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“You’re sure you’re up for this?” Dean asks for what has got to be the fiftieth time since they got in the car.
“Dean, it’s just a salt and burn, right? Pretty sure I can handle a vengeful spirit with one hand tied behind my back,” Sam says, rolling his eyes and he’s so weak that Dean’s surprised he can even manage it.
“Yeah, try both hands and a blindfold…” Dean mutters under his breath, hands clenching tighter on the steering wheel.
Sam sighs, “Look, we don’t have any information about the last trial yet but there’s no point in sitting around, being useless.”
Dean would say ‘but you need your rest’ or ‘what good are you on a hunt when you can barely hold yourself up’ but they’ve been round and round with this thing all week and Sam keeps insisting that a little normality (well, the Winchester definition of) will do him good. So he grits his teeth against a comeback and drives.
It happens just like everyone says it does: fast. They’re dealing with a vengeful alright and Dean’s about to burn the lock of the dead woman’s hair that will (hopefully) vanquish her when he sees it happening. Sam’s holding her off with salt rounds and his fingers fumble for just a second too long on the reload; just long enough for the wailing spirit to send an old fire poker shooting in his direction.
Dean’s moving without thought, hands outright as he barrels his body into Sam’s. His brother goes sprawling on the dusty floorboards but Dean is frozen. He doesn’t feel but he knows. He looks down at his midsection to find the dark rod of iron jutting out so wrongly in contrast to the red that’s quickly staining his front.
“Dean!” he tears his gaze away to find Sam staring up at him from the floor, his face white as a sheet and his panicked eyes moving restlessly over Dean’s body, like he’s hoping he’s seeing things. Dean’s lips twitch, barely moving around Sam’s name as he wraps his hands around the poker and pulls it free. He lets it clatter to the floor and Sam is there to catch him when his legs give out.
“Shit, no. Dean!” Sam’s cradling his face, trying to get Dean to look at him but his head is heavy in his hands. His stomach dropping sickly, he wraps his arms around Dean and hauls him to his feet, his own legs shaking like twigs as he half-carries his fainting brother to the Impala.
Sam lays him out carefully on the seat and rips off his own jacket with trembling hands. He presses the cloth to Dean’s wound as he starts the car, talking the whole time, babbling nonsense words to make Dean stay awake. He peels out onto the road and hauls ass to the nearest hospital, which is way too damn far away. Dean’s barely awake, eyes blinking sluggishly up at Sam and the bastard is fucking smiling.
“Gonna be fine, Dean, s’not even that bad,” he finds himself repeating the words he’s heard from Dean time and time again when things have gotten hairy. He knows Dean isn’t falling for it for a second but Sam needs to hear it out loud, even from his own lips.
Dean’s hand, too cold, lands heavily on top of Sam’s where he’s clutching his sodden jacket to Dean’s abdomen. “Sammy,” he whispers, voice strained and thick, a line of blood trailing from the corner of his mouth.
“Shh,” Sam tries to make him shut up because whatever it is, he doesn’t want to hear it. As always, Dean plows right on through.
“It’s right, don’tcha think?” he asks like he hasn’t even heard Sam, “That it’d happen here.” Sam’s not sure if he means in the Impala or Kansas or whatever but he’s not gonna sit here and listen to goodbyes.
“Shut up, Dean,” he warns, his voice cracking dangerously. Three more miles to the hospital. “Almost there. They’re gonna fix you up just fine. You’ll be laughing about it tomorrow. I’ll be taking care of you for a change.” He tries a laugh but it comes out choked, more like a sob.
Dean’s fingers tighten on his and he rattles out a wet cough that sends flecks of blood into the air. “Proud ‘a you, Sammy,” he whispers and Sam wouldn’t have even heard it, had his senses not been on high alert.
“Dean-
Dean doesn’t hear the rest. He dies in the front seat of the Impala with Sam’s hand in his.
The first thing Dean’s aware of is noise. And light. And then the world slams back into sharp focus but it’s not quite the same. He knows he recognizes the feeling but he can’t place it until he realizes that he’s in an emergency room, looking at a group of doctors and nurses crowded around his own body. They’re using the paddles on his chest and speaking frantically, some of the phrases he remembers from Dr. Sexy M.D.
He watches himself arch up off of the table but the line on the heart monitor remains flat and still. “Come on,” he urges, passing through the doctors to get closer to his body. He touches his own chest and his hand goes right through, “Come on!” he shouts again but it’s no use.
“Clear,” they use the defibrillator again but that low, monotonous beep keeps ringing out. It’s not until now that he hears Sam’s voice, yelling from the hallway, breaking through the other sounds assaulting Dean’s ears.
“Sammy!” he calls but he knows his brother can’t hear him. Sam wrestles his way past the nurses trying to hold him back and bursts through the double doors just in time to hear the doctors give up.
“Call it.”
“Time of death, 12:45 a.m.”
They stop trying to hold Sam back and move out of his way. He staggers forward, his hand reaching out to brace himself on the edge of Dean’s gurney. Dean wants to touch him so bad, wants to put an arm around him and tell him that it’s okay. But he can’t and he has to watch as Sam’s expression crumples into despair, his lips trembling around Dean’s name as the tears start to spill over the reddened rims of his eyes.
