Additional tags: Grief/Mourning, Temporary Character Death, Pre-Slash, ghost!sam, Heavy Angst, Suicidal Ideation (mentioned), Alcohol as a Coping Mechanism, Season 2 AU, the Winchesters use their words (eventually), Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Happy Ending
Author's note : At long last, the sequel is here! I had a blast writing this, and I am SO excited to finally get to post it. Thank you to the mods of the @spnproshipbang, because without your encouragement and this event this fic would still just be an idea. A huge thank you to my artist @imnot-evenhere. Their art is amazing, and you should go check it out. And finally, thank you to my betas @hello-starlingfics, @missroserose, and @samanddean76. Any mistakes left are all mine.
Summary: After John's betrayal results in Sam's death, Dean follows in the Winchester family tradition and swears vengeance on his father. The question is: is Sam really gone?
I am not 100% satisfied with these, but though I think I could have tried a little harder, they look cool nonetheless. Introducing Sam and Tucker from adk2!
And what I'm gonna do to you, Sammy... Well, that ain't gonna be mercy, either.
- Demon!Dean (10x02)
But then in 10x03 and 15x05′s flashbacks Dean seems to try to kill Sam off pretty fast after a little bit of a cat and mouse chase. So, I always headcanoned this as Dean would kill Sam’s body but was going to keep Sam’s soul with him.
Maybe he’d trap Sam in a small container or bottle and wear it around his neck. And maybe Sam’s soul might not mind it much outside of seeing Dean committing crimes and being a demon because heaven was kind of fake the time he remembered going there, hell was no fun, and he’s at least with what’s left of his brother.
John Winchester lay on the rack, trying to catch his breath. He'd lost track of how long it had been. Too long. His vocal chords had been shredded from screaming ages ago; but it didn't stop him from shrieking with every new cut.
“What do you say, John?” Alistair purred. “This can all stop. All I need is one little word.”
It had been so long. All he wanted was for the pain to stop. To rest, just for a little while.
“Last chance, John. Will you? Hmm?” It wasn’t. The demon would ask again tomorrow. Always tomorrow.
All he had to do was hold out one more day. One more hour, one more cut. Except he didn’t think he could. Not anymore. “You'll stop?” he rasped. “You— you promise?”
“Of course. All you have to do is pick up the knife.” The satisfaction in the demon’s voice made him sick.
He stared at the knife sitting on the table next to him. The ebony handle gleamed, slick with his blood. He was already intimately familiar with that knife and what it could do. Just one little word, and he could rest. He swallowed. He was a broken man, and Alistair knew it. Then he said, “Yes,” and closed his hand on the blade.
Dean stretched his back, enjoying the warmth from the sun. Early May in Sioux Falls was pleasant, and today the sky was a clear blue. Nature was happier than he was, but it wasn't so bad. He had one more car to finish, then he'd head over to Bobby's for a drink. The old hunter had made him promise that he wouldn't spend Sam's birthday alone, and Dean didn’t particularly want to spend the evening with anyone who hadn’t known Sam.
“Winchester! You coming to happy hour tonight?” Mike called from across the shop.
Dean looked over at his boss, grimy as the rest of them, and waved him off. He'd told them no already, but they hadn't known why. All they knew was that he was quieter than usual. They'd been trying to get him to go drinking with them all day, speculating that he was nursing a broken heart. They were closer than they knew, but he wasn't going to tell them that, either.
Mike shrugged, exchanging a concerned look with one of the other guys. “See you tomorrow, then?”
“You know it. Hey, you coming to Dave's place Saturday for the barbeque?” Dean said, intending to offer a ride. Mike's house was on the way, and it wouldn't be the first time they'd carpooled.
“Nah, the kids have a soccer game. I'll be at the next one.”
Dean finished up his last job and cleaned up. It wasn't hunting, but it was satisfying work, repairing broken machines. Mike was a good boss. He went straight to Bobby's, knowing he wouldn't care if Dean showed up a little grungy. Better than going back to his place first. He was doing better these days, but he also knew that if he went home first he wouldn't want to leave again. Not today.
“Good to see you, kid. It's been too long,” Bobby said, moving aside so Dean could enter.
It hadn't been that long. He'd stopped by, what, last month? Maybe March. “Work's keeping me busy. You know how it goes.”
Bobby leveled a stare at him. “Work, or work?”
“Just the shop, I swear. We've been slammed; Mike's talking about hiring an extra guy or two. Not that I know how that's going to help when we don't have any spare bays.”
“No kidding. You were his first new hire in ten years. Now he wants more?” Bobby led them to the kitchen where Dean could smell something good cooking. He grabbed two glasses and plates while Bobby pulled out a bottle of whiskey.
Dean set the table and said, “What can I say? Word must have gotten out about his awesome new mechanic.”
“Well, he's lucky to have you, and I'm sure he knows it.” Bobby served up the pot roast, and they sat down.
Mostly they made small talk over dinner. Dean filled Bobby in on the shop gossip, and Bobby picked Dean's brain on some hunts he was researching. Later in the study, Dean flipped through one of Bobby's books, trying to find a match for the monster one of Bobby's contacts was hunting. He had to laugh. “I never figured I'd turn into you.”
“How's that now?” Bobby grumbled, paging through a book of his own.
“I don't know. Figured this sort of thing was more Sam's gig. I always expected to go out on the job.”
Bobby's hands stilled. He watched Dean carefully, which annoyed the hell out of Dean.
“I'm not going to break. Seriously, Bobby, I'm ok. I mean. I'm not, right? I'm never going to be ok with the fact that— But it's not like it was.” He didn't know how to say it in a way that Bobby would understand.
Bobby sighed. “I know you are. I guess I just didn't expect to hear you talk like that.”
“Like what?”
Bobby cocked his head and smiled a little. “Like you're retired from the job. Semi-retired, anyway. I know about that shifter you got back in April.”
