My heart bleeded, girl

Part 3

Part 4

Dean turns Sam Sam's body gently to the side. He's not preparing it for anything. He's just washing away the blood, like he's done a million times before.

Like they've done for each other a million times before.

He's seen Sam bleed too many times to count but he's never seen this kind of wound on his brother's body. He stares in sick fascination at the jagged edges on Sam's back, at the dirt and mud mixed in with the blood.

The knife had been dirty, caked in mud; that much is clear. Dean's hands tremble with anger. Someone stabbed Sam in the back. That piece of shit coward came up behind him and stabbed him when he wasn't looking, when he had given up the fight and was trying to get to Dean.

How dare someone touch Sam, how dare someone do this to Dean's brother? No one has that right and when Dean finds the son of a bitch, he's going to rip his lungs out.

Dean wets the rag again, dips it in the bowl of pink water and wrings it out with shaking hands. He wipes the blood from Sam's skin, taking care to get the dirt, too.

He smiles a little when he remembers patching up Sam's knees after a tumble on the playground. He remembers the jagged cut on Sam's hand, when they were climbing all over the junk cars in Bobby's yard and Sam slipped trying to keep up with Dean, and how Dad had yelled about having to go to a clinic to get Sam a tetanus shot.

He remembers an early hunt, when Sam was finally old enough to go with them. Sam was supposed to hang back and observe and both John and Dean were so focused on making sure Sam did just that, they hadn't noticed the ghost, armed with both a meat cleaver and a butcher knife, circling around behind them.

Sam had noticed, though, and he'd yelled for them to look out. They had, but not soon enough to prevent Sam from being cut; one long, deep scratch running down his arm. Dad had let Dean take care of it, knowing he needed to be able to do that. It had taken half a dozen stitches but it hadn't really been that big of a deal.

Sam had been shot in the shoulder once and Dean had dug the bullet out, watching the wound bleed sluggishly while he cleaned it and packed it with gauze soaked in antibiotic solution.

Dean has spent a good part of his life patching Sam up, cleaning his wounds, and Sam has done the same for him.

This wound is the ugliest thing Dean has ever seen, in a lifetime full of ugly things.

*

~ They spent time in East Lansing, Michigan when Sam was sixteen. It wasn't a bad place, really, and Sam enjoyed the several months he spent at East Lansing High School. There was an AP History teacher in particular that Sam really liked and he got to play a little soccer while they were there.

And there was Doug. Doug was his best friend for most of the time they lived there; right up until the night Dean threatened to kill him.

Doug was skinny, almost as tall as Sam and he loved model trains.

That was the dorkiest thing Sam had ever heard of and it made Dean stare in amazement when Sam told him about it. Sam smiled, happy to know that for once, he wasn't the biggest geek in the room.

So they hung out, playing around with Doug's trains, going to the library, or maybe catching a movie together. Doug's parents seemed like regular people and he had a little sister who always followed them around, threatening to tell on Doug if he didn't let her play with them.

It was so normal and safe that Sam hated Doug a little for it.

Dad decided they were done in East Lansing and announced that they were leaving on the second Saturday in October. As always, it was completely irrelevant that Sam would prefer to stay.

He and Doug were walking home from school the Wednesday before they left town. It was a bright, sunny fall day, with just the slightest chill in the air. Leaves swirled at their feet as they ambled along, talking about their history papers.

"Ooh, look," Doug said, pointing to something lying on the side of the road.

They stopped and moved closer to the small mound of fur. Looking down, Sam could see it was a cat that had been hit by a car. Lifeless eyes stared up from a broken body, there were guts spread around, flattened by a car tire. Flies listlessly circled the carcass, landing and taking off again in no real pattern.

Sam looked up at Doug and found himself taking a step back. Doug's eyes were shining, greedy, and his tongue came out, running over his bottom lip in a way that seemed vaguely obscene and made Sam's stomach lurch.

"That's gross, man," Sam said, trying to pass the whole thing off as a joke. He made to turn and walk away but Doug's hand on his arm stopped him.

