Supernatural: Behold, A Pale Horse [Part 2/2]
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PART TWO
There are good days and there are bad days. The good days aren't actually good, but they're serviceable. The bad days, well. There aren't words.
He goes back to the bunker every now and then. Between hunts. When the stitches holding his limbs together need a touch up, or the local libraries aren't quite supplying the research answers he needs.
There are always bits and pieces lying about, signs that there are lives being lived here when he's away. Castiel's new favorite hoodie draped over a chair in the study, Charlie's video game systems hooked up to the giant screens that used to be for monitoring demonic omens.
Even Jody checks in every now and then, less in person, but often with phone calls and emails. She's started to take stock of cases around Sioux Falls that don't fall under her jurisdiction, non-human crime, and has even begun to build a web of hunters to assign cases to. She tells Sam to stuff it when he makes a joke about her becoming the new Bobby, but the smile is there in her voice.
They speak and she sounds proud of the hunt she's just put away, and she's full of praise for the help Sam supplied her with. Today, Sam thinks it's a good day. A 'getting along fine' kind of day. After Jody hangs up, he goes grocery shopping, and he makes it past the 'homemade' pies and the saturated fats in crinkly bags, so he thinks he'll be just fine.
The canned food aisle takes him by surprise. It's a wall of Spaghetti-Os, the first 'dinner' Sam ever learned how to make for himself. It's the memory of his much bigger brother standing with his chest pressed against Sam's back as Sam stood on a plastic blue stool and stirred the neon orange noodles, and the way Dean had smiled as he ate them that night, swore up and down it was the best Spaghetti-Os he'd ever eaten, even though, at best, they tasted exactly the same as the thousands of cans of the shit they'd eaten before and the thousands that came after.
It's the creepy smiling anthropomorphized O on the label glaring at Sam with a thumbs up, accusing, that makes him snap. Sam had felt so proud of himself that night. Had really believe Dean all the times he'd let Sam make dinner, claiming it was because Sam was so much better at it, when really he was just trying to make his needy little brother feel slightly less useless.
For a time, not a terribly long time, when Sam had fallen for it, these cheap cans of crap had made him feel like a hero. Like an older brother. And he'd brought Dean little bowls full of orange goop when he was sick in bed, so damn proud that he was the one keeping Dean alive and healthy and strong for once.
He doesn't realize he's shaking the shelf, trying to make it fall down and crush him, not until there are cans spilling around him, the busted lids spilling tomato-scented blood all along the aisle and at his feet, and Sam crumples to the floor, sobbing because he used to think he could keep Dean alive and all he's ever done is the opposite.
There are four employees surrounding him in moments, shouting for him to calm down, customers yelling for the cops, security shoving their way past everyone to force Sam to his feet. He doesn't make it home with groceries that night, and he's banned from the local supermarket, and he hardly gets out before the cops arrive.
But he's lucky, right? Because he inherited an overstocked medicine cabinet and a stash of bad alcohol from his dearly departed older brother, and by the time the sun sets, Sam's taken everything and washed it down with a side of liver failure.
Dean finds Sam not in a grungy motel room with his killer looming over him this time, but sitting on the floor in his own room, leaning back against the foot of Dean's bed.
He looks confused for about a second, but his eyes roam the room, take stock of the empty pill bottles, and then he's pissed.
"Sam, what did you do?"
"What'd'you mean what'd I do, you were there." Sam laughs, then shakes his head. "Then you weren't there. I guess that's the part I did."
Dean crouches down beside him, starts picking up the prescription bottles and reading the labels. "Sleeping pills, Sam. Seriously?"
"Oh, like you never thought about it."
"Thought about it!" Dean yells. "Never fucking did it!"
"I've done a lot of things you haven't," Sam replies, reaching out. Dean pulls away from his touch. That's not what Sam wanted him to do. He tries again, but apparently Dean's face isn't where it looks like it is. On second thought, Sam would probably be able to tell a little better if he wasn't, you know, drunk and stoned and brain dead.
Dean sighs. "You killed yourself. That's how you're gonna play this? I give you a chance to live a better life and you try to throw it away. What, did you really think this would work? Did you think I would take you just bec-?"
"It wasn't the first time, either," Sam says to his hands, which have somewhere between 5 and 15 fingers on them. "Not many people can say that."
"You've never killed yourself before," Dean says.
Sam snorts. "Not that, who cares about that?"
"I care," Dean says. Then, "I'm not going to play this game with you."
"Was it a game? It was, I guess. A game. Not for me, but still. It was a game."
"Sammy, what are you talking ab-?"
"The first time I killed you. Well, the first time was an accident. Lots of them were accidents. But the first time I did it on purpose." Sam lets out a dull sob and shakes his head at his still-swimming hands. "Wrapped them right around your neck. You had no idea why. You didn't even fight back, you looked so confused. So betrayed."
"That's not how it happened," Dean says. As if he knows. As if he's had to remember. He got off so easy and Sam never even told him. Never even told him more than the simplest little details.
"You don't understand," he says. "It had been so many days. So many Tuesdays and you kept dying. And I couldn't save you. So many days. I couldn't count them anymore."
"Are you talking about Broward?" Dean asks, taking a seat next to Sam. "It wasn't real. You know that."
"It was real to me. I thought it was real. And I still did it. Wrapped these hands around your pretty neck, first thing in the morning. Alarm was hardly done singing that fucking song at me and I was so tired. So tired. Every day, just waiting to find out how you would die."
"It wasn't-"
"What's real? Is getting your head chopped off and walking away from it real? Is that real? I remember clear as day. He didn't make me forget any of those days. Those six months."
"I thought it was 100 days?" Dean interrupts.
Sam rolls his eyes. He doesn’t have time to catch Dean up on this shit. He's only got so much time before he isn't dead anymore. "It was real. It was me. Choked the life out of you. Watched you die and there was a moment after. Between the light going out of your eyes and the alarm starting over, there was this long moment. Where I thought this would be the one. This one would stick and it would count and I would have been the thing that killed you. Completely by my own choice, not an accident. It was the worst moment of my life up until then."
"It wasn't real," Dean tries again, and Sam finally looks at him, right in the eye.
"That's every moment now," he says. "This is real."
He watches Dean's expression soften, closes his eyes and leans into the touch and gives a grateful sigh when his brother's hand brushes gently along his cheek. He can feel the lethargy from the pills wearing off, the alcohol leaving his system and sobering him up. He can feel himself getting strong again. But Dean is touching him, so he can't find it in himself to resent it much.
When he's done, Dean shakes Sam so he opens his eyes, and Sam can hardly see him now. Dean's voice is clear as cursed crystal when he speaks, the tone he always saved for repeating Dad's orders. "Don't you ever do this again."
_______________________________________________________________
On August 31, 2015 (exactly three years since the first time, or so Sam is told), Castiel marries Daphne Allen in the little church they worship at every Sunday. It's a lovely ceremony with a peaceful reception held at the park across the street, the kind of picturesque scene Sam has never seen outside of movies and photographs with singed corners.
He calls Sam two weeks before, tells him where to go, and directs him to bring his nicest suit because "you're going to be a best man." Sam doesn't push back, just gets in the car. He has the entire drive from Kansas to Colorado to think about who should really be Cas's best man and why he isn't here to celebrate this and to get angry with his friend for choosing him instead.
Castiel never hated Sam for what he did to Dean the way Sam wishes he did. Just made sorry faces and said unwelcome wise shit that made Sam want to punch him, like "You both did what was necessary. Dean was always a warrior."
Three-fourths of the guests sit on the bride's side and the rows reserved for the groom are nearly empty. But Castiel smiles at his rag-tag group of guests as if there's no one missing.
Kevin and his mother sit side-by-side, and over dinner, Mrs. Tran brags about Kevin's accomplishments after his first year at college. Jody shows up with a man who looks more like Crowley's old meatsuit than Sam is comfortable with ("What? We established the guy is my type," she jokes when she sees Sam's raised eyebrows).
Charlie is there with her new girlfriend Dione, a tall, strikingly beautiful woman with wild hair and dark skin. True to form, Charlie is wearing a silkscreened tuxedo t-shirt and bright blue slacks; Dione's flowing green dress was what she was wearing the first time they met, originally part of what they call a cosplay, and Sam nods along as they hold hands and tell their story, all the while secretly thinking that Dean would be the one to get excited about the costumes and roleplaying they're describing. Dean should be here.
Late into the night, when the dancing is in full swing and little girls with flowers in their hair are standing on their father's feet as they sway to cheesy music, Castiel collapses into the seat next to him. He looks exhausted, hair mussed, tie loose around his neck like Sam has never seen it. His cheeks are red with exertion (and probably more than his share of champagne), and he looks happy. He looks human.
"I hope you're enjoying yourself," he says, giving Sam a smile that doesn't quite touch his eyes.
Castiel understands. Sam knows he understands. Better than anyone else on the planet, but that doesn't mean Sam won't lie right now, fake joviality for the sake of his-Dean's-closest friend's happiest day.
"Having a great time," he says, smiling because, well, in truth, it's been his best day since Dean died, and that is worth something. "Sorry I didn't give much of a speech."
Castiel waves him off, making a dismissive noise. "It was a perfectly serviceable speech. Besides, Daphne's just excited I actually have people here this time. Last time it was Joe from work and his three bored sons on my side of the aisle. Her uncle, who I'd never met, had to be best man. Amnesia, you know? Didn't know who else to invite. She didn't say anything at the time, but I think it made her sad."
Sam laughs and looks across the dance floor, to where the bride is talking to Jody and the Crowley doppelganger, her head thrown back on a genuine laugh. "She's really gorgeous, Cas. Didn't get to meet her last time because," he scoffs a laugh, thinking a wedding isn't really the time to bring up Lucifer and insane asylums, scars Castiel bears just as surely as Sam does. "Well, you remember. Anyway, she's stunning."
"She is," Castiel agrees, lifting his head to follow Sam's sightline. Sam watches the way his lips curl up in a quiet smile, and he feels an ache in his chest. It's bittersweet. Sam is jealous, he hates himself for that, but he can't help feeling it.
"You came back to her," he says. Castiel looks back at him very quickly, cocking his head in that way he always has. "I mean, you never really mentioned her much. But you came right back."
He nods, gives Sam a thoughtful look before sitting back in his rickety white chair, spreading his hands. "It's hard to remember feelings like this when you're an angel. I never really forgot but it was…dulled."
"But being human…?"
"Being human," Castiel says, his head bobbing from side to side. "It puts things in perspective. I had a lot of reasons to feel lost when Metatron first cast me out, I was very unhappy. But I remembered her. I remembered that for that brief time, even as an angel, living with her made me happy."
Sam feels a smile bloom on his lips. Not a big one, but a real one, for the first time, one that's not tied to dying, but to the thought that people who suffered through what he and Dean did can still find joy in living. "What's she like?"
"She is kind. The type of woman who will take in a stranger and care for him. Even after he abandons her. She forgave me." Castiel gives Sam a guilty smile, then shrugs. "She still loves me, even though I have not performed any miracles since returning and have given her some idea of why I never will. She says that my returning is a miracle in itself, she believes that God brought me to her, both times."
Sam can't quite help letting out a bitter laugh at that, and Castiel makes a wry face, then smiles down at his hands. "Her faith is wildly inaccurate and misplaced, of course. But it's simple. It's good. She feels great hope, and that gives me hope as well. I think, had my father truly been the Lord she worships, this world would have been a calmer place. It would not have required you and your brother's sacrifices."
