Sweet Charity Fic: Fire and Ice
Title: Fire and Ice
Author: tahirire
Wordcount: 8934
Rating: R for language
Beta: An entire crack team of killer coding ninja monkeys that listen to Britney Spears and like to collect things worked on this until they couldn't ride their bicycle anymore. You guys are golden, I love you. ;)
Genre: Spiritual h/c
Spoilers: Episode tag for 4.19, 4.20, and 4. 22, mainly 4.22.
Disclaimer: They own me; it could never work the other way around.
Warnings: May be overly metaphorical. Show-like violence. My generic major character death fic list
Written for Sweet Charity 09, for the lovely may7fic, who trusted me enough to pretty much not take any of her prompts. Here is the art post as a bonus. I hope you like it!
Fire and Ice
Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
~Robert Frost
Leaving Windom
Dean grips the wheel and his jaw is firm, and his gaze never waivers as he drives. He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t touch the radio and Sam thinks something is wrong, but everything hurts and he can’t fight his way through the tension in the air; he just can’t. Rain beats on the windows. Flickering droplets reflect prisms of dark green as they pass by and by and Sam wonders if this isn't the way it will start -- the end of everything.
Sam’s side aches deep where the knife dug in and his arms are stinging cords of pain, but that’s not why he can’t breathe; it’s not why he feels like he’s dying, drowning.
It’s nothing compared to the sudden, ravenous thirst that has sprung up deep inside, or the way he thinks of how she called him Sammy and feels sick. He thinks that if the ghouls had been more thorough then at least Dean wouldn’t be looking at him that way anymore: like he doesn’t know who he sees.
All Sam knows is that somehow he is alone.
And that’s how it begins.
Leaving Pontiac
Dean doesn’t look to the side as he drives because if he looks and he sees, then he might not see Sam, and if he doesn’t see Sam then he’s fucked.
There's no devastating storm, no lightning, no stars, no hail, but the silence of the wind shears past the windows and he can hear it in the clefts of the car as it begins to creak; brittle and hollowed out from the driving. They're headed to Bobby's and he senses Sam worrying, he can feel the what now coming off of his brother in waves, but he can't say anything, he can’t.
If Dean pretends hard enough, he thinks maybe he can guide them to wherever there is hope of real safety, of peace, like it's one of those things he can do like he always did - but no. He lost it: the knowing how. The only thing Dean knows now is that he isn’t done after all with saving Sam, not like he thought he was.
But he needs to - he still needs to and he can't. There's only a compass without a needle: he’s spinning off in uncontrollable directions and damn it. Bobby is his only chance at finding his direction, Sam’s only chance, the only person Dean has any faith in anymore.
Everyone said Hell was supposed to be the fire of a thousand suns but it never was - Sam was the light and the sun until Dean was ripped away, banished into the freezing burn and deserted blackness of where was Sam.
For forty years his fingers measured hopefully through the darkness in search of Sam, because if he could feel Sam, it meant that Dean hadn't been left alone.
Forty years that felt like centuries: thirty before he couldn't remember how Sam felt anymore -when he wouldn't know Sam if he found him - and he hoped it was because Sam was still alive. Then he hoped until he forgot how to do that, too.
So now Dean drives.
He still can't feel Sam, can't even feel what he thinks he should remember Sam being, can't feel the hope of Sam being anything but whatever this is: this cold wind that creeps underneath him and into his bones like ice plating under his skin, forming a desolate, aching chill around the jagged pieces that were Dean.
All of Sam’s fire is gone and Dean can’t stop shaking inside; he knows he’s only breathing because there’s still a chance, just this one chance that he can still save Sam - save them both. And Sam is sitting in the shadows of the passenger seat like he always does, and Dean hopes that Sam still trusts him like he always did… because he has to.
Dean isn’t sure he ever came back to life; but if he did, he knows that if Sam walks out on him now - fuck the angels, fuck Lilith - if Sam walks out on Dean like he isn’t even there, that is the one thing that will kill him.
And that’s the way it starts to fall apart.
Leaving Ilchester
Sam looks at Dean and says, “I’m sorry,” like the whole world is about to fall down around them, but all Dean hears is hope.
Take your brother outside as fast as you can, NOW Dean, go!
Dean hauls Sam out of the convent with an old, familiar strength. Sam is locked into his panic - balks when he sees the yellow car - and Dean doesn’t have to ask, he knows, so he just drags Sam to the next closest car he sees and they take that instead. Later, he won’t even remember how they got in, only that all he could think besides SamSamSam was drivedrivedrive.
