Soup," Dean tells him, putting the bowl down with a wooden spoon. "You'll like it. It's good."
Sam reaches out, fingers wrapping around Dean's wrist and holding him. Dean stops, his face stunned, terrified, hopeful.
"Do you even know who I am?" Sam asks. He's been waiting hours for Dean to say something to make him sure. He would have thrown his brother over his shoulder and taken him back to Earth the moment they found each other, but Dean still hasn't given him a damn sign that he even wants that.
"Sam," Dean whispers reverently. His other hand moves toward Sam's face hesitantly before it brushes against Sam's cheek. "I believe you are what you say. You look like a Sam should look."
Sam closes his eyes and leans into the contact. Dean's touches are as gentle and callused as they ever were on Earth, but his words cut like a knife. "But who am I?"
Dean shakes his head. "I've been waiting for you to come. My whole life. I've been waiting for you to tell me."
"No. No, your whole life-you don't remember?" Sam looks down at the table. "Home, Dean. Do you remember our world?"
"This is my home," his brother tells him. "I've been alone since they took Castiel, but I knew you would come. I had faith that you would come."
That's not the answer Sam wanted. "You carried me out of a burning house. You taught me how to read and tie my shoes. You died for me, and I died for you. Dean, don't you remember me at all?"
Dean blinks, then nods, turning away. He grabs the torch off the wall and gestures at Sam to follow him. Sam lets the spoon in his hand fall into the bowl and abandons it on the table.
It's much darker out now, and Sam knows the only light they'll have to guide them soon will be the stars, if Purgatory even has stars. He wonders if that will be enough for Dean, if he's really been here long enough to learn how to see in the dark and forget how to be Sam's big brother.
They walk for what must be miles before Dean stops. They're standing in a wasteland-a valley full of bones. Dean walks right through them, and Sam winces at the crunching sounds as his brother leads the way. But he gets over it. It's not like it's the first time he desecrates a body, not by a long shot.
"What is this place?" he asks.
Dean doesn't even look back as he cuts through it. "Battleground. There was a war here."
Sam nods, his heart sinking with the horror of it. Earth, Purgatory, Heaven. The only place Sam's ever been without war was Hell. There was no chance for the other side in Hell.
There's a sharp cliff at the end of the valley, a rock wall that splits up out of the earth in a way that wouldn't be possible in their world. But this is Purgatory, Sam reminds himself. No reason the landscape should follow the same rules here. They finally stop once they reach it, and Dean walks alongside the rock until they stand in the shade of a huge oak tree.
Dean turns to look at Sam, then holds his torch up to the bottom of the rock wall. There are letters three feet high, bright red, spelling out Sam's name. Sam steps back in horror, but Dean smiles and urges him closer.
"Every time, I come back remembering less. Every time I lose something. But I didn't let myself lose you."
"Every time what?"
"Every time I die," Dean says, as if it should be obvious.
Sam flinches, and suddenly he understands how Dean survived all those injuries with nothing more than a limp and some scars. He didn't.
"This was my lifeblood. I knew we couldn't survive the battle, and I didn't want to come back without-I don't remember you or the world you call ours. But yes, I remember dying for you. I remember dying so I wouldn't forget Sam."
Sam steps forward, brushing his fingers over the letters, his eyes stinging with tears he won't let himself shed. It's a fucked up, confusing mess, and all Dean knows of him are three letters, soaked in blood. "I'm your brother," Sam says.
"Yes," Dean answers from behind him. "You mentioned that."
He turns to look at Dean. "Do you know what that means?"
Dean's eyes dodge from the wall back to Sam and he shrugs. "It means that's your blood, too."
Good enough.
_______________________________________________________________
On the walk back, there seem to be monsters in every bush, ducking behind trees, flying overhead. They shouldn't have come out at night, Sam thinks, but Dean isn't concerned.
"There's a lake nearby. It isn't poisonous. We'll stop for water there," he says.
Sam nods. Dean has had to walk him back most of the way, because Sam can see almost nothing except for the glowing red eyes of the beasts surrounding them. He's not happy with the odds, but Dean's hand on his is making it hard to be afraid.
"Stay here," Dean tells him. "Drink. I need to take a piss."