"That's pretty blasphemous, Cas," Sam teases.
Cas gives him a sly grin, standing and patting Sam on the back. "You won't tell on me."
"Nah," Sam agrees. "I'm a locked box."
Across the floor, grinning family members are waving to Cas, and the DJ announces that the bride and groom are about to dance their last song. Castiel leans in, squeezing Sam's shoulder. "Daphne isn't the only one who is glad you were here this time, Sam."
Sam wonders if Castiel knows, somehow, that just a few months ago, Sam tried to kill himself with pills and poison and the only reason he's here is that his brother is a stubborn sonofabitch. But there's no way-Cas isn't an angel anymore, and empathy was never his strong suit even when he did have powers.
So Sam stands to give him a half-hug, a pat on the back as he watches his friend pull away. "I'm glad I could be here, too," he says, knowing full well he'll be dead again before midnight.
_______________________________________________________________
"Now what’s this?" Dean asks. He appears in his impeccable black suit, looks around Sam's hotel suite and whistles. "Not the usual setting, Sammy."
Sam is standing at the end of his bed, the jacket he'd worn to the reception tossed on the foot of the mattress, his white undershirt rolled up to his elbows, and his slashed wrists making little red puddles on the bleached white carpet.
"You spring on this room just to do that?" Dean asks, his tone only a little biting as he points to the mess Sam made.
Sam shakes his head. "Bride's family is paying for the lodging," he explains.
The word 'bride' makes his brother stand up like he's been electrocuted. But then he smiles. Wide, proud, big brother smile. It's a best man smile. "You…you got-"
"Not me," Sam replies, and Dean looks simultaneously disappointed and relieved. "Castiel. Renewed his vows with Daphne."
"Daphne?" Dean asks, like he's never heard the name before. Then he laughs. "Oh, right. Emmanuel chick?"
"Yes, well. She knows his real name now." Sam smiles. "He took her last name."
"Good ol' Cas, doing the decent thing, I guess." Dean shakes his head. "What a sucker."
"It's more than that," Sam insists. "He really loves her. He's happy."
"Yeah?" Dean sits on the edge of the bed, wrinkling Sam's nice jacket. "Well, damn. That's great for him, then."
Sam nods. He doesn't sit. Doesn't want to get the blood on the comforter. He's tired of leaving nightmares behind for unsuspecting maids. "Charlie was here. She's got a serious girlfriend now."
"Hot," Dean answers, wiggling his eyebrows.
"You're terrible," Sam replies.
Dean grins and nods. "Damn right I am. Who else?"
"Jody met another dude online. Looks like Crowley, too, but at least we can be sure he's not a demon this time. She promised she's checked him out with silver, so he's not a shifter, either."
"She's a quick learner," says Dean. "She'll be fine."
"Kevin goes to MIT," he continues. "His mom was here. They aren't mad at you anymore."
Dean turns away with a slight flinch, but when he looks up, he's nodding gratefully. "I'm glad. Thanks for letting me know."
"It was beautiful," Sam tells him. "It was a beautiful night. It was a beautiful ceremony. Everyone was happy."
"What else?" Dean takes Sam's hand, looks up the line of blood on his arm until he meets Sam's eyes. "What else happened? What aren't you telling me?"
"Nothing else."
"Then why this?" Dean asks, lifting Sam's upturned forearm to his lips, pressing an icy kiss to the busted skin, and Sam feels the flesh begin to knit back together. "If it was so nice and everyone was so happy, why would you do this?"
"I was lonely," Sam admits, tears springing to his eyes, impossible to hold back. "I was so lonely. Everybody had someone, Dean."
"You could have had someone," Dean tells him, tracing the reformed skin on his left arm. "You coulda had a nice girl or-whatever. Someone here with you. I want that for you."
Sam shakes his head. "Everyone had someone they loved," he says. "That's why I did this. I wanted to see the person I love."
Dean sighs and stands up, reaching for Sam's right arm like he's gonna fix it, too. Sam snatches it away.
"I know you're not going to reap me," Sam explains when Dean looks up at him, all annoyed big brother. "I know. But don't fix it yet. Stay with me. Just a little while. I just want to not be alone. I want someone to dance with, like everyone else had."
Alive, Dean would never have agreed to something like that. He would have mocked Sam for years just for asking. But Dean is past that now. He wraps one arm around Sam's waist and scoops him in close, and Sam doesn't care that he's shivering in the frozen grip. He lets Dean whisk him from one end of the room to the next, neither of them knowing where the hell to put their feet or how to go about this gracefully.
Sam doesn't doubt they look like a wreck, but he's on cloud nine. He rests his head on his brother's cold shoulder, feels bliss like he's never known before as Dean rocks him to and fro, humming something out of tune beneath his breath. One of those classic rock songs he used to use as lullabies, maybe. Sam does feel weak, so he lets his body sag, lets his big brother prop him up like Dean has so many times before.
"I miss you, Dean," Sam whispers against the thick fabric of his brother's suit. "I miss you all the time."
"I know," Dean says. "I miss you too."
He pulls back, and Sam can see the red splatters on his brother's shirt. "Ruined it," he says, reaching out to touch one of the wet spots. "I ruined it."
"Shh, hey, no," Dean grabs Sam's hands by the wrists, the split one and the clean one alike. He makes Sam look up into his eyes, and the smile on his brother's lips is nothing but tender, adoring, gentle. He never looked at Sam like that alive. Not once. Why did they both have to die to see this? "Hate this stupid suit. But now that it's got you on it, it's better. You made it better."
Sam doesn't even think before he presses his lips against Dean's, and Dean lets go of Sam's hands to grab his face with two eager palms, one slick with warm blood, the other freezing cold without it. Dean deepens the kiss and Sam-
Sam would fall back if Dean wasn't holding him so tight. Every moment their lips are touching, he's slammed with images, each more violent than the last. He sees bodies laid out on pavement, children who are lost and scared and alone, he sees himself through his brother's eyes. He feels Dean's agony, the loneliness, how much his brother hates this job he's taken on to protect Sam. It's a different kind of pain from his own, but just as sharp and just as constant.
Dean pushes him away with such ferocity that Sam collapses onto the floor, falls onto his own blood stains. He looks up in confusion, and he sees pure terror on his brother's face.
"I forgot," he says, sounding far away. "God, Sam, I forgot. I forgot it would happen. I didn’t know how to control it."
"Dean," Sam says, reaching out to his brother with his injured arm. "Dean, what was that?"
"I'm sorry," he says. He kneels down next to Sam, accepting the outstretched arm. "Fuck, Sam, I'm so sorry."
"Talk to me," Sam pleads. "Is that what you have to do because of me?"
Dean shakes his head, presses him thumb to the end of one slice until it begins to disappear, replaced by scar tissue. "I stayed too long," he says. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I stayed too long this time."
"No." Sam reaches out for him again, but Dean is releasing his mostly healed arms. He's beginning to fade. "Don't leave me. Don't leave me here like this."
Dean doesn't answer except to get the first aid kit from Sam's duffel. He sits down to wrap bandages around what's left of Sam's wrists, quiet and exact, and when he's done with Sam, he's done.
He discovers a succubus in a little bar in Tennessee. Well, the succubus finds him in the bar, but Sam did track it here.
Four bodies so far. No pattern for age, race, sex, or occupation, but they could be linked by the way they died: each one at home, in bed, their skin a curious shade of gray and their faces frozen in smiles. He figures out what it is within the first hour of research. Not a lot of things out there that leave behind a trail of happy, fucked out victims.
The thing takes the seat right next to him at the bar and announces itself. It's new for Sam, but monsters with no sense of self-preservation are something he can sympathize with these days.
"Sam Winchester," it says, in a voice more familiar to Sam than his own. He looks over to his left and he sees Dean there, a perfect copy, every freckle in place, his outfit loose worn leather and plaid and denim, much more his brother's style than the suit he wears lately.
That's the only way Sam knows it's the monster and not some fluke death.
Sam slips his hand to his gun and begins to pull it out. "You think I won't waste you in front of all these people, you're wrong. Take my brother's face off and I won't make it hurt too much."
The succubus raises its hands in the universal gesture for surrender. "Hey, calm down, man. I just want to talk."
"Not as Dean," Sam forces every word through gritted teeth. "Change your shape. Now."
"I can't," it says. "I'm talking to you, and you see what you want to see. Not my fault."
"I guess I'll be that much happier to kill you, then."
"You could do that," the succubus admits. "I can't take you. I've heard about you, and I know already. I can't take you."
"So why aren't you running?" Sam asks. "You shouldn't have come to me, because now I'm going to kill you that much sooner."
"How sure are you that that's what you wanna do?"
Sam tilts his head. "What are you talking about?"
"Look, Sam. I know you hunters are very black and white about this kind of thing, but I'm not evil just because I kill people."
Sam snorts.
Dean's eyes narrow at him. It's not the way Dean used to do it, but they're such nice eyes, Sam lets himself get a little distracted by them anyway. "I'm serious. I need life force to live, that's just the way I was made. But I don’t take anyone who doesn't know what they're doing and choose to do it anyway."
"Why would anyone-?"
"Well, just look at you," the monster says, smiling with a slight edge of smugness. "Come on, I told you I've heard of you. I know what you want, and it's not to live. I can offer you what you want. The same thing I've offered everyone I ever fed off. It's a pleasant little death, and the whole time you get to have your brother any way you want him."
Sam swallows hard and watches as the succubus covers his wrist with its hand. With Dean's hand. Warm, like it was when his brother was alive. The one night he got to feel Dean's hands in all the places he wanted them. It's good, so good that Sam feels immediately guilty.
But he realizes with a shock that no one has touched him since Castiel's wedding, and that was over two months ago. Before that, it had been even longer. Not even a casual brush, not even a bump in a crowd. People steer clear of him. The only things he touches now are the creatures he fights. This warm hand on his is unthinkably comforting and welcome, even if it's just another beast he needs to kill. He doesn't want it to stop touching him. It's Dean's hand.
"You're coming on to me," Sam says, less a question than an observation.
"I know the look of someone who wants to die," the monster answers matter-of-factly. "Like I said, I can't fight you. You’d catch me if I tried to run. So you've got two choices. You can kill me. Or you can let me give you everything you've been dying for."
Sam is back in his motel room in minutes, slamming his brother's body against a wall, kissing the mouth deep and moaning because it even tastes like Dean.
It's not the same, not exactly the same, not as good as the real thing. But it's so much. It's so much and Sam has had so little.
He strips quickly, watches the succubus remove layers of his brother's clothing until Dean is standing in front of him, bare and beautiful as he was his last night on Earth. The succubus stares at all the marks on his body, starting with the scar at the base of his spine, the first cut he shouldn't have healed from, and then shakes its head. "You shouldn't be alive," it tells him.
"You're preaching to the choir," Sam responds, and then they get swept away, too distracted to worry about Sam's cuts and bruises.
The succubus was right. What it gives him is a gracious gift, ecstasy so intense his body can't handle it. So, yes, he dies. But he dies with his brother's face above him, kissing him, his hips moving just right inside of him, perfect cock, just like Dean's, taking it out of him. That's what it does, the only difference. Instead of filling Sam with seed, it drains him. But it's good. It's so good.
Sam is coming undone and it doesn't matter. Nothing about this is fake to him. It's his brother. Every now and then, between gasps for air, he really does believe it's his brother. He ends up so wrapped up in it that he doesn't even see Dean until the pleasure is ripped away, leaving Sam with nothing but a gaping ache inside, a hard cock, and his brother's gorgeous body lying next to him in bed, dead as dirt.
