My heart bleeded, girl

Master Post

Part 1


Greater love hath no man than this…



The darkness is so total, so impenetrable, that Sam doesn't know if his eyes are open, if he's blind, or if he even exists.

He has no idea where he is.

He calls for his brother. Calling for Dean is as natural as breathing, something Sam's been doing all his life, for as long as he can remember. It's second nature and he doesn't even think about it.

He just does it.

In his darkest moments of rage and despair, in his highest moments of joy and love, Sam calls for Dean.

The only time Dean doesn't answer is when Sam has left him behind.

He calls for Dean, but there's no response. Sam isn't aware of having left Dean. He had no intentions of leaving, had no reason to leave. But no matter how hard Sam strains to hear in the all-encompassing silence, there's no answering call.

He yells until he's hoarse; screams until his throat is raw, until he can't hear his own voice anymore. He's not sure if he ever could. He's not sure of anything here.

It's a void, stretching out endlessly in all directions.

He doesn't feel any pain - no physical pain anyway, only the terrible pain of silence.

Sam's eyes burn in the suffocating darkness; they fill and overflow, tears running down his face, and that's real. That he can feel.

But there's no solid surface under him; he's floating, but he's not. He feels suspended yet tethered at the same time and it's disorienting as hell.

Sam thinks; he tries to remember what happened, why he would be in this place that isn't a place. He needs to remember.

Whatever it is, he knows it's worse than his deepest, darkest fears.

He remembers Dean, on his knees in the mud, holding him, making him feel safe. Dean's terrified voice gasping in his ear, his tears falling on Sam's neck. There was excruciating pain in his back and he was cold and numb, but Dean's tears were hot on his skin.

They weren't enough to warm him.

Sam couldn't feel his legs, and his arms flopped uselessly by his side. There was rain, and Dean's voice, calling his name, hoarse and broken.

Time passes, except it doesn't. An instant or an eon, Sam has no idea; there's no way to measure it. It's all jumbled, like a broken kaleidoscope.

He hears Dean calling his name.

Sam! Look out!

Jake was there, fighting Sam with superhuman strength, but Sam managed to hold his own and knock Jake out. He remembers that.

He remembers knocking Jake to the ground. Sam glared down at him, consumed with rage. His mind was filled with a red haze of fury, and then the anger faded as he watched Jake's unconscious face.

It isn't even that bad.

Sam lowered his arm and tossed the knife away. It wasn't worth it. He didn't want to kill Jake. None of this was Jake's fault. It was the demon that needed to die.

The demon that killed Mom and Jess. That took Dad, sent him to Hell.

That tried to kill Dean.

That son of a bitch.

We're gonna patch you up good, okay, good as new. I'm gonna take care of you, I'm gonna take care of you, I gotcha, that's my job, right? Watching out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother…

*

~ "Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy?"

Sam opened his eyes, but it was still dark, and he huddled back under the covers, tucking his head into Dean's shoulder. He could hear Dean sigh, his chest moving reassuringly while he huffed out his exasperation at his pain-in-the-ass little brother.

"Dude, it's okay. It was just a noise. A cat, or something. Trust me, Sammy, if it was dangerous, I'd know." Dean's voice held a confidence that filled Sam with awe.

"What if it's not a cat, Dean? What if it's something that's gonna come through the window and get us?" Sam closed his eyes so tight he saw sparkles behind his eyelids. He tried not to imagine what was out there in the dark, beyond the motel room door. It could be anything, and here his imagination failed him, because whatever it was might be so horrible as to defy description, or mere imagining.

"Sammy, go to sleep. It's almost morning. It'll be daylight soon. The dark will be all gone." Dean's voice soothed him, and after a while Sam heard it slip away into sleepy mumbles as Dean fell asleep.

And Sam knew it was safe to follow him. ~

*

It's dark in the shadows of the abandoned town. The short, squat buildings block out the low moonlight, casting the whole area into gloom. The bell tower looms menacingly over everything that's spread out in its shadow.