Dean shrugged. “It was causing problems in my neighborhood, so I took care of it. It's not like I'm going looking for trouble.”
“I know you ain't.” Bobby paused, debating whether or not to say this next part. “I'm real proud of you, Dean. And I know Sam would be, too.”
There wasn't anything to say to that. He was pretty sure Bobby was right: Sam would be proud. He'd always been the one who insisted there was a life outside of hunting.
“How’s that girl you been seeing?” Bobby asked after a bit.
Dean grunted in surprise. “Ruby? I don’t know. Think I might break it off.” He squirmed under Bobby’s parental gaze. “It’s weird, ok? She reminds me of Sam.”
Bobby guffawed. “Shit. I would’ve thought that would be a point in her favor.” Horror gripped him, and it must have shown because Bobby said, gentler, “It ain’t no secret how you felt. I got eyes, don’t I?”
“Bobby, no. You gotta know I would never–”
Bobby cut him off. “Course I know. I ain’t saying you molested the kid. Just that every time I caught you with a girl it was some know-it-all, lanky brunette who didn’t like being told no. I ain’t an idjit.”
Dean slumped in his chair, relieved but still uncomfortable. “Still think I might call it off.“
Bobby grunted. “It’s ok to move on, too. He’d want you to be happy.”
Wincing, Dean said, “Not sure happy is in the cards. But you’re right. I don’t think he’d want me to be alone.”
“Ruby ain’t the one, though?”
Dean shrugged and gestured helplessly. “I can’t put my finger on it, but something isn’t working.” Dean finished the book he was working through and yawned. “This guy need his information tonight?”
“You got work in the morning?” Bobby said.
Dean nodded but added, “I can stay if it's urgent.”
“Get out of here, boy. I got this. Whatever it is hunts in 6 day cycles, and we got 4 more days before it kills again. You go on home; take care of yourself.”
It felt bad, leaving Bobby hanging, but he hadn't actually asked Dean for help. Dean had been looking for an excuse to stay away from his empty apartment a little longer and offered to help a while. If it was really urgent, or Bobby was really lost, he would have pulled Dean in earlier. It didn't happen much, and he remembered how scared Bobby had been of asking at all. Like Dean was going to load up and hit the road at the reminder that monsters existed. But no; he'd done his time, and he was starting to accept that. The parts of it he missed weren't the parts he could get back, anyway.
He yawned again. Being a respectable member of society sucked. “If you're sure. You'll call if you need me?”
“Course I will. See you around, Dean.”
His apartment was dark and quiet when he got back. The secondhand couch was worn and soft, and just a little bit saggy in the middle. On the whole, the place was spartan, like he was waiting for something before he could move in. He wondered if it would ever feel like home. Tossing his keys on the counter, he bypassed the kitchen and went straight to getting ready for bed. Going through the motions by rote, he brushed his teeth, changed his clothes. In the bedroom he kept a—well, he wasn't sure what to call it. Almost like a shrine to Sammy. Sam's favorite knife, an old book Dean had found in the Impala, a soccer trophy he'd uncovered in one of their dad's storage lockers, all arranged neatly on his desk next to the photos he had of Sam. There weren't very many. He thumbed the worn photo of him and Sam that was on top, the one Bobby had snapped, catching Sam with his head tipped back in a belly laugh. “Happy birthday, Sammy,” he murmured, turning off the lamp and climbing into bed.
A minute or two later, there was a knock on his door. Confused and annoyed, he flicked the light back on and went to the door, fully intending to chew out anyone who thought a social call at midnight was a good idea. He threw open the door, freezing when he saw who was on the other side.
“Hi, Dean,” Sam said. He looked exactly like he had the last time Dean had seen him, only this time he was solid, real. Alive. “We've got work to do.”
Genre: Angst
Pairing: Gen
Rating: G
Wordcount: 8108
Warnings: Major Character Death, hurt!Sam, hurt!Dean, ghost!Sam, canon divergent after season 1
Summary: What if Sam had been the one left in a coma after the car accident?
Fic link: AO3
Art link: Tumblr
The world felt heavy, wrapped in wool and weighted to hold him down. Dean came to slowly, aware first of the sluggish response of his limbs, then more distantly aware of pain when he moved them. A steady, irritating beep told him he was in a hospital just as surely as the sterile smell of cleaning products or too white light over his bed. He struggled through the fog of opioids to remember what he'd done to land him here. What had they been hunting? Why was he alone?
A glance at the window told him it was early morning, with the sky beginning to lighten and clear enough to promise warmth later. Still, the room was medical-building-chilly, and Dean was grateful for the blankets keeping him warm.
He felt his thoughts drifting, trying to piece together what had happened. Dean always hated when they put him on the really heavy pain meds because it became a struggle just to think. He didn't know where Sam was, but the fact that he was absent was concerning enough to cut through some of the haze. Dean remembered the last time he'd woken up in a hospital, after the rawhead incident, and Sam had been there nonstop, except when he couldn't be. The cops had pulled him out of the room for questions, the doctors had shooed him away to let them poke and prod Dean in peace, and one nurse in particular had enforced the hospital's visiting hours to make sure Sam went back to the motel long enough to get some sleep. But all of that had been after Dean woke up. Sam should be here, now. So where was he?
Unfortunately, the fog of the drugs was already pulling him back down into sleep, no matter how he fought to stay awake. A burst of cold from the air conditioning made him shiver, and as he drifted off he swore he could hear Sam saying he’d stay until Dean woke up, though he couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from.
When Dean woke again, the sun shone brightly through his window, warming the room almost to an uncomfortable level. A nurse was taking his vitals, and he was pretty sure she said something about going to get a doctor. Maybe. Waking up in a hospital was worse than a killer hangover.
He grayed out for a minute, but when he was able to refocus, he was already feeling clearer than the last time he’d been conscious. The nurse was back with a dude in a lab coat, who Dean assumed was a doctor.