Sam cries out, reaches for the body and cradles its face. "You killed him," he says. "Why did you kill him?" He shakes his head. "No. No, no, he was so good. He was so good to me, why?"
"Sammy." Dean's voice is furious, so commanding Sam has to look away from the dead succubus and face him. "You let that thing have you. How could you let that thing have you?"
"How could you hurt him?" Sam fires back. "He was good to me. Look at him. Look at him, he was perfect."
Sam turns back to the body, strokes its cheek. Gets some ideas he knows he'll be disgusted by if he lives long enough, but he didn't get to keep Dean last time, and he's been alone so long.
"Dean," Sam whispers, kissing the slack mouth, the still-warm cheeks. "My Dean."
"That's not me," Dean says. "Sam, you know that's not me, how could you let that thing kill you? Like-like that?"
Sam turns to look at his brother, lets the succubus drop. "I was alive."
"You're alive," Dean agrees, like he doesn't get the connection.
"I was alive and then you took it away," Sam bunches his fists in the sheets, his erection still straining for attention. "Don't you get it, Dean? I'm only alive when you're near me. Inside me. When you're not here, I'm not here. It wasn't killing me anymore than usual. But it made me alive just a few seconds longer."
Dean waves his hand at the bed, and the body disappears, but Dean sits down where it was, so Sam can't complain. "If I could," he says, and he leaves it at that. That's all he needs to say. Sam understands.
"When we kissed…" Sam shudders. "What would happen if we fucked?"
"I don’t know, Sammy," Dean says. There's longing clear in his voice, but he shakes his head. "I'm afraid to find out."
Sam nods, then lies down on his side so he's facing his brother. "Are you going to give back the life force he took from me now?"
Dean tilts his chin at Sam's dick. "Finish."
Without hesitation, Sam reaches down, works himself as slowly as he can manage, trying to draw it out. It's impossible with Dean watching him, all his desire so openly displayed. When Sam gets close, Dean reaches for him, presses his hand to the center of Sam's chest.
Sam's climax reaches its crest with an explosion of heat surging through him, spreading out from where all that life is flowing back into his body. Dean's touch, which has been so cold for years, now feels like the surface of the sun.
He blacks out before it's over, and by the time he comes to again, Dean has vanished. No surprise there. But he touches his hand to the burning spot on his chest, smiles at the pain that causes. In the mirror, he finds an angry burn mark in a circle the size of his brother's palm. It's his favorite death mark yet.
_______________________________________________________________
There's another hunt in Montana a few weeks later. This one is personal. A rawhead stealing kids from town, most recently a four year-old girl, and Sam knows he only has a few days to kill it before it starts snacking. There's already no hope for the two that got taken before.
Sam doesn't waste any time. He wants to save the girl, of course, but he has his own axe to grind as well. A rawhead killed his brother once. Indirectly, sure, and Dean didn't actually die, but the grudge remains. Sam hates everything that tried or took his brother from him, with Sam himself topping the list.
Luckily, rawheads lack creativity and are easy to find. They all live in the same habitats, dark dingy homes near swamps or other still water. They take the same prey and leave the same clues behind. They move slow, too, and Sam follows his instincts to an abandoned cabin just outside of the small town where the child was snatched, only a stone's throw from the local lake.
With just one look through the window, Sam is able to identify the cupboard where the monster is storing its victims. Then it's just a matter of waiting for the stupid bastard to show its ugly face, and Sam lights it up like the New York skyline.
The girl is alive. Sam finds her cramped in the closet with the other children's stripped bones, dirty and scared out of her mind, but she's in one piece. He thinks, in his endless naiveté, that the day is a win.
She cries the whole drive home, which isn't all that surprising, considering what she's been through. Sam's soothing words don't do a thing to calm her. He takes her to the door of her house, knocks and returns her to a mother who is herself crying and smiling and thanking Sam, until the baby points at him and starts screaming. Monster. She thinks Sam is the monster. The mother backs away, slams the door as if Sam will come after them.
There are already cop cars flashing as they turn the corner by the time Sam is speeding off in the opposite direction, never more grateful that the Impala is slick, black, nearly impossible to see at night. He drives until he knows he's safe, and then he parks the car at the first gas station he finds.
In the bathroom, he looks his reflection in the eye, trying to see what that little girl saw. What made him the scary thing, even after days with nothing but a boogeyman and skeletons for company.
It's not hard to understand once he's searching for it. Sam takes in the horrific tint to his skin, a leftover gift from the succubus. The stitches holding all his limbs in place, his Frankenstein's creature neck and arms and legs. Somehow, being the walking dead hadn't really hit him when he was only seeing it through his own or Dean's eyes, warped as they are from a lifetime of so much evil he can't distinguish it in the mirror.
It's hideous, this thing he's become. This thing Dean has turned him into. No wonder children think he's the monster. It won't be long before it's not just them.
Sam lashes out at his reflection, punches it until there's a sliver of glass big enough to lodge in his throat. His brother appears and Sam can't beg him to die this time, he's got no voice. Doesn't matter. Dean knows what he wants and doesn’t give it to him.
He fixes Sam as much as he can and he leaves. That's his specialty now. It used to be Sam's sin, leaving. But Dean's getting good at it. He's making up for lost time.
_______________________________________________________________
It becomes a regular thing with them. Sam waits for a trigger and then he pulls it. Sometimes just waking up is enough. Dean is angry about it some days, or sad, or downright cheerful on others, as if he's been as anxious to see Sam as Sam is to see him. Sometimes Sam gets creative and sometimes he sticks to the classics. Sometimes he's passive aggressive about it. Dean's favorite glock has been fired into his brain no less than five times.
He collects the bullets after his brother is done fishing them out. Thinks maybe he'll wait until he has enough and find a nice way to repurpose them, turn them into a wall decoration or some jewelry to give Dean. Dean used to love that kind of shit. Not sure he could wear it with the new reaper threads, but he could keep it in his pocket, a nice little trinket from his zombie brother.
It gets to be damn near daily. Sam begs for death like he's starving for it (he is, sometimes, stops eating because it's better to think about the clawing from his insides than what he did to be this alone). Begs on his hands and knees, promises Dean the world if he'll just stop bringing him back. Pride is for angels and the living; Sam is neither.
But it's no use. Dean is now the little boy he never got to be in life, picking up the presents under the tree and shaking them to see what's inside.
He grabs Sam, and Sam wants to scold, "be careful, you'll break it," but there's no use. Everything is already broken, nothing but sharp, shattered edges inside this box that used to be a person.
"Please, put me down," Sam asks every time, hoping against everything that he'll get through, if not to his brother, to whatever part of Dean now doles out death as a mercy. "Like a dog, Dean. Put me down."
But Sam is Dean's favorite toy, so he tucks Sam back into his unwanted life like no one will notice the damage he's done come morning.
Then, gone. He's gone, and Sam can only hear his own steady pulse as it begins to beat again.
_______________________________________________________________
This was more-or-less a suicide. More-or-less. The monster he was hunting spit poison-filled needles from its mouth. Sam killed it, brass dagger to the heart of its pretty girl-shaped body.
Sure, he probably could have ducked away from that last one she spit a little faster, and by probably he means definitely, so that's why he's currently sitting against a brick wall in the alley of some dive bar in Vegas, mouth foaming with toxins as he throws up everything that was inside his failing organs.
He spits out the nasty taste and glares at his brother. "Not you."
Dean leans against the wall by a big green dumpster, looking like any other Vegas hot shot, dressed suave and radiating confidence, and cocks an eyebrow at him. "Excuse me?"
"I don't want you," Sam replies. "Send me another reaper. Someone reasonable. Tessa. She knew when to leave well enough alone."
Dean huffs out a laugh. "Tessa's not coming for you. I've got dibbs."
"So? I want to talk to your boss." Sam grins enthusiastically, because finally he's thought of something he hasn't tried yet. "Yeah, call Death. Let him see what you've done. He'll be so pissed at you, Dean. You won't be able to reap anymore. You'll have to go on to Heaven and I can final-"
"Sam," Dean interrupts. "Dammit, Sam, he's not coming. Tessa isn't either. No one is coming for you except me." Dean gets down on one knee next to him. "I've called them off, and I'm the boss now. Death knew, he knew what I was going to do for you when he left."
"Left?" Sam asks. He tilts his head, then looks at Dean's hand, and realizes something he should have so much sooner. The heavy ring on Dean's finger with the dull white rock inside, that's not part of the uniform like the suit is. That's not something the other reapers have. That's something only one has.
"You're Death now?" Sam asks, feeling his last hope deflate. "I'm never going to get out. Never? You can't just do this to me, Dean."
"I'll take you some day, okay? Once you've lived your time out. You haven't even tried that, just keep pulling these stunts, as if you couldn't take this monster one handed, blind, and drunk. Live for a while before you die, that's all I'm asking."
"It's easy for you to ask for that," Sam spits back, and it's not true, he knows. He'll never forget what it felt like when Dean kissed him, but he's angry and he'll say anything to push. "You always cheated. Made deals or talked me out of finishing trials so you wouldn't have to be the one left alone!"
"You think I have it easy?" Dean snaps. Sam nods, as much as you can when your neck is held on by green thread, wide mismatched stitches put in place by an amateur. "I take the sick six-year-olds now. The rosy pregnant ladies. Grandpa while his whole family is watching. I don't save people anymore, I do the opposite. It's a terrible job, but I learned. I won't break destiny again. I have to kill them, and I do it for you."
Sam laughs so hard it echoes off the alley's walls. He gets a perverse pleasure from watching Dean wince at how ugly the sound is. He bares his neck, so Dean has to see the sutures keeping his head on his shoulders, holds out his arms, as if he's asking for another dance, so Dean has to look at the long, razor-precise slices down his wrists. "You call this not breaking destiny? How many disasters do I set off every time you refuse to take me?"
Dean shakes his head. "It's not like that with you, Sam. You can't break destiny, everything else settles around you. You're the one holding things in place-destiny breathes you. It changes to fit you, you're what decides how everything else shakes out. We don't need to fit you into some plan. Things will adjust."
"Please," Sam whispers. "I don't want it to adjust. I don't want to learn to live without you. Please. Let me die. Just let me die."
He feels his brother cup his face gently in his cool hand, lifts his eyes to Dean's face just in time to see the disappointment painted there.
"Sammy, why don't you just try? Find a girl, or go get a dog. Hell, do both. I know it didn't work out in the past, but I won't come and screw it up this time. I want you to-to live a full life, try dying again when you're old and bald and at peace."
"Find a girl?" Sam asks Dean, and he feels himself smiling. "Get a dog."
Dean nods, and Sam shoves him back with more force than he should have, considering the puddles of his vomit and the blood that came with it rotting on the damp floor.
"Dogs bark at me," Sam tells him, his voice black and bitter. "People, when I talk to them, they get uncomfortable. I can see them fidgeting, they don't even know why, but I freak them out. I'm a fucking corpse, Dean. Who's gonna want me?"
From the look on Dean's face, the answer is obvious, and Sam drops his head, laughing again. Always. There are limits to unconditional, sometimes, for most people; never for Dean.
"Besides you," Sam clarifies, his voice choking up because there's no one else he wants, either, but here Dean is and in a few moments, he'll be gone, and his icy touches aren't anything Sam can cling to. "Who else would want me?"