"Look at it, Sam. This is what we all end up as. One minute we're alive and the next, we're just a pile of blood and guts, covered in flies." He smiled knowingly at Sam. "You know it's true."

Sam jerked back, shaking Doug's hand off his arm. "No."

Doug advanced on Sam, still smiling that creepy smile. "Blood, Sam. Blood is what's important." He held out his hand, and there was a cut on his inner wrist, shallow and oozing blood. "Taste it, Sam."

"What? No! Are you crazy?" Sam took another step back and stumbled on the curb, almost going down. Doug grabbed his shoulder to keep him from falling and somehow his arm was in Sam's face and there was blood smeared across Sam's lips.

Sam jerked away. He turned and ran towards home, Doug's laughter ringing in his ears. He was too freaked out to stay and kick Doug's ass like he knew he should.

He was in the shower when the curtain was suddenly yanked back and he jumped, startled. Dean stood there grinning, his best "gotcha" expression on his face.

The smirk was gone in an instant when Dean really looked at him. "What's wrong? What happened? Sam?"

Sam shook his head wordlessly. He was too weirded out to even talk about it. Dean quickly stripped out of his clothes and was in the shower with his arms around Sam before Sam could even figure out what to say.

"Did someone hurt you? Tell me, come on, Sam, give me a damn clue, here." Dean's voice was urgent and Sam shook his head again.

He looked at Dean, water cascading over his shoulders, dripping down his face and felt marginally better.

"It was nothing, I'm fine. I just…saw something gross, that's all." His eyes pleaded with Dean to drop it, to let it go. "I'm fine," he said with as much conviction as he could muster.

Dean stared at him very seriously for a moment, then finally nodded and leaned forward to kiss Sam's forehead. Sam allowed it for a moment, then pulled back, batting at Dean with still-trembling hands.

"If you're going to kiss me, do it right," he groused, and the smirk was back on Dean's face as he complied.

But Sam couldn't stop thinking about it and after the third time Dean guffawed at whatever dumb sitcom he was watching and Sam didn't laugh with him, Sam found himself with a face full of pissed-off Dean in full older-brother mode.

"Tell me what happened," Dean growled, punctuating each word with a poke to Sam's chest.

"Get off me," Sam said, shoving at Dean and grabbing at his finger. "I'm trying to watch TV." He peered over Dean's shoulder at the television.

Dean snorted. "Nice try, Sammy. Now start talking."

So Sam spilled and told Dean the whole creepy story. Dean's face darkened with anger as he listened.

"Son of a bitch." He was up off the couch and heading for the door before Sam could stop him.

Sam jumped up and ran after him, yanking at his arm. "Dean, wait," he pleaded. "Just leave it alone. We're out of here in a couple of days, anyway. It doesn't matter."

"I'm gonna kill him, Sam. Let me go." Dean was deadly serious. Sam couldn't let him get close to Doug.

"I don't want you near him, okay?" Sam said desperately. "He's just a sick, creepy weirdo and I don't want him to touch –" Sam faltered. "Just, please, leave it alone."

Dean considered him for a moment, and then nodded. "If that's what you want, Sam. Okay."

Sam managed to avoid Doug at school the next two days, and then they were in the car, heading to the next place, the next hunt.

But for those couple of days after his best friend lost his mind and went serial-killer psycho with the blood, Sam had the strangest feelings. He felt strong and powerful, and very much on edge.

It wasn't something he ever told Dean about. ~

*

~ The first time Sam got drunk it was Dean's fault. Dad had wavered between being disapproving and amused when he got home and found Sam's hung-over ass draped across the ratty motel couch, a plastic bag of ice cubes melting on his head. Sam didn't know which reaction annoyed him more. He was seventeen years old, for Christ's sake. He didn't get what the big deal was.

He was totally overdue, in his opinion.

Dean agreed. He himself hadn't been twenty-one all that long and he still got off on flashing a real ID instead of a fake one when he went to a bar. Sam had no idea why. Dean liked to think of himself as the consummate outlaw type and a fake ID seemed right up his alley.