Dean didn’t bother waiting for the doctor to ask him anything. “Where’s Sam?”
The doctor didn’t answer the question right away, which annoyed Dean. Instead, he replied with a question of his own. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been hit by a truck.” He’d meant it to be sarcastic, but judging by the reactions he got from both the doctor and the nurse, that was pretty close to what had landed him in the hospital. That knowledge did nothing to lessen the anxiety he was feeling over Sam’s continued absence. Already feeling sleep pulling him down again, he tried once more, wishing he didn’t sound so much like he was begging. “Please, where’s my brother?”
This time, the doctor took pity on him. “Your father is visiting him now.”
John listened to Sam’s doctor explaining the extent of his injuries with only half his mind. Sam was lying in the hospital bed, broken beyond repair, and that was all he needed to know. He was going to lose his son, but the demon's plans for Sam were over. He was ashamed to admit there was a sliver of relief in the chaotic emotions running through him. At least now Sam would be safe, and John’s worst fears could be laid to rest.
But beyond the fleeting relief and acceptance, there were the beginnings of grief. More than anything, he wanted a drink or four, but he couldn't do that yet. Later, he would drink himself into oblivion, but first he had to tell Dean. He grimaced. Dean was going to be devastated and telling him was going to be painful. At least John was being granted a reprieve from that duty for now, as Dean still hadn’t woken.
In the meantime, he had business to attend to, and while he hated himself for feeling this way, he was grateful for the distraction. He took one more look at Sam’s still form and murmured, “I’m sorry, son.” Then he pulled out his phone and pulled up Bobby’s number as he exited the hospital.
At the junkyard an hour later, John sifted through the wreckage, looking for the Colt. He could feel Bobby’s eyes on him, but he was doing his best to ignore his friend.
“What are you doing out here, John?” Bobby asked, his voice less accusing than it could have been.
John didn’t answer immediately, but he stopped what he was doing, too. “I’m looking for the gun that’ll kill the thing that killed Mary and put my boys in the hospital.” He wondered, briefly, if his voice sounded as dead as he felt inside.
Bobby scoffed at his answer. “Hell, I could have done emptied the car. Those boys need you to be there for them right now.”
John swallowed down irritation at Bobby presuming to know what his sons needed. He was a good friend, but this was an old argument between them. Bobby had always tried to step in and be the father he thought John failed to be. “Didn’t want to put you out like that. Besides, they aren’t awake yet. No reason I couldn’t do this myself.”
Bobby paused before answering, and John wondered if there was going to be more commentary on his parenting forthcoming. Luckily it seemed there wasn’t going to be when Bobby said, “What do you want to do with the car, then? Don’t seem worth a tow.”
John extricated himself from the wreckage, having found the gun he was looking for. Taking a step back, he surveyed the twisted remains of the Impala. “It’s Dean’s now. I say tow it to your place until he’s ready to work on it. And if he doesn’t want to fix her up, then scrap her.”
Ignoring Bobby’s silent sympathy, John walked away from one of the last remnants of his life with Mary and toward the rental car that would take him back to the hospital and Dean.
By the time John arrived, Dean had declined most of his dinner—opioids made him nauseous—and talked himself down from two panic attacks about Sam. He'd gotten the nurse to confirm that they had, in fact, been hit by a truck, and now that Dean thought about it, he was pretty sure he remembered the sound of breaking glass. Once he started to access the memory, he could remember bits and pieces from before the accident—his dad possessed by the demon, Sam shooting their dad in the leg, feeling woozy from blood loss. Piecing together his memory was the only thing that kept him distracted from thinking about Sam, until his dad appeared in the doorway.
His dad looked haggard, weary in a way Dean hadn't seen before. He was on crutches and sported some impressive bruising, but seemed uninjured otherwise.
"Good to see you awake, son," he said.
"You too, sir." Dean swallowed nervously. "How's Sam?"
His dad's face morphed through half a dozen emotions before settling into careful neutrality, and the bottom dropped out of Dean’s stomach. "Sam is in a coma. It’s bad.”
Dean breathed slowly, deeply, fighting the panic that had been hounding him all day. "He's dying." When John didn't answer immediately, Dean spat, "Isn't he?"
John’s face was a damn mask, revealing nothing, and his even tone was no better. "We don't know. The doctors say they've done all they can, and it's up to Sam now."
Dean nodded, then rasped, "So what are we going to do?"
John was silent for a long time. Too long, in Dean's opinion. "We aren't going to do anything, Dean."
“What?”
John’s face darkened. His dad didn’t like being questioned, but Dean didn’t understand. He knew that finding a legitimate healer was a long shot, but Sam had done it. He’d even done it alone; Dean hadn’t been in any position to help, and John sure as hell hadn’t been around. The two of them together, maybe with Bobby’s network to help, had much better odds of finding a hoodoo priest to lay some mojo on his brother.
John had left angry, but Dean was furious. His dad wanted to “let nature take its course,” which was a load of bullshit. They had access to resources the doctors didn’t, things that could save his brother. They might normally hunt most of those resources in the name of the greater good, but this was different. This was Sam.
Dean sat in a wheelchair by Sam’s bed, trying not to stare at the bandages around his brother’s head. He shivered, remembering the doctor listing off Sam’s injuries.
"Sam suffered a severe blow to the head during the accident. He also sustained several broken ribs and crush injuries from the steering column. We repaired the broken ribs with pins, and we placed a chest tube to reinflate his right lung, which had been punctured by one of his ribs. We were also very concerned about the degree of brain swelling, and during surgery we removed a portion of Sam's skull to help alleviate the pressure."
Dean stared at the tubes practically covering every inch of his brother and tried to imagine part of his skull missing underneath the white bandages swaddling his head. Sam was going to be pissed when he woke up. They'd shaved his head to do the surgery. "How's he doing now?"
The doctor shook his head. "He has remained unresponsive, which is not an encouraging sign, but he's stable at the moment. That said, he is a fighter. Most patients would not have survived even this long with his degree of injury. "
Of course he was a fighter. He was a Winchester.
