Chapter Text
“Dean?”
He was surprised to hear his brother’s voice, even more surprised when he realized he’d closed his eyes. Dean peeled his lids open again to the sight of nothing but inky blackness. Not blind, he told himself. There was just no more fire going, not even a tiny spark. He must have zoned out for a while. Okay, fallen asleep was more like it – and so had his brother. It must have been well past midnight by now, or maybe even the next morning, not that the absolute darkness around them gave any indication of the time. But his bladder reminded him of how long they had already been here. And his limbs were stiff from all that sitting around. But he didn’t dare to move further away, too afraid to jostle Sam. He turned his head to the left and tried to get a glimpse of his brother’s face that no doubt was still pressed into his shoulder, but he couldn’t even see vague outlines.
“Sam?”
A long moment of silence seemed to stretch the air to the point of breaking. What if Sad hadn’t fallen asleep again, but his uttering of Dean’s name was the last thing he’d managed to say before… What if he’d silently passed out? Dean’s breath caught in his throat, and he was tempted to shake his brother’s shoulders.
“You think…” Sam mumbled right next to his ear, totally out of the blue. Thank goodness he was conscious, and apparently, he even wanted to talk. That was good news, right? Dean relaxed again. “You think… someone’s gonna… get us outta here?” Sam’s words weren’t running together as bad as before, but he sounded winded and miserable despite just sitting there, doing nothing for hours.
Dean sighed heavily, still hoping for Cas to figure out his message. So far, no rescue squad had shown up. “I don’t know.”
“But we gotta…” Sam’s small voice trailed off.
“What? Be back home in time for our show?”
Some Netflix, popcorn, and beer right about now sounded wonderful. Well, actually, falling asleep to some generic action flick sounded great. Or maybe eating a burger? Dean’s mind wandered to his favorite diner, his mouth watering with the bacon special he loved. As if on cue, Dean’s stomach growled. Neither of them had packed any provisions though, not even water, too sure of themselves that this case would be over in a matter of a few hours. Well, Dean had been sure, and Sam hadn’t objected loudly enough. His attention was once again drawn to the sounds of drip, drip, drip. But the tiny trickle of water from the wall was immensely salty – Dean had checked while stretching a few hours earlier – and therefore unpalatable.
“No, we… we gotta find Amara,” Sam whispered.
That had Dean stunned for a moment. Wasn’t their current mess bad enough even without talking about another huge pile of crap they had yet to clean up? Of course, Dean was glad Sam was talking. Talking meant not falling asleep or passing out, which was generally a good thing. But for someone who had hit his head, his brother was annoyingly coherent at this moment.
“Sam,” he breathed. “Let’s focus on the here and now. I know you’re hellbent on finding her, but—”
“Yeah, I am,” Sam said, slowly twisting a little beside his brother so he was turned more towards Dean. “I freed her. This is all… my fault.”
The older brother stared into the darkness, wringing his hands despite the pain in his left. Why did they have to have this particular conversation now? Couldn’t they just pass the time by talking about puppies or porn stars or anything but this? Apparently, Sam thought now was as good a time as any to chat about the Darkness. And frankly, they had nothing but time down here. To Dean there wasn’t anything to discuss though because what’s done was done. They couldn’t turn back time, well not really. Hmm, maybe that was something he should consult Cas about if they ever got out of here. Uh, when they got out of here.
So yes, apparently, they were having this conversation now. Just great.
“What? It’s not your fault, I mean not really. You didn’t know what would happen,” Dean said calmly. “I’d say we did this. Together.”
There, that should settle it.
“No. I’m the one who talked you outta… goin’ with Death’s plan.”
Apparently, it wasn’t settled.
“Yeah, well, I’m the one who signed up for that damned Mark. I started this.”
Sam groaned, seemingly having trouble finding his words. “If you’d jus’ killed me—”
“Whoa, stop right there,” Dean interjected.
Earlier he’d been worried about Sam starting another fight. Now he worried that there was no more fight left in him. His tone spoke of nothing but surrender. Defeat.
It was the same old story with Sam. He couldn’t seriously think Dean would ever consciously decide to kill his own brother. Yeah, alright, in the past there had been a few occasions when he’d come pretty close. Just a few weeks ago, to be precise. He’d actually said to Sam’s face that he’d been right when he’d wanted to finish the Trials back in that church. That Sam had been right to die for the greater good. And that was something Dean hadn’t entirely forgiven himself for yet. But he’d been on someone else’s orders, always under some kind of evil influence. This time, not only the Mark of Cain but Death himself had manipulated him into believing Sam’s death was the only solution to their troubles. True, if he’d gone through with it there would have been no one left to try to save him from the Mark. Dean would have kept living eternally – or wound up a demon in the end. Either way, the Darkness wouldn’t have been released. The cosmic balance, whatever that was, would still be okay.