"Good to know we still piss in Purgatory."
"Shut up," Dean replies, waving a hand in his direction.
Sam watches him leave, then sits on the bank, letting his fingers rest against the surface of the water. Something blinks at him, and Sam stumbles back, trying to get his gun out, but a tentacle breaks the surface and snakes around his hand, holding him still. Sam cries out, but the thing muffles him just as easily with another limb around his mouth, and then it rises from the lake, eight feet tall, its body nearly impossible to see beneath the mass of slithering appendages. Sam swallows hard, ready to die, but the monster stares at him, its eyes wide and black in the dark.
"Help," it says. Sam can't see its mouth, can't even really make out where the sound is coming from, but the words are clear. "Please, help."
Sam tilts his head to the side. "You want my help."
"The monster," the creature says, its voice trembling and terrified. "Don't let the monster get us."
"Sam! Watch out!"
Sam turns his head and sees that Dean has returned. His knife is out, and he's leaping forward, slicing at a tentacle. The creature whimpers and says, "Please don't."
"Dean, stop," Sam yells. "It's okay, it's not trying to hurt me."
Dean must not hear him, because he cuts into the creature again, and it collapses on the riverbank, its grip on Sam releasing. Sam moves back, out of its range, and watches as it…lies there. Just lies there and stares, and doesn't fight back against Dean.
He runs to his brother, grabbing his empty hand, then the one Dean has his weapon in. He twists Dean's wrist until it falls to the floor-a blade made of rock so sharp it might as well be a machete.
"What are you doing, Sam?" Dean asks, struggling in his grasp. "It's gonna get away."
"Dean, it didn't try to hurt me. It just wanted to talk to me."
Dean laughs, even as he keeps fighting. The monster is still for a few minutes, watching as Sam struggles to keep Dean from killing it. Then it grows a fucking brain and slithers back into the lake, disappearing under the surface.
Dean watches it dejectedly, then stops moving in Sam's embrace. His whole body slumps. "Why did you do that?"
"I know what it looked like, but it wasn't trying to hurt me, Dean. It just wanted help. It thought something was coming for it."
"I was coming for it," Dean replies.
Sam lets him go, turns his brother so he can look at him. "It didn't want to hurt you."
"Doesn't matter. It's a monster. That's what I do, I kill monsters."
"That's what you've always done," Sam says. He feels a terrible suspicion creeping under his skin. This is their world. And if this is their world, Dean is the thing that doesn't belong. Dean is the thing that goes bump in the night. "Why kill this one?"
Dean blinks at him. He opens his mouth, then closes it.
"It wasn't going to hurt me. It didn't want to fight you. There's no one else to protect." Sam picks up Dean's blade and hands it back to his brother. "Why kill it?"
"They killed Cas," Dean says.
"All of them? Every creature in purgatory?"
Dean shakes his head. "I killed the one that did it. And everything that looked like the same species."
Sam lets go of Dean, taking a disgusted step back. "So who are you trying to get revenge on?"
Dean reaches slowly toward Sam, taking his hand again, tentatively. "They made me forget you."
"Maybe," Sam says, licking his lips, "maybe they'd stop killing you if you'd stop killing them."
"They have stopped killing me," Dean says. "They're not completely stupid."
Sam shakes his head. He's torn between wanting to take Dean back right now, back to where he hunts the right things and is a hero, and never wanting to let this version of his brother loose on their world.
"You sound like a monster, Dean," Sam tells him. "You sound like what we used to hunt."
Dean shrugs and turns, continuing their walk back to his cave. "I'll try to be more careful next time."
INTERMISSION
He watches them for days before he has the courage to approach. The monster has not killed a soul since the other arrived.
They are the same species, completely indistinguishable by looks. They share the same distorted frame and habits, but he can tell them apart by the smell. The new one does not have the same scent as the monster, whose blood was delectable and addicting, such an impossible lure in so dangerous a trap. This one's blood smells like a punishment from another world.
At first that's what they thought it was. Another monster-the thing somehow multiplying. If this one had come in as violent as the one before it, his kind would not last another lifetime against the two of them. But the other is a mercy sent by their Mother, a sign that she has forgiven them and they will now be protected.
He knows, because the other saved his life.