Maybe he got his jollies by making Sam a fake ID. He'd certainly had plenty of practice, since the Winchsters survived on credit card fraud and false identities.

So Dean dragged Sam with him to the redneck bar next to their motel, to "celebrate" his fake twenty-first birthday with what felt like a million beers, interspersed with shots of something that made Sam stop breathing and burned a hole in his chest with every swallow.

They sat side by side in a booth in the back on cracked plastic seats, with a battered wooden table under their elbows. As the evening progressed Sam lost all feeling in his lips and fingertips.

"Such a lightweight, Sammy," Dean teased. "Drink up."

They stumbled back to the motel after the bar closed up, with Sam's arm over Dean's shoulder and Dean supporting his weight.

"Aaayyhooo," Sam threw back his head and howled, and then he giggled and tripped over his feet and giggled again. Dean caught him around the waist.

"A real lightweight," Dean said fondly.

"You know it, motherfucker," Sam said, his words getting tangled on his tongue. "Or, you know, brotherfucker." He snickered because that was the funniest thing he'd ever said.

"Not tonight, dude," Dean said. "You're not gonna be fucking anyone tonight, dude."

"Why not?" Sam pouted. "Don't you love me anymore?"

Dean kept one arm around him while the other one fumbled for the room key. "Always, Sammy," he said as he unlocked the door and shoved Sam inside. "Always."

Sam fell face first across the bed nearest the door, his face smushed into the pillow. "That's cuz I'm awesome," he mumbled, his eyes closing.

"Here, before you smother yourself in your sleep, doofus," he heard Dean say, as the pillow beneath his face shifted so he could actually breathe. "Goodnight, Sam. Happy Birthday." ~

*

Dean can't believe there's anything left in the bottle of whiskey he's been nursing for most of the day. He's grateful, but it seems pretty improbable. Maybe there was more than one bottle. Whatever. He takes a small swallow, trying to make it last. He should have told Bobby to bring more.

Sam, now Sam isn't much of a drinker.

Wasn't much of a drinker.

Get a couple of beers in him, he was gone. Funniest damn thing Dean's ever seen. Coming from a family of hard drinkers like Dean and Dad, it was a never-ending source of amusement.

"Sammy," Dean says, raising his glass of booze in a salute. "King of the lightweights."

Dean feels something on his cheek, a slight movement of air. Almost like the huff of laughter Sam used to let out when he was drunk off his ass, giggling in Dean's ear.

Dean smiles.

*

Sam smiles back at his brother. He wishes Dean could see him; wonders if he has any idea that Sam is here. He wants so much for Dean to know, to be able to talk to him. Watching, not being seen, is torture.

He can't leave Dean alone. Dean won't make it without Sam.

Just like Sam can't imagine his life without Dean. He's not sure when that changed. He was fine at Stanford without Dean. Or maybe knowing Dean was just a phone call away if Sam ever needed him made it seem fine.

He hadn't needed Dean, but the knowledge that he was there if Sam did had been the only constant of Sam's entire life.

Maybe when that yellow-eyed son of a bitch put Jessica on the ceiling and Dean had pulled Sam from yet another burning building, maybe that's when Sam started to need Dean again.

*

~ "Do you believe in soul mates, Dean?"

"What, like Romeo and Juliet, or some shit?"

"You read Romeo and Juliet?"

"I saw the movie, dickwad."

"Which version?"

"The porn version. That Juliet, what a babe."

Sam sighs. If Dean is his soul mate, God must have a really twisted sense of humor.

He rolls over in the grass, propping himself up on his elbows and looking down at Dean. He's still not used to being as tall as Dean and he likes Dean like this, flat on his back. It puts them on a more equal footing, at least in Sam's head. It's not like his muscles have kept up with his bones. He's still scrawny as hell, no matter how hard he works out.

Sam wiggles his way on top of his brother and grins at the oomph that elicits. Dean's hands come up and grip Sam's hips, and Sam wiggles again.

"Quit it, Sam. We're in public."

Sam rolls his eyes. "We're in the middle of a field and there's no one around for miles."