Dean drives with one hand on the wheel and one hand fisted into Sam’s jacket. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for or where to stop, he just knows they have to go. He checks constantly to his right. Every time he looks, Sam is still there. Sam is there; and he’s trembling and he’s frozen and he’s petrified but for the first time since New Harmony, he really is there, he really is Sam. That’s all Dean needs to know.
Dean pushes the stolen car down I-70 until the sky starts to boil and the rain breaks loose from the backlit clouds. Something inside tells Dean to stop and he does, pulling off the interstate way, way too close to where they are running from, but nowhere is really far enough, so it has to do.
He’s out of the car and around the other side and pulling Sam up by the arm while the rain comes down all around them before he registers where they are.
A large red brick building stands high in the storm and the simple sign out front reads United Methodist Church of Damascus. There are no lights inside and Dean realizes he has no idea what time it is, but it looks like there is nobody home.
The rain falls sideways, large angry drops driving into Dean with violent, drowning force. A foreign cold seeps into the folds of his jacket as the water soaks him. It runs down his jeans into his boots and falls from the tip of his nose into the puddles rapidly forming below, covering everything with staccato waves of sound.
Sam’s eyes go wide and even through the downpour Dean can see the doubt in his brother like a visceral thing, like darkness. Dean doesn’t have any weapons - no salt or iron or any way to protect them - he’s stripped bare. This is the best idea he’s got.
Flashes of case after case where a church offered little or no safety play across his mind until they freeze-frame on an image: Meg holding a knife triumphantly to Jim Murphy’s throat.
Sam is frozen to his seat in the shadows, radiating misery and guilt and Dean can’t shake the feeling that the darkness is consuming Sam's soul, overpowering his brother from the inside out. It’s nothing, he tells himself, just a trick of the light.
The thunder shakes the ground and Dean jumps but Sam doesn’t respond at all; he’s just staring into a middle space, seeing things that Dean can’t see, not seeing Dean.
“Sam, we gotta move,” Dean insists. He pulls the sodden fringes of Sam’s jacket with both hands.
Sam’s eyes shift slowly up to the sky and then down to Dean’s hands, confusion in his gaze. Finally coming to himself, he looks directly at his brother. His hazel eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.
“Just … finish it,” Sam whispers and Dean frowns, not wanting to comprehend, “before they use me for something even worse. Dean, please. You were right, I’m not …”
Not even human.
Dean’s throat goes dry because suddenly he sees the dark for what it is.
Sammy, what have you done to yourself?
“Sam, no. Come on.” Dean tightens his grip, shaking Sam’s jacket firmly. He lets his voice grow hard and chooses to ignore the way Sam flinches. “Listen to me. That’s bullshit. You aren’t -”
The lightning crashes and Sam blinks, the illusion of shadows in his eyes flickering out. Sam stares at the ground, miserable.
Sam, you aren’t some demon.
Dean ducks away from the storm, pulling Sam forcefully for the sanctuary door. Sam is holding Dean’s upper arm hard enough to bruise, but he doesn’t stop following.
The sanctuary is quiet and cool with stone walls and high dark stained glass windows, and Dean can’t stay in there, not with the way their colored eyes are watching him.
He takes Sam around to the back of the rectory and into a small room behind the altar. There is a couch and an armchair and one clear window with no angels or demons on it and Dean decides it is good enough.
Sam goes heavily when Dean pushes him down into the armchair, not bothering to protest, and suddenly Dean is hyper-aware of the darkness consuming his brother like a cancer. The tremor of fear he feels has nothing to do with what is coming at them from Out There.
Lost. Damned.
“Sam,” he says, moving to stand directly in front of his brother, “Sammy, look at me.”
Sam peers up reluctantly, somehow raising his face but not his downcast eyes.
“Hey. I’m gonna see if I can find us some towels, okay?” When Sam doesn’t respond, Dean snaps his fingers in Sam’s face. “Sam, look at me, dammit.”
Sam’s blink is like a flinch as he forces himself to obey.
Shadows swirl in his hazel circles, confusion and sorrow fighting for dominance inside. Beads of water run down his cheeks and his skin looks ashen underneath the dark cords of his hair. Rivulets come from the soaked ends of his sleeves to fall down, down, down into the dense carpet, only it’s in slow motion and everything is muted and still. Sam’s flat empty eyes hold the realization of what he has just done.
