Fire and Ice, part 2
Sam wakes up slowly, trying in vain to hang onto the place in-between, the safe dark place, where he doesn’t know who he is or what he’s done.
He sits up carefully, mindful of new stiffness in every muscle. For the first time since New Harmony he feels like maybe his mind is his own again, like he can think. He thinks he doesn’t deserve to live.
Sam looks at the backs of his hands, turns his palms over and flexes his fingers. Dark red lines move underneath, the twisting choking tendrils of a monster. Dean’s shirt is soft against Sam’s skin, and it smells like him and for an instant Sam thinks, home, but the darkness inside is louder and Sam can’t hang on to it, it starts to slide into the void, lost.
Dean is passed out on the worn leather couch not five feet away, and it looks like he dragged himself over there against his will. One hand is draped over the side, subconsciously reaching out for Sam even in sleep.
There is no reason for Dean to be there. He should have stayed with Bobby, where he could be safe, even if just for a while. He’d said he was done, saving Sam - he’d practically promised - but still he’s there, chasing after Sam like always.
The guilt slowly crushes him, pulling like a black hole in his chest and he hunches his shoulders forward, trying to breathe against the pain. He doesn’t know if his eyes are hazel or black, and he’s not sure if he’d have the presence of mind to care. Claws stretch out from the pit inside, scratching and ripping their way through him in a fight to the surface. The sweat on his skin is a pathetic mirror of the burning in his veins, every pounding heartbeat accusing evil evil evil, consuming him from the inside out.
If there’s one thing Sam knows he can count on now, it’s that he can’t count on Dean to keep his word, not anymore. He knew it back at the convent the second Dean grabbed him by the jacket instead of putting the knife deep into his heart like he should have, like he’d promised to. But he needs something because he’s suffocating, the fist around his heart squeezing against his struggling will to live, and he has to do something, he’ll do anything to make it stop.
Sam fights to breathe, every nerve locked into the battle for air, and his eyes threaten to fill with tears - a physical response - he blinks them back angrily because he doesn’t deserve them; he’s a monster and a demon and he always was, the power was his all along; he should have died as himself in Bobby’s panic room like Dean wanted and saved the world the trouble before he caused all of this; before Dean decided to go and change his mind.
Sam’s every instinct is telling him to just let go already, to finish it out alone and accept the consequences of what he’s done; but he remembers his mother’s touch and Alistair’s blade and Dean’s accusing voice and he can’t, he can’t, he’s too afraid, too weak.
The shadows flicker and surge to the surface, and it hurts, damn, it hurts. Sam stands shakily to his feet, stumbling through the dark, every motion a struggle. At the first hint of movement from him Dean stirs, sitting up quickly to look in Sam’s direction, blinking back the sleep from his eyes.
Sam trembles, needing so badly to stop the pain that he can hardly think of anything else. He isn’t even sure if what he needs can be explained in words.
“Dean, I …”
"Hey, Sammy." It's Dean’s encouraging voice. He looks tired and scared but he’s watching Sam, keeping him steady; waiting for him to make the first move.
Sam goes, falling hard to his knees at his brother’s feet. He looks slowly up into his brother’s eyes.
Dean holds himself very still, like Sam is a wild thing that he could frighten away. Sam feels Dean’s eyes looking him over, checking for shadows. He hears the elevated pace of Dean’s heartbeat, rising to match his own.
"I need …" Sam whispers, but the words die out. How can he explain what’s missing; how can he admit that he sold his soul piece by painful piece, opened a door to the darkness and welcomed it like a friend, a lover; betrayed his brother and the world, all in the name of justice? Sam is alone, more alone than he’s ever been. The invisible fingers constrict and his pain flares into panic. Dean won’t understand.
Dean puts a hand on his shoulder and it’s cool, but hardly a relief from the deep red flames running just below Sam’s skin. Dean speaks slow and steady. "Yeah. Tell me."
Sam pushes hard, breathes out the first words that come to mind.