Dean pretends to consider this. "Okay," he grins, and his fingers creep up from Sam's hips to his ribs, tickling as they go.

"Stop it, you ass," Sam shrieks, his voice cracking, much to his embarrassment.

Dean laughs up at him and then kisses him breathless. He tastes like long summer afternoons and sweet, syrupy Coke.

Dean rolls them over, sheltering Sam's body from the hot sun and Sam decides he can wait just a little bit longer for his muscles to develop. ~

*

It's been dark for several hours and the moon is rising over the surrounding trees. An owl hoots in the distance and the mournful sound resonates with Dean's broken heart.

He feels as if he's been ripped in two, as if his insides have been scooped hollow and there's nothing that will ever fill him back up again.

It's the most painful thing he's ever experienced.

*

Dean knows he should give Sam a hunter's funeral. Burn his body so nothing unnatural can use it. Salt his bones so he can't come back.

And he will, he will definitely do that. Just not right this minute. He should probably do it before Bobby comes back. He's under no illusions that Bobby will leave them alone for more than a day and he won't be able to stand it if Bobby wants to help him. He doesn't want anyone touching Sam beside himself.

No one else has that right.

So, soon. Because really, what other recourse does he have? It's not like he can – there it is, that idea again. That spark of what if, that spark of hope.

What's dead should stay dead.

But it doesn't always work that way.

He didn't stay dead. He should have died two years ago in Nebraska and instead some total stranger dropped dead of a heart attack in his place. Layla had been condemned to die so that Dean could live.

He should have died last year, but Dad…he doesn't want to think about Dad.

Dean has no idea what Hell is like. He's never met a demon yet who wanted to go back there. If he lets himself think about Dad and where he is right now, where he is because he sold himself for Dean, he thinks he might go crazy.

Can Dean do that for Sam? If he gets the standard ten years, maybe they can find a way out of it in that time.

He immediately feels guilty for that thought. As if he's hedging his bets, willing to give up his life and soul for Sam only if he can see a loophole somewhere.

He doesn't need a loophole. All he needs is Sam alive.

Sam will be fine without him. He always has been. He's spent half his life struggling to get away from Dean.

That's something he won't think about now, either. The last two years have made up for a lot, soothed Dean in a way he hadn't known he needed. He got his brother back and they're in this thing together.

That doesn't mean Sam can't function without him. It's not the same for Sam as it is for Dean. Oh, he knows Sam loves him.

But for Dean, Sam is everything.

He thinks about Sam burning. Not on a ceiling, but on a pyre, a pyre that Dean will have to build with his own hands.

Twice in one lifetime Dean has pulled Sam from a fire.

He won't make it a third time.

*

~ No matter what Sam did, he couldn't get rid of the smell of burning flesh. It clung to his clothes and his hair. It was permanently imbedded in his nostrils.

He kept gagging on it.

It had been two days since Jessica's funeral and Sam couldn't stop gagging. Dean wanted them to leave Palo Alto, although he wasn't saying that out loud. He'd stay forever if Sam asked him to, Sam knew. But he also knew Dean's tells and Dean was anxious to get away, get back on the road.

Part of Sam wanted that, too. On the road, in the car with Dean, where he felt safe. Loved and cared for. He wanted to get in the Impala and drive east and never look back.

Sam's friends closed ranks around him, sympathetic and appalled and protective. There were a lot of questions from the cops and Sam knew they thought there might be a case to be made for domestic violence gone very bad. His friends staunchly defended him. Brady especially was there for him, dealing with the practical matters of police investigations and Jessica's parents.

Brady was a good friend.

Dean helped Sam with the logistics of trying to salvage whatever he could from his smoke-damaged, waterlogged apartment.

But even Dean couldn't do anything about the smell. Sam huddled on the bed in their motel, Dean curled against his back, arms tight around him. Dean's hand rubbed soothing circles on Sam's chest and his breath was warm and heavy on the back of Sam's neck.