Dean feels the answering prickle in his own, wonders how a ghost can even cry as they start to roll down his cheeks. He’s shaking now, rage bubbling up inside of him so fierce that the fluorescent lights flicker but Sam doesn’t notice. He’s bending over now, head resting on Dean’s still chest, his shoulders heaving with the broken sobs that rend their way out of him.
His hand reaches for Sam, passes right through his back and he shows no sign of noticing. Suddenly, that hand starts to fade in and out of focus and Dean feels so tired, like the weight of existing is too much to bear. He tries to hold on, for Sam, but he can’t and he’s disappearing so fast the world starts to spin and then everything is just dark.
When Dean comes to, he’s in the middle of the woods. He looks around in confusion, wondering how the hell he got here. The strange yellowish light filtering in through the trees lets him know that this place isn’t real but still, he feels compelled to walk. He’s being drawn forward down a path that doesn’t exist until he comes to an abrupt stop. To his right, there sits a cabin, shrouded by trees and he somehow knows that it’s meant for him.
He nudges open the door, looking around. He reaches for his gun but it isn’t there. He lets the door shut behind him and he follows the sound of a crackling fire into a small den, the only lit room in the cabin. There’s a familiar silhouette in front of the hearth that he can’t quite place until it turns around.
“Hello again, Dean,” says Death.
“You’re making house calls, now?” Dean asks with a smirk that he doesn’t feel.
“I wouldn’t send just anyone to collect a Winchester,” Death replies, something akin to admiration in his voice, “Though something tells me that you won’t be departing with me from this place.”
“Yeah, you got that right,” Dean says, no false bravado, just the truth.
Death nods in quiet acceptance, “You’re staying for Sam.” It’s not a question.
“Someone’s gotta look out for the kid,” Dean says with a shrug, his smile falling far short of convincing.
“It is your choice after all. Perhaps I shall take you both together some day,” Death says, a faint smile twitching up the corners of his thin lips.
“Two for the price of one,” Dean replies, his heart clenching painfully at the thought.
“Farewell, Dean.”
Everything’s gone too fast for Dean to respond.
Dean’s beginning to understand what Bobby meant by “ghost naps”. He’s been losing time, sometimes hours, sometimes days. All he knows is that Sam looks worse every time he comes back and it fucking hurts. It hurts to see him drink himself sick and rail at the sky, and turn away everyone that tries to help. Poor Kevin got a half empty bottle of Jack hurled at his head for his trouble and as far as Dean knows, he hasn’t been back to the bunker since.
After Sam exhausted all of his contacts, looking for help, he stopped answering his phone. No one in Heaven or Hell is willing to make a deal with a Winchester and it’s a good thing because Dean’s pretty sure he would have ghost-kicked Sam’s ass if he had tried. Not that he doesn’t appreciate the sentiment. Unable to bargain, Sam’s barreling headfirst into anger, given to drunken shouting matches with empty rooms and, one unfortunate time, a not so empty church.
Dean’s desperate to make contact. He’s trying everything he’s ever learned to hone his skills but every time he practices, he uses up all his energy and nothing scares him more than coming back to find Sam dead in a ditch somewhere. He’s also been testing his boundaries. It took him a while to realize that it wasn’t the Impala or the Bat Cave his soul clung to. It became obvious when he popped back into consciousness in a bar somewhere that it wasn’t any material thing but Sam himself that Dean couldn’t leave. He guesses it has something to do with the whole soul mate thing Ash told them about and that Sam is his ‘other half’. It would sound dumb if it weren’t completely, painfully true.
And here he is, watching the other half of his soul fall apart day after day, the bruises under his eyes getting darker, his skin going paler. He’s still in pain from the trials, more than he ever let on when Dean was alive. He’s come in on him several times coughing up blood until Dean thought he must be hemorrhaging. Sam can’t feel him but Dean is there with him, running a hand through his hair or across his shoulders as he curls in on himself on the bathroom floor, groaning in pain. Dean feels more useless than he ever has.
Sam thinks it’s a Wednesday but he can’t be sure. It doesn’t fucking matter anyway. His head is throbbing but that’s alright. It’s the least he deserves. He sits up with a painful crick in his neck, having fallen asleep in the bathroom again. His mouth tastes like stale blood and he winces, his stomach churning with the threat of nausea. Fingers gripping the edge of the sink, he hauls himself up to his feet, his vision swimming dangerously.
He looks like hell but what else is new. He runs the faucet and wipes off the dried blood from the corners of his mouth, then brushes his teeth for a solid five minutes, only to have that coppery taste still linger at the back of his throat. He’s almost used to it by now. What he can’t get used to is the horrible, final ache in his chest, like he’s been carved hollow and left out in the cold for the wind to rattle his ribs. Like a gnawing hunger that he can’t satisfy.
It’s not like the other times Dean has been gone. Even when he’d gone to Hell, there had been a lingering hope and determination in the back of Sam’s mind that he would find a way to bring him back. When Dean was in Purgatory, he had just disappeared and Sam had no idea where to look. Now Sam knew. He had watched Dean die. He had bled out under his own hand because he hadn’t been fast enough or good enough to prevent it. He chose to go on that hunt. He had been too slow. And Dean had paid the price.