"Please, just try, Sammy," Dean replies, like he's finally at a loss. Like he's some idiot child who really did think things would be this easy. Become a reaper to keep Sam alive and Sam will do just great. It's such a Dean mistake to make, and as much as it tears him apart, it's everything he's ever loved about his big brother.
Sam feels something break in him, a wave of affection for Dean crash down and drown him because he can't ever satisfy it again. He holds his hands out in front of his face and stares at them, waits for them to change, to look as evil as the deeds they've done, but they just sit there, perfectly normal aside from all the scars.
"What if I do try?" he asks in a hushed tone. "What if I meet someone and love them?" He looks up, into Dean's eyes, and he stretches his fingers until they touch his brother's neck, the clean, unmarred skin where there should be a deep cut. "How could I touch someone I love with the same hands I used to-?"
Dean curls his fingers around Sam's and lowers them from his throat, pressing them against his mouth instead. "I didn't give you a choice, Sam. You can't blame yourself."
"You never give me a choice," Sam answers, tired. "I love you, but you never did give me a choice."
He hears a sigh, but when he turns to face it, there's no one else in this alley but him. It might as well have been the wind. He finishes emptying his stomach of all the poison and picks himself up.
What do you know? He's alive. Alone and alive. It's a goddamned miracle.
_______________________________________________________________
Today, Sam's chosen method of suicide is old reliable: slit wrists, right down the dotted line of scars from the last time he died this way.
Dean looks annoyed when he shows up, and that makes Sam, spread out on this twin bed with his head lolling on the cheap motel pillow case, laugh so hard that the threads around his neck nearly snap, send him rolling across the room, taking his laughter with him.
"Hey, big brother," Sam says, grinning woozily.
Death crosses his arms over his chest. Such pretty arms, Sam thinks. He wonders if they could wrap around him, squeeze so tight the top half of him just falls right off. "We should try that," he tells the ceiling, and he hears Dean moving closer.
"What, are you drunk or something?"
"Mmm, blood loss," Sam answers, trying to lift his arms to make the point, but he feels a lot weaker than he'd realized.
"It'll come back," Dean says, and then he turns away like that's it and he's leaving.
"Wait." Sam pouts like he used to as a kid, and it works as well as it ever did. He forces himself to sit up against the headboard, and Dean lingers in the doorway. "I'll think of a better way next time. Something that doesn't-" Sam closes his eyes tight to try and preempt the fainting spell that he feels coming on. His vision is black, full of stars. He doesn't want that. He wants to see his reaper.
He presses his hand against his temple and rubs at it until he feels a little better. He's wasting time. The sooner he stops dying, the less time he'll have with Dean. "I'll find a way to die that lets me think clearly, for next time."
"How about there isn't a next time?" Dean asks, moving into the room.
"Decapitation was my favorite, I think," Sam continues, ignoring his brother. "You stayed so long that time, sewing me back together. I was dead a long time, wasn't I?"
"Yeah." Dean's voice is thin, weak. Sam used to hate hearing it like that. Now he just loves hearing it, anyway he can get it.
"Hard to do to yourself, though," Sam tells him. "That's why it's not a particularly popular method of suicide, I guess. I could find people to help. I'm sure plenty would be willing."
"I don't want to have this conversation," Dean says.
"Oh, which one do you want to have?" Sam asks, smiling and peppy. "We don't have long, so, you know. Might as well be one we'll both enjoy."
"I have a job to do, Sam. This isn't it."
"Wasn't this the point? Of taking the job. Wasn't it to see me?" Sam frowns, looks down at his oozing wrists. That really hurt his feelings. "You told me once that it was for me, that you did this for me. Now you don't want to see me?"
"I don't want to see you dying every three days!" Dean snaps, turning too fast and slamming his hands against the wall. "I took the job to keep you alive, not to keep seeing you die."
"That was stupid," Sam replies bluntly. "Becoming a reaper so you don't have to see me die. I only see you when I'm dying."
"I can see you when…" Dean's lips thin, and he doesn't finish his sentence. Sam's probably not any more of a comfort to him when he's doing whatever it is he does when he isn't on Death's door-living isn't quite the right word for it.
"You coulda gone to Heaven," says Sam. "You could have just gone to Heaven and waited for me there. I would have found you. We could have been together in that shithole forever."
Dean shakes his head, but he doesn't look like he's gonna say another word.
"You stayed instead. To what? To force me to live? What's the fucking point? You never could just let me die, but now you've ruined everything. We would have had each other eventually, Dean. You ruined everything."
"Don't say that, Sam." Dean moves closer, passes his thumb over the wound on Sam's arm, which is starting to get crusty with drying blood. "You don't understand."
"Understand what?" Sam closes his eyes, lets himself enjoy Dean's touch, even if it's cold and only making the pain in his wrist sharper. His dick stirs, just because Dean is touching him, even though he knows it won't go anywhere and, fuck, Sam is dying of blood loss, why the hell is his body bothering getting hard right now? "Understand that Dad fucked you up, made you think me dying was the worst thing that could happe-?"
"That's not what this is about," Dean tells him, in a cool, rational voice. His 'I'm older and wiser, so just shut up and take it' voice. Sam used to hate that one, too.
"Then why?"
He shrugs. "I'm stuck here anyway. Thought I might as well take a job. Give Death some vacation days-he's been working a long time, you know. Guy got tired."
"You're lying." Sam actually smiles, fond. Never could understand why Dean ever bothered trying to slip lies past him, but sometimes it was endearing. Such a patently Dean thing to do. "I know when you're lying."
"It's part of the trial, Sam. I have to stay in the veil. Or they come back. Hell is only shut down as long as I'm still on this plane, holding the trial in place. So I took the job. Better than sticking around, haunting you. Going crazy. Making you crazy."
Sam lets out a hysterical laugh. More of a giggle, really. It's high pitched, and even in Sam's own ears, it rubs him all wrong. "God forbid I go crazy."
Dean's lip goes up in the corner, a soft smile, but there's something else to it. He's happy, the way he only is when he's pulled one on Sam. He thinks Sam bought it, and Sam might have, if not for that smile.
"You're still lying." Sam shakes his head. "The trial was supposed to punish me. There's no reason you wouldn't be able to go right on to Heaven."
"Sam," Dean warns. Then it's all so fucking painfully obvious, Sam's been such an idiot this whole time.
"I can't die," he says, the horror of it dawning on him. "I can't die, can I?"
"Yes, you can die," Dean promises, hand soothing through Sam's hair. "One day, you'll die."
"No," Sam looks down at his corpse, and it clicks. Dean really was doing him a favor. Has been doing him a favor this whole time. "That's how the trial works, isn't it? It was a punishment for me, I-I'm supposed to live without you. It only works as long as I'm…"
"I'll still take you," Dean says after a long, stifling silence.
When Sam looks up at him, Dean's eyes are directed to the floor. He's ashamed, but he's not backing down. "None of the other reapers would have. They would have made you go on living forever, because that's what the damned trial demands. Because that's supposed to be your destiny. But I'm Death now, Sammy. I'm the boss, none of them can stop me. I'll take you someday. When this is too much. I'll take you to Heaven."
He smiles, his hand more insistent in Sam's hair, the other coming up to stroke his cheek. "I wouldn't do it before you figured it out. It should be your choice. But as soon as you can't take this anymore, as soon as you decide you've done enough. You've saved them long enough, Sam, this shouldn't be your burden. You can be at peace in Heaven now. No more hurting. No more dying. I'll let this world burn as long as you're not in it."
Sam shakes his head, and it's not because he cares too much about the nine billion souls that would suffer if he went with Dean. Not anymore-he's lonely lifetimes past being numb to anything except the gaping hole that's only ever full when Sam's carved out some vital organ. "You won't be there."
Dean shakes his head. "I'm stuck here now," he says. "The deal I made with Death…it wasn't temporary."
"It won't be Heaven," Sam answers. "My Hell is a room without you in it."
"Then what?" Dean asks.
That's it, the million dollar question. Sam looks down, at the edge of the blade he'd used to call Dean this time. His brother is beginning to fade, which means Sam is coming back to life again. He doesn't have much time.
His fingers curl around the handle, and he turns the sharp end on himself. "Then this."
Pain explodes through his chest at the first stab, and Dean tries to reach out, tries to prevent Sam from continuing, a look on his face like Sam's lost his damn mind, all the way this time, not just the bits and chunks that have been going for years. He just doesn't understand yet. He will.
It's easy for Sam to dodge Dean's attempt, it's easy to pull the knife through thick layers of flesh, it's easy to ignore the agonizing ache in his chest. It's not much different from the way he feels when he's whole and Dean is somewhere else, reaping someone luckier than Sam.
After the first two drags, Dean gives up, sits and watches Sam work with a sad, resigned look on his face, because what he is, he can't stop Sam from killing himself. That's not a reaper's job.
Then Sam finishes, lets the useless flap of skin fall down from his body and into his lap. The important thing is the squirming mass Sam can now see in the window he's opened.
"Sam, stop," Dean says. "What the hell are you doing?"
Sam pries his fingers in, wonders if they're dirty, if he'll get an infection, then laughs at how stupid the thought is. He pulls his heart out, tugs hard enough that all the connecting organs, the tissue around it-whatever the blade didn't already sever-it all gives. Blood pours out, painting him, painting Dean. Dean, who is not just redder, but now more solid in front of Sam. Because Sam has pulled his heart out of his chest, and he is well and truly dying.
It's not the kind of wound Dean can sew up, pretend never happened, wait for it to heal with time. Not unless he pushes the thing back into Sam's chest, and Sam hopes he'll be kinder than that, that he'll use this gift better than the last one Sam gave him. But this is Dean's choice from here on out.
"Take it," Sam tells him, extending his hands. "Take it and I'll always be dying. Maybe not dead. Maybe not passing on. But dying. You can see me whenever you want. I'll be able to see you. We won't have to wait."
His brother's eyes scan over his sawed open body, his eyes glassy. Sam wonders if Death can cry, and then a tear slips out, and that's answered for him. "You're in pain," he says. "You can't go through life like this. You're always going to be hurting."
Sam laughs. Warm blood bubbles up from his mouth. How warm, when there's nothing pumping it? Sam's body is a wonder. He doesn't bother saying another goddamn word on the subject. That he's always in pain, worse than this, when he's alone. Dean will either get it or he won't.
"Take it," Sam begs. "I don't need a heart if I don't have you."
Dean hesitates before cupping his hands around Sam's, like he's scared to touch it directly. Which is just stupid, really, because Dean has been finger painting his name on Sam's heart since he was four years old.
Sam drops it then, lets the pool of blood slip through his fingers along with the still-beating muscle. It'll go on like that forever if Dean keeps it, squirming and ticking even though it's not attached and the body it's keeping alive doesn't need it.
Dean hefts it in his palm, hands dropping just an inch or so, as if the weight of it is more than he was expecting and he's not sure he can bear it. Same way he held the amulet Sam gave him a thousand Christmases ago, or the bags of Funyuns at the grocery store he used to weigh to compare, trying to pick the one that would fill Sam up the most. Hand sinking down, mouth open in concentration, and a faint sense of awe.
When he finally looks up at Sam, something has changed. Sam doesn't know what, if it spells good news for him, or if Dean will try reconnecting the damn thing, forcing Sam to march on without him.
"Do you like it?" Sam asks when he can't stand to wait a second longer.