"Sam!"

The only light Dean can see is Sam coming towards him, holding his left arm, looking tired and beat all to hell.

"Dean!" Sam's voice is gravel-rough, broken with exhaustion.

A shape darker than the surrounding shadows moves, coming up behind Sam, and Dean breaks into a run. It's too late; it was always going to be too late. Dean knows that instinctively. No matter how many times he lives the moment again in his dreams, no matter how many times his brain makes him replay it, again and again and again, it will always be too late.

He'll never make it in time. He never could.

"Sam, look out!"

The dark shape moves again and Sam is caught up short, arched backwards, his face a grimace of pain, his mouth open in a silent grunt.

Sam sways in place and Dean runs. He'll be running forever. It's like running through water, through quicksand; he isn't moving forward, dammit, he needs to go forward…

…and Sam hits his knees but still he doesn't fall. He wavers and thank Christ, Dean feels a burst of speed and he's finally there. The quicksand lets him go and Sam is in his arms where he belongs.

Where Dean can keep him safe.

But Sam is dead weight not dead and his arms flop as if he's a giant ragdoll – and wouldn't that be funny, won't that be something to tease Sam about later, when he wakes up - how he was like a big, over-sized doll, his arms flopping loosely, uselessly, at his sides.

Sam's head lolls on Dean's shoulder and Dean starts talking frantically, panic-stricken, his words falling out and tumbling over each other.

"Sam, Sam, Sam, hey, come on, come here, let me look at you, hey, look, it's not even that bad, it's not even that bad. All right, Sammy, Sam, hey, listen to me, we're gonna patch you up, okay, good as new, I'm gonna take care of you, I'm gonna take care of you, I gotcha, that's my job, right? Watching out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother, Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam, Sammy no, nononononono, oh God," and Sam's not moving, he's gone, he's not there and Dean screams his name into the unanswering darkness.

*

The acrid tang of blood fills Dean's nostrils. He's choking on the sweet, coppery smell of it, and he gags, turning his head and vomiting into the deep mud he's afraid his car is stuck in.

Dean ducks his head and quickly wipes his mouth on his shoulder, puke on his jacket to go along with the streaks of blood and smears of mud that are already all over it. He never loses his grip on Sam, though, his knuckles white as he strains not to let go.

"Here, Dean, let me –"

"I got it, Bobby," Dean growls, radiating stay back, don't touch vibes. Bobby takes a step back, raising his hands in a placating gesture and no longer reaching for Sam.

Dean has to get Sam in the car, and he doesn't need help. He doesn’t want anyone to touch his brother beside himself.

He can't do it, though. Sam's too big, too heavy, and his weight - dead weight, Dean's mind screams - defeats him.

He lets Bobby take Sam's feet and together they manhandle his brother into the back seat of the Impala. Dean carefully arranges Sam's arms, folding them across his chest, but the right one won't stay. It keeps sliding off onto the floor and Dean is frantic to keep it in place.

He doesn’t know what he'll do if Sam's arm doesn’t stay up, if it keeps flopping around like that.

He doesn't know what he'll do.

*

~ "Sammy, you okay back there?" Dean twisted around to peer over the front seat at his little brother. Sam had the flu, and Dean had asked Dad why they couldn't stick around the little town they were in and the room they'd been renting for just one more day, but Dad had said no, they had to meet Caleb on Thursday.

Sam had thrown up all over himself after they'd stopped for lunch and now the smell of puke clung to them all, lingered in the car like a miasma of doom, but at least Sam was sleeping now.

His head rolled around on the seat and Dean reached back as far as he could, shoving Sam's wadded up jacket under him for support. Sam's arm hung off the edge of the seat, fingertips barely brushing the floor, and Dean picked it up and tucked it carefully next to his side.

Sam was burning up; Dean could feel it, even through his t-shirt.

"Dad," he started, and John looked back at Sam in the rearview mirror and frowned.