Dean’s gone for good this time and there’s no one that can bring him back. In the series of Sam’s fuck ups, this is definitely his crowning achievement. He’s betrayed and disappointed his brother until the very end and if Sam hadn’t felt like the very scum of the earth before, he’s feeling it now. Dean had been right-on that day he touched that cursed coin. They weren’t mistakes, they were choices. Every single thing he’s ever done, every time he’s ever hurt Dean, has been his fault.
Sam finds himself dry-heaving over the sink for only the twentieth time in the past day. He slides to the floor on his knees, stomach twisting painfully around nothing as hot tears seep between his tightly closed eyes. He leans forward until he can rest his feverish forehead against the cool floor and knows that he can never forgive himself, not for the rest of his miserable life.
Two months pass before Sam trusts himself to enter Dean’s room. The scent of his brother hits him like a slap in the face, all worn leather and whiskey, and he staggers back, has to brace himself on the doorframe because the pain in his chest feels like a damn heart attack. His eyes comb over the bed “memory foam; it remembers me” and Dean’s sparse possessions; the guns hung ornamentally on the wall, the picture of their mother propped up on his nightstand.
He ventures in slowly because this was Dean’s sacred space; the first time he had his own room in ever. He skims his fingers over the bedspread, made up tight with the military precision they’d learned from their father. It’s painfully clear to him how much it all meant to Dean; to have a real home again. Sam had never quite felt the same about the bunker, after all, the only home he’d ever had was Dean. As long as Dean was there, Sam felt safe. Now he has nothing but his quickly fading scent, an old car, and a head full of memories.
Sam’s starting to think that coming in here isn’t such a good idea after all when his foot scuffs against something shoved just under the edge of the bed. His brow furrows in confusion and he drops down onto a knee to peer underneath. It’s then he finds a small wooden box that looks kind of like the curse boxes their dad kept in his storage room. He pulls the box out and sits down on the bed, cradling it gently in his lap like he’s scared he’ll break it.
His fingers trace over the marks Dean had carved into its surface; firstly a large DW, and surrounding it, a series of anti-demon wards that would keep the box’s contents out of the wrong hands. It must be something very important, Sam figures, for Dean to go through such trouble to keep it safe. He hesitates, dying to open it but loathe to cross a boundary that Dean didn’t want crossed. Biting his lip, Sam weighs the pros and cons of opening the box until curiosity finally gets the better of him and he slides open the little metal clasp that holds it shut.
Sam’s heart skips, then pounds, shocked and confused by what he finds. His fingers close over a ribbon that Sam won in a spelling bee when he was nine years old and thought had been thrown out long ago. He turns it over in his hands, looking for some sign of significance but finds nothing. Baffled, he sets it aside and delves back into the box. He then comes across a couple of the little plastic boxes that they give you at school when your baby teeth fall out, along with a folded up certificate in the shape of a tooth with the name “Sammy Winchester” in crayon, written in his childish scrawl.
He finds a bracelet made out of dry macaroni, a slapdash Christmas ornament with way too much glitter, and a folded up piece of notebook paper that Sam discovers is the essay he wrote as a freshman about his family. His head is spinning and his stomach is twisting itself up in knots and he’s about to start piling the stuff back inside when he sees a long, thin piece of paper sitting at the very bottom. He realizes what it is before he even turns it over, his pulse pounding in his ears because this isn’t just paper at all. It’s a strip of photos, the kind you get out of a booth at the mall.
“Oh God,” he mutters to himself, and flips it over because he can’t not. He finds what he knew he would: he and Dean and Sam thinks he himself must have been fifteen at the time. They’re sitting there with goofy grins, taking turns rabbit-earing each other and pulling faces at the camera, Dean’s arm slung protectively over Sam’s shoulders like it always was. Sam’s eyes are stinging with tears until he arrives at the last photo on the strip and then they spill over on a sob.
Dean’s other hand is cupping Sam’s face, turning him into a sweet kiss that they’re both smiling into like nothing else in the world matters. Sam remembers the day clearly, remembers the moment of unabashed freedom as he pressed his lips to Dean’s and didn’t give a damn about getting caught because he was in love and God, he still is. He’s been in love with Dean as far back as he can remember and he knows with a painful certainty that he always will be.
Sam pushes everything else to the side and pulls the photos against his chest, pressing them against the ache in his heart like they can slide in and fill the space where Dean should be. He doesn’t know when he curled up in a ball but he’s there, weeping into Dean’s pillow and it’s so much worse because it smells just like him, smells just like when Sam would wake up in the morning and press his face into Dean’s hair and just breathe.
Sam doesn’t know it but Dean’s in the room with him, a wrecked, “God, baby, no,” shuddering from his lips as he curls his body around Sam’s, buries his face into his brother’s neck and cries.
Sam’s back feels cold and he doesn’t know why.
Sam had been having the time of his life when he ran away. A place to himself, living by his own rules, hell, he even had a dog. Somewhere in his mind, he knew it wouldn’t last forever. It was only a matter of time before Dean and John tracked him down and dragged him back. So he sat and he waited, enjoying his freedom while it lasted.