Dean smiles. "It's beautiful, Sammy. I love it."
The End.
PART TWO
There are good days and there are bad days. The good days aren't actually good, but they're serviceable. The bad days, well. There aren't words.
He goes back to the bunker every now and then. Between hunts. When the stitches holding his limbs together need a touch up, or the local libraries aren't quite supplying the research answers he needs.
There are always bits and pieces lying about, signs that there are lives being lived here when he's away. Castiel's new favorite hoodie draped over a chair in the study, Charlie's video game systems hooked up to the giant screens that used to be for monitoring demonic omens.
Even Jody checks in every now and then, less in person, but often with phone calls and emails. She's started to take stock of cases around Sioux Falls that don't fall under her jurisdiction, non-human crime, and has even begun to build a web of hunters to assign cases to. She tells Sam to stuff it when he makes a joke about her becoming the new Bobby, but the smile is there in her voice.
They speak and she sounds proud of the hunt she's just put away, and she's full of praise for the help Sam supplied her with. Today, Sam thinks it's a good day. A 'getting along fine' kind of day. After Jody hangs up, he goes grocery shopping, and he makes it past the 'homemade' pies and the saturated fats in crinkly bags, so he thinks he'll be just fine.
The canned food aisle takes him by surprise. It's a wall of Spaghetti-Os, the first 'dinner' Sam ever learned how to make for himself. It's the memory of his much bigger brother standing with his chest pressed against Sam's back as Sam stood on a plastic blue stool and stirred the neon orange noodles, and the way Dean had smiled as he ate them that night, swore up and down it was the best Spaghetti-Os he'd ever eaten, even though, at best, they tasted exactly the same as the thousands of cans of the shit they'd eaten before and the thousands that came after.
It's the creepy smiling anthropomorphized O on the label glaring at Sam with a thumbs up, accusing, that makes him snap. Sam had felt so proud of himself that night. Had really believe Dean all the times he'd let Sam make dinner, claiming it was because Sam was so much better at it, when really he was just trying to make his needy little brother feel slightly less useless.
For a time, not a terribly long time, when Sam had fallen for it, these cheap cans of crap had made him feel like a hero. Like an older brother. And he'd brought Dean little bowls full of orange goop when he was sick in bed, so damn proud that he was the one keeping Dean alive and healthy and strong for once.
He doesn't realize he's shaking the shelf, trying to make it fall down and crush him, not until there are cans spilling around him, the busted lids spilling tomato-scented blood all along the aisle and at his feet, and Sam crumples to the floor, sobbing because he used to think he could keep Dean alive and all he's ever done is the opposite.
There are four employees surrounding him in moments, shouting for him to calm down, customers yelling for the cops, security shoving their way past everyone to force Sam to his feet. He doesn't make it home with groceries that night, and he's banned from the local supermarket, and he hardly gets out before the cops arrive.
But he's lucky, right? Because he inherited an overstocked medicine cabinet and a stash of bad alcohol from his dearly departed older brother, and by the time the sun sets, Sam's taken everything and washed it down with a side of liver failure.
Dean finds Sam not in a grungy motel room with his killer looming over him this time, but sitting on the floor in his own room, leaning back against the foot of Dean's bed.
He looks confused for about a second, but his eyes roam the room, take stock of the empty pill bottles, and then he's pissed.
"Sam, what did you do?"
"What'd'you mean what'd I do, you were there." Sam laughs, then shakes his head. "Then you weren't there. I guess that's the part I did."
Dean crouches down beside him, starts picking up the prescription bottles and reading the labels. "Sleeping pills, Sam. Seriously?"
"Oh, like you never thought about it."
"Thought about it!" Dean yells. "Never fucking did it!"
"I've done a lot of things you haven't," Sam replies, reaching out. Dean pulls away from his touch. That's not what Sam wanted him to do. He tries again, but apparently Dean's face isn't where it looks like it is. On second thought, Sam would probably be able to tell a little better if he wasn't, you know, drunk and stoned and brain dead.
Dean sighs. "You killed yourself. That's how you're gonna play this? I give you a chance to live a better life and you try to throw it away. What, did you really think this would work? Did you think I would take you just bec-?"
"It wasn't the first time, either," Sam says to his hands, which have somewhere between 5 and 15 fingers on them. "Not many people can say that."
"You've never killed yourself before," Dean says.
Sam snorts. "Not that, who cares about that?"
"I care," Dean says. Then, "I'm not going to play this game with you."
"Was it a game? It was, I guess. A game. Not for me, but still. It was a game."
"Sammy, what are you talking ab-?"
"The first time I killed you. Well, the first time was an accident. Lots of them were accidents. But the first time I did it on purpose." Sam lets out a dull sob and shakes his head at his still-swimming hands. "Wrapped them right around your neck. You had no idea why. You didn't even fight back, you looked so confused. So betrayed."
"That's not how it happened," Dean says. As if he knows. As if he's had to remember. He got off so easy and Sam never even told him. Never even told him more than the simplest little details.
"You don't understand," he says. "It had been so many days. So many Tuesdays and you kept dying. And I couldn't save you. So many days. I couldn't count them anymore."
"Are you talking about Broward?" Dean asks, taking a seat next to Sam. "It wasn't real. You know that."
"It was real to me. I thought it was real. And I still did it. Wrapped these hands around your pretty neck, first thing in the morning. Alarm was hardly done singing that fucking song at me and I was so tired. So tired. Every day, just waiting to find out how you would die."
"It wasn't-"
"What's real? Is getting your head chopped off and walking away from it real? Is that real? I remember clear as day. He didn't make me forget any of those days. Those six months."
"I thought it was 100 days?" Dean interrupts.
Sam rolls his eyes. He doesn’t have time to catch Dean up on this shit. He's only got so much time before he isn't dead anymore. "It was real. It was me. Choked the life out of you. Watched you die and there was a moment after. Between the light going out of your eyes and the alarm starting over, there was this long moment. Where I thought this would be the one. This one would stick and it would count and I would have been the thing that killed you. Completely by my own choice, not an accident. It was the worst moment of my life up until then."
"It wasn't real," Dean tries again, and Sam finally looks at him, right in the eye.
"That's every moment now," he says. "This is real."
He watches Dean's expression soften, closes his eyes and leans into the touch and gives a grateful sigh when his brother's hand brushes gently along his cheek. He can feel the lethargy from the pills wearing off, the alcohol leaving his system and sobering him up. He can feel himself getting strong again. But Dean is touching him, so he can't find it in himself to resent it much.
When he's done, Dean shakes Sam so he opens his eyes, and Sam can hardly see him now. Dean's voice is clear as cursed crystal when he speaks, the tone he always saved for repeating Dad's orders. "Don't you ever do this again."
_______________________________________________________________
On August 31, 2015 (exactly three years since the first time, or so Sam is told), Castiel marries Daphne Allen in the little church they worship at every Sunday. It's a lovely ceremony with a peaceful reception held at the park across the street, the kind of picturesque scene Sam has never seen outside of movies and photographs with singed corners.
He calls Sam two weeks before, tells him where to go, and directs him to bring his nicest suit because "you're going to be a best man." Sam doesn't push back, just gets in the car. He has the entire drive from Kansas to Colorado to think about who should really be Cas's best man and why he isn't here to celebrate this and to get angry with his friend for choosing him instead.
Castiel never hated Sam for what he did to Dean the way Sam wishes he did. Just made sorry faces and said unwelcome wise shit that made Sam want to punch him, like "You both did what was necessary. Dean was always a warrior."
Three-fourths of the guests sit on the bride's side and the rows reserved for the groom are nearly empty. But Castiel smiles at his rag-tag group of guests as if there's no one missing.
Kevin and his mother sit side-by-side, and over dinner, Mrs. Tran brags about Kevin's accomplishments after his first year at college. Jody shows up with a man who looks more like Crowley's old meatsuit than Sam is comfortable with ("What? We established the guy is my type," she jokes when she sees Sam's raised eyebrows).
Charlie is there with her new girlfriend Dione, a tall, strikingly beautiful woman with wild hair and dark skin. True to form, Charlie is wearing a silkscreened tuxedo t-shirt and bright blue slacks; Dione's flowing green dress was what she was wearing the first time they met, originally part of what they call a cosplay, and Sam nods along as they hold hands and tell their story, all the while secretly thinking that Dean would be the one to get excited about the costumes and roleplaying they're describing. Dean should be here.
Late into the night, when the dancing is in full swing and little girls with flowers in their hair are standing on their father's feet as they sway to cheesy music, Castiel collapses into the seat next to him. He looks exhausted, hair mussed, tie loose around his neck like Sam has never seen it. His cheeks are red with exertion (and probably more than his share of champagne), and he looks happy. He looks human.
"I hope you're enjoying yourself," he says, giving Sam a smile that doesn't quite touch his eyes.
Castiel understands. Sam knows he understands. Better than anyone else on the planet, but that doesn't mean Sam won't lie right now, fake joviality for the sake of his-Dean's-closest friend's happiest day.
"Having a great time," he says, smiling because, well, in truth, it's been his best day since Dean died, and that is worth something. "Sorry I didn't give much of a speech."
Castiel waves him off, making a dismissive noise. "It was a perfectly serviceable speech. Besides, Daphne's just excited I actually have people here this time. Last time it was Joe from work and his three bored sons on my side of the aisle. Her uncle, who I'd never met, had to be best man. Amnesia, you know? Didn't know who else to invite. She didn't say anything at the time, but I think it made her sad."
Sam laughs and looks across the dance floor, to where the bride is talking to Jody and the Crowley doppelganger, her head thrown back on a genuine laugh. "She's really gorgeous, Cas. Didn't get to meet her last time because," he scoffs a laugh, thinking a wedding isn't really the time to bring up Lucifer and insane asylums, scars Castiel bears just as surely as Sam does. "Well, you remember. Anyway, she's stunning."
"She is," Castiel agrees, lifting his head to follow Sam's sightline. Sam watches the way his lips curl up in a quiet smile, and he feels an ache in his chest. It's bittersweet. Sam is jealous, he hates himself for that, but he can't help feeling it.
"You came back to her," he says. Castiel looks back at him very quickly, cocking his head in that way he always has. "I mean, you never really mentioned her much. But you came right back."
He nods, gives Sam a thoughtful look before sitting back in his rickety white chair, spreading his hands. "It's hard to remember feelings like this when you're an angel. I never really forgot but it was…dulled."
"But being human…?"
"Being human," Castiel says, his head bobbing from side to side. "It puts things in perspective. I had a lot of reasons to feel lost when Metatron first cast me out, I was very unhappy. But I remembered her. I remembered that for that brief time, even as an angel, living with her made me happy."
Sam feels a smile bloom on his lips. Not a big one, but a real one, for the first time, one that's not tied to dying, but to the thought that people who suffered through what he and Dean did can still find joy in living. "What's she like?"
"She is kind. The type of woman who will take in a stranger and care for him. Even after he abandons her. She forgave me." Castiel gives Sam a guilty smile, then shrugs. "She still loves me, even though I have not performed any miracles since returning and have given her some idea of why I never will. She says that my returning is a miracle in itself, she believes that God brought me to her, both times."
Sam can't quite help letting out a bitter laugh at that, and Castiel makes a wry face, then smiles down at his hands. "Her faith is wildly inaccurate and misplaced, of course. But it's simple. It's good. She feels great hope, and that gives me hope as well. I think, had my father truly been the Lord she worships, this world would have been a calmer place. It would not have required you and your brother's sacrifices."