Drowning.
“Be right back,” Dean says, and it’s a promise.
Sam gives a noncommittal shrug, the kind that says he doesn’t believe. Dean’s gut clenches because if Sam doesn’t believe that, then he’s screwed, but there is nothing for it but to prove it, and Dean needs to be in action, so he tears himself away.
Dean’s skin crawls as he searches through the sanctuary.
A few spare altar cloths are all he can find. When Dean gets back, Sam is sitting so still that for a moment Dean feels like maybe the whole world is frozen, holding its breath in anticipation of the end, and he’s the only one left in motion.
The air is charged and tight near Sam, thicker. Dean slugs his way through until he reaches Sam’s side, and Sam’s shallow breathing is the only noise Dean can hear.
Dean leans down and puts his face right into Sam’s space, demanding his attention. The thick fog of regret stifles everything, so he tries a wry grin and wonders if it looks right because he doesn’t really feel like smiling right now.
“Hey. Told you I’d be back.”
Sam’s ribcage hitches and Dean feels it deep inside, like he’s the one who has forgotten how to breathe.
Dean takes a deep breath of his own to compensate. He knows shock when he sees it, so he pushes for a distraction, anything to keep Sam grounded long enough to snap him out of this, and that means doing something.
Brushing wet strands of hair back from Sam’s eyes, he grabs Sam by the elbow and pulls him to his feet. "C'mon Sam, I got you."
Sam’s pulse is racing under Dean’s palm and he looks stupidly at the cloth Dean is shoving at him. Dean shoves the cloth a little closer. "Humor me.”
Sam reacts automatically, but freezes up again as soon as his hand closes over the worn fabric.
Dean pushes harder. "Dry off. S'what it's for."
Sam’s eyes glitter but he manages to roll them, mechanically shrugging out of his jacket and dabbing at his arm with the cloth. He doesn’t look up but he doesn’t move to push Dean away. Dean can’t quite let go because something doesn’t feel right; something …
Without warning Sam groans and drops the makeshift towel, slumping to the floor. Dean catches him only because he was already right there. “Woah, Sam, hey! Talk to me -“
Sam shudders and fumbles for Dean’s hand. “Dean? You look …”
Sam sounds confused, totally lost. As Dean lifts up and guides him gently back to the reclining chair, he sees for the first time the shadows - not laying on top of but crawling underneath his brother’s skin. Dean shakes his head roughly, trying to dislodge the image with a sheer force of will.
No. No, please -
Dean opens his mouth and his fear drives out words he won’t remember later. “Hey, come on, don’t do this. Sammy, look at me.”
Sam starts shaking, shaking like he’s coming apart and Dean thinks he’s seen this before and he remembers the first time - remembers how he decided he’d rather die than ever see it again - and it’s happening now and he doesn’t know what to do.
Dean speaks low and fast, not really needing Sam to process the words, just putting them out there in case his brother can hear them. "You're okay, Sam. You're still here. Right here with me. Stay with me."
Tiny dark red rivers flow across Sam’s face, down into the neck of his shirt, up through the veins of his arms, moving with a purpose and direction. Sam tenses violently and hunches in on himself, clutching at his chest, gasping for air.
Dean shoves Sam back into the recliner and rips into the soaked layers of his clothes, pulling at Sam’s blue over-shirt hard enough to tear the buttons loose. He pulls the tattered pieces back with both hands, searching. Sam’s fists and arms are clenched and he starts writhing as the dark stain picks up its pace, thin tendrils widening as they flow down Sam’s neck and into his chest.
Dean pulls the knife without hesitation and slices down the center of Sam’s t-shirt, exposing the skin underneath. Dean throws the knife off to his right without looking to see where it lands and hauls Sam forward far enough to free him from the shredded remnants.
Dean’s eyes widen in horror.
The dark stains are a living thing, moving across Sam’s body in undulating patterns, circling his heart and pulsing around it like rings around a bulls-eye, sinking into the skin and squeezing deep inside. Sam struggles for air and grabs at the arms of the chair for support.
“My fault,” Sam gasps, “everything.”
This isn’t anything like Bobby’s. This time Sam is lucid, and Dean can see the terror in his brother’s eyes. Dean grabs onto Sam’s arm right against his skin and shakes it, demanding Sam’s attention.
"Just stay with me, Sam. I got you, Sammy. I'm not gonna lose you."
