The Minor Fall and the Major Lift, 3/4

[withdiamonds]

Part 2

Part 3

Dean sits slumped at the table for what feels like hours, drifting. His thoughts are a maelstrom swirling around in his brain and keeping him off balance. He's vaguely aware of the early morning light coming in through the window, infusing the cabin with a cold gray glow.

Restless, nerves taut with exhaustion and grief, Dean has the nagging feeling that there's something he needs to be doing, but he can't think of what it could be. Every time he thinks of Sam, renewed awareness floods over him with an adrenaline rush that makes him sick to his stomach and he twitches in his seat, fingers clenching feebly at the half-empty bottle of whiskey still clutched in his hand.

Dean doesn't want to think about his father, but it's impossible not to. His failure burns in his chest, making it hard to breathe.

Sam's gone.

*

~ "What do you mean, he's gone?" John's face was dark and furious, and Dean swallowed.

"He just disappeared," Dean said hoarsely. "I've looked everywhere, everywhere I can think of." Dean couldn't breathe for a moment, panic almost getting the better of him. He swallowed again. His father didn't allow panic. Fear was okay, fear could teach him things, fear could be overcome. Panic was unproductive and forbidden.

Dean had felt nothing but panic for the past week. He'd gotten up last Sunday morning to the kind of unnatural silence that meant he was alone.

He'd racked his brain, trying to remember through his epic hangover if Sam had a soccer game, or a breakfast date with that skinny Loretta girl who was always mooning around after him.

It seemed lately as if she was always there, hanging out on the porch in the early evening, or sitting at the kitchen table with Sam after school. She'd been there more often since Dad had left to go deal with a poltergeist in Albuquerque last week.

Sam had blushed furiously when she first came around, introducing her to Dean with a mumbled, "Loretta, this is my brother Dean," but after a while, he'd gained some confidence, seemed a lot more relaxed when she was around.

Dean decided he was proud of the kid, having a girlfriend at his age. The kid was a shrimp, and if Dean sometimes felt a heat low in his belly when he looked at Sam, well, all the more reason for Sam to have a girlfriend. The kind of thoughts Dean was having terrified him, made his feelings for Sam seem like a perversion of what they were supposed to be, and he pushed them aside and smiled at Sam's little girlfriend with something like gratitude.

Dad hadn't said much, just kind of smiled at Loretta the few times he was home when she was over; nodded and said, "Nice to meet you."

Anyway, Dean thought Sam might have met her for breakfast, or to go to church with her family – and wasn't that a weirdo thing for Sam to do - and he didn't give it a second thought as he grappled with the kettle drum playing in his head and the urge to puke up everything he'd ever eaten.

Dean didn't normally hang out with anyone from school. He was getting close to finally persuading his father to let him quit high school and he had very little in common with the lame-os who were stuck there, making plans for college and marriage and all that other loser shit that Dean thanked heaven everyday he was never going to have to deal with.

No Norman Rockwell life for him, no sir. He was going to keep hunting with his dad and his brother, and if sometimes Sammy was less than enthusiastic about that life, well, he'd get over it once he was done with the whole puberty thing.

Dean remembered being pretty crazy himself when he was Sam's age and he could be patient. Sam would come around.

Sam. Dean wondered again where he could be as he glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand between his and Sam's beds. He tugged a t-shirt over his still damp hair and decided it was time to get serious about locating his pain-in-the-ass little brother.

He swallowed a couple of aspirin with a glass of lukewarm tap water, wondering if there was any coffee left or if he'd have to go buy some. He'd be able to think a lot better with the help of some caffeine.

Several hours later Dean was in a blind panic. He'd scrounged around in Sam's stuff until he found a scrap of paper with Loretta 505-9485 written neatly across it. He called and talked to her, shaken to find her at home and with no idea where Sam was.

Dean got in his car and drove all over town, vowing to kill his little brother the minute he found his scrawny ass. He was just grateful that John had recently bought a truck and given Dean the Impala. At least he had wheels to go look for the kid.

Driving in ever-increasing concentric circles out into the surrounding desert, Dean's heart sped up at every shadow lurking behind every giant cactus on the side of the highway, but none of them were Sam.

Darkness finally fell, forcing Dean to return to the bright lights of the little town they'd been living in for the past several months. He realized he hadn't eaten all day when he got out of the car at the house they were renting and almost landed on his ass on the gravel driveway, his head spinning.