"That's pretty blasphemous, Cas," Sam teases.
Cas gives him a sly grin, standing and patting Sam on the back. "You won't tell on me."
"Nah," Sam agrees. "I'm a locked box."
Across the floor, grinning family members are waving to Cas, and the DJ announces that the bride and groom are about to dance their last song. Castiel leans in, squeezing Sam's shoulder. "Daphne isn't the only one who is glad you were here this time, Sam."
Sam wonders if Castiel knows, somehow, that just a few months ago, Sam tried to kill himself with pills and poison and the only reason he's here is that his brother is a stubborn sonofabitch. But there's no way-Cas isn't an angel anymore, and empathy was never his strong suit even when he did have powers.
So Sam stands to give him a half-hug, a pat on the back as he watches his friend pull away. "I'm glad I could be here, too," he says, knowing full well he'll be dead again before midnight.
_______________________________________________________________
"Now what’s this?" Dean asks. He appears in his impeccable black suit, looks around Sam's hotel suite and whistles. "Not the usual setting, Sammy."
Sam is standing at the end of his bed, the jacket he'd worn to the reception tossed on the foot of the mattress, his white undershirt rolled up to his elbows, and his slashed wrists making little red puddles on the bleached white carpet.
"You spring on this room just to do that?" Dean asks, his tone only a little biting as he points to the mess Sam made.
Sam shakes his head. "Bride's family is paying for the lodging," he explains.
The word 'bride' makes his brother stand up like he's been electrocuted. But then he smiles. Wide, proud, big brother smile. It's a best man smile. "You…you got-"
"Not me," Sam replies, and Dean looks simultaneously disappointed and relieved. "Castiel. Renewed his vows with Daphne."
"Daphne?" Dean asks, like he's never heard the name before. Then he laughs. "Oh, right. Emmanuel chick?"
"Yes, well. She knows his real name now." Sam smiles. "He took her last name."
"Good ol' Cas, doing the decent thing, I guess." Dean shakes his head. "What a sucker."
"It's more than that," Sam insists. "He really loves her. He's happy."
"Yeah?" Dean sits on the edge of the bed, wrinkling Sam's nice jacket. "Well, damn. That's great for him, then."
Sam nods. He doesn't sit. Doesn't want to get the blood on the comforter. He's tired of leaving nightmares behind for unsuspecting maids. "Charlie was here. She's got a serious girlfriend now."
"Hot," Dean answers, wiggling his eyebrows.
"You're terrible," Sam replies.
Dean grins and nods. "Damn right I am. Who else?"
"Jody met another dude online. Looks like Crowley, too, but at least we can be sure he's not a demon this time. She promised she's checked him out with silver, so he's not a shifter, either."
"She's a quick learner," says Dean. "She'll be fine."
"Kevin goes to MIT," he continues. "His mom was here. They aren't mad at you anymore."
Dean turns away with a slight flinch, but when he looks up, he's nodding gratefully. "I'm glad. Thanks for letting me know."
"It was beautiful," Sam tells him. "It was a beautiful night. It was a beautiful ceremony. Everyone was happy."
"What else?" Dean takes Sam's hand, looks up the line of blood on his arm until he meets Sam's eyes. "What else happened? What aren't you telling me?"
"Nothing else."
"Then why this?" Dean asks, lifting Sam's upturned forearm to his lips, pressing an icy kiss to the busted skin, and Sam feels the flesh begin to knit back together. "If it was so nice and everyone was so happy, why would you do this?"
"I was lonely," Sam admits, tears springing to his eyes, impossible to hold back. "I was so lonely. Everybody had someone, Dean."
"You could have had someone," Dean tells him, tracing the reformed skin on his left arm. "You coulda had a nice girl or-whatever. Someone here with you. I want that for you."
Sam shakes his head. "Everyone had someone they loved," he says. "That's why I did this. I wanted to see the person I love."
Dean sighs and stands up, reaching for Sam's right arm like he's gonna fix it, too. Sam snatches it away.
"I know you're not going to reap me," Sam explains when Dean looks up at him, all annoyed big brother. "I know. But don't fix it yet. Stay with me. Just a little while. I just want to not be alone. I want someone to dance with, like everyone else had."
Alive, Dean would never have agreed to something like that. He would have mocked Sam for years just for asking. But Dean is past that now. He wraps one arm around Sam's waist and scoops him in close, and Sam doesn't care that he's shivering in the frozen grip. He lets Dean whisk him from one end of the room to the next, neither of them knowing where the hell to put their feet or how to go about this gracefully.
Sam doesn't doubt they look like a wreck, but he's on cloud nine. He rests his head on his brother's cold shoulder, feels bliss like he's never known before as Dean rocks him to and fro, humming something out of tune beneath his breath. One of those classic rock songs he used to use as lullabies, maybe. Sam does feel weak, so he lets his body sag, lets his big brother prop him up like Dean has so many times before.
"I miss you, Dean," Sam whispers against the thick fabric of his brother's suit. "I miss you all the time."
"I know," Dean says. "I miss you too."
He pulls back, and Sam can see the red splatters on his brother's shirt. "Ruined it," he says, reaching out to touch one of the wet spots. "I ruined it."
"Shh, hey, no," Dean grabs Sam's hands by the wrists, the split one and the clean one alike. He makes Sam look up into his eyes, and the smile on his brother's lips is nothing but tender, adoring, gentle. He never looked at Sam like that alive. Not once. Why did they both have to die to see this? "Hate this stupid suit. But now that it's got you on it, it's better. You made it better."
Sam doesn't even think before he presses his lips against Dean's, and Dean lets go of Sam's hands to grab his face with two eager palms, one slick with warm blood, the other freezing cold without it. Dean deepens the kiss and Sam-
Sam would fall back if Dean wasn't holding him so tight. Every moment their lips are touching, he's slammed with images, each more violent than the last. He sees bodies laid out on pavement, children who are lost and scared and alone, he sees himself through his brother's eyes. He feels Dean's agony, the loneliness, how much his brother hates this job he's taken on to protect Sam. It's a different kind of pain from his own, but just as sharp and just as constant.
Dean pushes him away with such ferocity that Sam collapses onto the floor, falls onto his own blood stains. He looks up in confusion, and he sees pure terror on his brother's face.
"I forgot," he says, sounding far away. "God, Sam, I forgot. I forgot it would happen. I didn’t know how to control it."
"Dean," Sam says, reaching out to his brother with his injured arm. "Dean, what was that?"
"I'm sorry," he says. He kneels down next to Sam, accepting the outstretched arm. "Fuck, Sam, I'm so sorry."
"Talk to me," Sam pleads. "Is that what you have to do because of me?"
Dean shakes his head, presses him thumb to the end of one slice until it begins to disappear, replaced by scar tissue. "I stayed too long," he says. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I stayed too long this time."
"No." Sam reaches out for him again, but Dean is releasing his mostly healed arms. He's beginning to fade. "Don't leave me. Don't leave me here like this."
Dean doesn't answer except to get the first aid kit from Sam's duffel. He sits down to wrap bandages around what's left of Sam's wrists, quiet and exact, and when he's done with Sam, he's done.
He discovers a succubus in a little bar in Tennessee. Well, the succubus finds him in the bar, but Sam did track it here.
Four bodies so far. No pattern for age, race, sex, or occupation, but they could be linked by the way they died: each one at home, in bed, their skin a curious shade of gray and their faces frozen in smiles. He figures out what it is within the first hour of research. Not a lot of things out there that leave behind a trail of happy, fucked out victims.
The thing takes the seat right next to him at the bar and announces itself. It's new for Sam, but monsters with no sense of self-preservation are something he can sympathize with these days.
"Sam Winchester," it says, in a voice more familiar to Sam than his own. He looks over to his left and he sees Dean there, a perfect copy, every freckle in place, his outfit loose worn leather and plaid and denim, much more his brother's style than the suit he wears lately.
That's the only way Sam knows it's the monster and not some fluke death.
Sam slips his hand to his gun and begins to pull it out. "You think I won't waste you in front of all these people, you're wrong. Take my brother's face off and I won't make it hurt too much."
The succubus raises its hands in the universal gesture for surrender. "Hey, calm down, man. I just want to talk."
"Not as Dean," Sam forces every word through gritted teeth. "Change your shape. Now."
"I can't," it says. "I'm talking to you, and you see what you want to see. Not my fault."
"I guess I'll be that much happier to kill you, then."
"You could do that," the succubus admits. "I can't take you. I've heard about you, and I know already. I can't take you."
"So why aren't you running?" Sam asks. "You shouldn't have come to me, because now I'm going to kill you that much sooner."
"How sure are you that that's what you wanna do?"
Sam tilts his head. "What are you talking about?"
"Look, Sam. I know you hunters are very black and white about this kind of thing, but I'm not evil just because I kill people."
Sam snorts.
Dean's eyes narrow at him. It's not the way Dean used to do it, but they're such nice eyes, Sam lets himself get a little distracted by them anyway. "I'm serious. I need life force to live, that's just the way I was made. But I don’t take anyone who doesn't know what they're doing and choose to do it anyway."
"Why would anyone-?"
"Well, just look at you," the monster says, smiling with a slight edge of smugness. "Come on, I told you I've heard of you. I know what you want, and it's not to live. I can offer you what you want. The same thing I've offered everyone I ever fed off. It's a pleasant little death, and the whole time you get to have your brother any way you want him."
Sam swallows hard and watches as the succubus covers his wrist with its hand. With Dean's hand. Warm, like it was when his brother was alive. The one night he got to feel Dean's hands in all the places he wanted them. It's good, so good that Sam feels immediately guilty.
But he realizes with a shock that no one has touched him since Castiel's wedding, and that was over two months ago. Before that, it had been even longer. Not even a casual brush, not even a bump in a crowd. People steer clear of him. The only things he touches now are the creatures he fights. This warm hand on his is unthinkably comforting and welcome, even if it's just another beast he needs to kill. He doesn't want it to stop touching him. It's Dean's hand.
"You're coming on to me," Sam says, less a question than an observation.
"I know the look of someone who wants to die," the monster answers matter-of-factly. "Like I said, I can't fight you. You’d catch me if I tried to run. So you've got two choices. You can kill me. Or you can let me give you everything you've been dying for."
Sam is back in his motel room in minutes, slamming his brother's body against a wall, kissing the mouth deep and moaning because it even tastes like Dean.
It's not the same, not exactly the same, not as good as the real thing. But it's so much. It's so much and Sam has had so little.
He strips quickly, watches the succubus remove layers of his brother's clothing until Dean is standing in front of him, bare and beautiful as he was his last night on Earth. The succubus stares at all the marks on his body, starting with the scar at the base of his spine, the first cut he shouldn't have healed from, and then shakes its head. "You shouldn't be alive," it tells him.
"You're preaching to the choir," Sam responds, and then they get swept away, too distracted to worry about Sam's cuts and bruises.
The succubus was right. What it gives him is a gracious gift, ecstasy so intense his body can't handle it. So, yes, he dies. But he dies with his brother's face above him, kissing him, his hips moving just right inside of him, perfect cock, just like Dean's, taking it out of him. That's what it does, the only difference. Instead of filling Sam with seed, it drains him. But it's good. It's so good.
Sam is coming undone and it doesn't matter. Nothing about this is fake to him. It's his brother. Every now and then, between gasps for air, he really does believe it's his brother. He ends up so wrapped up in it that he doesn't even see Dean until the pleasure is ripped away, leaving Sam with nothing but a gaping ache inside, a hard cock, and his brother's gorgeous body lying next to him in bed, dead as dirt.