Dean's words descend from a whisper into silence as he looks down and watches his palm burn into Sam's arm, his mind refusing to accept that Sam's body is charring from the inside out, his heart refusing to pull away, to let go… and he sees the dark cords flinch and skitter away from his hand. He looks up into his brother's face; it crawls with death, but it’s the resignation there that takes Dean’s breath away.
“It’s too late,” Sam grinds out through clenched teeth. “Dean, just go, just go, please …”
Dean firms both his grip and his resolve, settling his right hand against Sam’s heart. He presses against his brother as Sam shrinks away from the touch, the writhing bands constricting under Dean’s palm. Dean sees Sam’s panicked heartbeat and feels his skin, clammy from the rain, now soaked with sweat from the searing shadows.
"No,” Dean shakes his head, “Don’t you dare ask that of me. You’re not giving up. I’m not giving you up.”
As Dean speaks he feels a wave of dizziness and Sam convulses, crying out in pain. A bright blue light flares deep into Sam’s chest, blooming out from the touch of Dean’s hand. The dark lines scatter but they return just as quickly, fighting back against the brilliant pulse and snuffing it out. Sam is staring at him and Dean grimaces with dread at the deep black of Sam’s pupils as they shrink and grow rapidly: liquid black to glazed white and back again.
It comes to Dean in a flash, what is going on. Sam’s power is taking the chains of his guilt and shame, all of his fear and anger - and giving it life. Sam is killing himself, and if Dean doesn’t get through to him, he won’t last much longer.
“Sam, no.” Dean’s voice holds no room for argument. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, and I won’t let you do this to yourself! Please, just let it go, Sammy - please."
Sam shakes his head, but he grabs Dean’s upper arms for support, and there is another deep pulse of blue light, stronger than the first. This time Sam screams.
Tears start to roll from Sam’s closed eyes, streaking trails through the sheen of sweat on his face as the pulse deals a heavy blow. The red strands concentrated near Sam’s heart break apart slowly, recoiling. Sam takes a hollow, painful breath. Dean can barely make out the whispered, "I'm sorry."
Dean swallows hard. "I'm sorry, too."
Sam frowns and looks at him, shaking his head quickly, insistent. "Dean, I'm sorry."
"Okay. We're okay. Hey,” Dean runs his left hand quickly through Sam’s hair, pushing it away from his brother’s eyes. He needs Sam to look at him. He needs Sam to see the truth behind his words, to know. “You and me, we're okay. I promise you."
Whatever it is that Sam is sorry for, it’s bigger than them; it’s bigger than Ruby; it’s even bigger than Lucifer. Dean can’t start to imagine how big it is, but right now he just needs …
Dean drops down lower, pulling Sam in close. "Let it go, Sammy."
Sam nods finally, leaning on his knees and shutting his eyes, shivering.
Dean’s voice is deep and rough. “Don’t hold onto it, even if it feels like the only thing there is, okay? Because it's not. I swear."
Sam trembles like he doesn't know what else there could be.
Please, Sam…
"Let go. Sam. Just let go.”
Sam’s whole body jerks and he slumps down into Dean’s arms, completely passed out.
Dean checks him as best he can, running his hands along Sam’s back and his sides, feeling for more fire and coming up clean. It’s too good to be true, but …
Thank fuck.
After a few minutes, Sam stirs and pulls back wearily, not quite meeting Dean’s eyes. "Gonna lie down," he murmurs, searching blindly for the recliner’s lever switch.
“Okay. Okay, wait a minute,” Dean settles Sam back and peels off his jacket, the blue denim now stiff and humid. Underneath Dean’s damp long-sleeve, his shirt is warm and dry and he strips down to take it off. “Here, take this,” Dean offers the t-shirt to Sam with one hand and shrugs his long-sleeve back on with the other.
Sam nods, accepting, shifting uncomfortably as brief flickers threaten to break out again. He pulls it on wearily, curling onto his side with a soft groan.
Dean rubs Sam’s arm until the shadows finally melt away and stay gone. “Easy, I got you. Just rest, okay?"
Sam’s eyes drop closed, and Dean tries to remember to breathe, rocking back on his heels to lean on the side of the recliner. He keeps watch, every few minutes wiping at the sweat still beading in the furrows on Sam’s forehead. Outside, the storm rages and the world might be ending. Inside, one brother is still dead and the other is killing himself.
Sam is all he has; he sold his soul, never got it back and he’d do anything to keep Sam from losing his - if he only knew how to fight this.
He watches Sam sleep for a long time - for all he knows, it’s all the time they have left.