Going inside, his heart was in his throat. Dean's palms sweat with the hope Sam had come home, but the house was dark and eerily quiet.

Dean turned on a few lights and made a sandwich, forcing himself to choke it down while he stood at the kitchen sink and stared out into the starry desert sky.

The next two days were more of the same, driving around looking for Sam. Dean discovered that Sam's backpack was missing and for a minute the knowledge that Sam had left willingly filled him with a rage that was almost incandescent.

There followed several more days when Dean drove and paced and checked the newspapers and local television news and discovered abso-fucking-lutely nothing that gave him any clue as to where Sam had gone. Dean didn't go to school and the constant state of low-level panic had him near exhaustion by the time the week was out.

Then Dad came back from the hunt he'd been on and Dean thought with the part of his brain that wasn't gibbering in panic that this was the worst day of his life, worse even than the striga.

John was furious. He addressed Dean in clipped tones, barking orders, glaring at him with such disappointment and disapproval that Dean felt crushed under the weight of it. He knew that when Sam came back – because they would get him back, goddammit, and Dean would tear him a new one when they did – when Sam came back, it wouldn't make a bit of difference in the way Dad looked at Dean.

He had almost placed himself beyond forgiveness.

When Sam finally called, John answered the phone. Dean knew instantly that it was Sam and the relief was almost enough to send him to his knees.

"Flagstaff," John growled at Dean as he flung out of the house and headed for his truck. "Stay here."

None of them had ever spoken of it again. Dad brought Sam back the next day; John tight-lipped with anger, Sam subdued but no less angry.

As usual, their psychodrama didn't involve Dean except in the fallout, and after a while, the incident faded into the background of their generally fucked-up family dynamics. ~

*

While he watches Dean drift in and out of a kind of restless fugue, Sam tries to figure out the logistics of being a ghost. Is he supposed to rest sometimes? Will he lose time? Will he always be right there with Dean, every minute of every hour of every day?

He doesn't feel tired, and he isn't exactly bored, but…he's definitely beginning to understand the concept of a restless spirit.

"Dean," he says. "Dean."

Dean's face twitches, a slight frown appearing, just a wrinkle between his brows. Sam sighs.

He wants to make it better, but there's not much he can do other than be here. It isn't enough and again he feels anger at Jake, at the yellow-eyed demon, at everything.

Sam's vengeance will be terrible. They will pay for what they've done to his brother. The sense of fatalistic acceptance he had earlier is long gone, and hardly missed.

Sam paces, but it does nothing to dissipate the energy humming under his skin. He moves to the window and stares up at the sky, the morning light moving across his face. A small crack suddenly appears in the glass where his hand rests. Sam feels a triumphant sense of accomplishment and he smiles in satisfaction.

He takes a deep breath and looks again at his brother. There's nothing to do but stay by Dean's side. Sam has left Dean before, but no more. He won't do it again.

Besides - somehow, Dean always finds him.

*

~ The summer after Sam turned fourteen, they spent time in Alabama. There was a series of hunts, one thing right after another, and they ended up living in a trailer outside of Mobile at the end of a rarely used access road to the beach.

They'd never lived this close to a major body of water before and Sam was fascinated. He would leave the trailer early in the day and trudge down the road to the beach, the morning sun already hot on his neck. There he'd sit with a book, the sound of circling seagulls often lulling him back to sleep. He'd doze in the sand, the sun on his face, until Dean joined him, a cup of coffee in his hand, his face still wrinkled with sleep.

"What the hell, Sammy. It's early as fuck," he'd grumble. He said the same thing every morning and Sam would grin into his book.

They'd sit there in silence, listening to the sound of the waves, until Dean would stand up, brush the sand off his ass, and say, "Dad wants us to clean the guns," or "Dad wants us to practice with the crossbow," or "Dad wants us to run five miles."

Sam would tense with anger and annoyance but he always got up to follow his brother back to the trailer, to do whatever stupid thing Dad wanted them to do.

Mostly because it was too hot to put up much of a fight.

Sometimes they went with Dad on a hunt, and however much Sam hated his life, the adrenaline rush of putting what they'd learned through research and studying the lore into action and killing black dogs or rawheads, or banishing a poltergeist, was pretty damn addictive. He would never admit it in a million years, to either his father or his brother, but he suspected Dean knew anyway, if the smirk on his face when they were all standing around watching some evil-ass thing burn was any indication.

