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| Entry tags: | supernatural, sweet charity |
In the early spring when it was still cold, a young man, very tall, with sad, earnest eyes came to see an old woman who lived in a shack off the edge of the city's grid. He wasn't the first to drive his car down the dirty, pothole-ridden road to come and see her. There'd been rumors going back to when she was young and pretty, with a straight back and a red painted mouth and those rumors made strangers come to her.
She had power. Or else she knew how to get it, that's what they said, those were the words that kept them coming. If you came and brought the right kind of gift, she'd whisper it into your ear, secrets you wouldn't believe. No one wondered about a pretty girl like that, a powerful woman like that, a bent old crone like that, no one even thought to wonder why she lived in that broken down, evil smelling little shack if she knew about power.
They just came through that rickety, rotting front door. Just like this earnest young man who met her milky-blind, empty eyes and the first thing she said was a straight out, "Whatever you want, you don't want it as much as you think you do. Go on home."
People being people, almost no one did get lost. The smart ones did. Turned themselves right around and laughed with their friends later about the crazy old hag. This one wasn't that smart or else maybe he was that desperate.
"You're wrong about that," he said. The words were simple and just as straight as hers were.
The old woman laughed, loud and clear as though she were still twenty and beautiful. "You're not as smart as you think you are, boy."
"But I'm not wrong," he said and raised his chin, stiff and stubborn-sure. His eyes were narrow even if she was too blind to see them. "And I don't have a home to go on to."
"You have something worth keeping," the woman replied. "I'm warning you a second time. Go on back to that. It's the best thing."
The young man shook his head and took a few steps over the broken, filthy floorboards to stand in front of her, close enough that she could almost make out his features. "I did-- I do have something," he admitted softly. "Keeping him is why I'm here."
She frowned, furrowing her wrinkled face. When he stepped close enough to touch, she reached out and grabbed his hands. They were warm and broad and he didn't flinch away. She lifted one big hand, palm up, and examined it carefully, tracing her fingertips over the lines of it.
"Child," she said, and now her voice was almost gentle. Kind, as if she'd taken his measure and learned to pity him from that. "Let me warn you truly. Third time and last. If he loves you like you love him, he'd walk through hell before he let you do what you're asking."
He winced and pulled his hands back. His voice when it came was bitter, older than it should be. "Lady," he spat. "He's already there because of me. That's why I'm here, to get him back."
The old woman sighed and rubbed her hands together like the joints hurt. "So you're set on this." It wasn't a question and he didn't answer her.
Instead he turned out his pockets and spilled the contents over her palms. A pouch of old, crumbling tobacco, a wad of crisp green bills and a small golden amulet on a black cord that stank of someone's absence. "For the spirits, for you and for him," he said.
She sighed and closed her fingers tightly around what she had. "Used to be you could walk into the Ghost Country and take what you needed," she whispered. "If you were steady and clever, and I know you are, Child. If you knew the way. But that was a long, long time ago. We can't bring our friends back so easy anymore."
The boy's throat worked, his adam's apple bobbing. "I'm not afraid to fight for him."
The woman nodded. "Better hope he's not afraid to fight for you," she whispered, but that was so soft the boy might not have heard her at all. She stood up; the boy's offerings still tightly clenched in her closed fists. He followed her, a few paces behind.
In the back closet was a well-polished chest, the cleanest thing in the room. She unlocked it and it sprang open, smooth and easy. Out of it she pulled seven slender sourwood rods and handed them to him. "When you see him, you touch him with these and he'll follow you. You let him do that, you understand? Follow. If you turn around and look at him, if you touch him, he won't come back. No matter what he says to you, how he calls you, you can't look at him."
He shivered and sucked in his lower lip. "It won't be that easy. They'll try and stop us."
"Yeah," she agreed softly. "So they will. But if you keep walking, if you keep hold of those rods and nothing breaks, you can walk out and he'll be with you."
"It doesn't seem like much of a price," he whispered, tone lifting like he was asking her. "Anyone could do that."