The doc had been sympathetic, but all Dean could focus on was the idea that Sam was a real life Humpty Dumpty, and try as they might, the doctors couldn’t put him back together again. He needed more than they could offer, and that wasn’t considering the possibility of long-term complications from his injuries. He needed a miracle. But it was perfectly, explicitly clear that John wasn’t going to help and didn’t condone Dean wanting to intervene. He didn't know how he was going to do this behind his dad's back, but he would. He'd find something.
Maybe, if he managed to find something innocuous enough, his dad would come around and help. His gut clenched, and he knew he didn't really believe it, but he could hope. He wasn't going to lose his brother again.
He believed that about as much as he believed the flickering lights in Sam’s room were due to bad wiring.
As soon as Dean was released from the hospital, he went to Bobby's place. The Impala was there with all of their stuff.
All of Sam's stuff.
Dean sighed, surveying the car. It was a mess, the frame twisted beyond recognition. The driver’s side was crushed, and the door had been cut away to give the rescue team better access to Sam. There was dark staining on the seat that he knew had to be Sam’s blood. He looked away, throat tight.
He’d fix the car eventually, but the reason he’d come had been to grab his stuff and pull out anything he thought might be helpful in getting Sam back on his feet. His laptop was toast, and the Colt was gone. According to Bobby, John had come by yesterday and retrieved some gear, then taken off again. They both assumed he was back to chasing the Yellow Eyed Demon. Nothing like revenge for a son he hadn't even officially lost yet.
Heading inside, he grabbed a couple beers from Bobby's fridge. He found the hunter in his study, flipping through one of his dozens of books on the supernatural. "Thanks for bringing Baby here," he said, dropping into a chair. Dust motes swirled in the late afternoon sunbeams coming through the dirty windows, drawing Dean’s attention back out to the yard where his mangled childhood home sat.
Bobby looked up, narrowing his eyes at Dean. "What are you planning, idjit?"
Dean grimaced, wishing the older hunter couldn’t read him so well. "I can't leave Sam like this, you know that." He took a long pull from his beer and swallowed nervously. "I was hoping one of your contacts might know something."
" 'Bout the demon?" Bobby said cautiously.
Dean shook his head. "About a healer. Or a white witch or hoodoo priest or something. Anything that might help."
Bobby ran his hand down his face, stubble rasping as he rubbed his chin. "You know that's a long shot at best."
Dean studied the condensation gathering on the bottle as he picked at the label. "I know. But I gotta do something. He's my brother." He looked away, unwilling to watch Bobby pity him as he said, “Dad won’t help.”
Bobby watched him for a moment, then apparently saw whatever it was he was looking for because he replied, "We'll figure it out. How long you staying before you head back?"
Dean shrugged noncommittally. "Not long. He's stable, for now, but the doctors—"
When he didn't finish his sentence, Bobby grumbled and said, "Yeah, I know. Well, you're welcome to stay as long as you want. And before you say it, I know. You're not leaving him in that hospital by himself. I'm just saying my house is open, all right?"
Dean slumped back in the chair, some of the tension gone from his shoulders. "I talked to the doctor today about getting him transferred to Sioux Falls. They didn't love the idea, but they agreed to it when I said he'd be closer to family. Might be able to happen in a couple days, if—"
Bobby cut him off. "Then give me a call when you're on your way back, and I'll clear out the guest room. Don't think it's been used since the last time you boys stayed with me. And, in the meantime, I'll ask around about healers. Let you know if I hear something."
Dean's nod was small and tight; relief wasn't going to come until he had a lead to follow, but it was still nice to know that Bobby was in their corner.
Dean stood in the doorway to Sam's new room. He was still on a ventilator, though most of the bandages had been removed that morning. Sam was pale, gray tinged, and a far cry from the California-tan he'd been just a few months ago. In the week he'd been hospitalized, Dean could tell he was already losing muscle mass. If Dean managed to pull this off, then Sam was still going to have a long road ahead of him before he was back to normal. But at least he'd be alive, Dean reasoned.
He was greeted by a cool breeze when he crossed the threshold and finally entered the room, like every other time he'd come to visit. It didn't matter how many times he asked the staff at the old hospital, the temperature in his room was perpetually freezing. The idea of the problem following Sam across state lines made his stomach turn.
The plastic chair creaked when he settled in, and he tried to ignore how Sam's shaved head made him look like an alien. The problem was that, like a train wreck, he couldn't look away. Finally, he sighed and said aloud, "Damn, Sammy. I cannot believe you were right about that hair all this time." He shivered, and he would have sworn the temperature dropped another couple degrees, but he kept talking. "I know I gave you a lot of crap about it over the years. But you were absolutely right. You look better with long hair. And I don't mean that just because you're a giant girl." He paused, waiting. When nothing happened, he mentally kicked himself. Of course nothing happened. Sam wasn't dead. He wasn't a ghost; he was a dude in a coma.
"Anyway," he continued, "I found a spell that’ll work, but, uh, I don't think you're gonna like it." The lights and monitors picked that moment to flicker, and an alarm sounded that brought the nursing staff running.
Dean stood out of the way, watching tensely as they did their job checking Sam, his equipment, and the monitors. It wasn't the first time it had happened during a visit, but it never stopped being nerve wracking. What if something important shorted out this time? It was one of the reasons he had worked so hard on getting Sam transferred up to Sioux Falls General. Now it was happening here too. The twist in his gut kept telling him it wasn't faulty equipment that produced the shorts, but he refused to believe it. Sam wasn't dead, damn it.
It's better this way.
When the room had cleared out again, Dean resumed his position in the chair by the bed. "Like hell this is better," he muttered to himself. He sighed and scrubbed his face. "Like I was saying, I found something in one of the books I grabbed from Bobby’s before you got transferred. It's a spell, for binding a reaper."