It was a fairly uneventful summer, considering what it was the Winchesters did with their time. No one got hurt, aside from the usual bumps and bruises and lacerations. Sam was getting pretty good at stitching up cuts and putting dislocated shoulders back into place. All the life skills you needed if you were lucky enough to be a Winchester.

One morning at the beach, when they were sitting in the sand watching the waves, gulls swooping and calling to each other out over the water, Sam lost his head.

He didn't know how it happened. One minute they were sprawled peacefully on a couple of old towels, Dean sipping coffee and Sam pretending to read his book. The next minute, Sam's mouth was on Dean's, kissing him.

Dean stiffened in surprise, and Sam panicked. He pulled away, knocking Dean's coffee cup out of his hand. Sam was vaguely aware that his book was soaked with coffee as he jumped to his feet and ran.

The sand held him back. He couldn't get any traction; it sucked at his feet and tried to pull him down, back down to Dean. His heart leapt in his chest and he doubled his efforts, making it to the access road and racing down it.

Sam kept going when he got to their trailer. He wasn't sure how far he ran but when he stopped to catch his breath, he was almost to the highway.

He stood, terrified of what he had just done but exhilarated at the same time. He'd finally done it. He'd kissed Dean.

And then he ran away like a big, fat chicken, his brain told him helpfully.

Sam sighed and turned back toward the beach and their trailer.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Dean approaching from a hundred yards down the road.

His heart beat faster as Dean got closer but Sam stood his ground. Whatever happened, even if Dean kicked his ass, he wasn't sorry he'd done it. He'd been wanting to forever and the relief of finally doing it outweighed his fear of Dean's reaction. Dean loved him and it would be okay.

Sam stood in the bright Alabama sunshine and waited for his brother to catch up with him. ~

*

Dean is running. He's running through mud, deep, wet and sticky. It's pulling at his boots, trying to bring him down.

Rain lashes at his face, cold and sharp, almost piercing his skin.

Sam is up ahead, staggering toward Dean, clutching at his left arm.

He's too far away. Dean will never reach him in time. He doesn’t know where the danger lies but he knows it's there, waiting for them.

"Sam!" Dean yells until his throat is raw and Sam answers him.

"Dean," he cries, over the sound of the rain. His voice is carried away on the wind, away from Dean.

"Sammy!"

It doesn't seem to matter how much Dean runs; Sam never gets any closer. There's an unearthly light behind Sam. Occasional flashes of lightning illuminate the scene, but Dean can't reach his brother.

"Dean!" Sam calls to him, and Dean feels the sharp heat of panic in his chest. There's a figure looming behind Sam, and Dean screams.

"Sam, look out!"

Sam doesn't hear him. He doesn't turn around; his eyes don't leave Dean as he stumbles forward.

The figure behind Sam gets closer and Dean can see the flash of a knife. Dean is hoarse from screaming but still Sam doesn't turn around to see what's there, to protect himself.

"Dean," Sam whispers, but Dean can hear him, even from so far away. "Dean, help me."

Dean knows he can never reach Sam in time. Despair washes over him, leaving him standing helpless in the mud.

Dean wakes up with a start, gasping for breath. He looks around, trying to get his bearings. The dream leaves him trembling and nauseous and he knows he's going to be having it for the rest of his life.

*

Dean's been up and pacing for a while, the confines of the cabin closing in around him. He'd leave, get the hell away, but there's nowhere to go.

The wind picks up around mid-morning, howling through the trees. Some trees don't drop their autumn leaves until spring arrives to blow them away and Dean can hear dry rustling as old leaves are ripped away from the branches they clung to over the winter.

Clouds scud across the sky, hiding whatever sun might have penetrated the trees that surround the cabin. There are candles scattered around and Dean lights a few of them.

Weak flames flicker in the tiny gusts of air that come in through the cracks around the ill-fitting windows. Shadows dance across the tattered wallpaper.

Pale daylight barely penetrates into the corners of the cabin, leaving Sam's body cloaked in a merciful darkness.

Dean thinks this is what Hell must be like.

He stops moving as that thought ignites a spark in his brain. A glimmer of a possibility of hope. He's reaching for Sam's duffle and his hands pause in mid-air.