Sam tried to breathe in the scent of his brother but the acrid smell that permeated everything made that impossible. ~

*

Dean has no idea how long ago Bobby left. The air around him hums with something he's afraid to think about. His mind skitters away from the possibilities. He can't.

He can.

Moving over to the doorway, Dean stands and stares down at his brother. After a lifetime of watching him breathe it's disorienting to see a chest that doesn't move, that doesn't rise and fall.

Dean sits down in the chair he pulled up close to the bed so many hours ago. Rubbing a hand over his face, he talks to his baby brother.

"You know, when we were little - you couldn't have been more than five - you just started asking questions. How come we didn’t have a mom, why'd we always have to move around, where did Dad go when he'd take off for days at a time. I remember, I begged you to quit asking, Sammy, man, you don't wanna know. I just wanted you to be a kid, just for a little while longer."

*

Sam watches Dean and tears sting his eyes at the grief he's witnessing.

"I always tried to protect you. Keep you safe. Dad didn't even have to tell me. It was just always my responsibility, you know? It's like I had one job. One job. And I screwed it up. I blew it. And for that I'm sorry."

"You didn't screw it up, Dean. I did. I screwed it up," Sam says, desperately trying to think of a way to reach out to his brother. To comfort him in some way.

"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? How am I supposed to live with that? What am I supposed to do? Sammy, what am I supposed to do?"

Dean stands up, quickly, jerkily. "What am I supposed to do?" It's almost more than Sam can bear to listen to, filled with pain and grief and the self-loathing Dean is so good at.

Dean stands motionless for a moment, then he turns and walks quickly to the door, decision in the set of his shoulders, determination in every step.

He flings open the door of the Impala and it's a good thing Sam only has to think about it to be in the car with him, he's in such a hurry.

Sam has no idea where Dean is going but he knows it's not a good place. He drives like a bat out of hell, tires squealing, sliding all over the road. Dean's hands are tight on the steering wheel, his knuckles gleaming white in the moonlight. He barely blinks for miles.

Dust flies as Dean suddenly slams on the brakes, the Impala skidding on the dirt and gravel road. Dean takes a deep breath, his hands still clenched on the steering wheel, and then he's got the door open, almost throwing himself out of the car.

Dean rummages in the trunk and Sam looks around, taking in their surroundings. He feels a prickle of fear run down his spine.

A crossroads. They're at a fucking crossroads.

Dean's going to make a deal.

*

"Show your face, you bitch!"

Dean twists, looking down the road behind him, then back around again. What if the demon doesn’t show up?

What if it does?

He doesn't know which would be worse.

And then it's there; wearing a hot brunette, smirking and smiling and enjoying it all so much. Dean wants to send it back to Hell; he would give his soul for the Colt right now.

But he doesn’t have the Colt and he needs his soul for something else. Something more important.

The demon keeps telling him no. He doesn't understand. He doesn't want to die and he doesn’t want to go to Hell, but he begs. Sam's dead and Dean can't live with that.

"Make sure you bury Sam before he starts stinking up the joint."

It's all slipping away, and Dean is terrified. So fucking scared.

"I’ll give you one year, and one year only," she whispers in his ear. "It's a better deal than your dad ever got."

It is. Dean's father died for him, he went to Hell for him. He's still there, will always be there, for all eternity. On a good day, Dean is able to forget that for the space between one breath and the next.

He closes his eyes and kisses the demon. He expects to taste sulfur, but he doesn't.

He tastes ashes instead.

*

"No, Dean," Sam pleads frantically. "No, no, please, no!"

He paces in front of Dean, circles his brother and the crossroads demon.

"Don't do this, Dean, don't, please."

Sam is beside himself with fear and the wind senses it, picking up the leaves that litter the dirt road, swirling them around Dean and the demon.

They ignore it. The demon plays with Dean like a cat playing with a mouse and Sam's fury explodes out of him, sending tree limbs sailing through the air. One narrowly misses the windshield of the Impala, but Dean doesn’t notice. His attention is fixed on the woman before him.