The temperature in the room plummeted until Dean’s breath was ghosting in front of his face. No.
"I know," he said, his voice gruff and quiet. "I don't like it either. But I have to do something. We know this works. And, yeah, we know the cost, so I'll figure it out. I— Whatever I might be willing to do, I know you would never forgive me if I saved you at someone else's expense. I'll figure it out, ok? Maybe it can target a monster, or something, yeah? Something we'd be killing anyway?"
Nothing from the peanut gallery.
"Fine, be a bitch about it. I won't do the spell." He ground his teeth together, hating that he was giving in to, what? A broken air conditioner? "Not unless I'm out of options. Ok, Sam?"
The lights flickered, but none of the other equipment was affected this time, thankfully. Dean took it as agreement, and he left to hit the books again.
The next day, he got a call from one of Bobby's contacts about a faith healer that was supposed to be the real deal.
He looked into the healer John Rogers, checked for suspicious deaths, unusual money transfers, anything that might indicate he was a fraud or of the same ilk as the pastor's wife Sue Ann from that case in Nebraska. The financials came back squeaky clean, but Dean's gut told him there was something he was missing. He was only an hour away, though, so against his better judgment he stopped in for one of the guy's services.
The tent was crowded, like he remembered from the last time. It was a different preacher, but the same crowd, the same stale air with just a hint of desperation. It was too hot with the press of bodies and lack of air conditioning, and Dean wished he'd skipped the flannel overshirt. The murmur of the crowd made it near impossible to listen in on any conversations, but they seemed excited, optimistic. Well, he supposed any hope was better than none. Not like he could relate.
However, where the pastor in Nebraska had been earnest, this guy felt like a used car salesman. From his first words, Dean felt slimy just being in the same room as the guy, even though he hadn't said anything more troubling than 'welcome, new and old patrons alike.'
Dean leaned forward in his seat, trying to relax but appear attentive. His attention wasn't entirely focused on the sermon, though. He watched the guy, sure, but he also watched the crowd. Dozens of people were in the tent, some with obvious ailments and some without. He focused on maladies easy to fake—people in wheelchairs or wearing sunglasses and hugging a stick—and then watched to see if any of them triggered his Spidey senses. Years of practice conning people had made both him and Sam experts on spotting it in others. He couldn't be sure, of course, but he spied three or four people in the crowd that seemed likely to be plants.
Sure enough, after the dude got done wailing and mumbling as he "spoke in tongues" as the "Spirit moved through him" he called for people that needed healing. Half the crowd erupted into noise, but the first person he selected was one of the ones Dean had spotted—the blind woman. The whole scene played out exactly like he expected, and he made to leave.
"Why are you leaving?" he heard the pastor call out over the din.
Dean paused, unsure if he even wanted to bother engaging the guy.
The pastor made the decision for him by continuing to talk. "I'm sorry for your loss. But I can't help your brother."
Dean whirled, eyes flashing and hand automatically moving to his gun.
The preacher smirked, and for a second, Dean wondered if the guy was just that good at reading body language. He'd seen Sam pull a similar trick two or three times.
"If you can't help him, then why does it matter if I leave?" he finally said, slowly easing his defensive stance.
Tilting his head in acknowledgement, Rogers said nothing more as Dean made his exit.
Armed with new knowledge, Dean would have to resume his research. First thing was to learn more about the woman who had been "healed." His instincts screamed bullshit, but he couldn't afford to be wrong. He found a good spot to wait, and when the service was over he followed the woman. He had to give her credit, she kept up the charade even after she exited the tent. Every few moments she'd stop and look around, an expression of awe on her face. He almost believed it.
He slipped back into the crowd, keeping a casual distance from the woman as she moved through the parking lot. They wove through the cars, and he realized that she was alone. No one was walking with her, chatting about her newfound sight. Leading her to their car. Damn, he'd been right. It was confirmed when she dug through her purse and pulled out keys that she used to unlock a shitty looking Volvo. Dean just managed to catch the license plate number before she drove out of sight.
Back at his motel, Dean ran the plates, found the woman, and dug deep into her financials. The trail was hard to find, but, now that he knew it was there, he did manage to find it: small, irregular cash payments deposited into her bank account starting six months ago. Never more than $100 at a time, and never more than twice a month. He didn’t think it was enough money to justify lying to so many people, but it wasn't really up to him to judge in this case. For good measure, he also uncovered as much medical history as he could on the lady and was utterly unsurprised to find zero references to blindness in her files. However, he didn't uncover an explicit link between her and the preacher. He was sure he would if he kept looking, but that wasn't important anymore. The guy was a fraud healer, but he still knew something. Dean needed to find out if that something was information that could help Sam.
The heat of the day was just starting to fade when Dean knocked on the preacher's door. He lived in a nice neighborhood by most people's standards. Dean thought it was mind-numbingly dull, but hey, maybe it was better than it looked. The man didn't even look at Dean when he opened the door, just gestured him into the house.
"You're psychic," Dean said as he settled himself into an overstuffed chair that was more comfortable than it looked.
"I am." He sat down on the couch across from Dean.
"And a fraud. Is your name even John Rogers?"
Rogers smirked. "You know the answer to that." He leaned back, draping his arms over the back of the couch. "I wasn't lying before. I can't help your brother."
"But you do know something," Dean accused.
The preacher sighed. "I know what's in your head right now—he's in a coma, dying a slow death. You came here on the slim chance that I was the real deal. Sorry that didn't work out for you."
Strangely enough, Dean believed the guy actually was sorry, but he didn't buy that Rogers didn't know anything else. Sam was the one who could sweet talk witnesses into giving up info, though, so Dean went with his tried and true method when working alone: stony silence with a hint of aggression.
Rogers rolled his eyes. "Fine. I may have heard of something. I didn't look into it—no need for myself—so it may be another wild goose chase." He stood, moving to pour himself a drink from the sidebar. He didn't offer Dean one.