Part Two
Author: tahirire
Wordcount: 8934
Rating: R for language
Beta: An entire crack team of killer coding ninja monkeys that listen to Britney Spears and like to collect things worked on this until they couldn't ride their bicycle anymore. You guys are golden, I love you. ;)
Genre: Spiritual h/c
Spoilers: Episode tag for 4.19, 4.20, and 4. 22, mainly 4.22.
Disclaimer: They own me; it could never work the other way around.
Warnings: May be overly metaphorical. Show-like violence. My generic major character death fic list
Written for Sweet Charity 09, for the lovely may7fic, who trusted me enough to pretty much not take any of her prompts. Here is the art post as a bonus. I hope you like it!
Fire and Ice
Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
~Robert Frost
Leaving Windom
Dean grips the wheel and his jaw is firm, and his gaze never waivers as he drives. He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t touch the radio and Sam thinks something is wrong, but everything hurts and he can’t fight his way through the tension in the air; he just can’t. Rain beats on the windows. Flickering droplets reflect prisms of dark green as they pass by and by and Sam wonders if this isn't the way it will start -- the end of everything.
Sam’s side aches deep where the knife dug in and his arms are stinging cords of pain, but that’s not why he can’t breathe; it’s not why he feels like he’s dying, drowning.
It’s nothing compared to the sudden, ravenous thirst that has sprung up deep inside, or the way he thinks of how she called him Sammy and feels sick. He thinks that if the ghouls had been more thorough then at least Dean wouldn’t be looking at him that way anymore: like he doesn’t know who he sees.
All Sam knows is that somehow he is alone.
And that’s how it begins.
Leaving Pontiac
Dean doesn’t look to the side as he drives because if he looks and he sees, then he might not see Sam, and if he doesn’t see Sam then he’s fucked.
There's no devastating storm, no lightning, no stars, no hail, but the silence of the wind shears past the windows and he can hear it in the clefts of the car as it begins to creak; brittle and hollowed out from the driving. They're headed to Bobby's and he senses Sam worrying, he can feel the what now coming off of his brother in waves, but he can't say anything, he can’t.
If Dean pretends hard enough, he thinks maybe he can guide them to wherever there is hope of real safety, of peace, like it's one of those things he can do like he always did - but no. He lost it: the knowing how. The only thing Dean knows now is that he isn’t done after all with saving Sam, not like he thought he was.
But he needs to - he still needs to and he can't. There's only a compass without a needle: he’s spinning off in uncontrollable directions and damn it. Bobby is his only chance at finding his direction, Sam’s only chance, the only person Dean has any faith in anymore.
Everyone said Hell was supposed to be the fire of a thousand suns but it never was - Sam was the light and the sun until Dean was ripped away, banished into the freezing burn and deserted blackness of where was Sam.
For forty years his fingers measured hopefully through the darkness in search of Sam, because if he could feel Sam, it meant that Dean hadn't been left alone.
Forty years that felt like centuries: thirty before he couldn't remember how Sam felt anymore -when he wouldn't know Sam if he found him - and he hoped it was because Sam was still alive. Then he hoped until he forgot how to do that, too.
So now Dean drives.
He still can't feel Sam, can't even feel what he thinks he should remember Sam being, can't feel the hope of Sam being anything but whatever this is: this cold wind that creeps underneath him and into his bones like ice plating under his skin, forming a desolate, aching chill around the jagged pieces that were Dean.
All of Sam’s fire is gone and Dean can’t stop shaking inside; he knows he’s only breathing because there’s still a chance, just this one chance that he can still save Sam - save them both. And Sam is sitting in the shadows of the passenger seat like he always does, and Dean hopes that Sam still trusts him like he always did… because he has to.
Dean isn’t sure he ever came back to life; but if he did, he knows that if Sam walks out on him now - fuck the angels, fuck Lilith - if Sam walks out on Dean like he isn’t even there, that is the one thing that will kill him.
And that’s the way it starts to fall apart.
Leaving Ilchester
Sam looks at Dean and says, “I’m sorry,” like the whole world is about to fall down around them, but all Dean hears is hope.
Take your brother outside as fast as you can, NOW Dean, go!
Dean hauls Sam out of the convent with an old, familiar strength. Sam is locked into his panic - balks when he sees the yellow car - and Dean doesn’t have to ask, he knows, so he just drags Sam to the next closest car he sees and they take that instead. Later, he won’t even remember how they got in, only that all he could think besides SamSamSam was drivedrivedrive.