She shuddered. "You said it yourself, boy. They'll try to stop you." Her mouth twisted. "I know. I walked that way myself." Her eyes closed. "Long time ago. Didn't get what I was looking for."
"Oh." He stared at the wood in his hands. "Well. I will. I have-- power." His mouth twisted when he spit out the word.
She tottered back on her heels for a moment, squinting at him through him dimmed, dulled eyes. "You'd better take this back," she said a moment later. Before he had a chance to ask, she hung the black cord with it's dangling amulet over his neck. "You can always use the protection."
His fingers grazed over the amulet but he didn't say anything. Just tucked it under his shirt so it was hidden, touching his skin. "Which way do I go from here?" he finally asked.
"Out the door and west. Path's marked so people who are on it can see the way." She waited, hesitating while he turned to leave. "Child!" She called when he was half out the door.
He stopped and turned. "Yeah?" he asked.
She almost smiled. "If anyone comes asking after you, what name should I give them?"
He raised an eyebrow, even if it was too far away for her to see him do it. "No one will come looking. But it's Sam. Sam Winchester." He walked out the door, straight-backed and proud. She waited until he was gone before she took out the pouch of tobacco he'd brought and lit it carefully. The smoke was thick and fragrant and she prayed for him.
It was a day before she heard anything; a week until there was the sound of an engine outside her home again. "Sam?" she called when the door opened, slow and tentative. She waited for him to walk in, defeated, shattered. Alone. Like everyone who'd ever set out on that journey came back.
"No." It was a woman's voice, young and insolent with youth. A woman's voice, but it was no woman at all. The stink of sulfur was thick and heavy enough to block out any human smells. "I'm not Sam. You can call me Ruby."
"I can call you thing that's not welcome in my house," the old woman yelled back in a surprisingly strong voice.
"In or out, I don't care. I just got back from a place even someone like you wouldn't believe. Just tell me where Sam went," Ruby called. She sounded less insolent, but not by much. She didn't step further inside. "No one wants to see him get hurt."
The old woman laughed. It felt heady and strange. "He's already been hurt. Hurt bad enough that he didn't care what he did."
"Tell me where he went and maybe you won't get hurt," Ruby spat, but that just made the old woman laugh louder. Like that was any kind of threat to her. Ruby seemed to know that too, because she didn't say anything for a long while and when she did it was quiet, tired sounding. "I need him. We need him. You don't know."
"Wait," the woman whispered. Soft, but she knew Ruby would hear her. "You wait. Maybe you get him, maybe you don't, but the only way to find out now is to wait."
"I can help him," Ruby said. She almost sounded like she meant it. Maybe. The old woman smiled and shook her head. Just kept rocking in her chair, back and forth, click-clack. Just a-rocking.
The next one to come was a man. Older, but solid. His feet sounded steady when he walked across the old woman's porch and he walked right through her protections and barriers like there was nothing to it.
"Hello, Mel," he said and tipped his hat when he walked inside. Graceful, like something from another time. "You're looking fine."
"Bobby Singer," she said and sighed. "Haven't seen you in ages. Not since I warned you off. Not many out there that listen when I warn them off the path."
Bobby sighed, tight and heavy. Older by far then the man who'd come along weeping, looking for his stolen, broken wife. "Guess not. That damn fool boy was here, wasn't he?"
She didn't ask who the boy was. Would have been a stupid question. "He was. Didn't know he was one of yours. He didn't listen to my warnings."
Bobby slumped down against the wall. "No. He wouldn't have. Damned fool boy." She didn't say anything when Bobby went back out to his car and came back with a sack of groceries and a suitcase like he was settling in for the long haul.
If he wanted to wait with her, she didn't mind.
There was nothing for a few more days. A full week since Sam walked out the door when a different boy came barreling in. Happened when Bobby was out for supplies, because things worked out stupidly like that.