"Yeah, Dean. We'll stop soon, get some more Tylenol in him, get him into bed." John's knuckles were white where his hands gripped the steering wheel. He glanced down at Dean as Dean turned back around in his seat. "He'll be fine, son."

Dean nodded. He knew Dad wouldn't let anything really bad happen. They'd look out for Sammy, Dad and Dean together. That's what they did. ~

*

Sam's head rolls loosely on the seat and he's still doing his best impression of a rag doll, so Dean hastily strips off his jacket and balls it up, shoving it between Sam's head and the back of the seat, just so he doesn’t look so…lifeless.

Soon enough, Sam will be stiff. His head won't bobble around and his arms will stay where Dean puts them – Dean shakes his head sharply to get that image to go the hell away, and he tucks Sam's feet in, bending his knees to make sure both of those gigantic boats will fit. Then he carefully closes the car door.

He moves slowly and with care, keeping his mind focused on getting the key in the ignition of the Impala, on following Bobby's tail lights. Dean's hands are shaking and he grips the steering wheel tight to make them stop. He takes shallow breaths, making sure to breathe through his mouth, not his nose. That way he won't be able to smell the blood, or the filthy mud that's covering his boots, creeping up the legs of his jeans, tightening around his knees.

Dean's mind skitters away from what's lying across the back seat of his car. This isn't real, it can't be happening, so he's not going to think about it. He doesn't smell anything; there's no sharp scent of copper assailing his nostrils. Dean hums Metallica to himself, left hand on the wheel, right hand jittering on his thigh, as he drives through the night with only his dead brother's body for company.

*

Sam wants to reach over and touch Dean, but he doesn't think he can. He's not sure how this works but he thinks he's at least figured out what's going on.

He's having an out-of-body experience. He's never had one before, but there's a first time for everything and it's a logical extension of his psychic abilities.

Dean's gonna shit a brick when he finds out. Sam maybe needs to figure out a way to avoid having to tell him. Dean never needs to know about this little exercise in psychic weirdness, if Sam plays his cards right.

That's not the only thing Sam doesn't want to tell Dean about. No way is his brother going to find out that Sam is some kind of a freak, a freak that was fed demon blood when he was a baby. Even Dean's loyalty will only go so far and Sam's guess is that demon blood is right in the vicinity of the limit of Dean's brotherly love, or at least his tolerance. Dean will always love Sam; of that Sam has no doubt. On the other hand, Sam doesn't want to put it to a test.

Dean has always seen things in black and white, and in spite of Lenore, in spite of Molly and Madison, that hasn't changed much. He didn’t kill Sam those couple of times Sam thought he should have, but if Sam's honest with himself, he doesn’t think he could stand to see the look in Dean's eyes if he found out that Sam's been infected with demon blood. That he's carried that kind of a taint around for his whole life.

So, out-of-body experience it is. Sam's riding in the front seat of the Impala, next to Dean, same as he's done more times than he can count over the course of a lifetime. And his body is in the back seat, unconscious, looking plenty the worse for wear. He'd watched Dean arrange him so carefully, but his arm is hanging loosely off the seat and Dean keeps glancing back at it, his jaw set tight, his eyes haunted.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam says. "Dude, it's just my arm." He turns around and reaches back to try and pick up his arm, to get it to stay next to his body on the seat. He's not sure if he'll actually be able to touch himself from the astral plane, or wherever the hell he is, but it's obviously bothering Dean so he'll give it a try.

Sam can touch himself, it turns out, and he recoils at the sensation. His skin is cold to the touch; the flesh seems to have the density and give of modeling clay.

His arm dangles there, swaying with the movement of the car, and Sam leaves it where it is. He can't bring himself to touch it again.

*

It's so goddamn quiet. Even when he's not talking, Sam is noisy. He'd deny it, but he's not a restful person. Oh, he can be quiet when he wants to be, when he's focused, or when he's pissed at Dean, but otherwise, no one who takes up as much space as Sam does is silent. He breathes, coughs, burps, and farts on purpose to annoy Dean. He tosses and turns when he sleeps, sometimes crying out in his dreams.