"It's a fire sale and everything must go," she gloats, and Sam roars in anger. For a moment, she looks unsettled, peering around the darkened road uneasily but then she turns and smirks up at Dean.

"What do I have to do?"

"First of all, quit groveling. Needy men are such a turn-off."

She circles Dean, smiling, and then leans in to whisper in his ear. "I'll give you one year, and one year only."

"No, Dean, no," Sam moans, despair gripping him.

When Dean reaches out to pull the demon in for a kiss, Sam throws his head back and screams. A flock of birds nesting in the nearby trees startle, flying up and away with a loud beating of wings, and Sam follows.

*

It takes longer to drive back to the cabin than it took to get to the crossroads, or maybe Dean just doesn't remember the earlier drive. The sun is coming up over the horizon, golden light slanting through the trees and across the road in front of him.

He won't believe it until he sees Sam, until he sees Sam alive and breathing. He doesn't trust the crossroads demon, but she said she'd do it and they sealed the deal, so Dean has no other option but to drive back to that godforsaken cabin, where he'd spent the darkest hours of his life.

Back to Sam.

Dean is terrified of what he might find when he gets there, but he does what he always does and drives.

It's weird, but he feels strangely alone. He feels like he's missing something he didn't know was there in the first place, and now it's gone. There's an empty space beside him that can only be filled by Sam.

*

~ Dean had left California hours ago, Stanford in his rearview mirror. Sam was fine. He looked pretty happy from a distance, and Dean had a ghost to deal with in Nevada.

The sun beat down across the desert, shimmering on the road in front of him, a silver mirage hiding whatever he was driving toward. Dean blinked and dug around in the pile of crap in the passenger seat, wondering what the hell he'd done with his sunglasses.

They weren't in the seat next to him but it looked like pretty much everything else Dean owned might be. He glanced in the rearview mirror at the junk scattered over the backseat. There were duffels and his old boots, which he thought might still have some wear in them, and fast food wrappers and a blanket, and empty cans and a million other things.

Dean wasn't sure when his car had turned into the city dump. A spike of anger shot through him and he jerked the steering wheel, hitting the brakes and skidding to a halt at the edge of the road.

He flung the car door open, stumbling out and resting for a minute with his hands on his knees, trying not to puke. After a few deep breaths he straightened up, then opened the back door and swept everything out in one furious motion. Boots and trash and clothing scattered over the ground. Dean threw himself around to the other side of the car, yanked open the passenger door and that pile of crap was out of the car and on the ground, too.

Dean slid back into the car and took off, tires spinning in the sand as he steered the car back onto the road.

It's not like any of that shit was actually going to fill up the empty space in the car. ~

*

Sam gasps and sits up quickly, as if he's been startled out of a deep sleep. He has no idea where the hell he is. The mattress under him is lumpy and when he gets to his feet, he sees it's bloodstained and bare.

There's a dull ache in his back and pain shoots down his spine when he twists to look in the flyblown mirror hanging on the wall. His lower back is red, and the skin looks raised and irritated, as if some sort of injury is healing.

He looks around and figures out he's in some sort of cabin. There's a pizza box and a bucket of fried chicken on a battered table, surrounded by bottles of soda and an empty bottle of Jack Daniels. Lit candles are scattered around the room.

The light is dim, as if it's only early morning and Sam shivers as a chill breeze comes in through the beat-up window frame. Torn lace curtains stir weakly in the cool air.

Sam tries to remember what happened, why he's here, wherever here is. And where the hell is Dean?

He remembers the fight with Jake. That yellow-eyed son of a bitch wanted them all to fight to the death, some sort of twisted game. There was only supposed to be one winner.

Sam remembers Dean's voice calling him, Dean running toward him, screaming Sam's name.

A red-hot pain in his back, sinking to his knees in the mud, and then everything faded to nothingness.

He turns to look at his back again, trying to remember more.

The door of the cabin opens slowly, as if whoever is out there is afraid to come inside.

It's Dean, and his face lights up with relief when he sees Sam standing at the mirror. There are shadows in his eyes but he looks happy as he pulls Sam into a crushing hug.

"Sammy. Thank God."

