Chapter thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
And that was how he found them, the Anchor and the Storm: spent, bloodied, broken, and entwined in one another. One was breathing, one had been released from all his pain.
Dean had been pushed beyond his limit. He had endured much in his life - pain and anguish, guilt that ate away at him like acid, loss and devastation that would have brought a lesser man to his knees long ago, and he had always kept on. But this one task, this final quest had taken away everything that the boy had left. It had been too much for him, and now he lay in fractured sleep, purpose and destiny fulfilled, perhaps more wounded than any person had ever been before.
As for Sam ... well. Sam's journey lay beyond the mortal realm now. His destiny had been much greater, his path much darker than his brothers. But Sam's human soul was pure and true, his spirit strong, and he had seen his path through to the bitter end.
Slowly, gently, Michael reached to retrieve the shining sword. Its hilt pulsed warmly in his hand, welcoming his familiar touch. Sam's body gripped the blade, and Michael sent down a pulse of power, carefully prying it free, sliding it loose quietly, not wanting to disturb Dean's restless sleep.
The Angel sheathed the sword smoothly, turning his bright eyes to the broken warrior at his feet.
He could heal Dean. He could let Heaven's power flow through the young man until he forgot everything, he could erase the hurt and pain - but he knew better. He knew that kind of help was the last thing Dean would ever want or need.
Quietly he knelt next to the fallen, and he laid his hand on Dean's forehead, watched as the drawn lines in Dean's face smoothed. Dean's breathing evened out, and his tense muscles began to relax.
Seeing the Angel the first time had changed Dean's life, but that wasn't who he needed to see right now.
~*~
Dean was lost in the dark. How long have I been wandering like this? His thoughts were fragmented and sharp, the edges cutting into him, leaving deep wounds in his mind.
Alone.
He was all alone.
“Hello?” Dean’s voice was swallowed by the blackness, total night engulfing even the sound of his fear. His weary soul fluttered weakly, dread stirring deep within him at the thought of emptiness. Of alone. Of Hell.
Don’t be scared, Dean.
“Dad?” Dean stepped towards the voice - not as much a voice as a feeling, a flush of memory that smoothed the sharp edges of his thoughts.
“Dad?” Dean called again, but the darkness was too complete, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear anything. Angry tears threatened to form at this most recent betrayal.
“Don’t be scared? Screw you!” Dean shouted. It was time he told John Winchester just exactly how he felt, imaginary or not.
“You left me, Dad. You left us. You were a coward, Dad!” Dean’s hands curled into fists. He moved forward into the dark, daring something - anything - to come and meet him. For the first time in a long time, Dean was longing for a fight.
“Is that why you trained me so hard? Huh? Is that the reason you kept Sam so safe inside your little pretend reality? Is that why you needed me to be your perfect little solider?” Dean spat. As the paced through the darkness, his thoughts solidified, fragments forming one single blade to cut through the mental fog all around him.
“How could you put that on me, Dad?” Dean was screaming now, ripping into the darkness, tearing it with his rage.
“Did you know? Did you KNOW about Sam’s DESTINY?” Dean shouted, turning from side to side, seeking. “Did you know that I’d be STRONGER THAN YOU?” Dean shuddered, coming to a halting stop. I guess that's what I do. I let down the people I love. I let Dad down. And now I guess I'm just supposed to let you down, too? How can I? His voice faltered, and the words slowed, squeezing past the lump forming in his throat.
“Well, I’m not. I’m not, ok?” Dean sighed. “I’m not stronger. I’m weaker. I couldn’t just leave him like that. I …” his breath hitched and he swallowed hard, trying to just breathe.
God, Sammy. “I tried, Dad. I tried to look out for Sammy, like you told me. I tried it your way. Everything just went to Hell.” Dean shook his head at the irony of that statement. “I tried it my way … and innocent people died.” Dean rubbed his hand over his face, wiping the tears away, trying to wipe away the darkness. “I … there was nothing left to try.” Dean listened to the darkness, but it was quiet, and no one answered him.