Then there's all the talking Sam does. Narrating their lives, he teases Dean, pontificating all over the place about whatever topic grabs his interest. Dean pretends not to listen once Sam gets going on the lore of something he's just researched, or why Dean is a giant dick, but he knows he's not fooling anyone, least of all Sam.

Dean hates driving in silence. It reminds him too much of the years they were apart, when Sam was at Stanford trying to be someone he had no chance of ever being.

Dean hated that. He wanted - still wants, will always want - Sam to have whatever makes him happy. Dean would give it to him if he could, but he figured out, right about the time that yellow-eyed bastard put Jessica on the ceiling of Sam's apartment, of their bedroom, for Chrissake, and burned her alive - Dean realized that Sam could never have the life he wanted, no matter what Dean did or didn't do.

The only thing for Dean to do after that was to keep Sam safe and now he's failed at that, too.

He spends the drive listening so hard for Sam that his ears are ringing with the roar of the Impala's engine.

It feels like they're in the car for hours, alone and so silent Dean can hear himself breathe, but too soon they're at the abandoned cabin where Dean and Bobby have been squatting while they searched for Sam.

Bobby is already there waiting for him. For them. Dean doesn't want any help getting Sam out of the car, but he can't do it himself without letting Sam drag on the ground, and his mind recoils from the thought. Sam deserves better than that.

Sam is stiff and it's not easy to move him. Together Dean and Bobby pull him out of the backseat, Dean trying as hard as he can not to lose his grip on Sam's shoulders. He shifts his hands and shoves them under Sam's armpits, but Sam's limbs are bent from being curled up in a space he hasn't fit into comfortably in years. Rigor is making this almost impossible, making Sam seem even heavier than he is and Dean's mind wants to run screaming from the whole nightmare.

He can't do this.

"Come on, Dean," Bobby says grimly. "We got this." Dean listens to him and grits his teeth. Between them they finally manage to get Sam inside the shack and onto the dirty mattress in the one room that has a bed.

They arrange Sam on his side, same as he was in the car, because they can't get him into any other position. His neck is at an awkward angle but Dean knows in a few hours Sam's body will be pliable again and he can arrange him more comfortably.

He stands at the side of the bed and wills his brother to make a sound, just one more sound. He doesn't want the last noise he ever heard Sammy make to be the breath he lost kneeling in the mud and the rain with Dean's arms tight around him.

*

Dean can't believe how cold Sam is. Sam's usually a furnace, running a few degrees hotter than normal people - a sweaty freak of nature. But now he's cold and lifeless. Dean's been around dead bodies all his life and Sam feels colder than any other body Dean has ever touched.

The very idea of preparing Sam's body for…for anything, for burial, or burning, is enough to make Dean want to get into his car and drive away and never look back.

Dean doesn't want to wash him, to clean the blood from his back, the dirt from his face. He can't imagine stripping Sam's body to do that, to wipe the mud away from his hands or dress him in clean clothes.

His mind shies away from the task and he tries to think of some way he can avoid performing it.

Some way to make it not necessary.

*

~ Dean hadn't unclenched his jaw for the past three hours, and although he barely registered the resultant headache, he did know it was there. His damn neck practically creaked with tension when he turned his head to make sure they weren't being followed.

Other than the headache, Dean felt perfectly fucking fine, which, if Sam hadn't been exaggerating about his condition before, wigged him out a bit. Okay, a hell of a lot. The doctors had told Sam and Dad that Dean was going to die, that there was nothing more they could do for him, and now here he was, just a few hours later, healthy as a damn horse.

Dean wasn't fucking stupid, and he didn't believe in coincidences. He had been dying and now he was fine, and his father was dead.

Didn't take a damn rocket scientist to figure out that yellow-eyed son of a bitch had something to do with it.