"Hey." Dean's arms tighten around him and Sam winces. "Ow. Dean."

"Sorry. I'm sorry, man, I'm just happy to see you up and around, that’s all." Dean's voice is subdued, his vowels soft. He pulls back, smiling at Sam. Sam nods. "Come on, sit down."

They sit down at the table. Dean hasn't taken his eyes off Sam since he walked in the door. "Okay," Sam says. "Dean, what happened to me?"

Dean looks down at his hands, then back up at Sam.
"Well, what do you remember?" He looks away again and it's making Sam uncomfortable.

"I saw you and Bobby, and, and, I felt this pain, this sharp pain, like white hot, you know? And then you started running at me, and uh, that's about it." Sam shrugs, wincing as another jolt of pain shoots up his back.

"Yeah, that kid stabbed you in the back. You lost a lot of blood, it was pretty touch and go for a while." There's something off about Dean's story but Sam can't put his finger on it.

"Dean, you can't patch up a wound that bad," he says, puzzled.

"Bobby could," Dean says quickly. "Who was that kid, anyway?"

And that distracts Sam from whatever is up with Dean. Fucking Jake. "Name is Jake. Did you get him?" He hopes Dean gutted him.

"No, he disappeared into the woods," Dean says, looking away again.

"We gotta find him, Dean, and I swear, I'm gonna tear that son of a bitch apart." Sam gets to his feet and Dean jumps up, too. He puts a hand on Sam's arm.

"Whoa, whoa, easy Van Damme. You just woke up. Let's get you something to eat. You want something to eat? I'm starving, come on."

Sam hesitates, and then nods. They sit back down and Sam eyes the food hungrily, suddenly starving.

While they eat slices of cold pizza, Sam fills Dean in on everything that happened since he walked into that diner to get his brother some pie.

Well, except for the part where Yellow Eyes fed him demon blood when he was a baby. He's already enough of a freak, he doesn't need Dean to know that about him. He couldn't stand to have Dean look at him different.

"And that's when you guys showed up," Sam finishes.

"That's awful," Dean says. "Poor Andy."

Sam nods. "The demon said he only wanted one of us to walk out alive."

Dean looks at him, eyes wide. "He told you that?"

"Yup," Sam snorts in disgust. "He appeared in a dream."

"He tell you anything else?"

"No, no, that was it, nothing else." It feels easy, lying to Dean, and Sam knows that should bother him. But a life spent living in each other's pockets has made him pretty adept at knowing just how to color his voice with sincerity and earnestness, how to look right at Dean when he lies.

There's still something off about this whole thing. "You know, what I don't get, Dean, is if the demon only wanted one of us, then how did Jake and I both get away?"

"Well, I mean, they left you for dead. I'm sure they thought it was over." Dean takes a drink of soda and doesn’t meet Sam's eyes.

The other side of that coin is that Sam knows Dean's tells, knows when Dean is keeping something from him. Dean is a terrible liar, always has been, but then again, he spent the first nine years of Sam's life practically living a lie, not telling him about hunting and the supernatural.

Dean is good at keeping secrets. He's just not good at hiding the fact that he has secrets to keep.

There's something here, something Dean is hiding. Sam knows when to push and when not to, though, and now isn't the time.

Besides, they have important things to do. They need to find Jake, need to find out what the yellow-eyed demon's plans are. They need to get to Bobby's.

Dean seems to think otherwise. He acts as if Sam has just come back from the dead, or something.

"Whoa, whoa, stop, Sam, stop, dammit." Dean is on his feet and Sam can see how his hands are shaking. "You almost died. What would I – can't you just take care of yourself for a little bit? Just a little bit?"

"I'm sorry, no." There's definitely something weird going on here, but Sam will figure it out later. Right now they have work to do.

*

The drive to Bobby's doesn't take nearly as long as Dean would like it to. He has no idea what Bobby's gonna say but he knows it won't be good. There's nothing Bobby can do about it, though, and that's what matters.

What matters is sitting in the seat next to him, where he belongs, and nothing else is important. This is what matters.

