Fic: Where do we begin (the rubble or our sins)? 2 of 3

[caranfindel]

Go back to part 1

///

An abandoned warehouse. It's so perfectly Sam. Dean would have liked some witnesses for their last showdown, but this will do. At least there shouldn't be any interruptions.

He doesn't bother to open the door quietly; he's here to make an entrance. Instead, he swings it wide, and as it bangs loudly against the wall, he shouts "Honey! I'm home!"

There's a smaller office, crouching like prey in the middle of the warehouse. The walls are decorated with binding and protective sigils. Sam's inside, standing in the middle of a devil's trap, with bowl of herbs and blood in front of him and a lit match in his hand. Trying to summon Dean into a trap, the little shit. Dean chuckles quietly. "Oh, honey, you cooked," he drawls, stepping into the office. "I should have told you I already ate."

Sam doesn't respond. He just stands there, with his stupid Jesus hair and his stupid sad puppy-dog eyes and he looks like shit. He's gaunt and pale, with dark circles like bruises under his eyes, and the stupid Jesus hair is lank and dirty, and dammit. Why can't he take care of himself? Why has he always needed a fucking nanny?

{Why was it always your responsibility? Aren't you ready to give that up?}

Not that Dean cares any more. He plucks a dusty stapler off a desk and with a well-aimed toss he sends the bowl flying, scattering its contents across the painted devil's trap.

Sam blows out the match and surveys the damage. "That's okay," he says. "I've got more."

"Always were the Boy Scout, weren't you?" But be prepared doesn't mean anything now. There's no way to be prepared for a demon who is this thoroughly done with your shit. And Dean is that demon. Sam sighs resignedly and, seriously? This is the great hunter? This is the guy who beat the Devil? This is the guy Dean died for? Because he just looks like a tall, sad, broken child.

{He's not going to let you go. He's never going to leave you alone. You should have done this a long time ago.}

"Dean," Sam says. Almost wincing, like it hurts him to say the words. Like it hurts him to call a demon Dean. "It doesn't have to be like this. We know how to cure you."

Dean laughs. "I'm not sick. There's nothing to cure. This is what I'm supposed to be."

Sam winces again, slumping a little further into himself, and hangs his head so the stupid Jesus hair hides his face. "No, it's not," he says. "And the fact that you think it is - that means you're too far gone. I have to stop you."

"Just you try, Sammy. Just you try." Dean steps closer, to the edge of the trap, and draws the Blade out of his jacket (it's screaming, it wants Sam's blood so badly, it always has). "But I think I can stop you first."

"Maybe," Sam sighs. "But I know something you don't know."

"Oh yeah? What's that?" Dean scans his surroundings, fixes on a file cabinet, and reaches out a hand - even from here, he should be able to throw it at Sam; push him out of the safety of the devil's trap - but something's missing. That now familiar feeling of power, flowing out of his hand, it's gone. Sam looks up at Dean, pushing the stupid Jesus hair out of his face, and the little shit is smirking. Then he looks up further, at the ceiling. Dean follows his gaze, revealing a larger demon trap painted on the ceiling - and Dean is inside it.

Son of a bitch.

"Okay," he says. "You got me. But you I know I can beat the crap out of you anyway, right?"

He swings.

///

NOW
///

One

Sam surveys his injuries. His face is bruised and bloodied, at least one rib is cracked, his left eye will be black in the morning, and his right wrist is swollen and unmovable, probably broken.

But Dean is the one who's handcuffed to a chair.

"Hey, Sammy," he grins. "No offense, but do you think your blood is pure enough to do any good? I mean, I notice the last demon you tried to cure is still the King of Hell."

"Yeah, and I notice you're his bitch," Sam snaps. (Dammit. Don't answer him. Don't let him get to you.) He moves behind Dean, out of his line of sight, as he struggles with the small black case of syringes.

"And you think you're gonna fix that. Nice to know you care. I wish you'd uncuff me so we could hug it out." Sam doesn't answer, and after a pause, Dean continues. "Arm looks pretty bad. Think you're gonna be able to draw blood with a broken arm?"

"He's right, Sam." Sam whirls around to see Castiel staring at Dean, looking as though he very much wants to say "hello, Dean" but thinks better of it.

Dean grins at Castiel and flashes black eyes. "Cas! How you doing, buddy? I've missed you. Been talking to a lot of your brothers and sisters lately, but I never seem to see you. You hiding from me?"

"Ignore him," Sam says quickly. "Don't listen to him. Remember how demons like to fuck with you."

Cas turns to Sam. "But he's right. You can't do this with a broken arm. Either let me heal it, or let me stay here and help you."

Sam sighs. "Dammit, Cas. I told you, you don't have enough grace to waste it healing me."

"It would not be a waste," the angel says, stepping closer to Sam. "You can't help Dean in this condition." He moves to place a hand on Sam's right arm, but Sam steps back.

"Okay, but just the arm. Don't go poking around looking for other things to fix, okay? You find anything else, just leave it alone. You've got to hold onto your juice."

Cas nods and places a hand on Sam's arm, and the strange-yet-familiar tingle works its way through his wrist. Sam twists his arm experimentally and finds it pain-free. "Thank you. Now you should go." Cas hesitates, clearly wanting to argue. "Cas, we talked about this," Sam says. "You gain strength in Heaven. You know that. And you need to be at full strength at the end of this. I'll see you in eight hours, okay? I'll be fine."