Dean tried to push those thoughts away. He'd deal with it later. Right now he had to focus on the weight in his arms, his father's body limp and unyielding between him and Sam. Dean grunted with the effort, his hands slipping and almost losing their grip under John's arms.

"Dean," Sam gasped, clutching John's knees and stumbling in the dark. The old junker Bobby had loaned them was parked up close to the hospital, in the shadows by the unlit loading dock.

"Shit, sorry," Dean muttered, tightening his hands in his father's jacket.

John had been naked in the hospital morgue, laid out on a cold metal tray, hidden away in a dark, refrigerated drawer. Dean had insisted they dress him before they carried him out to the car, and he touched his father's familiar clothing, John's shirt, his jacket, with a sense of loss and panic that almost made him numb in its intensity.

"Sam, a little fucking help here?" Dean had barked, and Sam recoiled in horror when he realized that Dean wanted his help sliding their father's boxers and jeans up his legs and hips. "Sam!"

John's skin was white under the morgue's harsh fluorescent lighting. There were no marks on his body, save for the small burns on his chest from the defibrillator the doctors had used on him multiple times, to no avail. There was nothing to show how he died, not one fucking sign.

His face was peaceful, his jaw slack. Dark hair stood out on his chest and groin, his pale cock flopped limply against his thigh. Dean's stomach clenched painfully.

"Sam," he said again, this time a plea.

Wordlessly, Sam took hold of one side of John's pants while Dean grabbed the other, and together they tugged and pulled until John was covered. Sam's hands shook uncontrollably and Dean wanted to comfort him, he really did, but he was too goddamn empty.

They maneuvered John's body into the backseat of Bobby's crappy borrowed car, and then they both slid silently into the front. Dean turned the engine over as quietly as he could and crept out of the hospital parking lot with the headlights off.

They drove for an hour, away from the hospital and the town, away from civilization, until Dean found an access road that led them away from the main highway and into what looked like a fairly large acreage of wood. He parked the car, and if the footpath that led into the trees was more imagination than reality, what did it matter? He and Sam bore their father's body between them until they came across an overgrown clearing in the woods.

There was no need for words, no reason for any attempts at conversation to make the task more bearable. Together they gathered wood in the patches of moonlight that penetrated the trees, shining through the branches just enough to light the way.

As he touched his father one last time, Dean kept a tight rein on the tears that threatened to fall. He felt like a goddamn hypocrite, wanting to cry for the man who had been his hero, his commanding officer, and his very foundation for all of his twenty-seven years, when Dean knew exactly why John was dead.

John died for Dean, and it didn't matter that Dean didn't want him to, or that he hadn't asked him to do it.

Bobby had given them sheets and Sam and Dean wrapped John's body carefully, struggling with stiff limbs and dead weight.

Dean stared down into his father's face one last time, brushing a lock of hair back off his forehead, trying not to recoil from the coldness of his skin as they covered his face with the sheet. He closed his eyes in brief acknowledgement of the debt he now owed, then he and Sam finished up, finished the last thing they could do for their father.

They gave him a hunter's funeral.

"Did he say anything to you?" Sam asked. "Before he died, did Dad say anything?"

"No."

It didn't matter what John told Dean about Sam, didn't matter that his own father had said Dean might have to kill Sam. Dean would die before he let anything happen to Sam. ~

*

"Sam, Sam, Sam, hey, come on, come here, let me look at you, hey, look, it's not even that bad, it's not even that bad. All right, Sammy, Sam, hey, listen to me, we're gonna patch you up, okay, good as new, I'm gonna take care of you, I'm gonna take care of you, I gotcha, that's my job, right? Watching out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother, Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam, Sammy no, nononononono, oh God."

Sam hears the words echoing in his head over and over. He's trying not to freak out, but really, the only thing that needs to be patched up is this whole out-of-body experience thing. He'd like his body and his…essence, soul, whatever it's called, put back together again, thanks, and the sooner the better.