Sure, Dean wants to kill that yellow-eyed son of a bitch and things just got a hell of a lot more urgent. Now that his life has an expiration date, Dean no longer has the luxury of time.

He hits the accelerator and Sam looks over at him, smiling grimly. Dean's suddenly anxious to get to Bobby's, to get started tracking the demon down, to finish this business.

He's with his brother and they have work to do.

*

They don't stay at Bobby's very long after they kill the demon that killed their mother and Jess. There's no cause for celebration, they've lost too much for that. It almost feels anti-climatic and Sam's sense of satisfaction is overshadowed by Dean's deal.

Dean's unsettled, eager to get on the road. Sam read a book once about some guy with terminal cancer, about how he dealt with knowing he was going to die sooner than he wanted to. It had a lot to do with letting go of what and who he was leaving behind. Sam wonders if Dean's thinking about the same things, or if it hasn't hit him yet.

What he's done.

They stop driving early on the second night out of Sioux Falls. It's been a while since they've done this, but the night is clear and the stars are bright.

Sam leans back against the windshield, stretching his legs out and crossing one over the other.

Dean settles beside him, cross-legged on the Impala's hood, cold bottle of beer nestled between his legs.

They don't speak for a long time. Dean is calm beside Sam, content to watch the stars in the sky above them. It's peaceful.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

Sam says it quietly, although in his head he's screaming it. He's wanted to say it for the past three days and he's surprised he held it in this long.

It's pointless to put Dean on the defensive. Sam won't get any answers that way, only pronouncements that are both absolute and infuriating in their I'm the oldest and I know best certainty.

Dean doesn't answer him for a long time and Sam is about to try again, when Dean sighs.

"Sammy, when you were a baby, I carried you out of the fire that killed Mom. When you were three, you tried to open the damn car door when Dad was driving about eighty miles an hour, and I pulled you back. And when you were five –" Dean stops, and swallows. Sam knows he's thinking about Wisconsin and the striga.

It's so quiet out here. Neither one of them speaks as they watch a shooting star fall to earth. Sam holds his breath; afraid to make any noise that will keep Dean from saying whatever he needs to say.

"I couldn't – can't – feel like that ever again. I couldn't let you die if there was any way I could stop it. I couldn't live – can't - you're – you mean everything." Dean's mouth tightens and his eyes are bright in the lights from the stars. "And it was like you were there, still, with me, and I just couldn't let you go," he whispers, barely loud enough for Sam to hear.

Sam gets it, he does. But it makes him angry all the same. He wants to ask Dean if he's even been here for the past year, since Dad died, if he's seen how he himself had reacted to someone selling their soul for him. How does he think it will make Sam feel, when Dean is gone forever, when he's suffering unknown torments in Hell, for Sam?

He wants to throw all of that in his brother's face, rage at him for being so selfish that he can't live with the idea of failure. Can't live without Sam.

But the grief on Dean's face stops him from saying any of those things. He tamps down on his anger, shoves it all down somewhere deep.

The wind picks up and Dean shivers. It makes him look vulnerable and that's not something Sam is used to seeing.

His big brother isn't vulnerable. He can do anything, fix anything, make anything all better. He's done it all Sam's life, and really, when you get down to it, that's what he thinks he's done this time.

But the thing is, the idea of life without Dean is just as unfathomable to Sam as life without Sam apparently is to Dean.

Sam is just going to have to try and find his own way to fix things.

He will. He won't let his brother down. Failure is not an option.

He reaches over and puts his arm around Dean's shoulders, tugging him close. He half expects Dean to pull away, to shrug him off and pretend he's fine. It's what he does.

But Dean surprises him by leaning into Sam's side and shivering again.

"Dean," Sam says. He says it again when Dean doesn't respond. "Dean, look at me."

Dean raises his head then, looking at Sam with eyes filled with the kind of love that only happens once in a lifetime. Sam smiles and Dean shakes his head ruefully.

"Dork," he says fondly, and Sam kisses him.



Boy, you're gonna carry that weight a long time…