They are not often alone now that they have found each other. He has watched them interact. He doesn't know yet if it's beautiful or terrifying, but if a monster can love, it is love that he has seen between the two creatures.
He approaches by the river, hoping to have better luck than he did by the lake. The monster has left, as he does every morning, to hunt down some animal and bring his companion back a meal. Animals-birds and fish and sometimes larger game, but nothing with a soul. They don't eat souls, and he is beginning to suspect they might be souls themselves.
The other is sitting on a rock by the water, an object propped in its hands. It is staring at this object very intensely with its discolored eyes, so it is not hard to sneak up on it. He takes care not to grab it, not to startle it like he did last time. He does not want it calling the monster.
He sends a greeting into the creature's mind, and the thing puts down its object, looking up at him with surprise. "Hello," it says.
The sound it makes, though nonsensical, is easy enough to translate. This thing is not like the monster. It wants to be understood.
"You must help us," he tells it, getting to the point quickly. He only has until the monster returns and sees him, and then he will either escape or fall. Either way, he hopes he will have time to make the other see what he must do. "You must help us kill the monster. Permanently."
"He's not a monster," says the other monster. "He's just as scared as you are."
Scared. The monster scared. He laughs. "Your monster cannot feel fear. Only hatred."
"No, you're wrong," it tells him. "When he got here, he thought you were monsters, and then you killed him. You killed our friend. You proved him right. And now it's been so long he can't remember what makes a monster, just that he has to fight them. That's as much your fault as his."
"It was a mistake," he tells the thing. "We made a mistake. We have paid dearly for it."
"What mistake?" The thing makes a strange, crackle of a sound. "You accidentally ate him?"
"We thought it was meant to be prey-just a brute animal. How were we to know better? It had no language, no kin. We did not think it was a soul. It was an honest mistake. We have tried to make it understand our contrition, but it does not forgive us our sins."
"He has kin," the thing replies. "And if you can talk to me, you know his language."
"No, we tried. It did not want to understand us or be understood. How can I speak with a thing like that?"
The creature takes its bottom lip between its teeth. "That does sound like Dean," it says, voice low, as if talking to itself. They are a very strange animal, these monsters. "So you wouldn't have eaten him if you knew he had a soul?"
"Is a soul," he corrects. "It did not act like one or smell like one. The smell and taste of the monster was so delicious. We were glad when it returned the first time. The same feast two nights in a row. A taste for every soul in Purgatory."
The other stands then, pulling a strange instrument from behind him. They hide their claws. Somehow, in so little body, they find places to hide them. It is deceitful. All the other souls in purgatory let their threats show. It aims at him, and he only knows this is dangerous because he heard whispers of what this thing did to the direwolf. He begins to slink back toward the water.
"That's my brother you snacked on, you son of a bitch."
"Mercy," he begs, shying away, raising his limbs to defend himself. The thing's face, hard to distinguish as it is, makes more sense to him now that he has been speaking with it. It seems to soften when it sees the wounded stubs where his brother cut.
He's sorry-he really is sorry. He didn't think he ever would be for killing a monster. "We didn't know it could be a brother. It was a gift from our Mother, we thought, to nourish us back to health. We needed that. After the angel swallowed us, chewed us up, spit us back out. We were weak. We have been hungry. And its taste made us stronger. We took our children to nurse on the blood; the monster took our children with it when it fell. So many died that night before we could restrain it. So many have died since."
The other lowers its weapon. "The angel," it says. "You killed him, too."
"He imprisoned us. He hurt us. The angel we are not sorry for." He tries to let the other see his sincerity in his expression. "The soul we are sorry for."
"He was a friend, too," the thing says, its tiny, malformed limbs falling to its sides. "He was a brother. All of this death. That war never had to happen if you'd taken the time to-"
"War?" he asks. "We had no word for war until your brother brought it here."
The other closes his eyes, its body swaying as if it had been attacked. "You didn't have war?"
"We are all souls from the same Mother. Though we may be different, we do not slay our kin."
"You're better than people," it says.
He does not know what this means. "What is people?"
"People-humans. That's what my brother and I are. And in our world, your kind come and you steal us and hurt us and kill our children. He was raised to save people. We were raised to do good, he doesn't know better than to hate you."