His body is laid out on the filthiest mattress Sam's ever seen. That's really saying something, considering his life and some of the places he's lived and stayed in over the years.

Sam doesn't like how he looks, kind of pale and mottled. That can't be good. His eyes are closed and Sam can't detect any movement at all, no fluttering eyelids, and if his chest is moving, Sam can't see it. Not even a little.

Moving closer, Sam hovers over his own body and listens for a heartbeat, but he doesn't hear one. When he sits on the edge of the mattress, it really worries him that the mattress doesn't dip under him at all. He seems to be weightless, but he guesses spirits, or souls, or whatever he is don’t have much heft to them.

That's what makes him think he can't really be dead. If he was anything like the spirits they've encountered over the years, he should be able to make things move. He should have some sort of substance. Hell, he's gotten knocked around by enough ghosts over the years that he should be able to do all sorts of things, including touch Dean.

Dean.

Dean's sitting at the table, staring sightlessly at some cold pizza, cheese congealed and greasy, disgusting just the way Dean likes it, but he's almost as motionless as the body on the bed.

He keeps cocking his head like he's listening for something. When he doesn't seem to hear it, he closes his eyes, and Sam is shaken to the core by the grief on Dean's face.

*

Bobby decides he could do with a few hours of sleep and he's tactful enough to do it in his car. He takes a last sad look at Sam's body, lying on the bed so still and motionless, before he goes. Dean doesn't meet his eyes; he can't bear the grief and pity he knows he'll see there. He isn't ready to accept that Sam is really gone.

Dean holds himself rigid until he hears Bobby's car door slam shut, and even then his shoulders stay tight, his neck stiff. He has no idea what to do with himself now that he's alone with his brother's body, even though all he wanted five minutes ago was for Bobby to leave them the hell alone.

Turning around, looking around the ramshackle cabin, Dean freezes when he sees moonlight coming in through the dirty window behind the bed. It shines on Sam and the leaves on the trees outside dance in the cold night breeze, making patterns of light shift on Sam's face.

It almost seems like Sam is alive, as if his face is animated. Like he's Dean's living, breathing brother again. Dean stands transfixed, watching the play of light and shadows, imagining Sam's smile, his frown, all the different facial expressions that Dean is so intimately familiar with.

"Sam? Sammy," he breathes.

There's no recognition in Sam's face, no sign that he heard Dean, just the random movement of light.

*

Sam watches as Bobby goes out to his car to get some sleep. He'll be back, there's no way he'd leave Dean alone for long. Sam can count on Bobby.

Dean just stands there and it seems like hours before he moves. "Sammy," he whispers. His face is in shadow and Sam can't see it. He moves around until he's facing Dean, and he feels actual physical pain at the desolation on Dean's face. It's sharp and unexpected, completely corporeal, and it catches him by surprise.

He doesn't know what to do for Dean.

Something flickers in the moonlight; something Sam only catches in his peripheral vision and it's gone when he turns his head to really look. It makes him uneasy, but it stays gone so Sam pushes it aside to concentrate on Dean.

Dean shudders suddenly and his whole body goes slack. He sinks to his knees, head bowed, fists clenched on his thighs, his knuckles white. His shoulders shake but he's not crying. It's more like he has a fever, as if he's reacting physically to everything that's happened tonight.

Sam wants nothing more than to reach out and touch his brother, but he doesn't know if he should try. What if he makes things worse? What if he can't do it?

He moves anyway, reaches out for Dean, and his fingertips brush Dean's shoulder before he jerks his hand back as if it's been burned. This is not a good idea.

Dean doesn't seem to feel Sam's hand and that's all fucking wrong. Sam crosses his arms over his chest and tucks his hands into his armpits, trembling with the effort to keep still. But Dean's grief-ravaged face is too much, and Sam reaches out to touch his brother again.