But shouldn’t Sam know by now that Dean didn’t care one bit about the cosmic balance if Sam didn’t live to see it?
Dean blindly turned his head to his brother, lightly elbowing him in the arm, then said, “You really are a pain in the ass sometimes, okay, pretty much every day. But I do not regret what happened.” He listened to Sam’s hitching breath, then asked, “You hear me, Sammy? You’re my little brother. I couldn’t kill you. I can’t. I never will. And I should’ve never listened to Death in the first place.”
Now that should reassure Sam and make him shut up, right? Right?! Sam should’ve figured out by now that Dean’s strong protective streak concerning his little brother wasn’t just a responsibility or his job, it was his choice.
There was a quiet shuddering breath beside him. “But he was… right. Now I’m still here, and I’m the reason Amara was set free.”
For crying out loud!
“You did what you thought was right. Okay? I get it,” Dean said. “Besides, remember? I’m the one who talked you out of closing the gates of Hell. I think we’re even.”
And Dean meant it. As far as he was concerned, there was no more bad blood between them. They had both screwed up big time in the past, and they would probably do that a few more times in the future too. They’d been at each other’s throats more often than he could count, and yet they’d gone to lengths normal people wouldn’t even consider to save each other. That’s how their weird lives worked, getting in trouble only to do everything to pull each other out of the fustercluck at the last second. And as long as Sam was with him, Dean would gladly take on all the monsters in the world.
Apparently, Sam still wasn’t quite convinced.
“Dean, jus’… go. Leave me. You’ve got a chance,” he whispered, no pleaded.
Oh boy.
Dean had thought Sam was good. That they were good. Now he wasn’t so sure anymore.
“What? No way.” Dean was getting frustrated. “Didn’t you get the memo? It’s frigging far to the top. I’m not Batman, dude.” Even though he wished he were. “Also, newsflash, I broke my wrist. Hand, whatever. I can’t climb that wall. No one can. Well, you giant would have better chances at that if you weren’t all fuzzy in the head. But the way things are, neither one of us is leaving.”
At that, Sam slumped some more towards him, leaning heavily on his shoulder. Dean’s ever-present worry was starting to bubble up hot in his chest again, for more than one reason. Both Sam’s body slowly shutting down and at the same time his mind staying annoyingly alert, rambling on of his part in freeing the Darkness, were alarming.
“But you’re gonna die here.” Sam sounded beyond tired and exhausted, which he probably was. “I… I can’t let that happen.”
“I’m not gonna die, Sam.”
Dean just had to believe this. Sure, their current situation didn’t look rosy, but they’d had worse, right? Much worse. They would get out of here somehow, and soon… wouldn’t they? His brother didn’t seem to hear him though, or he ignored Dean’s words as he continued mumbling things that Dean absolutely didn’t want to hear. Like ever.
“If it’s jus’ me that’s okay, but you…”
There was a finality to Sam’s tone Dean didn’t like one bit. Hadn’t they been over this already? Back in the church, back when Sam had been freaking dying right before Dean’s eyes and he hadn’t even cared. And again, back in that Mexican-themed bar when Sam had been ready to die at Dean’s hands. Dean knew that Sam had made his peace with dying a long time ago. But right freaking now? An all too familiar sensation of fear welled in his chest at his brother’s words. And for the first time tonight he wished Sam would just pass out so he would finally be quiet about this.
“Sam, stop it. No one’s dying tonight.” He hoped.
Dammit, this conversation was giving him a headache, or maybe the lack of vision and water was. If his head was pounding like he’d banged it against a wall, Sam couldn’t possibly feel any better – Dean’s bet was on worse. So, he had to do something to wrap this up.
For a Winchester, Dean adopted drastic measures.
He reached over with his good hand to cup his brother’s cheek while his left arm snuck around Sam’s shoulders to tug him closer to his chest. Sam didn’t even resist, just quietly let himself be pulled into an awkward semi-hug. Semi or not, it was an honest-to-God hug – just for Sam’s sake, of course. Dean wasn’t quite sure whether it was because of Sam’s sheer exhaustion, the concussion, or his unguarded need for physical contact, but Sam let it happen without protest. There was no one here to watch them anyway, but even if there were, Dean wouldn’t care. In secret, the physical proximity already made him feel lighter, and he hoped it was doing the same for Sam.