The idea of the monster helping instead of destroying seems like a joke, but the other seems so sincere. It trusts its god to protect it, just as he trusts his Mother. No need to spoil the illusion. "But you teach him. You saved me."
"Yes," the thing tells him, its small head turning toward the ground. "I'm a monster, too."
"No, you are not like him. You must save us from him."
"My blood, it's-" It shakes its head and does not finish its thought. "You think your Mother sent me?"
"To save us from him," he tells it. "Our Mother always protects her children."
"Your Mother is…" The thing stops, looking away sharply.
"She is not here," he tells it. "But she will return. And she has sent you in her place."
"Yeah, she-okay. I'll help." The thing shakes its head, it's strange limbs flying to both sides in a confused gesture. "What do I do?"
"You must kill it."
The other's head snaps up too quickly, its already miniscule eyes narrowing. He can read anger in its movements. He must be approaching this the wrong way.
"I'm not killing him. I will never kill him." The thing-the human-sighs. "I just want to take him home."
He feels a thrill of joy. "You're going to take it away from us?"
"If he'll follow me."
ACT IV. It's like a dark paradise.
Sam watches the thing sliver and drop back into the river, disappearing in the shallow stream as if it's made of water itself. Maybe it is. He picks up his book and closes it, not bothering to fold the page. He's read it three times already since he got here; it doesn’t matter where he picks back up. If he'd known it would be so hard to get Dean to leave purgatory, he would have brought a library.
Home-Dean's cave-is just a few feet away from the water, but Sam doesn't want to be in the open right now. Not that he feels threatened, though the creature mentioned before it left that some of the souls in purgatory don't trust him to help and want him dead as much as Dean. He just doesn't want to be out where they can see him.
Dean killed their kids. And Sam knows, he understands that Dean must not even be able to tell which ones are grown and which are young. Dean never was good at seeing the grey area when it came to hunting. They were trying to hurt him; he was trying to stay alive. But it still makes Sam feel out of place. Sam never thought he'd be ashamed of his big brother.
"Don't think so hard. Your giant head will burst."
Sam looks up to find Dean standing across from him at the table, smiling proudly as he unloads the rabbits he caught for them to eat. Dean looks so happy to see him, so pleased with his idiotic joke, that Sam remembers right away. He doesn't care if Dean is someone else's monster. He will always feel this crushing affection every time he looks at him.
"You seem happy," Sam says stupidly, because he does. Not just happy for Dean. Happy, like he never could be back on Earth. He likes it here, and every time Sam suggests they go home, Dean just says that they are home.
Dean rolls his eyes now and starts preparing the meal. Sam watches him, listening as Dean whistles songs that sound almost like Led Zeppelin. He's forgotten how they actually go, just like he's forgotten Sam. But he's happy.
It's been less than an hour since Sam promised that creature he would take Dean away, but the temptation to forget that is strong. This wild world is more humane than Earth ever was to them. They could never find peace there. Heaven was a copy-phoney and too dependent on memories of a life they hated. Hell was, well, Sam doesn't really want to think about it.
Purgatory, though. Purgatory is quiet and still, a moment of peace that stretches on forever. A clean slate where Dean doesn't have to remember mom or dad or the millions of times Sam let him down. All the souls that live here, that belong here, they die just like humans do on Earth. But Dean doesn't die in this world. Maybe he could stay here for eternity-not hurting anyone so they won't hurt him-and finally get to live the way he's always deserved.
What if they both could?
"You're zoning out, man."
"Do you remember Heaven?" Sam asks.
Dean looks up from his work uncomfortably. "Sammy, I've told you already. I don't-"
"It's different. It's a different-oh, forget it."
Dean shakes his head, wiping bloody hands off on a towel. "Can you stop asking me to remember things?"
"You don't wonder about-?"
"No," Dean says, slamming his hands on the table. "I remember enough of it, Sam. Snapshots. I remember women on ceilings and kids with their faces missing and you, okay? I lied. I remember you. I remember you lying on a bed dead and you weren't coming back. I don't know what happened, but I don't want to. That's the only thing I had of you until you came back and now I've got you alive. What's so great about remembering?"