Dean, however, was having the week that came straight from Hell. Sammy had gotten away under his watch and just the thought of that made him sick. The plummeting feeling that Sam was lying dead somewhere was a thousand times worse than the physical abuse their dad had inflicted when he found out. Dean took it gladly because he fucking deserved it. Sam was his responsibility. He’d been trusted with Sam’s life and, as per usual, he’d managed to screw it up.
The taunting smirk on Sam’s face slipped away the instant he caught sight of Dean. His brother looked like he was gonna collapse right then and there or maybe explode. It became clear pretty damn fast that this wasn’t a game anymore. He let Dean shove him against the door, stayed submissive while he screamed in his face and punched a hole through wall right by Sam’s head. And then he let Dean take him home. Or what was currently passing for home at the moment. Neither of them can even remember now what ramshackle dump they’d been staying in.
Dean was going to get whiplash by how quickly his emotions were shifting back and forth between blinding rage and sweeping relief and some other feeling that made him want to slump to the ground and cry. He kept his teeth clenched shut against everything he wanted to say, the questions that bubbled furiously under the surface. Sam stayed quiet too, actually looking contrite instead of pouty for once. That was something, at least.
It wasn’t until that night, in the room they shared, that Sam noticed the bruises. The busted knuckles went without saying; Dean had punched through drywall, after all, but the one purpling his jaw Sam couldn’t account for. Dean was pulling back the covers on his bed when Sam put a hand on his arm to stop him.
“What, Sam?” he asked, without looking at him, still angry.
But then Sam touched his hand to Dean’s injured jaw and that got his attention sure enough. His green eyes went wide, locking onto Sam’s and they stood there frozen for a moment until Dean shook him off and sat down on his bed. Instead of sitting on his own, Sam dropped down next to Dean, still peering at him in a way that made the hairs rise on the back of Dean’s neck.
“Dad?” Sam interrupted the tense silence.
“Yeah,” Dean replied with a bitter twist to his mouth, “He wasn’t very happy about me letting you run off to play house.”
He expected Sam to get huffy and defensive and was surprised when Sam’s eyebrows drew up and together in the way that meant tears were imminent. He looked so fucking crushed that the anger leeched out of Dean almost instantly and left him feeling sorry for opening his mouth.
“I’m so sorry,” Sam whispered and his hand was on Dean’s face again, fingers gently stroking the mottled skin. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
Dean scoured his brain for something to say to that and came up blank so he just sat still and let Sam touch. “Never wanted to hurt you, Dean,” Sam was saying, his eyes shining wetly in the dim light of their table lamp, “I didn’t think about it. I didn’t think about how you’d feel or what Dad would…” he dropped his hand to his brother’s arm and drew back fast when Dean flinched.
“Here, too?” Sam demanded, even as he was yanking up Dean’s sleeve to get a look at his heavily bruised bicep. There was a manic look in his eyes that Dean didn’t know how to respond to, was powerless when Sam got his fingers under the hem of his shirt and yanked up until he had the thing over Dean’s head and on the floor.
He heard Sam’s intake of breath at the sight of Dean, his tan, long fingered hands reaching out to press gently to the angry blotches of red and purple that covered Dean’s ribs, like he could somehow heal him with just his touch. It sparked a sharp feeling under Dean’s skin that was nowhere close to pain and his heart was pounding loud in his ears.
“Sam-…” he started and he didn’t know how to finish. Sam, stop? Sam, please?
“Sorry, I’m so sorry,” Sam was mumbling under his breath, big puppy eyes looking so sad and lost and Dean was always defenseless when it came to that look. He’d give Sammy anything.
Before he knew it, Sam was leaning in and pressing his lips against the bruise on Dean’s arm, kissing it better just like when they were kids but completely, insanely different. Dean was rooted to the spot, his own mouth slack with shock as he watched Sam progress from one spot to the other, kissing his chest, across the tender skin of his ribcage, making his stomach muscles jerk and flutter. It had never been like this before; never had there been trails of fire following Sam’s touch, the delicate, warmth of his lips making Dean breathe fast, making his nipples go hard.
He knew he should stop this, should shove Sam away right now but he was too fucking gone. Sam’s lips had finally found their way to the mark on his jaw and Dean twisted his head fast to catch that mouth with his own. Sam startled, making a muffled noise of surprise and then, fuck, he was parting his lips, moaning into Dean and that was it. Every part of Dean he hadn’t known was missing slotted firmly into place as he wound his fingers through Sam’s shaggy hair and pulled him in, pushing his tongue into that soft, willing mouth and tasting what he’d never dared to dream of and what he now could never live without.
He shifted Sam under him, pressing his shoulders down into the mattress and kept their mouths sealed, Sam’s tongue flicking against his in little kitten licks that soon got bolder, hotter. Dean was achingly hard in his boxers and he couldn’t resist pressing down into Sam, rolling his hips until he could feel Sam’s own erection thrusting up against him. Sam’s arms wound around Dean, hands grabbing at his back, pushing into his hair like they had to feel everything at once.
“Sammy,” he groaned, dropping down fully on top of his little brother, bracing his arms on either side of him so he could rock their bodies together. Sam was making these amazing little whimpering sounds wrapped around Dean’s name and he knew that this wasn’t going to last long at all, his underwear already damp with pre-come.