Dean breathed deeply, then asked despite not really wanting an answer, “Sammy, what’s wrong with you? Even if I could, I’d never leave you to rot in here. You hear me?”
“But you said…” Sam’s voice was weak and muffled against Dean’s overalls as his head was pressed into the fabric.
His brother probably smeared crusted blood everywhere when his head sank down from Dean’s shoulder to his chest. But Dean didn’t care because whatever was going through Sam’s mind was so not good. At all. He knew he’d said a lot of crap while being a demon, and some more when he’d still worn the cursed Mark. But what exactly had he said to cause his brother this much distress?
“What?”
“Never mind.”
Dean tapped Sam’s cheek again. Something in his gut told him he really needed to know. “Sammy, talk to me, come on.”
“You… you were right,” Sam breathed, then sighed almost inaudibly, “Should’ve been me.”
“What?”
That made no sense whatsoever. Sam was seriously freaking him out right now. Dean felt his heart hammering rapidly underneath the weight of Sam’s head. All of a sudden, it struck Dean’s mind that the hit to the head might have stirred up some weird things within his little brother’s mind. Stuff like hell, the cage, Lucifer. Stuff like losing Bobby. Stuff like the Trials. Stuff like Gadreel. Stuff like trauma after trauma after trauma. Dean’s grip around his brother tightened, his breath coming out in short gasps. He wished he could see Sam’s face, look him in the eye and tell him everything was fine. But there was nothing but darkness, and Sam wasn’t fine.
“Sammy?”
His little brother’s body trembled like a leaf in Dean’s arms, his breath hot and ragged against his chest. For a minute, Sam said nothing. A tiny part of Dean hoped that their awkward conversation was finally over, yet the protective-big-brother part, which was basically 99.9 percent of his being, was anxious to know what was going on with his brother.
There was a long sigh, then Sam whispered, “I’m on borrowed time already. I get… I get people killed, all the ones I care about.” There was a pause as Dean held his breath. Could this get any worse? Then Sam continued, “The ones you care about. It should’ve been me, not…”
Oh yes, it could get worse. So much worse.
It finally dawned on Dean what Sam was talking about. So, that trauma had been stirred up, the one Dean had unsuccessfully tried to bury. Or maybe it hadn’t been dug out from the depths of Sam’s mind at all. Maybe it had been right there before his eyes all along, and Dean had just been too blind to see it. The thought was enough to make his chest tighten painfully.
And suddenly, it made that much more sense to him why Sam was so intent on righting their latest mess, aside from the obvious reasons. The sacrifices that had been made to make Dean’s salvation happen were fueling his determination. He wanted to make up for the damage he’d done. And it was their most recent loss that was weighing heavily on Sam at this very moment. Or as Dean now realized, the words he had directed at his little brother that fateful day were crushing him.
It should be you.
It should have been Sam to die instead of Charlie, that’s what Sam meant, there was no doubt.
Sam still felt guilty as hell for Charlie getting caught in the crossfire of his fight to find a cure for the Mark of Cain. His plan had worked in the end: the Mark was gone. But Charlie had paid the horrific price. And now the entire planet was paying as well because Sam’s strategy had ultimately led to freeing an evil so old and powerful that no one knew how to stop her.
But wasn’t talking about Amara enough to worsen their misery in this precarious situation? Now Sam had to top the long list of things Dean so not wanted to think about right now with the latest of their many painful losses. Why did they have to talk about this now, of all times, when Sam was concussed and hurting already? When he was vulnerable? When they were trapped in an inky black space where Dean couldn’t even see his brother’s expression, the no doubt unshed tears and raw pain in his eyes?
Maybe that’s why Sam had chosen this exact moment to face up to Dean on purpose.
Dammit. Dean knew that Sam had a tendency to blame himself for everything bad that happened to the people around them. It kind of ran in the family, he conceded. What seemed like a lifetime ago, Sam had been convinced he would turn evil – a monster – because of the demon blood inside him, and he’d been ready to sacrifice himself if it meant that his loved ones would live. Maybe he still felt like that to this day. A few years ago, while in a feverish delirium, he’d admitted to Dean that he’d been feeling tainted ever since he was a kid, and the Trials would purify him – the Trials he’d never finished because of Dean.
All his life, Sam had carried a weight with him that bit by bit seemed to smother him. And all the guilt, all the self-blame seeped out of him at this moment.