Sam cries out, reaches for the body and cradles its face. "You killed him," he says. "Why did you kill him?" He shakes his head. "No. No, no, he was so good. He was so good to me, why?"
"Sammy." Dean's voice is furious, so commanding Sam has to look away from the dead succubus and face him. "You let that thing have you. How could you let that thing have you?"
"How could you hurt him?" Sam fires back. "He was good to me. Look at him. Look at him, he was perfect."
Sam turns back to the body, strokes its cheek. Gets some ideas he knows he'll be disgusted by if he lives long enough, but he didn't get to keep Dean last time, and he's been alone so long.
"Dean," Sam whispers, kissing the slack mouth, the still-warm cheeks. "My Dean."
"That's not me," Dean says. "Sam, you know that's not me, how could you let that thing kill you? Like-like that?"
Sam turns to look at his brother, lets the succubus drop. "I was alive."
"You're alive," Dean agrees, like he doesn't get the connection.
"I was alive and then you took it away," Sam bunches his fists in the sheets, his erection still straining for attention. "Don't you get it, Dean? I'm only alive when you're near me. Inside me. When you're not here, I'm not here. It wasn't killing me anymore than usual. But it made me alive just a few seconds longer."
Dean waves his hand at the bed, and the body disappears, but Dean sits down where it was, so Sam can't complain. "If I could," he says, and he leaves it at that. That's all he needs to say. Sam understands.
"When we kissed…" Sam shudders. "What would happen if we fucked?"
"I don’t know, Sammy," Dean says. There's longing clear in his voice, but he shakes his head. "I'm afraid to find out."
Sam nods, then lies down on his side so he's facing his brother. "Are you going to give back the life force he took from me now?"
Dean tilts his chin at Sam's dick. "Finish."
Without hesitation, Sam reaches down, works himself as slowly as he can manage, trying to draw it out. It's impossible with Dean watching him, all his desire so openly displayed. When Sam gets close, Dean reaches for him, presses his hand to the center of Sam's chest.
Sam's climax reaches its crest with an explosion of heat surging through him, spreading out from where all that life is flowing back into his body. Dean's touch, which has been so cold for years, now feels like the surface of the sun.
He blacks out before it's over, and by the time he comes to again, Dean has vanished. No surprise there. But he touches his hand to the burning spot on his chest, smiles at the pain that causes. In the mirror, he finds an angry burn mark in a circle the size of his brother's palm. It's his favorite death mark yet.
_______________________________________________________________
There's another hunt in Montana a few weeks later. This one is personal. A rawhead stealing kids from town, most recently a four year-old girl, and Sam knows he only has a few days to kill it before it starts snacking. There's already no hope for the two that got taken before.
Sam doesn't waste any time. He wants to save the girl, of course, but he has his own axe to grind as well. A rawhead killed his brother once. Indirectly, sure, and Dean didn't actually die, but the grudge remains. Sam hates everything that tried or took his brother from him, with Sam himself topping the list.
Luckily, rawheads lack creativity and are easy to find. They all live in the same habitats, dark dingy homes near swamps or other still water. They take the same prey and leave the same clues behind. They move slow, too, and Sam follows his instincts to an abandoned cabin just outside of the small town where the child was snatched, only a stone's throw from the local lake.
With just one look through the window, Sam is able to identify the cupboard where the monster is storing its victims. Then it's just a matter of waiting for the stupid bastard to show its ugly face, and Sam lights it up like the New York skyline.
The girl is alive. Sam finds her cramped in the closet with the other children's stripped bones, dirty and scared out of her mind, but she's in one piece. He thinks, in his endless naiveté, that the day is a win.
She cries the whole drive home, which isn't all that surprising, considering what she's been through. Sam's soothing words don't do a thing to calm her. He takes her to the door of her house, knocks and returns her to a mother who is herself crying and smiling and thanking Sam, until the baby points at him and starts screaming. Monster. She thinks Sam is the monster. The mother backs away, slams the door as if Sam will come after them.
There are already cop cars flashing as they turn the corner by the time Sam is speeding off in the opposite direction, never more grateful that the Impala is slick, black, nearly impossible to see at night. He drives until he knows he's safe, and then he parks the car at the first gas station he finds.
In the bathroom, he looks his reflection in the eye, trying to see what that little girl saw. What made him the scary thing, even after days with nothing but a boogeyman and skeletons for company.
It's not hard to understand once he's searching for it. Sam takes in the horrific tint to his skin, a leftover gift from the succubus. The stitches holding all his limbs in place, his Frankenstein's creature neck and arms and legs. Somehow, being the walking dead hadn't really hit him when he was only seeing it through his own or Dean's eyes, warped as they are from a lifetime of so much evil he can't distinguish it in the mirror.
It's hideous, this thing he's become. This thing Dean has turned him into. No wonder children think he's the monster. It won't be long before it's not just them.
Sam lashes out at his reflection, punches it until there's a sliver of glass big enough to lodge in his throat. His brother appears and Sam can't beg him to die this time, he's got no voice. Doesn't matter. Dean knows what he wants and doesn’t give it to him.
He fixes Sam as much as he can and he leaves. That's his specialty now. It used to be Sam's sin, leaving. But Dean's getting good at it. He's making up for lost time.
_______________________________________________________________
It becomes a regular thing with them. Sam waits for a trigger and then he pulls it. Sometimes just waking up is enough. Dean is angry about it some days, or sad, or downright cheerful on others, as if he's been as anxious to see Sam as Sam is to see him. Sometimes Sam gets creative and sometimes he sticks to the classics. Sometimes he's passive aggressive about it. Dean's favorite glock has been fired into his brain no less than five times.
He collects the bullets after his brother is done fishing them out. Thinks maybe he'll wait until he has enough and find a nice way to repurpose them, turn them into a wall decoration or some jewelry to give Dean. Dean used to love that kind of shit. Not sure he could wear it with the new reaper threads, but he could keep it in his pocket, a nice little trinket from his zombie brother.
It gets to be damn near daily. Sam begs for death like he's starving for it (he is, sometimes, stops eating because it's better to think about the clawing from his insides than what he did to be this alone). Begs on his hands and knees, promises Dean the world if he'll just stop bringing him back. Pride is for angels and the living; Sam is neither.
But it's no use. Dean is now the little boy he never got to be in life, picking up the presents under the tree and shaking them to see what's inside.
He grabs Sam, and Sam wants to scold, "be careful, you'll break it," but there's no use. Everything is already broken, nothing but sharp, shattered edges inside this box that used to be a person.
"Please, put me down," Sam asks every time, hoping against everything that he'll get through, if not to his brother, to whatever part of Dean now doles out death as a mercy. "Like a dog, Dean. Put me down."
But Sam is Dean's favorite toy, so he tucks Sam back into his unwanted life like no one will notice the damage he's done come morning.
Then, gone. He's gone, and Sam can only hear his own steady pulse as it begins to beat again.
_______________________________________________________________
This was more-or-less a suicide. More-or-less. The monster he was hunting spit poison-filled needles from its mouth. Sam killed it, brass dagger to the heart of its pretty girl-shaped body.
Sure, he probably could have ducked away from that last one she spit a little faster, and by probably he means definitely, so that's why he's currently sitting against a brick wall in the alley of some dive bar in Vegas, mouth foaming with toxins as he throws up everything that was inside his failing organs.
He spits out the nasty taste and glares at his brother. "Not you."
Dean leans against the wall by a big green dumpster, looking like any other Vegas hot shot, dressed suave and radiating confidence, and cocks an eyebrow at him. "Excuse me?"
"I don't want you," Sam replies. "Send me another reaper. Someone reasonable. Tessa. She knew when to leave well enough alone."
Dean huffs out a laugh. "Tessa's not coming for you. I've got dibbs."
"So? I want to talk to your boss." Sam grins enthusiastically, because finally he's thought of something he hasn't tried yet. "Yeah, call Death. Let him see what you've done. He'll be so pissed at you, Dean. You won't be able to reap anymore. You'll have to go on to Heaven and I can final-"
"Sam," Dean interrupts. "Dammit, Sam, he's not coming. Tessa isn't either. No one is coming for you except me." Dean gets down on one knee next to him. "I've called them off, and I'm the boss now. Death knew, he knew what I was going to do for you when he left."
"Left?" Sam asks. He tilts his head, then looks at Dean's hand, and realizes something he should have so much sooner. The heavy ring on Dean's finger with the dull white rock inside, that's not part of the uniform like the suit is. That's not something the other reapers have. That's something only one has.
"You're Death now?" Sam asks, feeling his last hope deflate. "I'm never going to get out. Never? You can't just do this to me, Dean."
"I'll take you some day, okay? Once you've lived your time out. You haven't even tried that, just keep pulling these stunts, as if you couldn't take this monster one handed, blind, and drunk. Live for a while before you die, that's all I'm asking."
"It's easy for you to ask for that," Sam spits back, and it's not true, he knows. He'll never forget what it felt like when Dean kissed him, but he's angry and he'll say anything to push. "You always cheated. Made deals or talked me out of finishing trials so you wouldn't have to be the one left alone!"
"You think I have it easy?" Dean snaps. Sam nods, as much as you can when your neck is held on by green thread, wide mismatched stitches put in place by an amateur. "I take the sick six-year-olds now. The rosy pregnant ladies. Grandpa while his whole family is watching. I don't save people anymore, I do the opposite. It's a terrible job, but I learned. I won't break destiny again. I have to kill them, and I do it for you."
Sam laughs so hard it echoes off the alley's walls. He gets a perverse pleasure from watching Dean wince at how ugly the sound is. He bares his neck, so Dean has to see the sutures keeping his head on his shoulders, holds out his arms, as if he's asking for another dance, so Dean has to look at the long, razor-precise slices down his wrists. "You call this not breaking destiny? How many disasters do I set off every time you refuse to take me?"
Dean shakes his head. "It's not like that with you, Sam. You can't break destiny, everything else settles around you. You're the one holding things in place-destiny breathes you. It changes to fit you, you're what decides how everything else shakes out. We don't need to fit you into some plan. Things will adjust."
"Please," Sam whispers. "I don't want it to adjust. I don't want to learn to live without you. Please. Let me die. Just let me die."
He feels his brother cup his face gently in his cool hand, lifts his eyes to Dean's face just in time to see the disappointment painted there.
"Sammy, why don't you just try? Find a girl, or go get a dog. Hell, do both. I know it didn't work out in the past, but I won't come and screw it up this time. I want you to-to live a full life, try dying again when you're old and bald and at peace."
"Find a girl?" Sam asks Dean, and he feels himself smiling. "Get a dog."
Dean nods, and Sam shoves him back with more force than he should have, considering the puddles of his vomit and the blood that came with it rotting on the damp floor.
"Dogs bark at me," Sam tells him, his voice black and bitter. "People, when I talk to them, they get uncomfortable. I can see them fidgeting, they don't even know why, but I freak them out. I'm a fucking corpse, Dean. Who's gonna want me?"
From the look on Dean's face, the answer is obvious, and Sam drops his head, laughing again. Always. There are limits to unconditional, sometimes, for most people; never for Dean.
"Besides you," Sam clarifies, his voice choking up because there's no one else he wants, either, but here Dean is and in a few moments, he'll be gone, and his icy touches aren't anything Sam can cling to. "Who else would want me?"