He forgets what he was looking for, nothing in his head except the possibility, which, once it's taken hold, refuses to let go.

He sinks slowly into the chair by the table.

He can't. Sam would never forgive him.

But it's something. It's a possibility, and it allows him a moment of respite from the darkness in his soul.

*

Sam's sitting at the table, too, although Dean doesn't know it. He's worried by Dean's sudden stillness, and the expression on Dean's face as he settles back into his chair makes Sam uneasy.

Sam had been staring off into space, thinking about the recurring nightmare he used to have when he was a kid. He frowns, trying to recall the details. He'd had it a lot when he was five or six and Dad thought it had been brought on by the stress of starting school.

Sam thought that was stupid. He loved school from the very first minute he walked through the door of that tiny kindergarten classroom in Iowa, or wherever the hell they'd lived then. He wasn't stressed.

But he'd had it more often than he'd ever admitted at the time, even to Dean.

Thinking back, Sam can remember looking up, seeing something spinning above his head. Then there was a face, and something sticky dripping down on him, red and viscous. A flash of yellow, and that's all he'd ever been able to recall. After a while, Dad and Dean had stopped asking him for details, just hung out with him until he fell back to sleep.

Dad would rub a big hand on Sam's back, under his pajama top, rhythmically soothing him back to sleep. If Dad was away, or asleep, Dean would curl around him, whispering silly words of comfort in his ear.

And now he knows. That son of a bitch with the yellow eyes had fed him demon blood, and Sam's subconscious had held on to that, had shown Sam those memories, until he guesses he'd gotten tired of seeing them and the dreams went away.

If he'd lived, if Jake hadn't stabbed him in the back like the fucking coward he was, if Dean and Bobby had gotten there a moment sooner….

Anger overtakes him again. It makes his skin feel too tight and his head throbs with it.

Fucking Jake. Fucking Yellow Eyes. Fuck them all. He doesn't know how, but someday he's going to make them all pay.

*

Sam remembers his mother, or rather, his mother's spirit. The way she had touched his face, said his name, with such love, and with none of the anger that Dean insisted all supernatural things had.

She hadn't been evil or vengeful. She had saved them.

Spirits could be kind, could reflect the person they'd been in life. Sam holds that truth close to himself. He never wants to have a reason to regret staying with Dean.

He never wants to give Dean a reason to wish he hadn't stayed.

Sam concentrates, thinking about Dean, about their lives, together and apart. Thinking about what Dean likes.

He closes his eyes and concentrates hard.

*

~ Dean pushed Sam against the wall of the old barn, hands twisting in Sam's t-shirt.

"Dean –" Sam tried to protest. Dean's hands tightened and he shoved his hips against Sam's. Sam closed his mouth with a click.

"Shut up, Sammy. For once in your life, just shut the fuck up," Dean growled in his ear, right before he set his mouth on Sam's neck and bit down, hard.

Sam drew in a gasp and his hips jerked forward, pressing against Dean; feeling how hard he was under his jeans, shivering at the pressure and heat.

Dean pushed Sam's shirt up under his armpits and his mouth moved down to Sam's exposed collarbone, small bites that made Sam grit his teeth to keep from moaning. He wasn't about to give Dean the satisfaction.

Sam's hands were on Dean's waist and he pulled Dean in tighter, closer, his thumbs slipping across the soft skin under the waistband of Dean's boxers. He griped Dean tight, so far gone already that he'd lost all coordination, all ability to think.

But Dean was there, fumbling with Sam's belt, getting his own jeans undone, until they were both bare, and Dean wrapped his hands, his beautiful hands, around both their cocks, rubbed and pulled until Sam saw stars.

It was rough and ready and just what Sam wanted. He came with a cry, his hands tightening on Dean until he was sure there would be bruises.

"Goddammit, Sam, you fucker," Dean hissed, and then he groaned, spilling hot over Sam's cock. Sam let go of Dean's hips and joined his hand with Dean's, stroking him through the last of his climax.

Dean rested his forehead on Sam's shoulder while he caught his breath. Sam tilted his head back against the wall of the barn and waited.

But Dean's anger seemed to have dissipated, burned off in the heat of their passion. He reached up and brushed Sam's hair off his forehead, then shook his head ruefully.

"You ever gonna stop using that girly shampoo you like so much, Samantha?" He tugged on a lock of hair and Sam jerked his head back, pulling away from Dean's grasp.