His voice was rougher than Sam's was, less sure, but the tones and cadences, those were similar. "Sam. My brother. He came here." He stepped into the house and she could hear the way he limped, unsteady on his feet like a man badly wounded. Like a broken thing, a half man.
Her mouth went dry and she rocked back in her chair. "He did it, then," she whispered to herself.
The boy shook his head. "Did what? I don't know what happened. I don't know. I don't remember. Where is he?"
She closed her eyes. Even the dim shadows and echoes she could see went away when she tightened her eyelids. "I don't know," she said, so softly. "No one ever succeeded before."
"Do you know where he is?" the boy repeated. His voice cracked as he came closer. She shivered. "Do you know where Sam is?"
"I'm sorry," she said, gently. Kindly. "I don't. He was looking for you. He must have gotten lost on the way back."
He nodded. "I understand," he said. Then he stepped closer. Closer. His footsteps thumped, drowning out the screaming of the birds outside. "You're not any good to me then."
"I can tell you where to go," she said, looking up at him. "Where to start looking." So close she could almost see well enough to tell that his eyes were very green, very bright. He peered down at her curiously, like a child.
"Your eyes," he said softly, leaning down to see them better. He shivered and bit his lip before nodding quickly. "I remember now. His eyes... Sam, they-- tell me. Where?" he asked.
She smiled at him and gave him a name, a place, a beginning. He nodded, taking it in, listening until she stopped speaking. He leaned over her and his eyes flashed green, green and then black.
Between blinks he pressed his palm into her chest. Her heart fluttered like an old woman's, like what she was. Dean kept pressing, kept reaching under her skin, until she stopped saying anything at all. Her heart rested on his palm, beating more steadily now than it ever had when it was inside her. He cradled it for a moment and then put it into a bag at his side.
He stepped away from her broken body and turned to walk out the door. Half way through, he stopped in the threshold when his hand brushed something warm and smooth in his pocket.
When he pulled it out it was just a broken, splintered stick. He almost tossed it aside but it really did feel warm under his fingertips. When he touched it he could almost hear the faint pressure of a pulse, not the old woman's, someone a thousand times more familiar, and beating from far away. It felt shockingly good.
"Sammy," he whispered. "You didn't get lost. I'm not stupid enough to think that. I know what you did."
He put the stick back in his pocket and hurried outside. A few minutes of searching and he found a car under the brambles, shiny and black, just where Sam had left it. The keys were inside and she started for him, growling sweet and easy, like he'd never left her.
"Don't be afraid," he crooned to her. "Don't be scared. We'll bring him back."
\
Seven sourwood rods. Seven. Now Sam had six and a half. Six and a half rods, no brother and no way out.
It was dark under Sam's eyelids; too dark too make out anything and the bottom of Sam's jeans were soaked in something vicious smelling. He tried to pull up to his feet, but they didn't want to stay under him. Everything hurt, like he'd cracked a rib, like he was breathing in pain.
"Dean," he whispered into the dark. No one answered back. He pushed up again, onto his hands and knees and started to inch forward.
Somewhere, not too far away, he could hear something whispering. If it would have helped, he'd have closed his eyes.
"So that's our boy king," the voice murmured. "Doesn't seem like much." There was gurgled laughter, but of course Sam couldn't see, there was nothing he could do but just keep going. He couldn't see them, but he could feel them, rough as the stench of sulfur wafting up to meet him. Could feel the memory of the kick of their boots to his soft, unprotected gut.
There was laughter then, and the smell of sulfur drowned under the iron of blood. Sam's blood. He dreamed he was screaming. It was dark and he was screaming. Dean's voice drowned out his screams and told him not to be afraid.
When he woke up again Sam didn't know where he was, just that he was lost. He wanted to forget why he was lost, forget what he had lost, but under the palm of his hand he could feel splintered wood digging into his skin and he remembered. The rod, one of the seven rods he'd been given. The one that was broken and half gone.
"Dean," he whispered, as if his brother could hear him. "I think I'm kind of fucked."
"I think you're kind of right," a voice from behind him called, all sing-song and familiar. Sam closed his eyes.