He sucked Sam’s tongue into his mouth and that’s when he came with a jolt, arching up against Dean, hands scrabbling across his back for purchase and digging in, crushing Dean even harder against him. Another push of his hips through that sticky mess and Dean was coming hard, pulse after pulse filling his boxers until he was a shaking mess, his heated cheek pressed flush against Sam’s.
Dean couldn’t imagine what circle of Hell would be deep enough for someone who takes advantage of his baby brother but he knew he’d never be strong enough to stop. Not when Sam’s legs were wound around his waist, lips pressing little kisses to Dean’s cheek like he’s grateful. Not when Dean’s heart felt so achingly full and content that the thought of even moving seemed impossible. He needs this with Sam. He needs it so goddamn much.
Sam stands facing the Impala where it’s been sitting since he somehow got himself home from the hospital that night. He had stripped off his bloody clothes and showered until his skin was sore but he hasn’t stepped foot inside the car since he dragged himself out of it. His hand flexes around the handle of the bucket he’s holding, water sloshing and disturbing the silence that’s built up while he hasn’t been breathing.
He knows it’s pretty disgusting to leave blood there to bake in the sun and that Dean would kill him for ruining his Baby’s upholstery but he just hasn’t been able to bring himself to do it. He’s still not sure he can. There’s a difference between knowing that your brother is dead and actually having to mop his blood up off the front seat of his beloved car where you spent the majority of your life. Sam vaguely wonders if there’s any amount of therapy in the world that could help him cope with that.
With a steadying breath, Sam pulls open the driver’s side door and the scent of rotting blood assails his senses, bringing the sting of bile to the back of his throat. He puts his hand out to catch himself before his rubbery knees give out and just focuses for a moment on not throwing up. The blood is a dark, congealed puddle on the bench seat, dry and flaky around the edges and the thin rivulets that had oozed down the side.
“Jesus Christ,” Sam breathes as he sets down the bucket on the floorboards, grabbing the sponge and wringing the extra water out. This is Dean’s blood. This is where his brother died. A sick part of him wants to keep it there just so he has something left, something he can touch and force himself to remember when nothing seems real. He lowers the sponge to the dark stain before that thought can grab hold.
He cleans with silent efficiency, jaw locked tight and eyes burning. The water starts turning pink and he has to dump it out and refill it twice before he’s finished. He wonders for the first time if Dean had to go through this when Sam got stabbed through the spine. He freezes, remembering that night, the fear in Dean’s eyes, his hands on Sam’s face as the life drained out of him. The day Sam came back from the dead had been one of the happiest of his life, until he discovered what Dean had done.
Sam woke up with a start, jolting upright in bed. The movement set off a surge of pain in his back and suddenly the events, from what he assumed was the night before, came rushing back. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and went to the mirror across the room. He turned around and lifted his shirt, running his fingers over the angry red scar that had already formed. How long had he been out?
The sound of the door called his attention and he looked up to see Dean standing there like he’d seen…well, something stranger than a ghost.
“Sammy.”
“Hey,” Sam greeted, forming a half smile and was confused when Dean didn’t return it, but charged over to him and hauled Sam into a tight embrace. Which set off an immediate flare of pain.“Ow. Um, Dean?”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, man,” Dean said, loosening his hold around Sam’s back and clutching his face instead. He looked dangerously close to crying and Sam was getting seriously worried. “I’m just- I’m just happy to see you-
He cut off his own sentence by tugging Sam’s face down to his and crushing their mouths together in a hard, needy kiss. Sam’s startled sound got muffled in Dean’s mouth as he parted his lips to suck Sam’s tongue in and then every thought in his head flew right out the window. He grabbed at Dean, fingers scrubbing through his short hair, fisting in his shirt and wishing it wasn’t in the goddamn way.
Their ‘relationship’ had stopped when Sam went to Stanford and when Dean came to get him, neither had addressed the elephant in the room. They used to be so in tuned to each other that they moved in an effortless flow and Sam missed it like he couldn’t believe. So much time passed and Sam just assumed that Dean didn’t want him that way anymore. After all, he was just Dean’s little brother and Dean could get practically anyone he wanted. But Sam had never stopped wanting Dean. Not for an instant.
And now, getting to touch what he’d only been able to dream of since he left, felt like a fucking miracle. Dean let Sam push him down on the bed, being mindful of Sam’s back no doubt, and he wasted no time in crawling on top of his older brother, straddling his thighs and trying to yank his clothes off over his head. Dean took over for him, though he wasn’t much quicker but finally, he was naked from the waist up and Sam ran his hands all over his smooth, muscled chest.
“God, Dean,” he breathed and lowered his head, sucking at Dean’s neck, trailing his tongue down his chest. He bit his way over to a nipple and sucked the hard nub into his mouth, scraping his teeth over it in the way he knew would make Dean moan. He was not disappointed. Dean dug his fingers into Sam’s shaggy hair, pulling just the perfect amount to make chills rise on the back of Sam’s neck and he vowed he would never, ever give this up again.
“Need to feel you too, baby boy, come on,” Dean said, voice like shredded velvet as he tugged at the hem of Sam’s shirt. Sam sat up and quickly yanked the offending garment over his head and tossed it to the floor.