Sam opens his mouth and closes it, completely stunned. Not by Dean's answer, but by the fact that it never would have occurred to him. Memory is an ugly thing for them. It hangs on so hard to the bad things, to Ruby and Lilith and the bullet in Bobby's brain. The nights they spent watching the stars, quiet and content, have all blurred together. That doesn't seem fair.
If Sam could forget, like Dean has, he wouldn't know that his body is aching for demon blood. He wouldn't feel like he's keeping a secret from Dean. Hell, he could say it to Dean right now, and Dean wouldn't care. He doesn't know what a demon is. He never went to Hell. All he knows is killing and Sam, and if Sam could just train one of those out of him, they could stay here, where there are no demons, so Sam can't trip up and poison himself again and he can stay Dean's brother forever. He could die a few times and forget Lucifer and Hell and Michael and Lucifer.
But he made a promise to keep this world safe, and he has to take Dean out of it to do that.
They eat without saying a word, and Sam decides to go to bed right after. He lies down on the bigger, softer of the two makeshift mattresses, and Dean stands in the center of the room, stripping his shirt off over his head.
Sam watches his brother move in the dim firelight of the two torches that haven't gone out yet. Dean's body is a maze of deep cut lines, torn flesh. Sam wants to put his mouth on every inch of it, taste all that skin that came back together when it shouldn't have.
Dean turns and sees him looking, and Sam's face flushes hotly, but he can't look away.
"Night, Sam," Dean says quietly.
He moves toward the other bed, but Sam lifts the pelt he's got wrapped around him. "Sleep here."
Dean doesn't question it. Sam is surprised, because back on Earth, Dean was so good at dancing away from this. He never shared Sam's bed, not after-
"One more," Sam whispers, turning to rest on his side so he can face Dean. Dean's hair has grown long-not long enough to tug, but long enough to run his fingers through. Longer than it ever has been, so Sam lets himself indulge, his fingers carding through the light brown strands over Dean's temples. "Just let me ask for one more memory, and then I'll never do it again."
Dean is looking up at the cavern ceiling, but his eyes move over to Sam and he smiles softly. "You don't quit, do you?"
"Do you remember the night before I left for college?"
Dean laughs. "I don't even know what that means, Sam."
Sam hesitates, then lets his fingers rest low on Dean's belly. Like Dean had, when Sam was too exhausted from fighting Dad to keep fighting this and Dean was too afraid of losing him. It was the only time. They'd never talked about it after that, but it had haunted Sam so many nights. Dean's hand around his dick, grip sure and eager to please. The keening sound Dean had made against his skin as he took Sam in his mouth and finished into his own fist.
It had been a sin then. It was a terrible, terrible thing to need in that world. There's no one here to care.
Dean doesn't try to escape the touch, so Sam slides his hand down lower, under the elastic of Dean's boxers, and finds his brother's cock. It springs to life in Sam's palm, and Sam licks his lips.
"Is this okay?" he asks.
Dean's breath is heavy, but he nods.
"I'm your brother," Sam reminds him. "I've got the same blood as you."
"Yes," Dean agrees, hitching his hips up into Sam's touch. "Good."
"You don't care?" Sam twists at the head, and Dean gasps, his body arching.
"I care," he says, his eyes fixing on Sam's intensely. "I've wanted you for a thousand years."
Sam's rhythm stutters there, but he doesn't let himself wonder if that's an exaggeration or not. He doesn't try to do the math. Who knows how old either of them is at this point? The important thing is that Dean is shaking loose in Sam's hand after far, far too many lifetimes of aching.
Sam bends down and seals his mouth against his brother's and never wants to know a world where this isn't okay.
ACT V. Go to Sleep, my man.
He wakes up draped around his brother. Sam lets go, turning onto his back, and Dean must already be awake, because as soon as Sam shifts, he says, "Wanna hear something embarrassing?"
Sam stares at what he can see of Dean-one perfect, freckled shoulder blade with a long set of teeth marks permanently embedded in the flesh. "Sure."
"I forgot sex," he says. He turns, a sheepish look on his face. "Can you imagine? Until you touched me. I completely forgot sex."
Sam laughs, leaning down to kiss him. "Good thing I didn't bring any whiskey, then."