"Hey, Ruby," he muttered and blinked up as if he could see her. "Funny meeting you here."
She laughed and stepped up really close, patting him on the shoulder. Her touch didn't hurt, when it should have, when even the lightest touch should have after what they'd done to him. Then again, maybe it wasn't real. The injuries, or Ruby. One of them wasn't real.
"Sit tight for a second, I got demons to kill," Ruby said, and she didn't sound like someone who had any doubt at all that she was real.
Sam waited and listened. He could smell sulfur still mingled with human blood, his blood, and there was mud and something filthy soaking into his skin. Then Ruby was next to him again, close enough to feel her breath.
"You're an idiot," she said softly. Then her hands, surprisingly small hands, caught him by the wrists and tugged. Sam screamed as he was pulled up and the pain speared through his ribs and spine, down his back like fire. Real enough. "Lucky for you, you're my idiot." She hauled him over her shoulders like he was a package, bulky, but hardly heavy.
"We have to find Dean," Sam whispered when the pain receded enough for him to breathe again. "I lost him."
She laughed hard enough to make him wince. "Dean is fine, Sam. It's everyone else around him I'd be worried about if I were you."
Sam bit his lip, like the little pain could numb him to everything else. "Where is he?"
"He's looking for you," Ruby said. She patted Sam lightly on the shoulder, which just made him flinch. "The problem is whether there's enough left that he remembers he's supposed to kiss you instead of kill you when he finds you."
Sam shut his blind eyes. "Doesn't matter. It's still Dean."
She shook with heavy and sour laughter. "He's been in hell for months. Don't be so sure."
"Is he in hell now?" Sam asked softly. She paused for a moment, before answering. Silence.
"No," she finally said. "He's not. We're the ones with that problem." There was another long moment of silence. "You're lucky you can't see, Sam."
"Not lucky enough. I already saw it on the way in," he said.
\
On an evening the storm clouds were dark enough to make the streetlights come on early a shiny, classic car growled into a small town. The driver was a young man, model beautiful, with big green eyes and a wide smile. A full on lady killer.
He pulled into the last parking space left in front of the bar down by the old crossroads and strode inside, grinning big and beautiful when everyone's eyes slid all over him like eyeballs could leave fingerprints.
"Evening folks," he said. "Can I interest any of you in a nice, friendly game of cards?"
The ones smart enough to know better snuck out the back while he was waiting. They couldn't know what exactly made them run, but wrong was wrong. The others, boys young as he was and twice as cocky and women with eyes for nothing but his smooth face and blinding smile, they stayed.
By the time he pulled out a bright, shining knife, polished so well it reflected his green eyes-- by then it was too late and none of the doors would open, even when you bruised your fists and body pounding against them.
"I'm sorry about all this," he said, rough as cheap whiskey and twice as easy. "But I really need to find my brother and I'm not going to be able to do that without all of you, so you'll have to work with me."
That was when the screaming started. "I screamed. My brother screamed," he said, his voice soft and slow as his body was relentless. "No one helped us, and no one is going to help any of you."
About an hour later, he got up, washed his hands in the bar sink and walked on out humming Metallica under his breath and smiling. "Don't worry, Sammy," he said, as if someone were around to listen. "I'm coming for you."
\
Sam had no idea how long they walked. Ruby stopped talking after a while and that was when he noticed that he couldn't hear anything from her but the sound of her feet hitting the ground. No movement of flesh, no breath, no heartbeat. Just footsteps, on and on.
While they walked, Sam started to dream. He wasn't asleep, his eyes were wide open, but all he saw was Dean. Movie screen vivid, brighter than any vision he'd had before. Brighter than what his eyes had used to show him. Dean, washing blood off his hands. Dean, more vivid than life, than anything here.
"I need to find him," he said out loud, his voice breaking the pattern of her footsteps. "It feels like we're running out of time."
"Sure," Ruby said. "As soon as we get out of hell, we'll get right on that."