“I don’t know where to go from here.” He whispered.
Don’t be scared, Dean.
A light shone through the black, so faint that Dean thought it may have been imagined, but … “Dad?” Dean pushed towards the light, desperate to reach it, for anything that might chase away the shadows.
Don’t be scared, Dean.
The light was getting stronger, and Dean reached out to it with everything he had left, praying against all hope that this time someone would be there, that he could finally release the weight of his awful burden.
“Why?” he called out, “Why shouldn’t I be? Tell me, Dad, ‘cause the way I see it - I’ve earned it, haven’t I? Haven’t I done everything you’ve ever asked? Haven’t I been the brave one my whole life? Why should I do anything else you say?”
Angels are watching over you.
Dean froze, his arm reaching towards the approaching light, but suddenly it was around him, inside him, washing all his fear away. The razor edges melted from his thoughts, turning them liquid gold, his mind defied him to see what was right in front of his eyes.
He fell to his knees, weak and trembling, emptied out of all but wonder, of hope.
“Mom?”
~*~
Michael’s golden light flowed over Dean, covering him in a blanket of safety and comfort. Slowly, so, so slowly, the light seeped into Dean, searching for the darkness inside him, seeking out the taint of evil - of Hell, and Michael could feel Dean’s tortured and weary soul mending, coming together again.
A look of wonder played across the sleeping man’s face, and he settled deeper into the light, years that were not his own falling away until he looked beautiful again. Whole. Peaceful.
They sat like that for long moments, the angel, the warrior, and the sacrifice; Michael taking his time, letting Dean see what he needed to see. He had time - time enough for this.
~*~
Dean’s eyes fluttered open, cringing from the bright light of morning. His hands were still curled into fists, and he stiffly unclenched them, reluctantly pushing up into a sitting position. The nightmare was still the same in the early light of day. Sadly he reached down and pressed his palm to his little brother’s heart.
“Sammy.” Dean felt a deep inner peace, but it did nothing to quell the sorrow, to dull the ache of their sacrifice, of Dean’s ultimate and final loss. Dean brushed the hair out of Sam’s face, thinking of all the times he’d done this, remembering how he’d used to cut it when Sam was little. He’d always had Sam to take care of, and it gave him purpose.
Now his purpose was ended.
“Sammy,” Dean started again, mouth twisting into a sad half-smile, “I’m totally useless without you, you know that?”
Dean slowly became aware that he was not alone, soft footsteps rustling in the leaves underneath the dead tree. Dean looked to his hand, still resting over Sam’s heart. He realized dimly that the sword had been removed.
Michael knelt down on one knee, leaning towards Dean, and Dean met his bright eyes without flinching. “S’my brother ok?” He asked, needing to know the truth. “I did what you … what He wanted. I need to know. Sam’s soul, is it …?”
“Your brother gave his life for the world,” the angel replied. “Your sacrifice has freed him from the grip of great evil.” The angel’s eyes pinned Dean, resonating the truth of the words back and forth between them.
“Then he…?”
“Sam is being cared for. He had much grief, much guilt weighing on his soul.” Michael laid a compassionate hand on Dean’s shoulder, and gently rested a palm on Sam’s, as well. “He is finally resting, Dean.”
Dean nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Tears of sorrow and relief rolled slowly down his cheeks, cutting trails through all the dirt and blood, washing him clean.
“It is also time for you to rest.” The angel said. “You fought bravely, obedient though the unthinkable was asked of you. The Lord has said to tell you this - whatever you ask, it will be given unto you.”
Dean blinked as the angel’s words hit home.
You shouldn’t have made that deal, Dean.
“Whatever I ask?”
How certain are you that what you brought back is 100% pure Sam?
The angel nodded.
What’s dead should stay dead.