Dean’s hands were on him fast as lightning, palming over his chest reverently, stroking down his sides and all Sam could do was tip his head back and groan. Dean’s fingers dug into his hips, thumbs pressing into those hollow grooves and Sam’s cock was already incredibly hard in his jeans. “You went and grew up on me, didn’t you?” Dean asked, full of awe as he rubbed over the sharp iliac crests that pointed like an arrow into Sam’s pants.
“Oh fuck, Dean,” Sam practically whined, rocking down into Dean and feeling his hard-on jut up against Sam’s. “Need you, right now. C’mon.”
“Gonna be the death of me, Sammy,” Dean shuddered as he made quick work of Sam’s belt. In no time, he had his jeans open and shoved out of the way so he could get a hand inside. Dean’s warm hand closing around him through his boxers hit Sam like an electric shock and he jolted so hard he almost lost his balance.
“Steady,” Dean said, huffing out an amused laugh though his pupils were so blown only a dark strip of green remained.
“Shut up, jerk,” Sam groaned, rocking into Dean’s palm as he began to rub at the head with slow circles of his thumb.
“Bitch,” Dean breathed, as he finally pushed Sam’s underwear out of the way and got him in hand. The familiar feel of Dean’s calloused fingers wrapped around his shaft was so good Sam felt like crying but he managed to hold back by sheer force of will.
Dean began working him in slow, steady strokes, twisting up around the head just the way Sam liked. “Shit, not gonna last,” Sam panted, feeling the hot pulse of pre-come as it slicked down Dean’s knuckles. He expected Dean to back off so he could get in on the fun too but instead he picked up his pace, pumping Sam’s cock like it was the only thing that mattered.
Sam’s hips kicked up into the perfect friction of Dean’s hand and he came in long hot spurts, body jumping and trembling with the force of it and Dean stroked him through, eyes huge like he had just witnessed some kind of phenomenon. His chest was streaked with Sam’s come and that was nearly enough to push him over the edge again.
When Sam returned to his faculties, he made it first order of business to kiss Dean until he couldn’t breathe, messily fucking his tongue into his mouth until Dean was rocking desperately against his hip. Then he kissed his way down, smearing come around in his wake, until he came to Dean’s pants which he unceremoniously yanked down, along with his boxers. Dean’s cock slapped back against his stomach, perfect as ever and already leaking.
With a shameless sound Sam licked a stripe up the bottom of Dean’s shaft, making the other man gasp out a curse and knot his fingers in Sam’s hair. He took the head into his mouth and swirled his tongue around, like no time had passed at all, like they were still teenagers holed up in an anonymous motel. He flicked into the slit before he swallowed him down as far as he could, letting his throat open and flex around him.
He was pretty sure Dean was talking in tongues by this point, making little aborted thrusts of his hips as Sam started bobbing his head. He took the base in one hand and Dean’s hip in the other, holding him in place while he moved and sucked, hollowing his cheeks and moaning at the taste of pre-come on his tongue.
“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean’s voice was high and soft, “I’m gonna…” he started to tug on Sam’s hair like he wanted him to let go but there was no way in hell.
He tightened the suction and dragged his tongue rough over that little bundle of nerves just under the head and that’s all she wrote. Dean arched so hard the bed squealed in protest and exploded over Sam’s tongue. Sam swallowed and kept swallowing, pumping his hand to get all he could out of Dean until he was whimpering at the hypersensitivity of his cock. He pulled off with an obscene sound and looked up to face his brother.
Dean’s face was flushed, hair a wreck, lips wet and bitten red and the most perfectly beautiful thing Sam had ever seen. He didn’t say a word but held out his hand and that’s all Sam needed to understand. He crawled up, limbs still shaky and weak and collapsed half on top of Dean, who took Sam’s face in his hands and kissed him again. Soft, this time, slow and deep.
When it was over, Sam pillowed his head on Dean’s chest while his brother stroked up and down his back. It lulled him, reminded him of when they were kids and Dean would rub his back to help him fall asleep. He was feeling like he might sleep until Dean’s fingers came to the scar on his back and stopped.
“Now who has the biggest scar, huh?” Sam teased, trying to ease the tension that had gathered in Dean’s body.
“Never again, Sammy,” Dean said and his voice was serious, deadly still, “Never again.”
Thanks to whatever force binds them together, Dean is stuck watching his little brother scrub his encrusted blood off the front seat of his car and isn’t that just a walk in the park. He was going to be pissed at him for waiting this long to clean his Baby up until it came right down to it. Until he saw the sick devastation on his face, the slight tremor in his hands as he wrung out the sponge again and again and then Dean would have given anything to spare him this.
It’s the worst at the end when he’s finally done and he sets the bucket down in the grass. He pulls his legs up into the driver’s seat and closes the door, just sits there for the longest time with his red-stained fingers wrapped tight around the steering wheel. Dean is sitting next to him, wondering if he should maybe feel weirder about sitting on the exact spot where he died but the Impala still feels like home.
And Sam just sits there. He sits there and stares but doesn’t look at anything as the sun goes down. His face is cast in dark shadow and he looks suddenly much older than he should; hollow. Dean touches his arm but Sam can’t feel him, doesn’t even blink. They sit for what seems like hours and the only thing that alerts Dean to Sam’s movement is the slight creak of old leather as he shifts upright and tightens his fingers on the wheel.