"It used to hurt," he whispered. "Visions-- seeing things that weren't-- seeing. It used to hurt."
Ruby laughed in his ear. "That's because you had your sight then. Now? Well, whoever heard of an oracle who wasn't blind and batshit?"
Sam shrugged. He didn't get a chance to say anything because Ruby took that moment to finally stop walking and set him down on the ground with more gentleness than he'd known she had in her.
"This is it," she said and he could hear the smack of her palms against each other. "The base of Mount Purgatory. It's going to be our way out."
"That's not how I got in," Sam protested and rubbed at his eyelids as if that would clear them.
Ruby snorted. "Well, I'm your guide out and this is the only way I know, so live with it."
Sam sighed and settled back into the sharp rocks. "Okay, living with it I can do. Let's get out then."
Ruby's small, careful hands stroked his cheeks. "Come on, Sam. Who said it was going to be that easy? No one's going to let us through that gate without a fight. I could probably slip through on my own, but not with you along for the ride."
Sam sucked in his lower lip and looked. Inside his head, not out of his empty eyes. He looked, and he saw what Ruby did, what was waiting for them. "Dean," he whispered, like a plea. "Dean, Dean, Dean."
"You shouldn't say his name like that," Ruby said flatly. Just tired. "He'll hear you."
Sam shrugged and pointed himself in the direction of the mountain. If he tried, he thought he might be able to smell real air, human air, blowing off of it. "I'm not afraid of Dean," he said. "What's he going to do, rip my eyes out? Rip my heart out?" Then he laughed, loud, hard and hysterical until his bones ached.
Ruby didn't say anything for what seemed like a long time, long enough that Sam almost worried that she might have walked away. "I can't do this without you," she said when she finally broke the silence. "You have power, you're going to have to use it or we're stuck here, Dean or no Dean."
Sam sighed, letting his breath whistle through his teeth. "Yeah, okay. What do I have to do?"
"You did something to get Dean out, didn't you? Tell me about that, Sam," she said, soft and implacable.
Sam put his face in his hands and laughed out loud, laughed until he felt Ruby's hands tight on his and he had to stop. "That won't help us now," he said. "I'm already out of eyes, Ruby."
\
Dean walked up to a narrow overhang that barely hid the mouth of a cave. It was a shame he was too far off the road to bring his baby in, he'd have liked to see the looks the fucking demons would be wearing when he came storming in with AC/DC on 11. That would have been awesome, hell yeah. This was going to be good too, though.
He pressed his palms against his thighs and breathed in the cool air and smiled. Then he took another step, and another before coming face to face with a rifle pointed at his chest. His smile brightened into an outright grin.
"Hey there, Bobby," he said cheerfully. "Bet you never thought you were going to see me again, huh?"
"You ain't the Dean Winchester I watched grow up, so don't pretend like you are," Bobby said, slow and tired. Quiet. Dean could hear it really clear when he cocked the gun. He laughed.
"You're wrong about that. But, what ever, even if you weren't, since when has keeping evil things away from hell been in your job description?" Dean cocked his head, light and playful and hitched the bag he was carrying up his shoulder.
"Dean," Bobby whispered. "I'm sorry." He pulled the trigged, loud and steady, like it took a million years. Dean grinned, as if he had all the time in the world. Grinned and then moved, two seconds ahead like he'd known exactly where the bullet was going to land a hundred years before Bobby ever thought of it.
"I thought you said I wasn't Dean," Dean said, holding out his arms spread wide and grinning. "I mean, dude, you used to have consistency if nothing else."
"What are you planning to do when you get into hell, Dean? Raise an army? Open a gate? What?" Bobby asked instead. His breath came hoarse and too fast, his skin was tainted with sweat and Dean drank it in. Smelled good.
"Don't need an army," Dean said, and he let his bag fall open so that Bobby could see what was inside, could hear it. The pounding of a few dozen hearts, red and meaty, still beating like they were alive, still attached. "I got this."