Sam lets his hand linger on Dean's shoulder, a firm touch, almost a clasp, and suddenly, Dean stills. The shakes racking his body ease, and his face softens, slackens, even. Sam watches his eyelids droop, and then Dean tenses again, shakes his head as if he's trying to shake water out of his ears.

"Fuck."

Slowly, moving like he's a hundred years old, Dean straightens up and gets to his feet. He looks around the room, at the battered wooden table and beat-up chairs, at the bare wooden floors, at the only bed.

His eyes linger on Sam's body for a moment, and then he tears his gaze away and strips off his jacket, wadding it up and stiffly lowering himself to the floor next to the bed. Sam puts his hand on Dean's shoulder again and feels Dean's tense muscles slowly relax.

Dean curls up on his side, tucking both fists under his chin, his head resting on his jacket. Sam doesn't relinquish his grasp on his brother, finding it easy to sit on the floor next to him and ignore the body on the bed.

"Sleep," Sam whispers, and Dean's eyes close. The moonlight dances on his face.

*

~ The moon was full, glowing orange low in the sky. It was just past dusk, and Dean moved silently through the woods behind his father. He was sixteen years old and they were hunting a werewolf.

Sam was back at the motel with strict instructions to keep the doors and windows salted and locked, and to stay awake and on guard until they got back. Dean knew Sam would be fine, safe and sound and certainly not stupid.

In fact, Sam had made that point quite vociferously before they'd gone out, not wanting to be left behind.

"I'm not stupid, Dad. I can do this." He'd been making no secret of the fact that he was starting to hate being left behind when Dean and John went out looking for things to kill. He was pretty serious in his affronted indignation, and Dean smiled to himself. It was cute, it really was, but there was no way Dean was going to let his skinny twelve-year-old brother tromp through the woods with a pack of werewolves hanging around looking for dinner. He didn’t care how ready Sam thought he was.

Dad hadn't even considered it. "No way, Sam. Just stay the hell put and do what you're told."

Sometimes Dean suspected Sam had no real desire to hunt, just the twin desires to both argue with his father and not be left behind.

The hunt turned out to be a relatively easy one, enough that John was generous with his praise, telling Dean he'd done a good job. Dean treasured those times, took those words and stored them against the days his father wasn't so charitable. When they got back to the motel he wasn't even annoyed by the sullen face Sam greeted them with.

"Sammy, it was awesome!" He smiled down at his little brother. "Someday, dude, someday you'll be out there with us." The idea made him smile bigger, as he pictured the three Winchester men together, hunting evil and keeping folks safe.

Sam frowned in irritation, with the line between his eyes that Dean wanted to brush his thumb across and smooth out.

"C'mon, twerp," Dean said, looking back at his father, eyebrows raised in a question. John hesitated, and then nodded.

Dean grinned. "Let's go." He pulled open the door, grabbed Sam's wrist and towed him outside. There was a crumbling cement planter between the motel and the parking lot, flowers long dead, filled with dirt and cigarette butts and empty cans. Dean sat down on the edge of it and gestured for Sam to sit, too.

Sam did so grudgingly, reluctantly. He seemed to stop himself just short of folding his arms petulantly across his chest, settling instead for kicking his heels back against the concrete.

"It was awesome, Sammy," Dean said again. He described the hunt in detail, playing up his own role the way Sam expected him to, and soon enough, Sam got caught up in the story and the sulky look on his face gave way to curiosity and admiration.

The moon was high in the sky when Sam yawned, and Dean said, "Hey, I'm beat. Killing werewolves is hard work, dude. Let's hit the sack." ~

*

Sam keeps watch while Dean sleeps. Dean's restless, his eyes moving rapidly behind his lids, his hands twitching, fingers clenching. He lets out an occasional soft, distressed murmur, no, Sammy, no and Sam's eyes fill with sympathetic tears.

Looking around the run-down cabin, Sam realizes this is where Dean and Bobby must have been staying while they looked for him. He guesses Andy's mind mojo had worked, letting Dean know where they were. Sam would have paid good money to see Dean's face when he realized he was having a vision.