Dean drives with one hand on the wheel and one hand fisted into Sam’s jacket. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for or where to stop, he just knows they have to go. He checks constantly to his right. Every time he looks, Sam is still there. Sam is there; and he’s trembling and he’s frozen and he’s petrified but for the first time since New Harmony, he really is there, he really is Sam. That’s all Dean needs to know.
Dean pushes the stolen car down I-70 until the sky starts to boil and the rain breaks loose from the backlit clouds. Something inside tells Dean to stop and he does, pulling off the interstate way, way too close to where they are running from, but nowhere is really far enough, so it has to do.
He’s out of the car and around the other side and pulling Sam up by the arm while the rain comes down all around them before he registers where they are.
A large red brick building stands high in the storm and the simple sign out front reads United Methodist Church of Damascus. There are no lights inside and Dean realizes he has no idea what time it is, but it looks like there is nobody home.
The rain falls sideways, large angry drops driving into Dean with violent, drowning force. A foreign cold seeps into the folds of his jacket as the water soaks him. It runs down his jeans into his boots and falls from the tip of his nose into the puddles rapidly forming below, covering everything with staccato waves of sound.
Sam’s eyes go wide and even through the downpour Dean can see the doubt in his brother like a visceral thing, like darkness. Dean doesn’t have any weapons - no salt or iron or any way to protect them - he’s stripped bare. This is the best idea he’s got.
Flashes of case after case where a church offered little or no safety play across his mind until they freeze-frame on an image: Meg holding a knife triumphantly to Jim Murphy’s throat.
Sam is frozen to his seat in the shadows, radiating misery and guilt and Dean can’t shake the feeling that the darkness is consuming Sam's soul, overpowering his brother from the inside out. It’s nothing, he tells himself, just a trick of the light.
The thunder shakes the ground and Dean jumps but Sam doesn’t respond at all; he’s just staring into a middle space, seeing things that Dean can’t see, not seeing Dean.
“Sam, we gotta move,” Dean insists. He pulls the sodden fringes of Sam’s jacket with both hands.
Sam’s eyes shift slowly up to the sky and then down to Dean’s hands, confusion in his gaze. Finally coming to himself, he looks directly at his brother. His hazel eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.
“Just … finish it,” Sam whispers and Dean frowns, not wanting to comprehend, “before they use me for something even worse. Dean, please. You were right, I’m not …”
Not even human.
Dean’s throat goes dry because suddenly he sees the dark for what it is.
Sammy, what have you done to yourself?
“Sam, no. Come on.” Dean tightens his grip, shaking Sam’s jacket firmly. He lets his voice grow hard and chooses to ignore the way Sam flinches. “Listen to me. That’s bullshit. You aren’t -”
The lightning crashes and Sam blinks, the illusion of shadows in his eyes flickering out. Sam stares at the ground, miserable.
Sam, you aren’t some demon.
Dean ducks away from the storm, pulling Sam forcefully for the sanctuary door. Sam is holding Dean’s upper arm hard enough to bruise, but he doesn’t stop following.
The sanctuary is quiet and cool with stone walls and high dark stained glass windows, and Dean can’t stay in there, not with the way their colored eyes are watching him.
He takes Sam around to the back of the rectory and into a small room behind the altar. There is a couch and an armchair and one clear window with no angels or demons on it and Dean decides it is good enough.
Sam goes heavily when Dean pushes him down into the armchair, not bothering to protest, and suddenly Dean is hyper-aware of the darkness consuming his brother like a cancer. The tremor of fear he feels has nothing to do with what is coming at them from Out There.
Lost. Damned.
“Sam,” he says, moving to stand directly in front of his brother, “Sammy, look at me.”
Sam peers up reluctantly, somehow raising his face but not his downcast eyes.
“Hey. I’m gonna see if I can find us some towels, okay?” When Sam doesn’t respond, Dean snaps his fingers in Sam’s face. “Sam, look at me, dammit.”
Sam’s blink is like a flinch as he forces himself to obey.
Shadows swirl in his hazel circles, confusion and sorrow fighting for dominance inside. Beads of water run down his cheeks and his skin looks ashen underneath the dark cords of his hair. Rivulets come from the soaked ends of his sleeves to fall down, down, down into the dense carpet, only it’s in slow motion and everything is muted and still. Sam’s flat empty eyes hold the realization of what he has just done.
Drowning.