Bobby's eyes went wide and blank and Dean heard the snap of the trigger one more time. He smirked, blinding white flash of teeth in the sun. He smirked and he moved, until his palm was pressed up against Bobby's chest, close and tight, feeling the frantic pulse under his fingertips.
"Is this supposed to be for Sam? Sam won't want this," Bobby spat and jerked back. Tried to. Dean pushed hard until there was nowhere to back away to.
Dean shook his head. "They can hurt me all they want. But not Sam. They can't make me listen to Sam scream. I'm not gonna."
"You think killing me will get you Sam?" Bobby asked, real steady, like his eyes weren't all white and his heart wasn't all but hopping out of his chest to meet Dean's hand.
Dean cocked his head and let his lashes flutter, sweet and pretty enough to charm a girl. "It'll get me close enough. Don't you wanna do this for Sammy, man? Thought you loved that kid." He leaned in, close and warm and whispered in Bobby's ear, "They hurt him. And you're gonna help him. Whole fucking world is gonna help him if that's what I gotta do."
Bobby opened his mouth, but Dean didn't wait to hear what he might have had to say. Instead he reached, hard and deep and watched Bobby's eyes go glass still. He pulled his hand free and sighed. "Thanks, man," he murmured. "This is the best one I could ever hope to get. Thank you, Uncle Bobby."
He didn't pause to watch when Bobby's body, whatever was left of it, crumbled behind him. Instead he turned his head back to the overhang, to the cave.
"Just a little longer, Sam," he murmured, and thumbed the pulse point of the half broken stick in his pocket, letting Bobby's warm blood trickle over it. "Don't be scared." From somewhere, getting closer and closer, Dean knew Sam was calling his name.
\
In hell, Sam couldn't keep track of the time. His watch kept on beeping an alarm at set intervals, but he didn't know if it was actually tracking anything but his wishful thinking.
"I didn't do anything great or powerful to get Dean out. There was a demon blocking us in and I just fed it my eyes," he told Ruby, some indeterminable time later. "It was blocking the door and it said it would let me go if I--"
"And you told it to let Dean go instead," she finished for him, sighing a little, like she was disappointed in him. "Fuck, Sam."
"If you can think of any alternative powers I could use," he told her, with a faint, stretched thin smile. "You know, besides feeding it more bits of me?"
"You're Azazel's heir," Ruby said. Her small hands pressed into his sides. They were curled up like fists. "You have power."
"Yeah," Sam said softly. "I know. But that won't work."
"And why, exactly, is that?" He could hear the click of the toes of Ruby's boots against solid rock when she pushed away from him.
"I promised Dean," Sam said, like that was enough. "I'm not fucking stupid, Ruby. I play with those powers and everyone knows what I'll turn into. That might make you happy, but it doesn't work for me."
Ruby laughed. "Hell will turn you into that, sooner or later anyway. Besides, I can pretty much guarantee that wherever he is now, Dean doesn't care a fuck for morality."
Sam shrugged once. "You keep saying that like you expect it to matter to me," he said and turned away from her. He waited for her to leave, but the sounds of her footsteps receding never came.
"You'll understand," she said. "Just give it a little longer. Doesn't matter, I've got time."
"Maybe," Sam's voice was quiet, slow.
"You'll understand. Or die. One of those," Ruby said, like that was the end of the story. For Sam, at least.
\
Walking into hell was never as hard as anyone would think. Lots of backways and tricks. Dean didn't care about those, though. He went in the front door, kicked it open careless and strode on through like he was a thousand feet tall.
When he stepped through the gates, dozens of shadows sprang up behind him, wet and red, thrumming in time with the hearts beating in his bag. He grinned at them over his shoulder. "How about some marching music, boys and girls?" he called cheerfully and didn't blink when no one answered.
He hadn't gotten ten feet in when he came across the dog. He knew it's name, Sam had told him years ago, read it in some lame book and called Dean over to make him look at the illustrations. Which had actually been kind of worth it.