“I screwed up,” he rasps. Rolling nausea threatens to white out his vision at the mere thought of the blood he drank just hours before; not the first innocent he’s killed, but one of the first of billions. Screwed up doesn’t even dream of covering it.
Even the simple weight of Dean’s hand seems crushing, a reminder of how unworthy Sam is, of how wrong he was. Three words repeat in his head, over and over, and they’re all he has. “Dean, I’m sorry.”
Dean blinks, mist in his eyes. He takes it all in, presses his lips together, even smiles a little. "I know, Sam."
Sam’s stomach clenches and he can’t help it, it’s a reflex, he grabs for Dean’s arm blindly even as he drops his head lower, retching as the sound of Ruby’s voice echoes into the torn, dark corners of his soul:
It’s okay, Sammy. You can have it.
“Hey, easy,” Dean says, moving to steady him. Nothing comes up, and Sam breathes gratefully through the nausea the way he learned how to as a child, by focusing on his brother’s voice. “I got you, hang on…”
His body responds on instinct alone, and the churning slowly settles while Dean speaks steadily in the background, somewhere outside of Sam, well out of reach of the horror he contains.
Sam trembles. He knows Dean will refuse, but somehow he scrapes up the strength to at least ask, one last time, for his brother to do the right thing. “Dean, don’t. Just … please, just finish it.”
The fingers on Sam’s shoulder squeeze, and Dean’s other hand is almost painfully cold against Sam’s burning cheek as he pulls Sam’s face upward.
“Sam, look at me.”
Sam fights weakly against raising his eyes, but even at his most defiant he could never ignore that tone. He obeys, but he hates the gentleness in Dean’s touch, the understanding in his voice; the killing kindness of the lie in Dean’s eyes.
“Listen, and I really mean hear this, okay, because there’s nothing we can do about it now, either of us, man, and after I tell you, I’m done.”
Sam nods miserably, waiting for exactly what he deserves even while the pain in his chest grows from a savage ache into the sharp pulses of claws. If Dean waits too long, he thinks with relief, if he refuses, it won’t matter. It won’t be long now.
“Yeah, okay, you screwed up. You broke the last seal. What do you want, some kind of ‘I told you so’? I’m not gonna say that.” Dean leans in closer, letting go of Sam’s face to run his hand distractedly through his own hair, still clumped into short spikes from the storm. “I don’t have the right.” Dean’s voice wavers and he locks eyes with Sam, willing him to believe. “No, don’t look at me like that - I don’t. And I won’t say ‘I told you so’, Sammy. Not until you say it first.”
Sam sinks slowly back onto his heels. “What?”
Dean lets him go, propping his elbows on his knees and resting his head in his hands, peering down at Sam with pain-filled eyes. “You were right, about my deal. I should never have done it. You, me - it was a set-up, man, all of it.” Dean swallows hard, like the words are costing him.
Sam shakes his head, confused. “Dean, I don’t-”
“I broke the first seal, Sam. In Hell. That’s what Lilith wanted me for.”
It doesn’t sink in right away. It doesn’t, but it makes sense, and even more than the revelation, the implications of what it means takes what’s left of Sam’s breath away. It means …
“I understand, okay? You and me …” Dean’s tone goes dark, bitter, “we both got played from the jump. Demons, angels - they’re all the same, they all wanted this. They all made it happen.”
“But-”
Dean cuts him off. “Sam, you’re my brother. Please. You’re killing yourself, man, and I need you to stop this. I need you to fight.”
Layers below the thick twisted blood, down beneath the blackness, from the depth of Sam’s heart there is a dim boom of thunder.
“I …”
Sam frowns, blinking uncertainly. He knows anger. He knows the inky stain of vengeance, how it feeds slick into a soul. He has felt it flow into the cracks and fill his lungs with sludge, with evil.