“Never again,” he says, voice quiet but resolute.
For a second, Dean thinks Sam is talking to him but he’s still staring dead ahead, face set in grim determination that Dean knows well. And then he opens the door, slides out and marches back to the bunker like he suddenly has a mission. Dean is tugged along behind him and watches on in confusion as Sam starts throwing clothes into his duffel.
“Dammit, Sam, where are you going?” Dean demands but he might as well be shouting at a brick wall, “This is the safest place on earth!”
Sam moves as quickly as he can, only pausing once to commence a coughing fit, and then, to Dean’s relief and pride, remembers to grab his gun before he leaves. Dean follows him out the door, still berating him for being an idiot but his words fall on deaf ears. He really wishes Bobby was still around to help him work this ghost thing out because moving some papers around and flickering lights have done him no good.
His body slides right through the door of the Impala as Sam climbs in behind the wheel, cranking her into life. Despite being immaterial, Dean can still enjoy the comforting purr of Baby’s engine so he thanks God for small mercies. Sam flinches at the sound of the stereo and turns the volume all the way down, much to Dean’s displeasure. He’s stuck in the car for who knows how long with no music and a brother who can’t see him or tell him where the hell they’re headed. Wonderful.
Dean zones in and out and when he comes to, they’re still headed west. “The hell are you taking us, Sam?” he says into the semi-darkness of the car. The sun’s starting to come up over the horizon, casting a pale orange glow onto Sam’s profile. It looks like he hasn’t so much as blinked since he started driving. It was barely nightfall when they left the bunker.
“We goin’ to Vegas?” Dean asks, only half serious. And then an idea hits him and his eyes go wide as he stares at Sam’s unresponsive form. “You going back to school, Sam? To Stanford?” The more he thinks about it, the less sense it makes. Sam looks like he’s knocking on death’s door and he sounds even worse; he doubts he has the strength to face college life again. Doesn’t look like he wants to.
Well there goes that theory. Dean slides down in his seat and sighs, humming Metallica under his breath. Sam straightens up suddenly, like he actually hears him so Dean hums louder. Sam shakes his head and rubs his red-rimmed eyes. Dammit.
Sam stops for gas and coffee about an hour later and goes right back to driving. Dean watches the progressively arid landscape fly by out the window. Sam must be pushing eighty. The road is nearly deserted though and stays that way for the next few hours. There goes the ‘Welcome to Utah’ sign. Well, that’s what Dean assumes it says because they’re going too fast to read it. Dean’s head thumps back against the seat and he settles in for a ghost nap.
It’s around two in the afternoon when they finally make it into Arizona. Dean comes to when Sam stops the car and looks around in confused wonderment. “Holy shit.”
“We finally made it back to the Grand Canyon, Dean,” Sam says quietly but it still makes Dean jump. He looks at him, wondering if Sam can actually see him but his brother stares motionless through the windshield, the stubble on his face bordering on being an actual beard. “No donkeys this time,” he adds with a sad laugh.
The Impala sits facing out towards the canyon among some dry looking shrubbery. They sit silent for a while and stare at sheer massiveness of the thing, other tourists in the distance looking like ants from across the chasm. Dean gets lost for a while watching as the shadows shift and change, casting out from the buttes and across the basins as the earth turns. It’s pretty remarkable, even more beautiful than he remembers.
Sam looks at the canyon and feels like he can relate in a weird way. The only difference is that people come from miles around to look at this giant nothing. The hole in Sam has to be at least twice this size and no one even cares. He laughs hollowly and realizes how much he needs to sleep.
The car’s still idling and he flexes his hands around the steering wheel, thinking briefly about Thelma and Louise-ing this bitch and then it would all be over. The only thing that stops him is the thought of Dean’s face if he knew his Baby was gonna be smashed to smithereens at the bottom of the Grand Canyon.
“You better not be thinking of Thelma and Louise-ing this bitch,” Dean says with venom, “I’ll kick your ass for all eternity.”
He relaxes when Sam turns off the car and just sits, expression unreadable. He rolls down the windows and lets the dry wind blow through the car. Dean wishes he could feel it. It’s odd the things that you miss, like the feel of the leather seat underneath him or Sam’s hair between his fingers.
After what seems like an eternity, Sam opens the door and slides out. Dean follows him before he gets dragged after him. His brother stands at the edge of the canyon, eyes closed and he breathes, the wind rustling through his long hair. Dean is struck dumb for the millionth time in his life at how beautiful Sam is. Even sick and distraught and hellishly tired, he makes Dean’s heart (the one he no longer has) beat in a painful, cracking kind of way that makes his whole chest hurt.
Sam kneels down in the reddish dirt and busies himself with digging a little hole as Dean watches on in confusion. He dips his hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out- “Holy Christ,” Dean breathes. Dean’s amulet, the one he threw in the trash of some motel and regretted for the rest of his life, is hanging from Sam’s fingertips. The familiar bronze face staring up at him looks betrayed and accusing.
Sam looks at the amulet for a moment, running a fingertip over the bridge of the nose and the tiny horns before carefully placing it in the ground. “Goodbye, Dean,” he says quietly, covering the necklace with dirt.