Dean figured you didn't find a dog as awesome as Cerberus in too many places outside of a comic book. It was even awesomer outside of a book, breathing sulfur and wailing, it's three heads calling out, each of them just a little out of tune from the one before. Together it would have been enough to make Dean's spine twist, before.
That was before, though. Now he just opened his bag. "Sam said they used to feed you honeycakes to get by you," he said. "But, I've got something better than that for a good puppy." He pulled out a heart, still warm and pulsing and the three howls converged into one, sharp enough to pierce rocks, or at least Dean's head. He winced, but his smile didn't falter.
"Heart of a maiden. Very tasty," he said cheerfully, and tossed it off the path. Cerberus went after it, yowling all the way. "At least I'm pretty sure she was," Dean added after a mediative pause. "In a bar like that, you never can tell."
As he walked one of the shadows behind him flickered and falter and then disappeared. Dean didn't spare it a glance. He had a long way to go and a set number of heartbeats to get him through.
Sam was waiting, no point in dawdling.
Dean tossed out a half dozen hearts while he walked, shoving the demons in his way off the path to chase after them. He found Sam at the foot of a mountain, standing up straight and tall, sightless and empty eyes fixed right on Dean. Ruby stood a few paces in front of him, in the way.
She looked different without her meat suit, Dean noticed that right off. Maybe even prettier, with a hard, bright edge to her that wouldn't fit in a young girl's face. Whatever she was now, it fit.
He smiled at her. "Why don't you fuck off, Ruby?" he asked, bright and easy, in a drawl of a voice. He was already looking through her, like she'd evaporated. To Sam's smooth, still face and clenched fists. "I'm here for Sam, not for you."
"Dean," Sam said and Dean watched the way his spine straightened and his ears cocked. The way Sam almost, but not quite smiled. Usually Sam was happier to see him when he got rescued. "You're here."
"You don't look happy," Dean said and walked toward Sam like Ruby wasn't even there, wasn't holding a wicked looking knife with practiced grace. "Aren't you happy to see me, Sammy?"
Sam shrugged. "I can't see you. I can't see anything."
Ruby opened her mouth, like there were words that could get between Sam and Dean, like there was anything she could even say, but Dean was faster than her. He grabbed a heart, the biggest, most beautiful one he had and shoved it between her parted lips until she gagged and choked out a muffled scream.
"Thank you, Bobby," Dean whispered while he watched Ruby twitch in the dust. "Couldn't have done that without you, man."
When he raised his gaze again Sam was huddled away, hands scrubbing at his face as if his skin were stained. "No," Sam mumbled. "No, no, no."
"Sam," Dean said, and grabbed his brother's flinching hands, painting them red from the still drying heart's blood that covered his own. He held on tight until Sam went still. "Don't worry," he promised. "You don't have to worry, you came to get me and I came to get you. It's time to go home."
He could feel Sam shudder but his brother finally nodded his head, resolute, steady. Just like Dean's solid, solid Sam and that made Dean smile. "You'd better take this, I think it's yours," Sam finally said. His voice was low and hoarse, like he'd been sobbing, but his empty eyes were dry. Out of his pocket he pulled a broken half of a stick.
It felt warm and familiar in Dean's hand, solid, and he could hear the faint rhythm of a pulse beat when he touched it. Familiar and very close by. He put in his pocket next to the other broken stick and nodded at Sam even though Sam couldn't see him. Dean's amulet, the one that Sam had given him with his small child's hands so long ago, swayed against Sam's chest, but Sam didn't move to take it off and Dean didn't reach for it. "Thank you, Sammy," he said. "I love it."
Then he took Sam's hands back into his so that he could lead him out of here and away. He had to let one hand go sometimes, to reach into his bag and pull out a heart to throw, but most of the way he managed to hold on tightly to both hands. He already knew how important it was not to let go.
Dean was half carrying Sam again by the time they got to the last door. Last door, last demon. It had an innocuous, almost pleasant face but Dean could feel the power thrumming through his veins. It was strong, strong and he had no hearts, no shadow army, just an empty bag and arms full of brother. No heart at all.