But the worst of it was that Dean was the one who had made Sam believe he should atone for his sins by dying.
Crap.
Despite Dean having basically revoked those awful words only a few days after they’d been spoken by killing Death himself instead of his little brother, Sam still seemed to stew over them. Actions speak louder than words, they say, but apparently, Dean’s actions hadn’t spoken loudly enough.
Maybe it really was time to talk.
Dean steeled himself, his stomach twisting, and his grip tightening once again on his little brother. His body felt stiff and sore, but what really bothered him wasn’t the physical damage he’d taken. His heart ached with everything they had lost, with everything they had sacrificed, with everything they had gone through. It ached the most with the knowledge that he’d hurt his own brother. He’d made him believe the only way to make up for his mistakes was dying. And even after everything, Sam was still ready to die, which scared Dean more than he’d ever admit out loud.
Apparently, Sam wasn’t just ready but convinced he would actually die tonight, and he wanted to spill all the ugly guilt pangs on his mind before that happened. He wanted Dean to know. He was seeking redemption – forgiveness – when there was nothing for Dean to forgive. Instead, Dean suddenly felt like it was his turn to beg for absolution.
“Sam, that’s what this is about? Charlie?” he asked quietly, shuddering at saying her name. He already knew the answer and still couldn’t quite manage to keep the quiver out of his voice.
There was no coherent reply except for a muffled, “Jus’ lemme… go.” Never mind Sam was holding on tightly to his brother. And weren’t those the words Dean’s demonic counterpart had written to Sam a few months ago as a final goodbye?
No real answer was an answer after all. This was about Charlie. It was about Dean’s words that were now ricocheting like thunder and lightning in his head.
It should be you.
Dean exhaled shakily, rubbing his by now swollen and numb hand across Sam’s shoulder. Now he didn’t just painfully – vividly – remember his own words spoken at her funeral but also the ones Sam had said. Dean, you’re all I’ve got. Of course, Sam would fight for his big brother, but that didn’t mean there were no regrets. You think I’m ever gonna forgive myself for that?
“Sammy, please,” Dean said, voice trembling just like his fingers did from a wave of regret passing through him. “When I said that, I was pissed at you. You… you lied to me, big time.” All those lies about the Book of the Damned, about involving Charlie, about the deal to kill Crowley… keeping secrets had always been a bad idea. Of course, Dean had been mad. But he himself had once said family’s got your back even when it hurts. So, he added softly, “We’d just lost her. And it hurt, it still hurts like hell.”
Hurt didn’t begin to cover it. Charlie’s death was like a never healing burn mark on their souls. She’d been their friend; she’d been smart and fun and passionate and kind. She deserved so much better. Maybe Sam had a point. Being friends with the Winchesters never seemed to end well. Perhaps Charlie really would have been better off without them. Definitely. She would be alive.
Dean paused, carefully listening to Sam’s uneven breathing. They had never talked about this before. And now he was wondering why they hadn’t. Maybe Sam had tried, and Dean had shut him out. He just hadn’t listened, virtually pretending it had never happened. Now it seemed silence wasn’t so golden after all. He should have told Sam long ago that even though Charlie’s death had been devastating, he didn’t mean the awful words he’d spat at his little brother. Like at all. It should be you… burning to ashes on a pyre – his words had been nothing but cruel, aimed at causing maximum pain within the recipient. How could he do that to his own brother? Well, Dean knew how, he knew it all too well. Of course, he didn’t want Sam to die, now that he had full control over his own mind again. He should have said so as soon as the Mark had been taken from him. But with everything going down in those past weeks, the issue had simply never come up again.
“I was desperate,” Sam interjected Dean’s train of thoughts quietly. Desperation was probably still a mild euphemism for what Sam had felt, Dean knew it. In hindsight, it was crystal clear. Sam had been absolutely terrified by the prospect of losing his big brother, by watching him turn into a demon. Again. Dean perked his ears to grasp the faint words. “To… to get rid of the Mark. And I didn’t care ‘bout the consequences. But then she—” Sam almost choked on the words, and it sounded a lot like a sob. Grief and hurt were radiating off him like heat waves. Dean’s heart rebroke along with his brother’s, his own breathing accelerating. “An’ that’s all my fault. It is,” Sam muttered. “I should be the one to pay for that.”
“Sammy.” Dean pushed the familiar nickname from his lips against the rising pressure in his chest. Now he was the one getting desperate. “I know you’re hurting, you’re feeling guilty. But rotting in a salt mine is not gonna change anything, it’s not gonna bring her back. So just stop. Please.”