“Be right back,” Dean says, and it’s a promise.
Sam gives a noncommittal shrug, the kind that says he doesn’t believe. Dean’s gut clenches because if Sam doesn’t believe that, then he’s screwed, but there is nothing for it but to prove it, and Dean needs to be in action, so he tears himself away.
Dean’s skin crawls as he searches through the sanctuary.
A few spare altar cloths are all he can find. When Dean gets back, Sam is sitting so still that for a moment Dean feels like maybe the whole world is frozen, holding its breath in anticipation of the end, and he’s the only one left in motion.
The air is charged and tight near Sam, thicker. Dean slugs his way through until he reaches Sam’s side, and Sam’s shallow breathing is the only noise Dean can hear.
Dean leans down and puts his face right into Sam’s space, demanding his attention. The thick fog of regret stifles everything, so he tries a wry grin and wonders if it looks right because he doesn’t really feel like smiling right now.
“Hey. Told you I’d be back.”
Sam’s ribcage hitches and Dean feels it deep inside, like he’s the one who has forgotten how to breathe.
Dean takes a deep breath of his own to compensate. He knows shock when he sees it, so he pushes for a distraction, anything to keep Sam grounded long enough to snap him out of this, and that means doing something.
Brushing wet strands of hair back from Sam’s eyes, he grabs Sam by the elbow and pulls him to his feet. "C'mon Sam, I got you."
Sam’s pulse is racing under Dean’s palm and he looks stupidly at the cloth Dean is shoving at him. Dean shoves the cloth a little closer. "Humor me.”
Sam reacts automatically, but freezes up again as soon as his hand closes over the worn fabric.
Dean pushes harder. "Dry off. S'what it's for."
Sam’s eyes glitter but he manages to roll them, mechanically shrugging out of his jacket and dabbing at his arm with the cloth. He doesn’t look up but he doesn’t move to push Dean away. Dean can’t quite let go because something doesn’t feel right; something …
Without warning Sam groans and drops the makeshift towel, slumping to the floor. Dean catches him only because he was already right there. “Woah, Sam, hey! Talk to me -“
Sam shudders and fumbles for Dean’s hand. “Dean? You look …”
Sam sounds confused, totally lost. As Dean lifts up and guides him gently back to the reclining chair, he sees for the first time the shadows - not laying on top of but crawling underneath his brother’s skin. Dean shakes his head roughly, trying to dislodge the image with a sheer force of will.
No. No, please -
Dean opens his mouth and his fear drives out words he won’t remember later. “Hey, come on, don’t do this. Sammy, look at me.”
Sam starts shaking, shaking like he’s coming apart and Dean thinks he’s seen this before and he remembers the first time - remembers how he decided he’d rather die than ever see it again - and it’s happening now and he doesn’t know what to do.
Dean speaks low and fast, not really needing Sam to process the words, just putting them out there in case his brother can hear them. "You're okay, Sam. You're still here. Right here with me. Stay with me."
Tiny dark red rivers flow across Sam’s face, down into the neck of his shirt, up through the veins of his arms, moving with a purpose and direction. Sam tenses violently and hunches in on himself, clutching at his chest, gasping for air.
Dean shoves Sam back into the recliner and rips into the soaked layers of his clothes, pulling at Sam’s blue over-shirt hard enough to tear the buttons loose. He pulls the tattered pieces back with both hands, searching. Sam’s fists and arms are clenched and he starts writhing as the dark stain picks up its pace, thin tendrils widening as they flow down Sam’s neck and into his chest.
Dean pulls the knife without hesitation and slices down the center of Sam’s t-shirt, exposing the skin underneath. Dean throws the knife off to his right without looking to see where it lands and hauls Sam forward far enough to free him from the shredded remnants.
Dean’s eyes widen in horror.
The dark stains are a living thing, moving across Sam’s body in undulating patterns, circling his heart and pulsing around it like rings around a bulls-eye, sinking into the skin and squeezing deep inside. Sam struggles for air and grabs at the arms of the chair for support.
“My fault,” Sam gasps, “everything.”
This isn’t anything like Bobby’s. This time Sam is lucid, and Dean can see the terror in his brother’s eyes. Dean grabs onto Sam’s arm right against his skin and shakes it, demanding Sam’s attention.
"Just stay with me, Sam. I got you, Sammy. I'm not gonna lose you."