"Do I look like a girl to you, Dean?" Sam asked, looking pointedly down at his dick where it still hung free of his pants.

"Nope," Dean smirked, wiping his hand on Sam's stomach.

"Fucker," Sam said, without heat. He was content that Dean was no longer pissed off about whatever stupid thing he'd been angry about. Sam could barely remember what it was. The taste and feel of each other, that was all that mattered.

"I'm telling ya," Dean said, as he pulled away and tucked himself back into his pants. "You smell like strawberries, and I'm thinking that's not such a good smell for a guy like you."

"A guy like me?" Sam echoed.

Dean reached forward and kissed Sam, deep and dirty with lots of tongue. "A guy like you," he agreed, and Sam completely lost track of the conversation, too busy kissing his brother stupid to even care. ~

*

Dean gets lost in his head for a while, thinking about things he has no right to think about, dangerous and foolish hopes, and he drifts off into a troubled sleep. He startles awake and for a minute he has no idea where he is. The scent of strawberries is in the air and he smiles.

Sammy is here.

"Sam," he mumbles, and he wonders why his mouth is so dry. His neck is stiff and he realizes he's been sleeping in an extremely uncomfortable wooden chair.

And then it all rushes back, where he is and why, and his eyes close in brand new despair.

But he can still smell strawberries and for some reason, that brings him a small measure of comfort.

He gets up and wanders over to Sam's duffle bag. He can't figure out why he's not drunk, what with the almost-empty bottle of Jack sitting accusingly on the table. Maybe because he keeps passing out, only to slowly come back to consciousness when the booze wears off.

Maybe the fresh realization that Sam is dead every time he wakes up isn't worth the bliss of the unconsciousness the whiskey brings.

Dean unzips the duffle bag and rummages around in it, pawing through the contents until he finds what he's looking for. Pulling out Sam's toilet kit, he pokes around, but he discovers there isn't any of that strawberry-flavored shampoo Dean likes to rag Sam about. They've been busy and it's been hit or miss, finding time for the mundane activities of daily living like laundry or shopping for toiletries.

Dean moves one of the chairs close to the bed Sam is resting on and sits down. He stays there for a long time, fingers rhythmically stroking the leather of the kit, trying to find some measure of Sam in the things he chose to buy for himself, the things that are important enough to search out in their nomadic life.

Tucked away in a side pocket of the duffle bag is Sam's journal. They both keep journals, something they learned from Dad. Dean opens Sam's and his eyes skim over the messy handwriting and badly drawn illustrations. Artistic, Sam isn't.

Wasn't.

There are photos and snapshots tucked between the last page and the back cover of the book. They fall out, landing in Dean's lap. One by one, he carefully studies them.

There's a creased picture of the four of them standing in front of the house in Lawrence, Mom and Dad, Dean and Sam. Dean has the same picture tucked away in his own journal. There's a picture of Sam at his high school prom, a smiling blonde in a white dress standing next to him, her hand tucked proprietarily in the crook of Sam's elbow.

Her name was Rachael.

Dean can't remember the name of the high school, but he remembers the girl. He remembers how he felt, watching Sam leave their run-down trailer in his shiny black tux, clutching a wristlet of pink rosebuds tightly in his hand, all long legs and nervous, excited smile.

Dean had wanted to smash something that night. He'd been grateful Dad was away, leaving him alone to drown his jealousy in tequila.

Sam came home the next morning, tux rumpled and bowtie missing, smiling like the cat that ate the canary. Dean greeted him with tight-lipped silence, and Sam's smile had faded.

They hadn't fucked for months after that.

Dean finds a picture of the two of them together, standing outside a minor league baseball park. He has a hot dog in one hand and a beer in the other, and Sam is looking down on him with a soft smile. Dean has no idea who could have taken it.

There are two pictures of Jessica. One of her alone, sitting in front of a window illuminated by sunshine, smiling at the camera, her hair golden around her face and shoulders. The beauty of it makes Dean's throat ache.

The other one is of Sam and Jessica together at some kind of Halloween party, it looks like. Jessica is dressed in a very sexy nurse's uniform and Sam is wearing a plain hoodie.

Dean smiles.

He sits there for the better part of the morning, looking at Sam's pictures.