“But you were right. As long as I’m around—” Sam coughed into the jumpsuit. “People get hurt.”
For Christ’s sake!
Dean shifted again, feeling every bit as lost as his brother. He squeezed Sam’s shoulder, fighting back tears. Why he even fought in the darkness where no one could see him crying, he didn’t know. But he knew that he had to get through to his brother, right freaking now, or they would never get out of here in one piece.
“Listen to me. Yes, people get hurt, they do. And it sucks,” he said as calmly as possible, which wasn’t very calm at all. “But a hell of a lot of people are alive because of you, too. Because of us. We save people.”
Not long ago, Sam had said, saving people meant all the people. After Charlie, he was more resolute than ever to make this right. But that simply wasn’t possible, as much as it hurt. They still tried hard though. Sam kept quiet, and Dean hoped that was a good thing.
“What I said was wrong. On so many levels. It was a stupid thing to say. I was just so—” He inhaled deeply, feeling his eyes burn as he said, “It felt like the world was crashing down on me, and I didn’t know a way out. The Mark… it was consuming me, all of me.”
There. A confession. Back then, despite always pretending how easy-peasy it was, it had truly felt like he’d been buried alive by that damned curse. And at this moment it almost felt like that too.
Sam pressed even further into Dean’s chest, his hand fisting the fabric of the overalls. Dean wasn’t quite sure, but he thought he heard Sam sniffling. He couldn’t blame him. Dean himself was overwhelmed with emotions, his throat tight with a lump that had been continuously growing with every word he’d said. The memory of what the Mark had done to him, what the Mark had made him do, threatened to choke all the air from his lungs. The curse had weighed heavily on both of them, maybe it still was. But he had to keep going and get these things off his chest. If they really did die here in this damn salt mine like the ghost they had freed – which he still hoped wouldn’t happen – he needed Sam to know the truth.
And the truth was that the Mark of Cain had nearly cost him everything. Anger and rage had simmered within him constantly for months, so close to the surface – one wrong move and all the wrath would have burst out of him. And he’d been a fraction of an inch away from that one last wrong move just seconds before the curse had finally been lifted. Charlie had been the last straw. Despite having told himself otherwise, Dean had then lost control over the cursed scar. No, scratch that – he’d never had any control to begin with. The minute Cain had transferred the Mark to him, Dean had wanted nothing but to kill and hurt, to lash out and destroy everything around him. The urge to crush something, someone, had been there ever since.
The only thing keeping him sane over these past months was sitting right beside him at this moment. The only person dragging him away from the abyss was right here – ironically at the bottom of a quite literal abyss.
Take these as a guide, he’d said, placing worn photographs of their family before him. They can help you remember what it was to be good. What it was to love.
Oh, how Dean remembered to love. And how goddamn much it hurt.
He’d loved Charlie like a sister. And she was gone. He wasn’t going to lose Sam, too.
Sam was the one who had saved Dean. If he hadn’t succeeded in that, Dean would have killed him sooner or later. There was no doubt. He would have killed his own brother, and he would have enjoyed it. Despite the big brother in him having fought tooth and nail against the hold of the Mark, the curse had grown stronger and stronger – the desire to butcher everything and everyone in his way had increased to a point where he’d become too weak to resist. Taking revenge on, no, murdering the entire Styne family had quenched his bloodthirst only for so long. He’d wanted more.
He’d wanted Cas dead. The angel blade had already been in his grip, ready to strike.
He’d wanted Sam dead. The hammer barely missing his brother’s skull a few months earlier suddenly flared up before his inner eye. Then the disturbing images overlapped with the terrifying reappearance of the scythe that had almost ended Sam’s life only a few weeks ago. Sam had almost died. Had almost been killed by his own brother. Dean had been ready to trade Sam’s life.
And now the thought alone almost made Dean’s heart explode. He swallowed hard, ignoring how his stomach seemed to have the intention of turning itself inside out.
“I wasn’t really myself,” he whispered so lowly that he couldn’t be sure Sam heard him.
He licked his parched lips. Man, what he would give for a drink right about now. And that meant actual water, the non-salty kind, not alcohol. That’s how desperate times were.