Dean doesn't look like he gets the joke, and a part of Sam can't really believe his luck. He's so happy he can't hold himself together, but there's still that botch on this whole thing. They aren't supposed to stay here. They aren't welcome, and Sam doesn't know how to prove to the souls in purgatory that they're no longer a threat without leaving.
"I missed you," Dean says. "Don't think for a moment that I forgot that."
"No," Sam says distractedly. "I wouldn't." He sits up. "Would you follow me?"
"Anywhere."
"Back to Earth?"
Dean's lips thin, but he gives Sam a stilted nod. "If you're that intent on leaving."
"I like it here, though," Sam admits.
Dean reaches up, his hands sliding over Sam's back, sending a hot wave of desire all the way to Sam's toes. "Good. I do, too."
"But we can't stay if you're going to kill." Sam looks over at him, catching Dean's eyes out of the corner of his own. "You get that, right? I won't let you keep killing here."
"I don't kill then," Dean says. "I'm not so angry anymore."
Sam wipes a hand over his mouth. "And if I died?"
"Don't say that."
"I'm not just-it could happen. If something killed me, do you promise not to get revenge?"
"No."
"Then I'll leave."
Dean shakes his head. "I don't get you."
"We should be protecting them. That's what we've always done, we protect. If we’re going to stay, we can't hurt them. It's their world we're trying to live in."
"But if they kill you-"
"Promise me, Dean. Promise you won't get revenge. Or hurt anything that isn't trying to hurt you."
"You'll stay?" Dean nods. "I'll do anything to keep you and not have to go back."
"Good," Sam says, rising from the bed. He finds his clothes and starts putting them on.
Dean watches him, an amused expression on his face. "Where are you going?"
"To die," Sam says. "I'm going to go die."
"Sam, don't be crazy. At least don't go tempting fate. I can keep you alive and safe. I kept Cas alive for decades. And they were really pissed at him."
Sam shakes his head, stupidly excited now that the idea has come to him. This is the only way. He can prove to the monsters Dean won't hurt them anymore. He'll stop trembling for demon blood. Sam doesn't want to spend decades worrying about staying alive, or make Dean spend decades on edge trying to keep him that way. He just wants a blank space in his mind where there's self-loathing and fear, and his brother. He wants his brother and Purgatory and to belong here for as long as forever lasts.
Dean is standing at his side by the time Sam's made up his mind. He looks at his brother, determined enough to let Dean know he won't be changing his mind.
"I love you," Sam tells him. "You still know what that means, right?"
Dean's lips rise on one side. "I know you're not supposed to just come out and say it like that, you big girl."
Sam grabs Dean and pushes him back into the rock wall of their home. He kisses so hard it hurts, because that-that is exactly what his brother would say. It's not the memories that make Dean Dean. It's that goddamn insufferable smirk he wears after insulting Sam's manhood, and the smirk tastes so good Sam could melt into it.
He nods when he pulls away, and Dean catches his shirt. "I still think this is a stupid idea."
"Do you trust me?" Sam asks. "Just trust me, okay?"
Dean nods worriedly, and Sam gives him another quick kiss. "Don't come with me. Don't watch this. It'll make you angry. I don't want you angry."
Sam leaves then, because if he stays any longer, he'll lose his nerve. Dying is never fun, and the fact that Sam can make that statement with firsthand experience just reaffirms how much he doesn't want anything to do with the life he's leaving behind. He snatches his duffel off the table and takes out the instructions on how to open the door back to Earth. There's a torch already lit by the cave mouth, so Sam doesn't even have to go out of his way to burn them.
Outside he rushes to the riverbank and puts his hand in, trying to get the creature he's already met twice to come out again. It rises slowly, tentatively, as if unsure whether it will be Sam or Dean, death or salvation, waiting for him. Sam's hoping it'll be a bit of both.
"We're staying," he says.
The creature makes a hissing sound from under its thick mane of tentacles. Maybe that's what its language sounds like when it's not filtered through Sam's mind, or maybe it's just a cry of agony. Either way, Sam reaches out, putting his hand against the nearest slime-covered limb in an attempt to soothe it.
"He won't hurt you again. Neither of us will. Please, we just want to belong."