This new thunder is not like that at all. This anger is right, pure. It flares up, golden fire from Sam’s very core, and it burns some of his mental fog away. The red marks vibrate on the knuckles of his hands, surging in tandem with the new fire kindling inside. He hesitates, suddenly unsure of what it means.
Dean takes his shoulder, shakes him once. “Sammy?”
Sam looks up at his brother and watches him come slowly into focus. There is going to be plenty of time for sorry, plenty of time for retribution… for the first time, Sam lets himself think that there might be an after.
He can’t stop now. He can’t leave Dean alone to face both sides of a losing war. He can’t let them win.
The void worming inside him starts to shrink away from the growing glow of this new inner light. The relief is a palpable thing. Dean knows, he knows, and Sam believes him. If he understands, then maybe Dean can …
It comes out more hopeful than he’d have thought possible. “I’m sorry, Dean.”
Sam can see it now, their link. It appears in his mind as a shining bridge from his soul to his brother’s, and he can’t figure out why he couldn’t see it before. The golden light crouches in anticipation, and Sam feels it tingling down through to his fingertips: so much energy waiting to be released, and all it needs is the catalyst - Dean’s acceptance - and his blessing.
Dean nods wordlessly.
Sam locks eyes with Dean, letting a little of the heat flow along the link that Dean’s arm is making, watching Dean’s eyes widen as it sinks inside. He asks with his eyes, begging Dean to trust him. Dean looks a little nervous but he nods with conviction.
Sam’s own hand is shaking but his grip is strong as he pulls Dean's hand slowly from his shoulder and places it over his heart, centering Dean’s palm over the fire raging inside. Dean resists on instinct, pausing just before touching.
Sam bows his head and waits. Dean’s fingers twitch against the worn fabric of the t-shirt, hesitant, unsure of what Sam is asking. Sam concentrates on breathing. He trusts Dean’s judgment, trusts Dean to know if he’s ready to start the path to redemption.
Dean’s palm turns red from the heat of Sam’s skin but he ignores it. There is an intake of breath and Sam hears his brother whisper, “I forgive you.”
Dean’s hand flattens to push firmly against Sam’s heart, letting his words sink deep like holy water.
Sam’s mouth drops open in a wordless gasp. He can see his eyes glowing in the mirror of Dean’s concerned ones, golden light struggling outward from the black. Sam’s fever spikes defiantly beneath the cooling touch and the shadows start to sizzle and hiss. Dean says it again, like an exorcism. Like truth.
“Sam. I forgive you.”
A cool, gentle blue rush of power washes over Sam as the deeply rooted bands lurch and begin to pull away. Against each point of contact the demonic fire recoils from the flood, releasing violent bursts of steam that cloud the air.
The heavy weight on his chest starts to ease. Inside, the new light flares in a strong pulse of energy. It tears through Sam, chasing down the shadows and eliminating them one by one. Sam feels the right corner of his mouth twitch into a grin. The gold is a welcome kind of warmth, peace; everything he missed, and he feels it respond to him.
He firms up his grip on Dean’s hand, anchoring himself. Dean’s other hand comes to rest on the crown of his head and he knows that Dean is grounding himself, too.
Everything explodes.
The light surges outward, reaching into every crack and vein, blowing past the darkness and reaching for the blockage around his soul; not slowing as it rips the monster to shreds.
Sam claims his power for his own, masters it. He burns the crimson shreds of guilt and shame away from the inside out, watches as it shrinks back from the golden fire and turns to dust. The pure flame sweeps through and leaves molten shielding behind, re-knitting Sam’s defenses, purifying as it moves. It builds and builds, amplifying until his whole body pulses with it, until the surge becomes too much for him to contain.
Sam lets go.
The demonic red flames burst free of Sam’s body in a rush, flaring out in all directions, the echo of a spirit sent to rest, leaving nothing but gold and white and peace behind.
Sam opens his eyes, and they reflect the golden glow in the green of Dean’s own.
Dean shifts his hand from Sam’s hair to cup Sam’s face instead, searching. “Sammy?”