*

Dean pours a trickle of water over his hands and rubs them together, trying to get just a little bit more of Sam's blood off them. It's almost gone; most of what's left is dried and congealed under his fingernails.

He turns back to the car, where he's been using the last of the bottled water he found in the trunk to clean the blood off the upholstery.

The thing about blood, though, is that it spreads, and the more you try to clean it up, the farther it reaches, until everything important is covered with it.

Dean has seen Sam's blood before. He's seen more of it than he ever wanted to. He patched Sam up, sewed up gashes on his body put there by werewolves and black dogs and ghosts with giant hooks. He bandaged Sam's knees countless times when he was a kid, always tripping over his feet and coming to Dean to be put back together again.

He wiped blood away from Sam's mouth whenever someone punched him, even if that someone happened to be Dean himself.

Dean did the same for his father, and his father and Sam have done the same for him. They did it expertly and without fuss, inured over the years to the bright copper smell and warm stickiness of familial blood.

But this is different. This blood, spreading and smearing over the back seat, was Sam's lifeblood. Sam may have been dead the minute he hit his knees in the mud at Cold Oak, but he still bled out all over the car they've called home for most of their lives.

She took that blood, absorbed it, and now she didn't seem to want to give it up, keeping hold of it as if it was meant to become part of her very fabric. Keeping Sam with them even in death.

Dean's so damn tired. He has been for a long time and he pauses in his efforts, resting his forehead on the back of the front seat, waiting for the strength to keep moving.

*

Sam is pleased that his blood is proving to be so hard for Dean to wash away. It will make their connection almost indestructible. Not only his spirit, but his life essence, the stuff that pumped oxygen through his body and kept him alive, will be with Dean from now on.

He smiles at Dean from the front seat.

"It's okay, Dean, it's all going to be okay."

*

Dean goes back inside the cabin. He stands and watches Sam for what feels like a very long time.

The corners of the room are dark and the shadows across Sam's body almost hide him from Dean's view. Dean's mind feels blank, empty; there are no thoughts, just white noise roaring in his ears.

He doesn't know what to do with himself, with this endless day. He can't sit still and he can't keep moving.

The slamming of the cabin door startles him out of his trance. Bobby's voice makes him cut his eyes away from Sam, just for an instant.

"Dean? Brought you this back." Dean doesn’t turn to look. It's probably food of some sort. Whatever it is, it's not important enough to tear his gaze away from his brother's face for more than a moment.

"No, thanks, I'm fine." Dean feels as if he hasn't spoken for hours and his voice is rusty with disuse.

"You should eat something."

"I said I'm fine." Dean makes himself turn away from Sam. There's a bucket of chicken on the table that hadn't been there before. He ignores it and picks up the bottle of Jack instead, takes a drink.

Bobby frowns, looking concerned. He hesitates before he says his next words. Dean thinks he should have waited longer. Years, maybe.

"Dean, I hate to bring this up, I really do." Bobby pauses and Dean knows what he's going to say. "But don't you think it's time we buried Sam?"

"No." Dean's mind recoils in panic. If they bury Sam, then it's over and Dean's not ready for that. His legs don't seem to want to hold him up and he sits abruptly down at the table.

Bobby takes a breath, tries again. "We could maybe…"

Dean takes another drink. "What, torch his corpse? Not yet." No way. He has to fix this and he won't be able to if they burn Sam's body. The thing he's been thinking of doing is so…unthinkable…he's not sure he's going to be able to do it.

So, what, he's a fucking coward? Afraid to sacrifice everything for Sam? What kind of a brother is he?

"I want you to come with me," Bobby says, and there's a rough kindness in his voice. Dean doesn't meet his eyes, afraid Bobby will know what he's thinking about doing.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says with finality.

"Dean, please." Bobby's insistent, but Dean doesn't even consider leaving.

He doesn’t want to get mad at Bobby, he really doesn't. "Why don't you cut me some slack," he says, hoping Bobby will let it go, give him a break and just leave.

"I just don't think you should be alone, that's all." As if going back to Bobby's house would make any of this more bearable. "And I gotta admit, I could use your help."

Dean lets out a breath that could have been mistaken for a laugh under different circumstances.

"Something big is going down," Bobby says. "End of the world big."

"Well, then let it end," Dean roars, coming to his feet, suddenly furious. "Who the fuck gives a shit?"

"You don't mean that," Bobby sighs, squinting at him as if he really believes what he's saying.