“I …”
Please, I’m asking you to save me.
Dean thought of warmth, of love. Of the feeling of being safe with his family inside that eternal golden glow. He’d wanted to stay forever.
He couldn’t take that away from Sam.
Don’t be scared, Dean.
He just couldn’t.
“I don’t want anything,” he whispered, not quite believing it himself. “I don’t want anything.”
Michael smiled, and the peace flowed over Dean again, even stronger than before. The angel stood, radiant in the morning light. “If that is your wish, so shall it be. Your heart is pure and true, Dean Winchester, but your soul is not whole. It shall be restored to you; that will be your gift.”
The angel began to shine, blending with the sunrise. It was the same light that drove away the darkness, and Dean covered his face, shielding his eyes from the brilliance.
When the light vanished, the angel was gone. Dean’s eyes strained into the sky, hoping to catch just a glimpse of Heaven’s doorway, but he only saw the sun.
The sun was starting to beat down on the field, and the heat of day touched everything. Even Sam’s skin felt miraculously warm to the touch against Dean’s palm, chest heating from the harsh rays. Dean looked helplessly around the arena. There were nothing but bodies as far as the eye could see. He was rested and strong again, but he only had enough drive left to take care of one. He leaned to wrap his arms around Sam.
“C’mon,” he murmured, “Let’s get you home.”
Supporting Sam’s head with one hand, Dean stood to a crouch, pulling his brother close. Grabbing Sam’s wrist with his other hand, he levered him into a sitting position, and from there into a fireman’s carry.
It was a long walk back to the Impala, even without skirting burning patches of earth and carrying Sam’s weight, and by the time Dean reached her his muscles were trembling from the effort.
Dean wasn’t sure of his exact plan, only that it wouldn’t be long before news of the town’s unexplained destruction would spread, and that it wasn’t safe to be the last man left standing at the O.K. Corral.
There was only one place Dean was willing to take Sam. They had done it for Dad, Sam had done it for him, and even though Dean knew that Sam was safe now - his soul already moved on - being committed to the flames was a hunter’s last rite. Sam deserved the honor, and Dean was determined to see it done.
Dean reached inside the passenger door and opened up his cell. He dialed Bobby’s number and waited.
“Bobby? It’s done. I’ve got Sam. Meet me at that motel outside of town - if it’s still standing. And Bobby? Bring a big truck.”
~*~
It almost seemed poetic in a fucked up sort of way, bringing Sam back one last time to the only kind of home they’d ever known. Some anonymous motel; probably mouse infested, cobwebs in the corners, stains on the sheets, barely a lock on the door but home.
Dean wondered how many times he’d done this, stitched Sammy up on the run, washed away the blood from his skin with stiff motel towels. Only this time he wasn’t hoping that it would be the last time. This time he wasn’t worried about whether or not Sammy was alright.
This time he knew. Nothing was alright.
Dean remembered Cold Oak like it was a dream. He remembered just sitting there, frozen, his body too numb to move but his mind screaming.
He remembered driving with Sam to the woods, waiting to die, his mind too numb to think but his body ready and willing to sacrifice everything for his family.
It wasn’t natural; it wasn’t right that anyone should have to live through something like this twice. But he had no one else to blame but himself, and so he stitched Sammy up, washed the blood away, and tried his best to tell himself that he hadn’t had any other choice.
~*~
Bobby knew the second he saw the Impala parked all crooked with half her doors open that somethin’ was wrong. He’d been staring at his cell for hours - days - when Dean’s voice had finally come over the other end. It’s over, he’d said. I’ve got Sam. His stomach had clenched hard at Dean’s tone.
Cool and collected, like there wasn’t a thing going on in the world.
He pushed open the door with a shaking hand, already half knowing what he’d see. Didn’t make it hurt any less.
Dean sat vigilant on the bed beside Sam, legs crossed and his chin in his hands, idly staring at nothing. His knees barely brushed against Sam, like he was afraid to get any closer but even more afraid to back away.