"How can you belong?" it asks.
"If you let us, you won't even know we're here."
"If I agree to this, I will be allowing him to kill us. I will be welcoming the destruction he brings."
"No, he won't hurt you. I can prove it." Sam licks his lips, looking back to the cave where Dean is now standing. Of course he is. He can't take instruction to save his life. "You can kill me. He won't get revenge on you. And when I come back, you'll see that we just want to live here, same as you do."
"It's not yours to live in."
"I know," Sam says. "But our world-it made him into what he was. You gotta understand why we can't go back."
The creature sways on the surface of the water. "I want to believe you, but, even if I do, the others never will."
"So show them. Show them. Kill something he cares about and watch him let it happen."
"I don't want to kill you," says the creature. "I don't even want to kill him. I want to grow old with my children and know they aren't in danger."
"We want that for you, too. And we can help. We're strong. We know how to fight. We won't ever let another threat come near you. We can protect your family for generations after you've died, because we won't. Not here."
"If your brother is what I think he is instead of what you think, he will butcher me for obeying you. You will return and I will not."
"I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't sure," Sam says, as imploring as he can manage. "Please, just take this chance. It might be the only one you have to bring peace here. Forever."
The monster's tendrils are thick around Sam's neck. So thick and so tight. Sam has a moment of regret as he lets his eyes move back and gets a glimpse of his brother looking on in horror. Dean is the last thing he ever sees. The world goes black. It's not a long death this time.
_______________________________________________________________
Sam blinks his eyes slowly open, feeling the sharp pain of light as it reaches him for the first time. The first time in his life. This life. Whatever that means.
It's a long minute of staring up before he figures out what he's looking at. It's a face. It's a good face, Sam loves this face.
"Sammy," it says, hands on each side of Sam's head.
Sam doesn't even really know who he is or how he got here. All he knows are four letters, and those four letters spell out his universe. "Dean."
Yes, Dean. The face is his brother's and his brother is smiling. "Thank god," he says, and then he pulls Sam up against his chest, into an embrace that smells like rich soil and sweat and things that don't exist in this world, like leather and aftershave. Sam remembers those smells, remembers that they belonged to Dean. He remembers a beautiful, long black car, but not what a car is.
He remembers dying and why he did it. "Did you do it?" he asks. "Did you get revenge?"
"Didn't even remember to want to," Dean says quietly, his fingers caught in Sam's hair. "I was too damn worried your dumbass plan would backfire and you wouldn't wake up. I tried to save your life, but it was too late."
"Good," Sam says. "That's good."
"Yeah, maybe for you," Dean is saying, "but I'll fucking kill you if you die again."
Sam laughs lightly as he sits up and looks around. Everything is exactly how he left it. He's home.
EPILOGUE
Her grandfather used to tell stories about them. He would swear up and down, to anyone in the lake who would listen, that he knew Sam and Dean personally.
She only ever half believed him. Even now, she's not so sure. The guardians have always existed as far as she can tell. But grandpa said they came from another world. He said the Mother sent them as protection, because this was a terrible place back then. There was a monster loose before they came, and it had no soul or compassion, it killed everything in its path.
The guardians slew it. Well, that's everyday history. They've killed every bad thing in this world since the dawn of time. But grandpa told another version. He used to say they were the monsters, once upon a time. He told her it was amazing, the things that could happen to a good creature lost and alone.
That was the part she could never believe. Imagining a Purgatory without the guardians is one thing, but imagining one guardian without its mate-she doesn't think they would work like that. Any child could see, they're more one soul than two.
But grandpa told his stories, and she listened because they were good, if a little ridiculous. She asked them once. She'd been a child, so young and stupid that she'd walked right up to Sam and Dean and started talking like she had a right to be on their land.
They had been kind to her. They hadn't laughed, not even when she told them grandpa's story and asked if it was true. They just exchanged a look and instructed her to let her grandpa know they said hello.
Ever since, they've waved at her as she flows down their river. It's not hard to know where they'll be. They've lived there since the Mother built the world around them, and unlike her, they never left.
Some say the Mother is dead. She knows it's a sin, but she doesn't think it really matters much. As long as the guardians are here to look after her children, Purgatory will always be safe.