Instead of fluttering out, the angel turns to Dean and studies him, head tilted, eyes narrowed, as if he's a new specimen. Dean matches the stare with his own. "Cas?" he mutters. "You need something? I'm sure you missed me, but this is a little weird, even for you."

Castiel smiles slightly. "Your demon form. It's very close to your human form."

Sam had forgotten about the angelic ability to see a demon's true form. Apparently Dean is a new specimen after all. "Does that mean anything?" he asks.

Still peering at Dean, Cas murmurs, "It might. I don't think he's gone down that path as far as I had feared."

Dean laughs. "Oh, now you're fearing my path? Wasn't very long ago that you told me I did it for the right reasons."

Castiel frowns in thought, then seems to remember. "I see. Interesting. I said you did the wrong things for the right reasons, and all you remembered was that you had the right reasons. You have forgotten that you did the wrong things."

Well, that's a conversation Sam would like to know more about. But not right now. "I'll see you in eight hours, Cas," he says.

"Eight hours. Be careful, Sam." There is another fluttery poof of air, and he's gone.

"Aw, Sammy," Dean says. "Our guardian angel left us all alone."

Ignore him.

"And now the demon cure. Awesome. You know this has to be done on sanctified ground, right? An old warehouse? What, used to be a church?"

Sam laughs. "Do you really think me and an angel can't figure out how to sanctify a building?"

"No, I'm just saying. You know, you and Cas, you fuck up sometimes. Maybe this is one of those times. Guess we'll find out, won't we?"

"Yeah, I guess we will."

"So, a good old-fashioned demon healing." Dean laughs. "Did you have a good confession? What'd you admit this time? How you told your brother you didn't want to be brothers any more? How you said you'd let me die?"

Ignore him. Sam silently unzips the black case.

"You know this wouldn't have worked with Crowley, right? Do you really think there's anything that would make your blood pure enough to cure a demon, Sammy? You do realize you've got demon blood in there, right?"

Sam glares at Dean, which earns him a sneer. "Oooh, did I hit a nerve? Or is it just that someone doesn't like it when I call him Sammy?"

"You don't get to call me that," Sam replies, as he rolls up his sleeve and wraps the tourniquet around his arm. "Only Dean gets to call me that."

Dean laughs. "You still don't get it, do you? I. Am. Dean. There is no real Dean trapped inside, screaming to get out. It's me, Sam. Just me."

That's good. Sam remembers how it feels to be trapped inside, screaming to get out. He puts a finger on his arm to palpate the vein, marks the spot with fingernail pressure and readies for the pinch of the needle in his arm. When the syringe is filled, he tentatively approaches Dean.

"I'm not going to fight you, Sammy," Dean says. "Cause I know it's not gonna work. So get it all out of your system and then we'll move on."

Sam jabs the syringe into Dean's neck and pushes the plunger.

"Mmmmm," says Dean. "Refreshing."

///

Two

Sam's watch beeps and he wakes up with a start, frantically scanning the room, sure Dean has escaped during his unintended nap. But he's still sitting there, cuffed to the chair, grinning as though he's enjoying the whole ordeal. "You know this isn't gonna work, Sammy," he says. "You're not gonna pull it off, just like you couldn't keep me out of Hell, just like you couldn't stop from freeing Lucifer."

And yeah, that's entirely possible. Sam can easily see this becoming another in a long string of failures, stretching out behind him. The trail of death and disaster that follows in his wake.

"Maybe so," he says, wrapping the tourniquet around his arm. "But I've got to try."

///

Three

Dean squirms in the chair, trying to see where Sam has run off to. He disappears after each injection, which Dean finds not only annoying, but rude. If you're going to handcuff someone to a chair, you should at least stick around and provide some entertainment.

He knows Sam's going to fail. The Mark burns; it's been burning since the first injection. Burning away the influence of Sam's blood. Like Sam Winchester's blood is going to cure him anyway, he laughs quietly to himself, cause the son of a bitch has more demonic street cred than Dean does.

{But he doesn't know it's not going to work. If you let him think it's working, you'll be out of these cuffs in eight hours, and bye bye Sammy.}

He looks around again. The building is dark and musty and boring as hell, and it's not anything like a church, but it still reminds Dean of the church where he said he could always rely on Sam, and Sam said he wouldn't try to die.

{And you were both lying.}

Of course, Sam's not the first family member determined to die on Dean. And when Sam finally makes it back, easing gingerly into a chair across from him, hand against his injured side, Dean's ready to talk about it.

"Hey, Sam?" he says. "You remember when you asked me if Dad said anything before he died? And I told you he didn't?"

Sam doesn't move, doesn't look at Dean. "Yeah, I know. You lied."

"But you don't know all of it. He didn't just tell me you were a freak and I might have to kill you. He told me a lot of other things. He apologized for being a crap father. He told me he was proud of me."

Sam still doesn't move. "Good for you," he says quietly.

"He didn't tell you anything like that, did he? I wonder why."

Sam glares silently at the wall, as if Dean didn't know exactly what he was thinking, as if he wasn't wearing years of heartbreak on his face for anyone to read.

"In fact," Dean continues, "the last thing he said about you was that I might have to kill you. Kinda funny, don't you think? He died to save my ass, and then he told me to kill you."

"Yeah. Hilarious. Too bad you didn't have the balls."

"I do now, Sammy. Uncuff me and I'll show you." Dean flashes a black-eyed grin as Sam prepares another injection.

///

Read part 3