Dean waited as patiently as he could. This guy could be jerking him around for all he knew, but he didn’t think so, and his instincts hadn't been wrong yet.
With an excessive number of dramatic pauses, he finally told Dean about a spell. It was supposed to be ancient and powerful. Could practically bring people back from the dead. He didn't have much more than that, but he told Dean to look in an old grimoire called The Magus. Dean hadn't heard of it before, but he was sure it would be a bitch to find.
John considered letting his phone go to voicemail until he saw that it was Bobby calling. There were a very limited number of reasons why that self-righteous dick might be calling him, and he knew better than to think Bobby would leave that sort of news in a voicemail. He took a deep breath, burying his grief as far as he could before he flipped open the phone. “Winchester.”
Bobby’s gruff voice didn’t sound devastated, just annoyed, and John breathed a little easier. It wasn’t Sam then. “You need to get your ass back here, John. Dean needs you.”
“Dean doesn’t want me there.” It hurt to admit that, but he couldn’t blame his son. When the demon had possessed him, he’d seen its plans for Sam, and it had been a confirmation of everything he’d learned over the last twenty years. He hadn’t told Dean what he knew, and if John had his way then Dean would never know.
Bobby grumbled, “His brother’s dying. Of course he wants you here. Now, I don’t know what damn fool thing you said, and I don’t care. He’s going after The Magus, John. Says there’s some spell in it should be able to heal Sam.”
John felt his jaw clench so hard he thought he might have cracked a tooth. “He’s going to get himself killed trying to do a spell like that.”
“Why the hell do you think I’m calling you? Boy’s aiming to commit suicide by magic, if he can find the book. If we find it first, then maybe I can convince him to let me do the spell, but we both know that’s a long shot too.” Bobby sighed heavily. “I don’t suppose you have any idea where we might find a medieval grimoire, do you?”
John closed his eyes. “No, but I’ll work it out. I’ll call when I’ve got something. Watch out for Dean.” He didn’t wait to hear Bobby’s reply before he hung up. The man was probably just going to chew him out for not agreeing to head to Sioux Falls immediately.
He looked out the window and saw storm clouds blowing in off Lake Michigan. Dean hadn’t backed off like he should’ve, and now John was going to have to act. He couldn’t let the demon’s plans come to fruition, and he wasn’t going to let Sam suffer because of their selfishness. It was the least he could do. The room blurred as the first drops of rain fell, and John started to work out what could be done to stop Dean.
It had been two weeks of spinning their wheels looking for the grimoire, and they were no closer to the book than they had been originally. Dean flipped through one of Bobby’s books, frowning at the page. This one seemed familiar. A glance at the spine revealed why. He’d read it already. Twice. Sighing in frustration he tossed the book onto the “dud” stack and slumped in his seat, hands tugging at his hair.
They couldn’t afford to take much longer. Sam was deteriorating. The doctor had told him that just this morning; she’d said that the machines could probably keep him going indefinitely, but everything that made him Sam would be gone. It wasn’t a reality Dean was ready to face, and he’d stalked out of the hospital, not even staying for his usual bitchfest at the broken AC in Sam’s room. Just remembering it made anger—fear—coil tightly in the pit of his stomach, and he stood, sweeping the desk clear of the stacks of useless backs, a wordless scream escaping his throat.
Bobby walked in, holding two beers, and he surveyed the mess. Quirking an eyebrow at Dean, he said, “Take a break.”
Dean just stared back incredulously. “I don’t have time to take a break. Sam—”
“Is dying.” Bobby’s tone wasn’t harsh, but Dean flinched anyway. “I know. But you’re no good to him like this. We been through these books twice each, and we’ve got squat. So, go outside, take a break. Work on that car of yours for a bit and burn off some of that anger. Maybe something’ll come to you. I seem to remember cracking a case or two that way. Keep my hands busy enough to turn off my brain, but the problem still gets worked in the background.” He handed over one of the beers as Dean sulked past him to go outside.
He didn’t go to the Impala. Though he’d worked on her off and on for weeks now, it was always a painful reminder of what was happening to Sam. Today he wasn’t sure he could stand to see the wreck without falling apart, and he wasn’t allowed to fall apart until Sam was better. That had always been his rule when Sam was hurt or sick, and he clung to it now like a lifeline. Turning toward the back of the property instead, he started walking, already feeling better despite himself.
He had just reached the edge of the junkyard when his phone rang.
Dean stared at the caller ID in disbelief for a moment before answering. His dad was calling him, after weeks of radio silence. After abandoning Sam to die. He felt his rage reignite, but he kept his tone neutral as he answered. "Dad."
"Dean. I told you to leave it alone."
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. Damn it, Bobby. "This is Sam, Dad. Not some random civilian. How can you just let him die like he means nothing? Where the hell are you?"
"I don't need to explain myself to you." Dean listened to his dad's sigh and rolled his eyes. The man could be a worse drama queen than Sam sometimes.
"Really? That's the answer you're going with?" Dean shook his head in disgust. "Guess Sam was right after all. You really don't give two shits about this family. It's all about your damn revenge."
"That's not fair, Dean." His tone was biting, cold. "Sam chose not to end this fight when he had the chance, and now I have to before the demon hurts anyone else."
Dean scoffed. He could hardly believe they were related. “Is that what this is about? Punishing me for telling Sam not to kill you? Or punishing him for listening?”
There was silence over the line for a long minute before John said, “That’s not why I left, Dean.” More silence. "I might have a lead on the grimoire you need. See you at Bobby's in two days." The phone beeped as John hung up without saying goodbye.
When he collapsed, sobbing, against a rusted-out Honda a minute later, he wasn’t even sure if they were tears of joy or grief.
The lights flickered.
"Heya, Sammy," Dean said, settling into the seat by his brother. "Think I might have something promising, and Dad's helping."
Nothing. He glanced around the room.
"Come on, man, don't be a bitch about it. I know you can hear me."