Dean's words descend from a whisper into silence as he looks down and watches his palm burn into Sam's arm, his mind refusing to accept that Sam's body is charring from the inside out, his heart refusing to pull away, to let go… and he sees the dark cords flinch and skitter away from his hand. He looks up into his brother's face; it crawls with death, but it’s the resignation there that takes Dean’s breath away.
“It’s too late,” Sam grinds out through clenched teeth. “Dean, just go, just go, please …”
Dean firms both his grip and his resolve, settling his right hand against Sam’s heart. He presses against his brother as Sam shrinks away from the touch, the writhing bands constricting under Dean’s palm. Dean sees Sam’s panicked heartbeat and feels his skin, clammy from the rain, now soaked with sweat from the searing shadows.
"No,” Dean shakes his head, “Don’t you dare ask that of me. You’re not giving up. I’m not giving you up.”
As Dean speaks he feels a wave of dizziness and Sam convulses, crying out in pain. A bright blue light flares deep into Sam’s chest, blooming out from the touch of Dean’s hand. The dark lines scatter but they return just as quickly, fighting back against the brilliant pulse and snuffing it out. Sam is staring at him and Dean grimaces with dread at the deep black of Sam’s pupils as they shrink and grow rapidly: liquid black to glazed white and back again.
It comes to Dean in a flash, what is going on. Sam’s power is taking the chains of his guilt and shame, all of his fear and anger - and giving it life. Sam is killing himself, and if Dean doesn’t get through to him, he won’t last much longer.
“Sam, no.” Dean’s voice holds no room for argument. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, and I won’t let you do this to yourself! Please, just let it go, Sammy - please."
Sam shakes his head, but he grabs Dean’s upper arms for support, and there is another deep pulse of blue light, stronger than the first. This time Sam screams.
Tears start to roll from Sam’s closed eyes, streaking trails through the sheen of sweat on his face as the pulse deals a heavy blow. The red strands concentrated near Sam’s heart break apart slowly, recoiling. Sam takes a hollow, painful breath. Dean can barely make out the whispered, "I'm sorry."
Dean swallows hard. "I'm sorry, too."
Sam frowns and looks at him, shaking his head quickly, insistent. "Dean, I'm sorry."
"Okay. We're okay. Hey,” Dean runs his left hand quickly through Sam’s hair, pushing it away from his brother’s eyes. He needs Sam to look at him. He needs Sam to see the truth behind his words, to know. “You and me, we're okay. I promise you."
Whatever it is that Sam is sorry for, it’s bigger than them; it’s bigger than Ruby; it’s even bigger than Lucifer. Dean can’t start to imagine how big it is, but right now he just needs …
Dean drops down lower, pulling Sam in close. "Let it go, Sammy."
Sam nods finally, leaning on his knees and shutting his eyes, shivering.
Dean’s voice is deep and rough. “Don’t hold onto it, even if it feels like the only thing there is, okay? Because it's not. I swear."
Sam trembles like he doesn't know what else there could be.
Please, Sam…
"Let go. Sam. Just let go.”
Sam’s whole body jerks and he slumps down into Dean’s arms, completely passed out.
Dean checks him as best he can, running his hands along Sam’s back and his sides, feeling for more fire and coming up clean. It’s too good to be true, but …
Thank fuck.
After a few minutes, Sam stirs and pulls back wearily, not quite meeting Dean’s eyes. "Gonna lie down," he murmurs, searching blindly for the recliner’s lever switch.
“Okay. Okay, wait a minute,” Dean settles Sam back and peels off his jacket, the blue denim now stiff and humid. Underneath Dean’s damp long-sleeve, his shirt is warm and dry and he strips down to take it off. “Here, take this,” Dean offers the t-shirt to Sam with one hand and shrugs his long-sleeve back on with the other.
Sam nods, accepting, shifting uncomfortably as brief flickers threaten to break out again. He pulls it on wearily, curling onto his side with a soft groan.
Dean rubs Sam’s arm until the shadows finally melt away and stay gone. “Easy, I got you. Just rest, okay?"
Sam’s eyes drop closed, and Dean tries to remember to breathe, rocking back on his heels to lean on the side of the recliner. He keeps watch, every few minutes wiping at the sweat still beading in the furrows on Sam’s forehead. Outside, the storm rages and the world might be ending. Inside, one brother is still dead and the other is killing himself.
Sam is all he has; he sold his soul, never got it back and he’d do anything to keep Sam from losing his - if he only knew how to fight this.
He watches Sam sleep for a long time - for all he knows, it’s all the time they have left.
Part Two