All that Dean had left was Sam's, pulsing under his touch, too fast but real. Beautiful. Dean could almost taste it.
"He weighs you down," the demon said. "You can't fight me while you bear that burden."
"He gave you his eyes," Dean said and felt Sam's whole body shake and flinch against his. He brushed his hands over the nape of his neck, steady, as if to soothe. "It was you he gave them to, wasn't it? He gave you his eyes and you let me out."
"He did," the demon said and showed a curve of smile and teeth. Normal, shining teeth, like salt and pearls. "Will you give me yours to let him out?"
"We're both going out," Dean said, still stroking Sam's soft, damp hair with slick, gentle fingers. He expected Sam to talk, but Sam didn't say a word.
"That's not the deal. Give me his heart," the demon said. "And I'll let you go. Give me his heart and you will be free of him, free as any of us ever were. Isn't that what you want, to be free of your burdens?"
Dean stared at the demon, it's long, beautiful teeth and wide black eyes. The smooth ripples of muscle and the power coiled underneath. Free. Utterly itself.
He smirked at it, sneered like it was a cop or a high school teacher. "You don't know a thing about me, dumbass."
"I know you don't want to stay in hell," it said and Dean shrugged. He'd been to hell, seen what was there. Of course he didn't.
"Dean," Sam whispered to him, the first time he'd spoken since giving Dean the stick. "Don't-- don't."
"Don't worry," Dean said. He stroked Sam's hair one last time and then settled him gently on his feet. "Don't be scared. I love you."
Sam tottered, but stayed. Solid, he was always so solid. Dean could hear his heart beating. He pressed his hand against Sam's chest, palm flat and fingers spread. Just rested it there while the demon waited, tapped its feet so impatiently. Sam flinched, but Dean was faster now, stronger. Sam smelled so good, a heady mix of fear and grief and home.
Dean had his hand off Sam and over his own chest before Sam could get a good grip on his wrist and stop him. "You want a heart?" Dean asked and burst out with a laugh, low and light. "Take mine, then."
It hurt, digging his fingers into his own chest, it really hurt, but not as bad as Sam yelling in his ear, just shrieking like a kid. Dean wanted to yell back, but he was too busy, too distracted.
Too distracted by far to feel the warmth in his pocket, the flare of heat and the pounding of a pulse beat, very, very near indeed as two broken pieces of stick knit themselves back together. He didn't feel anything at all until the world went red and white around them and they were somewhere else.
\
When Sam opened his eyes... his actual eyes, it was almost a shock to realize that he could see. Even more of a shock to find himself kneeling by the mouth of a cave under a night sky lit up with the moon and stars-- real moon, real stars, with the heavy scent of the world around him.
He didn't let himself take the time to feel it. "Dean," he said. Dean stared blankly back at him in the dark. Sam could smell him, skin and sweat and blood. "Dean."
"What did I do?" Dean whispered. His eyes were huge, all rolling whites. "Sammy? What did I do?"
Sam opened his mouth to tell him, but Dean looked so scared, like petrified wood that could shatter at a blow. "You saved me," he said, as if there was nothing else. "You came and saved me."
"I did?" Dean asked. "Are you sure?" Sam nodded and pressed one palm flat against Dean's chest to feel his heartbeat. Then he reached to pull the amulet and cord off his neck and hang in on Dean's.
"You did, I understand what you did, Dean," he said. "I promise that you did."
Dean made a soft, whimpering noise. "But, Sam. Are you sure?" Sam closed his eyes and didn't say anything at all.
It was an early spring morning, so early that the air was still cold, and in a tiny shack at the edge of the city's power grid, an old woman with milky blind eyes sat rocking in her chair, needles clacking as she mended a dress torn at the chest right where her heart would have rested. She hummed under her breath.
Two young men walked in through her front door, with wide, empty eyes that might have been earnest once.
She raised her head and frowned. "Whatever you want, you don't want it as much as you think you do. Go on home," she said.