A cool breeze ruffled his hair.
"Because your lights flicker a thousand times whenever I talk to you. Which, by the way, cut it out. One of these days you're going to short out something important and croak. Also, because it's July and ten degrees colder in your room than the morgue. I feel bad for your nurses."
A gentle thump on his shoulder. Son of a bitch. Sam wasn't supposed to be able to touch him. Dean watched his brother's body on the bed and thought about just how much stronger he'd become over the last few weeks. It was a bad sign. He hadn't told Bobby or his dad about the fact that Sam was apparently haunting his hospital room. He already knew what they would say.
What's dead should stay dead.
"You aren't dead yet. And I'm not giving up on you." He stood and stormed out of the room before Sam could get another word in.
John got out of his truck, but didn’t approach the house. Dean and Bobby were waiting for him on the porch, and Bobby had brought his shotgun out. It was easy to read the tension in Dean's shoulders, the anger simmering just under the surface. Christ, Dean had no idea how bad it was going to get, and he was already this mad. John was going to lose both of his sons today.
The spell he’d faked was in his pocket, and he hated himself for what he was doing. But he was careful not to let his face betray him. Years of hustling poker successfully had taught him that his poker face was the best, and he relied on that skill now. Dean wasn't going to stop, that was clear now, so John had to be the one to make the hard choice.
For one dizzy, terrifying moment, he considered backing out and trying to help them find the grimoire. Then he thought of the demon, still out there and still planning. A demon that wanted to start the Apocalypse and use his son to lead an army of darkness. He didn't know how the demon intended to make Sam cooperate, but it didn't matter. He trusted that the demon would succeed eventually, probably by threatening Dean. There was only one sure way to save Sam from that fate, and this was it. His resolve hardened, and he resigned himself to Dean hating him forever. Knowing Sam was safe would be worth it. Maybe someday Dean would understand, even if John knew Dean would never be able to forgive him for this.
"Dean," he said, voice gruff. He nodded at Bobby, but kept his eyes on his son.
"Where have you been?" Dean demanded, his voice hard. He sounded grown up. Good.
John put an easy smile on his face, trying to diffuse some of the tension in the air, but it didn't reach his eyes. He knew Dean saw that, too, so he let it drop after a moment. "I was following some leads."
"You were hunting the demon. While Sam is laying in a hospital, dying."
"We've had this argument already."
Dean shook his head in disbelief. "So? He's still dying, you're still hunting, and I'm still here, trying to put my family back together! At least tell me what this mysterious lead is."
John steeled himself, and reached into his back pocket. "It's not the whole grimoire, but I was told this came from The Magus. Sounds like something you might be interested in."
Dean eyed him warily, and John couldn't blame him. He'd flipped on this issue fast, and that had to have raised some alarm bells for Dean. It was no surprise Dean didn't trust him. Still, the boy was desperate. He accepted the fragile parchment, unfolding it and scanning the text. Dean couldn't read it, unless he had been studying archaic Greek lately, but John knew Dean would be able to piece together a basic idea of the spell just from the components. It was something he'd drilled them on, to help protect them from witches.
Dean nodded to Bobby, and down went the shotgun barrel. John breathed a little easier at that. He never doubted that Bobby was willing to shoot him, especially after how they’d parted a few years back. With what he was about to pull, he probably deserved it, too.
"Come in, then, if you're staying," Bobby said, turning and walking back inside.
Dean raised his eyebrows in question, then joined Bobby.
John lingered by his truck a moment more before following, grief already pooling in his chest.
Bobby translated the spell while Dean sorted through their inventory of ingredients. More than once the old hunter added a location to the ingredient he read aloud, and Dean would make a run to the kitchen or the basement or the second guest bedroom, in the bottom box next to the dresser, wherever the item happened to be stashed in this old, cluttered house. John had grabbed a beer and puttered around for a few minutes, obviously uncomfortable, before saying he was going to the hospital and would meet them there.
It felt like a miracle that they already had all the ingredients, and Dean said so after he retrieved the salamander tail and Bobby declared it the last ingredient. It was a surprisingly benign looking assortment of items, and it didn't seem possible to Dean that they could heal his brother. He believed in magic, obviously, but he always associated it with blood and entrails. It seemed, well, magical that a few bits and pieces in the right ratios could do something so powerful. It was weirder that his dad had brought him the spell. He'd been so adamant about letting nature take its course, and Dean wondered what had brought him around. A thought crossed his mind, and his skin crawled. He idly touched the top of one of the jars and said tentatively, "Does this seem too easy to you?"
Bobby looked up from the spell in front of him, eyes narrowed at Dean. "What are you thinking?"
Dean gave one quick shake of his head as he frowned, saying, "Nothing. Just." He shrugged a shoulder and looked out the window. "It's just like Dad to swoop in at the last minute and save the day. But. It's a weird way for him to do it, you know?"
Bobby nodded. "I never expected your daddy to be the one bringing spells here for us to cast, if that's what you mean."
Dean's brow furrowed. "Does it check out?"
Hesitating before he spoke, Bobby hemmed and hawed before saying, "I don't know. I've never seen a spell like this, and I've sure as hell never cast one. I can tell you that it looks like it ought to work, if I understand it right, but there's no way to know for sure without trying it."
"That just fills me with confidence, Bobby."
"Hey, you asked. You have a better option?"
Dean grunted. "You know I don't."
"I know you've got something in reserve, just in case." Bobby leveled him a look that told Dean he wasn't going to be able to hide behind denials.
Dean swallowed hard. "I do, but it's not a better option."
Bobby nodded, slowly, but didn't say anything.
Dean cleared his throat. "I'm not sure I can make it work without killing someone."
The tension in the air was palpable, and Bobby's eyes were hard. "I know he's your brother, Dean, but—"
"I know. God, Bobby, I know." He scrubbed a hand down his face and closed his eyes. "I would though. If it came to it, then I would."
"But?"