The glow brims over for a second and then pulls back, receding to his core, and Sam is himself again. He slumps down, exhausted. He realizes he’s breathing like he ran a marathon, shaky from the rush.
He gulps down air like he’s forgotten what it tastes like. “Sonuvabitch.”
Dean blinks, huffs an unsteady laugh. "Well. I guess that... went well." Dean shifts his grip to pull Sam up with an air of finality, getting Sam off of his knees and hauling him to his feet. "Okay. I got you."
Sam’s fingers dig sharply into Dean’s arms and Dean thinks there’s gonna be bruises but it doesn’t matter; it’s the only thing he wants to feel right now.
He smiles weakly, feeling oddly just as worn out as Sam looks. "Talk to me, man, because..."
Sam reaches for the couch with one hand, and Dean pivots to guide him there, tracking his every move as they go. Sam seems luminous in the dim room, like tarnished brass that’s been polished until it shines.
The shadows are gone. The evil is gone. Dean can feel it.
Sam sinks into the cushions thankfully and leans forward to rest his face in his hands.
Dean stands over him, watchful. “Sam?”
Sam’s voice is muffled through his fingers. “I’m okay. I …” he trails off, tilting his head to the side like he’s listening to something. He lifts his eyes to meet Dean’s. They look alert and clear for the first time in days. They also look afraid.
“They’re coming,” Sam hisses. “We gotta move, now.”
Dean feels his nails bite into his palms and he holds back a string of curses, trying to keep his voice steady. “Which side?”
Sam lunges from the couch and moves for Dean, reaching out his hand. “Everyone. Give me the knife.”
Dean shrinks away from the golden gleam in Sam’s eyes, moving his hand to the grip. He’s not sure if he’s reaching to give it to Sam or to protect himself.
“What for?”
There is a loud clap of thunder outside and Dean jumps. The growling bass reverberates through the room, low roar building until the stone walls begin tremble as the storm begins to intensify. Dean’s stomach clenches.
Angels.
Sam pulls his hand back but then extends it again just as fast, demanding. “Dean!”
It’s Sam, it’s the tone Sam uses during hunts, and it provokes an automatic response. Dean hands over the knife as strobes of ceaseless lightening start streaming through the window, and Sam takes it and turns toward the nearest wall.
Dean steps up behind him, watching closely. Sam presses the edge to the underside of his forearm but before Dean can react, Sam stops. His shoulders drop and he shifts uncomfortably before turning to Dean, apology written all over his face.
The pressure in the room is rising, peals of thunder coming closer and closer together outside. Whoever is coming, Dean doesn’t want to see them. If Sam’s got a plan, he needs to hear it.
“Sam, what?”
Sam looks straight at him, totally unguarded, and he gestures with the tip of the knife. “It has to be you,” he says firmly. Sam shakes his head as if to ward off any coming argument. “It might not work if I do it!”
The shaking is growing stronger. Plaster dust rains down from above, and Dean has to yell to be heard. “What has to be me? Speak English!”
“The blood!” Sam shouts. His fingers close around Dean’s right wrist and he’s holding the blade to Dean’s skin, and Dean thinks monster at the same time he thinks angel and his whole body goes rigid from indecision.
“What if they’re on our side!?” The carpet below them begins to shift and tear as the church’s very foundations begin to crack under the pressure.
“You have to trust me!” Sam’s voice wavers, and Dean suddenly remembers how it went the last time he said no, and he nods sharply.
Sam doesn’t hesitate; he doesn’t have time. He pushes Dean’s right sleeve up to the elbow and drags the blade across his skin smoothly, spilling Dean’s blood.
Sam winces as he makes the cut, sorry heard clearly over the racket. All around them the air has become thick and dusty, Dean can’t see anything but Sam; awash by the blinding light from the window as the angels draw closer to their fragmenting shelter.
Sam tucks the knife away and grabs Dean’s wrist with one hand and his left upper arm with the other, pulling him closer.