The idea makes Sam smile and he's sorry he missed it.

This cabin is out in the middle of absolutely nowhere, and it feels almost as desolate here as at Cold Oak. There's rain and mud everywhere. Wind whistles through small cracks in the walls, makes its way in around the spaces where the rotted wood is coming away from the smudged windows.

There are shadows everywhere. They move over the walls in the moonlight, filling up the corners of the shack. Sometimes Sam thinks he sees a darker shape moving around the room. It's still right at the edge of his vision and he still can't pin it down. The back of his neck prickles.

Sam moves to the window and watches Bobby asleep in his car. Bobby's head is pressed against the window and his cap sits askew, making him look oddly vulnerable. That bothers Sam. Bobby has to be strong for Dean, in case…well, Sam has kind of figured out that he's dead. He's not sure why he's still hanging around, but he's determined to stay here as long as he possibly can.

He feels pretty fatalistic about it, for some reason. It's no good railing against death; it seems irreversible. He hates that he died with unfinished business, but he trusts that Dean will finish it for them.

But Dean, Dean's not going to handle the fact that Sam is dead well at all. In fact, he's going to be inconsolable at first, and Bobby needs to be strong for him, that's all there is to it.

Dean stirs, shifting awkwardly on the floor next to the bed. He looks uncomfortable and Sam wishes he could wake him up, get him to at least bring in the ragged old army blanket they keep in the back seat of the Impala, maybe fashion a bed out of it for himself.

But Sam doesn't know how he'd do that. He doesn't know how to make his presence known, or even if he should. How would Dean react if he knew Sam's spirit was hanging around?

Not well, if Sam knows his brother. He doesn't want to freak Dean out.

Sam shifts restlessly. He wonders if he'll be able to sleep now that he's a ghost. It's not that he's tired, but it would help pass the time.

He doesn't know what else to do, so Sam drifts around the cabin and watches over his brother.

*

~ Sam looked up at Dean's face, seeing nothing but sympathy there. He was still embarrassed about his tears, and he swallowed hard, trying to stop them. It was just a cut, he told himself; a little, stupid cut. Nothing to cry about.

Dean gently swiped the alcohol-soaked gauze along the gash on Sam's thigh. It wasn't too deep, really. Dad didn't think it needed stitches, but it was about six inches long and it hurt. Sam gritted his teeth against the sting of the alcohol, and shivered in reaction to the pain. Tears slipped down his cheeks, but he didn't allow himself the indignity of sniffing.

He knew Dad was just waiting for Dean to finish cleaning the wound before he started in on Sam. He could hear it already, knew exactly what Dad was going to say before he said it.

Gonna have to do better than that, Sam. You can't turn your back on a ghost, son. You might think it was gone, but salt won't make 'em go away for good. They always come back and you need to be alert. Can't have you getting hurt. You need to pay more attention to what you're doing.

Like Sam didn’t know all that already. Didn’t Dad understand that Sam felt stupid enough as it was, he didn't need to hammer the point home?

Sam sighed and wiped the last of the tears away with the back of his hand. Dean tore a piece of adhesive tape off the roll with his teeth and smiled down at Sam as he fastened the bandage in place on Sam's leg. He gripped Sam's shoulder and gave it a slight shake.

"All done, Sammy." Sam nodded his thanks and stood up, reaching for his jeans. They had a tear in them that matched the one on his leg, but he only had one other pair and he wasn't sure where they even were. Shrugging, he pulled the ripped jeans back on, and then noticed that they were alone in the motel room.

"Where's Dad," he asked. Sam couldn't be that lucky, that Dad would just leave it alone.

"He went for hamburgers," Dean said. "Hunting ghosts makes me hungry," he added with a smirk. Then his face changed, his expression serious. "You know, Sammy, you need to be more careful. You can't turn your back on a ghost."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Dean, I know." ~



Part 2