Dean shook his head, not willing to say that he promised his brother's ghost that he wouldn't. He wasn't sure he was strong enough to let Sam go if this spell didn't work, and he wasn't sure he had the time it would take to pull the other spell together.
When Dean and Bobby arrived at the hospital, John was sitting in the chair by Sam's bed. Dean frowned, noting the overgrown stubble on Sam's chin. They hadn't been by to shave him yet, which meant it was more likely they were going to get interrupted. At best, that would lead to a number of awkward questions, and at worst it could disrupt the spell. He mentioned it, but John scoffed.
"It'll be fine, Dean. The nurse was just in to check on him, and she said she would be back in an hour. No interruptions until then."
Dean frowned but didn't argue. If John thought they were safe to do the spell then they probably were.
Bobby was the most experienced of them with spell work, so he did the spell. Dean watched him like a hawk, stomach flipping nervously the whole time. John's face was grim, but he stayed silent, letting Bobby work. The foreign words droned on, and Bobby added a pinch of this, a jar of that, then more chanting. Dean could feel the energy in the room building, and his eyes darted to Sam. The monitors showed no change, of course, but the lights flickered aggressively as the chanting picked up speed. Dean silently begged Sam to cool it, to keep calm until the spell did its thing.
It's not going to work, Dean.
Dean set his jaw. It had to work. Not working wasn't an option.
Please, let me go.
He glared at his brother. That wasn't an option either, not while Dean was still breathing. He wasn't going to fail Sam. Not when Sam had come through for him last year.
His brother sighed, and he could imagine the epic eye roll that accompanied it. You're going to be so pissed at Dad when this doesn't work.
Dean's eyes narrowed, and he glanced at his brother again. The air was cooling rapidly, not a great sign for Sam's mental health at the moment. But his dad and Bobby seemed oblivious, and with the way the energy swirled through the air, he knew the spell was almost done.
Bobby threw in the last ingredient, and there was a flash, a bang, and the building energy funneled into the center of the room before quietly dissipating. It was...underwhelming.
Dean looked at Sam, at the monitors and held his breath, waiting for any sign at all that he was waking up. There was nothing. If anything, Dean thought the vitals readout was worse than before. Sam was breathing too fast, heartbeat too rapid for someone peacefully asleep.
He turned on the other two in the room. "Why didn't it work? We had all the ingredients, right, Bobby?"
Bobby looked stricken, but he nodded. "I read it exactly as it was written. You know I wouldn't half-ass this."
Dean clamped down on his anger as best he could. He did know. Sometimes spells just didn't work. Maybe Bobby wasn't powerful enough. Maybe they needed a real witch to cast the spell.
Then John said, "You knew this was a long shot at best," and Dean gaped at him.
He understood, on some level, that this was John trying to be supportive. His dad had never been an emotional guy, never one to soothe with words. But this felt like he was writing Sam off all over again. Sam was dying, actively now, and John just...didn't care. Dean didn't understand and didn't want to understand. He wanted his dad to be devastated by this.
Where did you get that spell anyway? It sounded like someone cobbled a bunch of random garbage together and called it finished. The tenses didn't even match through most of it.
That's when Dean put it together.
"You did this, didn't you?" he said, voice frigid and too calm. "You did something to the spell. That's why you didn't bring the book. Not some bullshit about it being too closely guarded in a library or not wanting to set off some crap alarms. You've never had a problem breaking and entering before." Dean shook his head furiously. "I didn't see it before. I didn't want to. But Sam was always right, wasn't he? He never mattered as much to you as the hunt. As getting revenge for Mom. And now you killed him." Dean closed his eyes, unable to even look at John anymore. "Why? Because he didn't take the shot in that cabin?"
When John finally spoke, his voice was brittle. "I know you won't be able to hear this now, Dean, but it was never like that. Someday, I hope you'll understand. This was for the best."
"Get out," Dean said, watching Sam's chest shallowly rise with each breath. He hoped John could hear the threat under the words.
An hour later, Dean watched as Sam struggled to breathe. There was no more time to pull together that spell. John had been thorough. Bobby had gone home, looking for the binding spell at Dean's desperate request, but it was gone from Dean's research pile. Worse, he'd signed the papers to remove Sam from life support before they'd even done the stupid spell. According to the hospital, that meant Dean could do exactly nothing, despite the fact that John hadn't shown his face in the hospital for weeks and Dean had been visiting Sam daily. He felt hollow, wondering what life would be like without his brother at his side. He thought it might be like when Sam was at Stanford: hunting alone or with the occasional hunter acquaintance. He resolutely ignored the burning in his eyes, even as Sam's body blurred in front of him. It wasn't going to be like that. Maybe once in a while he would be able to forget, to fool himself into believing Sam was alive and safe and just away, but most of the time he would know. He imagined the passenger seat of the Impala, empty again. His heart clenched.
Sam was already gone, and he knew that. The body on the bed had been empty since the first time he'd seen the lights in this room flicker. Sam had been haunting him for weeks. They were just waiting for it to be official.
The monitor screeched, jerking Dean's attention up and away from Sam. His breath caught in his throat; Sam was flat-lining. A doctor that had been lurking outside the door quietly came in and turned off the alarm. She checked Sam's vitals manually, checked the time, and announced that Sam had died at 2:48 pm. It was quiet, efficient. Dean didn't understand how she could do that, just say a person—Sam—was dead, and then continue on with her day like the world hadn't ended.
Dean refused Bobby's offer to help build the pyre. This was his job. And if it took a little longer because he was working alone, so much the better. He lifted the body wrapped in white linen. His brother. He lifted his brother, and placed him on the pyre.
Hours later, Dean stared at the burning pyre, numb to all feeling. He'd failed. The hollow pit in his stomach threatened to turn to nausea as he watched Sam burn. The gentle thump against his arm that alerted him to Sam's continued ghostly presence just made the sick feeling grow. John was going to pay for this.