Under Sam’s grip, the scarred handprint pulses and burns and Dean is caught in a wave of nausea. He stumbles, but Sam is there to catch him, maneuvering Dean until he can lean against the cool stone and mercifully releasing the mark.
Dean struggles to keep watch, to keep trust.
Pressure stings against the wound as Sam gathers Dean’s blood on his fingertips. The room seems to shift and sway. Sam is painting on the wall with his right hand and everything drips red.
Blood-stained skin and stone fill Dean’s vision; red like his own right hand in Hell, like the finger-shaped stains he left on Sam’s jacket when Sam died, and Dean can’t think anymore. He leans against the wall, letting his head drop down and his eyes fall closed, and his mind follows.
Dean stands in a dark and endless place, a void that swallows light and sound, nothing so thick he can’t see. He stumbles forward blindly and trips, falling over what seems to be a stump in the ground. He feels with his hands and realizes that the ground is sloping upward, and he raises his head to see a flicker of light far away, spilling over the top of the hill before him.
Dean sees himself at the peak, like it’s a dream, silhouetted by the rising of a brilliant white flame. Dean-on-the-hill has his back turned, and he is raising his face into the pure light, arms spread wide in welcome. Dean watches in awe, feeling the echoes of his own euphoria.
Dean-on-the-hill drops slowly to his knees, and it seems like the sun itself is approaching him, coming to meet him in person. It consolidates, shrinking down to form the blazing outline of a man, and there is only one person Dean thinks could ever shine like that.
We won, he thinks, we did it, Sammy.
The Shining Man places a hand on the head of the Dean-on-the-hill, and his voice is like music in Dean’s mind, flowing down the hill to flood him, filling him up inside with the rejoicing chorus of song. Well done, says the Shining Man, my good and faithful servant. The Shining Man lifts Dean-on-the-hill to his feet, and against the purity of the light, Dean-on-the-hill’s skin glows, slick with red.
Dean freezes. Something isn’t right.
At the top, at Dean-on-the-hill’s feet is another man, twisted and broken, and the Shining Man smiles sadly down at the ruined body, long hair shielding its face from view. The Shining Man shakes his head and says, Rest, my child. Your work is done. Dean-on-the-hill bows his head in agreement and leans down to pull free the Shining Man’s sword from what used to be the man’s chest.
Dean- on-the-hill turns his face then, tilting it back over his shoulder. The illusion of beauty falls away, and Dean can finally see.
The Dean-on-the-hill is dripping blood, and it falls from his fingertips uncaring, painting the twisted ground beneath him; seeping into the hill beneath his feet, constructed not of roots and bramble, but of gory bits of limbs and bone.
The Dean that is not Dean shifts almost casually, and he gives the body a thoughtless shove, sending it to tumble down, down, down. Sam’s body comes to rest finally under Dean’s reaching hands.
Impossibly, Sam’s eyes are open. They find his brother’s.
Dean hovers, not knowing where to put his hands, settles for skirting Sam’s sides, away from the horrible wounds. He bites his lip when Sam gasps at even his feather-soft touch.
Sam smiles, eyes lighting up. “Dean,” he sighs, “Can you see?”
Before Dean can form a thought there is a rush of cold wind and Sam is whisked away, slipping through Dean’s fingers like water, gone as if he never was, leaving only the void behind.
“No,” Dean cries out, “no,” but his voice is swallowed in the darkness. He closes his eyes, refusing to believe, and when he looks again, the hill of the dead and the Shining Man have gone, and the other Dean with them. Maybe they fell, he thinks, maybe they fell into the chasm and they’ll never find the way back. He searches for the edge. He should follow them down, down to where he can’t hurt anyone anymore.
“Dean.”
Somewhere behind him, so far away, is a different light, a golden light. The angels are coming to take him away from the darkness, to melt the ice inside with holy fire, to erase his pain - and with it, all that he has left of Sam.
“Dean?”