Dean glares at Bobby, looks him straight in the eye and says, "You don't think so? You don't think I've given enough?" Bobby looks away, but Dean's not finished. "You don’t think I've paid enough? I'm done with it. All of it. If you know what's good for you, you'll turn around, get the hell out of here."

Bobby just stands there, looking sadder than Dean has ever seen him, like all the pity in the world wouldn't be enough for this. It infuriates Dean even more.

"Go!" He shoves Bobby angrily, and Bobby stumbles back a few feet.

And then Dean feels like shit. He doesn’t want to hurt Bobby, but it doesn't matter, none of it matters and he just wants Bobby to go away. Almost beyond reason at this point, he needs Bobby to leave. He feels like a cornered rat, snapping at whatever threatens Sam.

"I'm sorry," Dean says hoarsely. "I'm sorry. Please just go." He leans heavily on the back of the chair, unable to look at Bobby anymore.

Bobby sags in defeat. He just stands there, hovering, until Dean thinks he might scream. Finally he says with resignation, "You know where I'll be," and then he's gone, thank God, he's gone and Dean is alone with Sam again.

He looks over at the bed.

"Sammy? He's gone, Sam. Please."

Dean thinks about what it'll be like when he can hear Sam's voice again.

*

~ "Morse code is stupid," Sam grumbled. It wasn't really. He thought it was totally cool to be able to tap on something and have it make noise that translated to words. Like a secret language, like sign language or something.

Huh, better not say that out loud or Dad would have them learning sign language so they could communicate out on a hunt without making any noise at all.

And that would be cool, too, but there was something about being forced to learn a thing that rubbed Sam the wrong way. Not to mention he had homework and that was a lot more useful. No matter how cool it was, Morse code was not going to get Sam into the college of his choice.

"Shut up," Dean said mildly. "What's the matter, isn't there any room in your giant brain for a few dots and dashes?"

"I just don't see why we need to learn anything more than SOS, is all," Sam griped. It was dark and cramped in this stupid motel room and this was boring.

Dean cocked his head and looked thoughtfully at Sam. Sam raised his eyebrows and looked back. What?

"C'mere," was all Dean said and he stood up from the table, grasping Sam's wrist in his hand. Towing him toward the still-unmade bed, Dean sprawled out over the mussed up covers and pulled Sam down on top of him.

"Dean, what're you –" but Dean put an end to Sam's complaints by kissing him, his mouth moving against Sam's slowly and with intent, making Sam forget whatever he'd been going to bitch about.

Dean's hands slid up under Sam's shirt and somewhere in the rush of adolescent lust, Sam realized Dean was tapping on his back, dots and dashes up and down his spine.

Sam rolled his eyes and chuckled into Dean's mouth, even as he pressed his hips down, making Dean's fingers stutter meaninglessly for a moment.

This was a way of learning he could get behind. ~

*

As the sun sets, the crickets start their song and other night critters scurry around in the woods. Dean doesn't know whether to be spooked or comforted by the sounds.

Dean can barely feel the passing of time. It's like being trapped in quicksand, or a dense fog. Everything is muffled.

Dusk is a lonely time, the light uncertain, noises amplified. The long night stretches out ahead and it seems an eternity until morning.

Slowly, Dean becomes aware of a faint tapping noise. He looks around the cabin but there's no apparent source. It's probably a tree branch against the window, or the scuffling of a mouse, or maybe a raccoon under the house.

And then he realizes there's a kind of rhythm to it and he strains to listen.

long – short – short
short
short – long
long – short

It repeats several times and it doesn't take Dean long to recognize his own name.

long – short – short
short
short – long
long – short

"Sam?" he whispers.

short – short – short - short
short
short – long – short
short

H-E-R-E

Here? Sam's here?

"Sammy?"

short – long – short – short
long – long – long –
short – short – short – long
short

L-O-V-E

Dean doesn't understand and he doesn't like the implications. Sam can't be here. That would mean…

No. Dean shivers in the chill night air of the unheated cabin and makes his mind go blank. He doesn't know how long he sits there, straining to listen, his mind and body exhausted at the prospect of keeping watch over Sam through another long, dark night.

short – long – short – short
long – long – long –
short – short – short – long
short

L-O-V-E

He hears it again and again until he doesn’t hear it anymore.

Part 4