"Please, just try, Sammy," Dean replies, like he's finally at a loss. Like he's some idiot child who really did think things would be this easy. Become a reaper to keep Sam alive and Sam will do just great. It's such a Dean mistake to make, and as much as it tears him apart, it's everything he's ever loved about his big brother.
Sam feels something break in him, a wave of affection for Dean crash down and drown him because he can't ever satisfy it again. He holds his hands out in front of his face and stares at them, waits for them to change, to look as evil as the deeds they've done, but they just sit there, perfectly normal aside from all the scars.
"What if I do try?" he asks in a hushed tone. "What if I meet someone and love them?" He looks up, into Dean's eyes, and he stretches his fingers until they touch his brother's neck, the clean, unmarred skin where there should be a deep cut. "How could I touch someone I love with the same hands I used to-?"
Dean curls his fingers around Sam's and lowers them from his throat, pressing them against his mouth instead. "I didn't give you a choice, Sam. You can't blame yourself."
"You never give me a choice," Sam answers, tired. "I love you, but you never did give me a choice."
He hears a sigh, but when he turns to face it, there's no one else in this alley but him. It might as well have been the wind. He finishes emptying his stomach of all the poison and picks himself up.
What do you know? He's alive. Alone and alive. It's a goddamned miracle.
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Today, Sam's chosen method of suicide is old reliable: slit wrists, right down the dotted line of scars from the last time he died this way.
Dean looks annoyed when he shows up, and that makes Sam, spread out on this twin bed with his head lolling on the cheap motel pillow case, laugh so hard that the threads around his neck nearly snap, send him rolling across the room, taking his laughter with him.
"Hey, big brother," Sam says, grinning woozily.
Death crosses his arms over his chest. Such pretty arms, Sam thinks. He wonders if they could wrap around him, squeeze so tight the top half of him just falls right off. "We should try that," he tells the ceiling, and he hears Dean moving closer.
"What, are you drunk or something?"
"Mmm, blood loss," Sam answers, trying to lift his arms to make the point, but he feels a lot weaker than he'd realized.
"It'll come back," Dean says, and then he turns away like that's it and he's leaving.
"Wait." Sam pouts like he used to as a kid, and it works as well as it ever did. He forces himself to sit up against the headboard, and Dean lingers in the doorway. "I'll think of a better way next time. Something that doesn't-" Sam closes his eyes tight to try and preempt the fainting spell that he feels coming on. His vision is black, full of stars. He doesn't want that. He wants to see his reaper.
He presses his hand against his temple and rubs at it until he feels a little better. He's wasting time. The sooner he stops dying, the less time he'll have with Dean. "I'll find a way to die that lets me think clearly, for next time."
"How about there isn't a next time?" Dean asks, moving into the room.
"Decapitation was my favorite, I think," Sam continues, ignoring his brother. "You stayed so long that time, sewing me back together. I was dead a long time, wasn't I?"
"Yeah." Dean's voice is thin, weak. Sam used to hate hearing it like that. Now he just loves hearing it, anyway he can get it.
"Hard to do to yourself, though," Sam tells him. "That's why it's not a particularly popular method of suicide, I guess. I could find people to help. I'm sure plenty would be willing."
"I don't want to have this conversation," Dean says.
"Oh, which one do you want to have?" Sam asks, smiling and peppy. "We don't have long, so, you know. Might as well be one we'll both enjoy."
"I have a job to do, Sam. This isn't it."
"Wasn't this the point? Of taking the job. Wasn't it to see me?" Sam frowns, looks down at his oozing wrists. That really hurt his feelings. "You told me once that it was for me, that you did this for me. Now you don't want to see me?"
"I don't want to see you dying every three days!" Dean snaps, turning too fast and slamming his hands against the wall. "I took the job to keep you alive, not to keep seeing you die."
"That was stupid," Sam replies bluntly. "Becoming a reaper so you don't have to see me die. I only see you when I'm dying."
"I can see you when…" Dean's lips thin, and he doesn't finish his sentence. Sam's probably not any more of a comfort to him when he's doing whatever it is he does when he isn't on Death's door-living isn't quite the right word for it.
"You coulda gone to Heaven," says Sam. "You could have just gone to Heaven and waited for me there. I would have found you. We could have been together in that shithole forever."
Dean shakes his head, but he doesn't look like he's gonna say another word.
"You stayed instead. To what? To force me to live? What's the fucking point? You never could just let me die, but now you've ruined everything. We would have had each other eventually, Dean. You ruined everything."
"Don't say that, Sam." Dean moves closer, passes his thumb over the wound on Sam's arm, which is starting to get crusty with drying blood. "You don't understand."
"Understand what?" Sam closes his eyes, lets himself enjoy Dean's touch, even if it's cold and only making the pain in his wrist sharper. His dick stirs, just because Dean is touching him, even though he knows it won't go anywhere and, fuck, Sam is dying of blood loss, why the hell is his body bothering getting hard right now? "Understand that Dad fucked you up, made you think me dying was the worst thing that could happe-?"
"That's not what this is about," Dean tells him, in a cool, rational voice. His 'I'm older and wiser, so just shut up and take it' voice. Sam used to hate that one, too.
"Then why?"
He shrugs. "I'm stuck here anyway. Thought I might as well take a job. Give Death some vacation days-he's been working a long time, you know. Guy got tired."
"You're lying." Sam actually smiles, fond. Never could understand why Dean ever bothered trying to slip lies past him, but sometimes it was endearing. Such a patently Dean thing to do. "I know when you're lying."
"It's part of the trial, Sam. I have to stay in the veil. Or they come back. Hell is only shut down as long as I'm still on this plane, holding the trial in place. So I took the job. Better than sticking around, haunting you. Going crazy. Making you crazy."
Sam lets out a hysterical laugh. More of a giggle, really. It's high pitched, and even in Sam's own ears, it rubs him all wrong. "God forbid I go crazy."
Dean's lip goes up in the corner, a soft smile, but there's something else to it. He's happy, the way he only is when he's pulled one on Sam. He thinks Sam bought it, and Sam might have, if not for that smile.
"You're still lying." Sam shakes his head. "The trial was supposed to punish me. There's no reason you wouldn't be able to go right on to Heaven."
"Sam," Dean warns. Then it's all so fucking painfully obvious, Sam's been such an idiot this whole time.
"I can't die," he says, the horror of it dawning on him. "I can't die, can I?"
"Yes, you can die," Dean promises, hand soothing through Sam's hair. "One day, you'll die."
"No," Sam looks down at his corpse, and it clicks. Dean really was doing him a favor. Has been doing him a favor this whole time. "That's how the trial works, isn't it? It was a punishment for me, I-I'm supposed to live without you. It only works as long as I'm…"
"I'll still take you," Dean says after a long, stifling silence.
When Sam looks up at him, Dean's eyes are directed to the floor. He's ashamed, but he's not backing down. "None of the other reapers would have. They would have made you go on living forever, because that's what the damned trial demands. Because that's supposed to be your destiny. But I'm Death now, Sammy. I'm the boss, none of them can stop me. I'll take you someday. When this is too much. I'll take you to Heaven."
He smiles, his hand more insistent in Sam's hair, the other coming up to stroke his cheek. "I wouldn't do it before you figured it out. It should be your choice. But as soon as you can't take this anymore, as soon as you decide you've done enough. You've saved them long enough, Sam, this shouldn't be your burden. You can be at peace in Heaven now. No more hurting. No more dying. I'll let this world burn as long as you're not in it."
Sam shakes his head, and it's not because he cares too much about the nine billion souls that would suffer if he went with Dean. Not anymore-he's lonely lifetimes past being numb to anything except the gaping hole that's only ever full when Sam's carved out some vital organ. "You won't be there."
Dean shakes his head. "I'm stuck here now," he says. "The deal I made with Death…it wasn't temporary."
"It won't be Heaven," Sam answers. "My Hell is a room without you in it."
"Then what?" Dean asks.
That's it, the million dollar question. Sam looks down, at the edge of the blade he'd used to call Dean this time. His brother is beginning to fade, which means Sam is coming back to life again. He doesn't have much time.
His fingers curl around the handle, and he turns the sharp end on himself. "Then this."
Pain explodes through his chest at the first stab, and Dean tries to reach out, tries to prevent Sam from continuing, a look on his face like Sam's lost his damn mind, all the way this time, not just the bits and chunks that have been going for years. He just doesn't understand yet. He will.
It's easy for Sam to dodge Dean's attempt, it's easy to pull the knife through thick layers of flesh, it's easy to ignore the agonizing ache in his chest. It's not much different from the way he feels when he's whole and Dean is somewhere else, reaping someone luckier than Sam.
After the first two drags, Dean gives up, sits and watches Sam work with a sad, resigned look on his face, because what he is, he can't stop Sam from killing himself. That's not a reaper's job.
Then Sam finishes, lets the useless flap of skin fall down from his body and into his lap. The important thing is the squirming mass Sam can now see in the window he's opened.
"Sam, stop," Dean says. "What the hell are you doing?"
Sam pries his fingers in, wonders if they're dirty, if he'll get an infection, then laughs at how stupid the thought is. He pulls his heart out, tugs hard enough that all the connecting organs, the tissue around it-whatever the blade didn't already sever-it all gives. Blood pours out, painting him, painting Dean. Dean, who is not just redder, but now more solid in front of Sam. Because Sam has pulled his heart out of his chest, and he is well and truly dying.
It's not the kind of wound Dean can sew up, pretend never happened, wait for it to heal with time. Not unless he pushes the thing back into Sam's chest, and Sam hopes he'll be kinder than that, that he'll use this gift better than the last one Sam gave him. But this is Dean's choice from here on out.
"Take it," Sam tells him, extending his hands. "Take it and I'll always be dying. Maybe not dead. Maybe not passing on. But dying. You can see me whenever you want. I'll be able to see you. We won't have to wait."
His brother's eyes scan over his sawed open body, his eyes glassy. Sam wonders if Death can cry, and then a tear slips out, and that's answered for him. "You're in pain," he says. "You can't go through life like this. You're always going to be hurting."
Sam laughs. Warm blood bubbles up from his mouth. How warm, when there's nothing pumping it? Sam's body is a wonder. He doesn't bother saying another goddamn word on the subject. That he's always in pain, worse than this, when he's alone. Dean will either get it or he won't.
"Take it," Sam begs. "I don't need a heart if I don't have you."
Dean hesitates before cupping his hands around Sam's, like he's scared to touch it directly. Which is just stupid, really, because Dean has been finger painting his name on Sam's heart since he was four years old.
Sam drops it then, lets the pool of blood slip through his fingers along with the still-beating muscle. It'll go on like that forever if Dean keeps it, squirming and ticking even though it's not attached and the body it's keeping alive doesn't need it.
Dean hefts it in his palm, hands dropping just an inch or so, as if the weight of it is more than he was expecting and he's not sure he can bear it. Same way he held the amulet Sam gave him a thousand Christmases ago, or the bags of Funyuns at the grocery store he used to weigh to compare, trying to pick the one that would fill Sam up the most. Hand sinking down, mouth open in concentration, and a faint sense of awe.
When he finally looks up at Sam, something has changed. Sam doesn't know what, if it spells good news for him, or if Dean will try reconnecting the damn thing, forcing Sam to march on without him.
"Do you like it?" Sam asks when he can't stand to wait a second longer.
Dean smiles. "It's beautiful, Sammy. I love it."
The End.