The light flares, surging, and the black ground shakes beneath Dean’s feet, darkness recoiling from the intensity. Not again, he thinks. Cas, no. I can’t. Pick somebody else.
“Dean!”
There is a burning on his left upper arm; he’s being saved, redeemed - someone is calling him home, but he doesn’t know anymore where that is. The tug of the grip on his arm is undeniable, connecting not just to his skin but to his soul.
“Dean!”
Dean’s eyes snap open to lock onto Sam’s hazel ones all rimmed with gold, Sam is holding him by the handprint and Sam doesn’t know; Sam can’t feel how Heaven’s power flows from him down the link, calls him. Sam can’t see it; he hasn’t ever seen the light shining, fire burning bright enough to rival Lucifer himself.
Sam is spreading blood everywhere as he tries to steady his brother, gripping Dean’s wound tightly to stop the flow. “Get ready,” Sam shouts, “Hang on!”
Dean inhales quickly. All around the air is close and he hears the rush: the blackened ethereal wings of a whole host of angels sent to either aid him or bring him to justice. Sam’s bloodstained right hand hovers over the writing on the wall.
Dean looks to Sam and his face is set and determined. He can see Sam counting down in his mind, waiting until the absolute last second to trigger the spell.
Dean nearly loses his footing as the window shatters inward, pelting him with tiny slicing shards. A tempest of wing-beats pound the air around them and forms begin to take shape, dozens of men and women stepping from the violent light, hands reaching for them, for him, terrible strong eyes seeking him out, looking into his soul, judging him.
Everything is drowned out but that rush and the feel of the walls caving in all around him. Sam pulls him close. He sees Sam open his mouth but he doesn’t hear the words, and Sam’s dripping palm comes down in the middle of the red circle on the wall, and everything goes white.
Dean covers his ears, pulling against Sam’s iron grip on his arm as he goes. The shrieking pitch of the angels’ rage seems to last forever, vibrating through Dean in endless waves.
Silence descends so suddenly that for a second he thinks they must be dead, but then Sam shakes him a little and calls his name, ducks to look him in the eyes, and he knows they aren’t.
Outside the storm is gone, replaced by a heavy, deathly stillness. Dean’s skin crawls. “Sammy?”
Sam glances to the door, satisfaction flitting across his face. “It’s the demons. They’ve been outside, waiting.”
Dean’s stomach flutters at his brother’s confident tone. He pushes his fear aside. Sam, he thinks, it’s only Sam.
“What do we do?”
Sam smiles gently and turns Dean’s wrist over, looking pointedly at his forearm. The wound is gone, skin knit smoothly together as though the cut had never been. Sam pulls back his own sleeve to reveal a mirror wound on his own arm, and Dean’s jaw drops. “What the …”
“It’s okay,” Sam says, “Look.” A soft glow rises from Sam’s skin. The shadows are gone, replaced with spiraling patterns of light. The light surrounds the gash and fills it, closing the gap seamlessly. Sam flexes his fingers, offers his arm for inspection. He’s healed.
“Dean,” Sam says with a hushed voice, “Don’t you get it?”
Sam’s power fills the room and it chases the dark away, reaches into the cracks and warms the frigid plates inside, and Dean does see, but he doesn’t know what. It’s the Sam from his vision and Dean feels the crackle on his skin.
Dean, can you see?
“I can see that we’re unbelievably screwed.”
Dean decides to ignore the terror inside in favor of addressing more immediate problems. He rolls his shoulders forcefully and waves a hand toward the plywood door, acutely aware of how much flimsiness is standing between them and the -
Sam rests his hand on the doorknob and looks over his shoulder at Dean, questioning, his eyes glittering in the dark. Dean shrugs. They have to at least try to escape so that they can warn the others and it’s not like he came up with a better plan while he was slumped against the wall. Sam hands the knife back, and Dean tightens his grip on it until his knuckles ache.
“Dean?” Sam pushes, prompting for the okay to turn the handle.
Dean manages a weak grin. “Always wanted to go down like Butch and Sundance,” he quips.