At the sound of the creaking door, Dean raised his eyes to meet Bobby’s, and Bobby felt the air leave his lungs sure as if he’d been sucker-punched square in the gut. “S … Dean,” he blurted, frozen into place.
Dean pushed his lips together, arched up the corners of his mouth into that smile, the one he always used right before he usually said something like no really, I’m fine, and Bobby lost it.
“Don’t tell me you’re fine, don’t even think about doin’ some damn fool thing, I won’t stand for it, I tell ya, I can’t take it anymore, you goddamn Winchesters, always-“
But suddenly Dean was there, he hadn’t even seen him move, and he was wrapping his arms around Bobby, and Bobby knew somewhere in the back of his mind that it was all wrong, that he should be comforting Dean, that Dean without Sam was lost, but he felt so lost himself he just stood there and let it happen.
“Man, it’s over, it’s over, I won’t, I promise,” Dean was rambling, clinging to him like Velcro, and Bobby found himself clinging right back.
He thought John Winchester you sonnuvabitch, this oughta be you, this oughta be you and not me, you bastard, but what came out was, “Boys, so … God, Sammy, why did -" and there were the tears that had been waiting for damn near two years to fall.
“It’s ok, Sam’s safe now.” Dean sounded choked up, too, but there was a conviction in his voice that Bobby felt sure was unjustified. Sam was dead.
“My boys too,” he choked, “y’all are my boys, too, dammit, and I can’t -"
“I know,” Dean rasped. “He knew. He knows.”
Bobby began to find his air again, took a second to breathe, and pushed his fumbling hands weakly against Dean’s shoulders, mumbling “Gettoff me already.”
Dean’s grip firmed, giving a little extra strength before he let go, stepping back to look his friend in the eyes.
Bobby looked back and couldn’t believe it. Dean’s green eyes glittered with pain, but he was there, behind them, looking out. He wasn’t some shade of a creature wracked with horror, plagued by guilt and loss; he wasn’t someone fighting for his life. For the first time in a long time, Bobby was looking at Dean. Just Dean.
They exchanged an understanding nod. Bobby brushed forward, drawn to the far bed, and knelt gently on the threadbare carpet, hooking his chin over the edge of the mattress to look at his youngest.
Sam’s face was relaxed, and his clothes were fresh and clean. They still smelled like his shampoo. His face was shaven smooth and his hair was shorter than when Bobby had seen him on the news. Dean, he realized. He wondered how long it had taken Dean to clean his brother up; what he’d seen out there in the smoldering ruins of Lawrence.
Sam looked so young lying there. Damn, it hurt. “What happened?”
Dean’s voice was still steady but the hand on Bobby’s shoulder trembled a little. “He asked me to save him.” he whispered.
Bobby’s blood ran ice cold at the certainty that, sure as he was breathin’, Dean Winchester had just told him he’d killed his own brother. But he couldn’t rustle up any anger towards the boy. If anything, it was pretty much the opposite. “God, Dean.” He breathed.
They stayed for long moments, both of them just staring at Sam like they were watching him sleep. Finally Dean stirred. “Bobby?”
“Yeah, son.”
“Help me take Sam home?”
Floods of memories came rushing in, Sam asking for help with his homework, Dean asking for help with his crossbow, and Bobby figured he’d been helping those boys all their lives, and he wasn’t about to stop now.
“How far?”
“’Bout a hundred miles or so; not far out of Jefferson.”
“Alright.”
“You bring a truck?”
“Semi, actually.”
“Good. Let’s load up the Impala - then we’re gonna need some ice.”
He just nodded and went to work on the car while Dean raided the motel ice machine. He knew in his bones this time was different, this time Dean was really going to be ok, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to keep an eye on the kid, and maybe this time - his third time, shit - he figured Dean might even have to keep an eye on him.
Chapter fourteen