Dean’s chest feels like it’s crumbling open, the backs of his eyes stinging as he follows Sam back to the Impala. He sits silent and just breathes until he realizes he doesn’t have to anymore, so he stops.
Sam stops to eat at a diner. As soon as he sits down in the booth and sees the empty spot across from him, he changes his mind and gets his food to go. Dean was sitting there with him; he just couldn’t see.
He pulls up in front of the ‘Canyon Side Motel’, blinking its vacancy sign against the steadily darkening sky. It looks like it’ll rain. Sam grabs his duffel bag out of the back seat and heads to the front office where a tired looking woman sits behind a desk reading People magazine.
“King or two queens?” she asks without looking up.
“Two-…” Sam stops himself, biting down on the side of his tongue. “One king, please.”
The woman- Delores, doesn’t notice his slip because she doesn’t care. She taps something into her old Dell computer and slides Sam a key across the desk.
Sam makes it to his room just as it starts to pour outside. He sits at the small table in the dark and eats his take out until he realizes he doesn’t want it and tosses it in the trash. Then he sits down on the end of the one king sized bed and pulls his gun out of his bag.
Dean watches him with steadily growing apprehension, especially when it becomes clear that he doesn’t intend to clean his gun. Sam slides out the magazine, ensuring that there are bullets inside before snapping it closed and thumbing off the safety.
“Sam,” Dean breathes, something cold settling in the pit of his stomach, making him feel sick.
Sam ponders the gun, turning it over from hand to hand until he seems to arrive at a decision and pulls back the hammer.
“Sam...”
He puts the muzzle in his mouth, the cold metal harsh against his tongue and closes his eyes.
“SAM!” Dean slaps the gun out of Sam’s hand so hard it goes flying across the room. “God dammit, Sam what the fuck are you thinking!”
Sam stares at him, wide eyes wet with tears, and his face looks so pale Dean thinks he might be about to faint. He sees him.
“Do you see me?” Dean asks. Sam nods and the tears spill over.
Dean drops down to his knees in front of Sam and takes his face in his hands. God, he can feel him. He wipes away the tears that aren’t stopping and Sam clings to him, grabbing his arms and he can feel that too. “God, Sammy,” he whispers, pushing his forehead against his brother’s, savoring this moment because he knows it can’t last.
“Don’t go checking out on me,” he grits out through the tears that want to fall, “Not yet.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Sam asks and he sounds so broken and small, like he’s a kid again and Dean can make everything better. He can’t. Not this time.
“You keep going,” it’s lame but it’s all he’s got.
“Please, Dean, I- God, I can’t,” Sam’s getting close to hysterical, words running together as he turns his face into Dean’s neck and clutches at his back. Dean can feel his fingernails digging in.
“You gotta finish the trials, Sam,” Dean says, like he’s bargaining about bed time or ice cream, “gotta finish the trials and then you can rest.”
“I don’t think I’m strong enough.”
“You are. You’re the only one who is.”
“It’ll kill me. I always knew it would kill me.”
Dean swallows, holding tighter to Sam, “If it does…if you don’t make it out…I’ll be waiting for you. And then we can go to heaven or whatever or figure out how to ghost-drive the car around.”
Sam huffs out a soft, defeated kind of laugh.
“We’re gonna be okay, Sam.” Dean says, feeling worn thin and tired. He’s probably fading out.
“Dean-?”
“I’ll be here.”
Sam’s left holding nothing but air.
Sam arrives back at the bunker with a new grim determination. He gets in contact with Kevin and Garth and everyone else he’s been ignoring and they all seem relieved that he’s still around. They keep their conversations short and to the point because that’s all Sam has patience for. He ploughs through his days with a dogged perseverance dangerously close to Robo-Sam but without any of the perks of being soulless.
He keeps his emotions carefully in check, using them to fuel his fire to complete the trials instead of driving him into the ground. When he feels like he can’t, he remembers the way it felt to touch Dean again and hear his voice; he remembers the warm promise of oblivion and metal on his tongue. It drives his machete through Abaddon, dismantles her. It leads him to the church and to Crowley chained to a chair and it drives that syringe into his arm.
He can see Dean now as he draws blood from his veins for the last time. He’s the ghost of a shadow in his periphery and Sam’s hands are shaking as he pulls up the stopper. He feels warmth around him, a wan mimicry of Dean’s embrace and his hand is steady when he pushes the needle into Crowley’s neck.
There’s a sudden change in the demon. He goes pliant and still for a long moment, eyes staring wide up at the ceiling and then he exhales and a great darkness seems to lift from his body. He blinks up at Sam and his eyes are human. Sam drops to his knees on the dusty floor and though he feels pain, he doesn’t scream. His body glows hot as the final trial burns him from the inside, stealing away his breath and the last fragile beat of his heart.
He wakes to Dean with a smile on his face and unspeakable pain in his eyes. Sam’s body lies at his feet, ashen and hollow. He makes contact with his own dead eyes and sees peace. Dean’s hand nudges his own and he takes it without hesitation, twining his fingers tightly with his brother’s.
This time, when they reach the cabin in the woods, they greet Death with calm serenity and follow him home.