Sam smiles and for an instant it’s just Sam, a flicker of a second before the electric charge comes back to the air, before Dean finds himself wanting to take a step back but can’t say why.
“We’re not the ones going down, Dean. Not today.” His voice drops, and Dean’s stomach flips at the sound when Sam asks softly, “Just trust me?”
Dean blinks, surprised, expecting to see some wild creature lurking behind Sam's eyes, but all he sees is Sam, and that glimpse is all he needs. He nods, stepping just a little closer.
Sam pushes the door open slowly, and Dean grimaces at the cliché of the hinges creaking eerily in the dark. Sam leads the way into the cavernous sanctuary. The air is thick and cold, the kind of fearful chill that seeps deep into the bones and freezes a person solid. Plaster litters the ground and large cracks in the vaulted ceiling reveal the orange light of a hunter’s moon.
In the dim light Dean senses rather than sees the demons, scores of them, filling every empty space all the way to the exit.
Sam moves forward and the demons move with him, stepping back to give him room. They make space for him to pass like they’ve been waiting for him, like they know his name. Dean’s heart makes a jump for his throat, and his adrenaline pumps hard as they walk willingly into the crowd. He wants to scream at Sam, to ask him what’s going on, but the black eyes are stealing any thought of a Plan B and all he wants to do is keep up.
Halfway down the aisle, Sam stops in the dark. He breathes deeply, raising his face to a streaming shaft of moonlight. It spills across his skin like liquid, like the blood in Dean’s dream, and Dean reacts instinctively. He grabs Sam’s arm at the elbow, needing to feel a solid person under his fingers, terrified that Sam will somehow slip away and leave him behind.
Sam looks at Dean, gold playing in the depths of his hazel eyes, and nods his reassurance.
Then he pulls away, raising his palm to the darkness, squaring his shoulders as it faintly begins to shine.
The crowd around them shifts and hisses as they realize Sam intends to fight. One demon steps forward. It walks just to the edge of the light and brazenly looks Sam in the eyes, challenge well implied as it moves its finger in a circular gesture, tallying their higher numbers.
Sam raises his arm high, commanding attention. He tilts his palm to the moonlight, curving his fingers around the rising glow. The light takes form and the skin of his palm bursts into flames. Sam never flinches as the flames lick across his hand.
The demons watch with rapt attention, and Dean finds himself staring with them.
Sam snaps his grip closed and forms a fist over the fire. Then he drops his arm to his side and the light arcs and jumps, moving through him until the fire comes from both hands; yellow-gold and alive with power, melting the moisture from the air in distorted waves of heat.
Dean feels a pull deep inside, like gravity is turning inside out, and he watches Sam take a deep breath. New flames erupt beneath his feet, blue and cold, sharp as ice, and as Sam pulls himself to his fullest height the blue flames race up to meet the gold ones.
They converge over Sam’s heart, melting seamlessly together in a white blaze of pure energy, gathering around Sam like he’s the sun. The power crackles as it builds and the light starts to flare out, rolling over the darkened aisles. Sam all but disappears, swallowed by the glow.
Liquid fire rolls in billowing waves across the ceiling, throwing each demon into sharp relief. Dean shields his eyes, struggling to see past the glare as he blindly reaches again, mindless of the flames. The white fire flows away from his touch, sparing him, and his seeking fingertips brush cool linen underneath the blaze.
Sam turns to look at Dean and his eyes are solid gold.
“Close your eyes,” Sam’s voice whispers from the center of the flames. Dean feels Sam’s fingers wrap around his wrist, bracing them both, pulling him in.
Dean steps into the fire without fear, letting it white out the demons all around him. Even with his eyes closed, Dean knows Sam is smiling.
And that’s the way the world starts ending … or maybe that’s the end of how it truly begins.
~end
Pimpin' picspam by a friend of mine. Unrelated, but a lot of the meta in it matches the meta in this story, and I HIGHLY recommend it.