“I mean, I was but only to a degree. When Charlie died, I was just so damn angry. The Mark was making me furious all the time. I—” Dean’s voice hitched, and now he was on the brink of tears, but he didn’t care anymore. “I couldn’t control it. None of it. And that’s on me.” He sighed, quickly wiping his cheek. Because yes, all of this was his fault. The second he’d taken on Cain’s curse, he’d condemned not only himself but his brother too. He should have known Sam would take it upon himself to save his brother. Sam felt like he owed Dean, he owed him everything, his whole life – when in fact, Sam had unknowingly been saving Dean all his life just by existing. Dean whispered, “You had to stop it, you had to stop me. I know now there wasn’t any other way.” He stroked Sam’s shoulder again, releasing a shaky breath. “I would’ve killed you.” The words hurt like red-hot daggers to his heart. “But I’ve never wanted you to get hurt, well, not the part that was still me. Never in a million years. You have to know that, Sammy.”
Dean looked down, and if the scenery hadn’t already been pitch-black, it now would have been blurred on top. His good hand blindly found its way to Sam’s mop of hair anyway. He ruffled the dusty strands, pretending that it was just a gesture of brotherly banter when, in fact, he needed the contact to ground himself.
When after a minute there was still no response, he whispered, “It should not have been you, okay? It should never be you. Sam, I’m sorry.”
Now it was all out. Dean’s back had leaned against the wall heavily before. Now he all but deflated, all the energy he’d had left draining out of him.
He sensed some more quiet sniveling and an even tighter grip on the fabric of his jumpsuit. “Dean, please, don’… don’t say you’re sorry.”
Dean’s absentminded mussing of Sam’s hair stopped, his chest still tight with how close he’d come to losing his brother – how close he’d come to killing him with his own hands. How much he’d wanted him dead. And yet Sam refused to let him apologize? In a weird and probably totally unhealthy, codependent way, Sam’s stubbornness was oddly reassuring. Apparently, he was still convinced none of this was Dean’s fault. He still trusted his big brother no matter what. And that was enough to ease some of the lingering discomfort in Dean’s heart.
“Sammy, listen to me. I don’t want this to stand between us any longer. After all the crap that’s happened—”
His mind was carried back to their innumerable fights over the years, to how Heaven and Hell had been trying to drive a wedge between them long before they were born. They had always fought back, together. And against all odds, they had won. Every single time. Alone they were nothing. But as long as they worked as a team, they could do anything. For the first time in years, they actually were a team again, no demons or angelic douchebags or ancient curses tearing them apart. No one was pulling their strings. It was just Sam and Dean against the world. The way it was supposed to be. So, they would overcome the current crisis as well – meaning both this stupid mine and the Darkness. But only if Dean managed to convince his little brother that he wanted them to be a team again. Brothers.
After everything they’d been through, he didn’t want Sam to remember him by those ugly words, by a lie. If they died tonight, or ever, he wanted Sam to remember him by all the truths that had been spoken between them.
I’m not gonna leave you.
You and me, come whatever.
There ain’t no me if there ain’t no you.
Dean willed his heartbeat to slowly normalize as he tried to steady his breathing. As firmly as his strained vocal cords allowed, he said, “After everything—we’re finally back to being brothers.”
There was another long pause, so long that Dean wasn’t sure he would ever get an answer. The air around him seemed to stretch and heat up unbearably, clogging his head like fog. He carefully squeezed his brother’s shoulders again, almost convinced Sam had fallen asleep – or worse, passed out – with the way his frame had relaxed against Dean’s chest and his breathing had evened out.
Then the silence broke, as did the tension in the air.
“I’m sorry, Dean,” Sam mumbled, relief lacing his words. He lifted his head an inch from its place above Dean’s heart as if to look up at him even if there was nothing to see in the darkness.
Finally.
Sam’s words weren’t an apology for all his flaws, well maybe not much. And Dean was glad because that wasn’t what he needed to hear. They were an apology for having given up, for thinking Dean no longer wanted to be with him, wanted to get rid of him. As if Dean – in the possession of his own free will and mind, that is – could ever harm a hair on his annoying little brother’s head. The notion was almost absurd enough to laugh about it. Maybe they would someday, but not tonight.
“I know, Sammy, I know.” Dean gently patted his brother’s shoulder. “Me too.”
Dean inhaled deeply, soaking up his brother’s warmth against his chest. Finally, after everything they’d gone through, they were good. They might be screwed to hell, hurting and bloody and so damn thirsty that he could drain an entire swimming pool at this point – and they might still die in this damned salt mine – but at least they had each other. And that was all they had ever needed.
After another long period of silence, Sam shifted, still leaning heavily against his brother and not intent on freeing himself from Dean’s grasp, but at least not squeezing the life out of his overalls anymore.
“Dean?”
“Hmm?”
“I’m glad we’re here.”
Dean held on, perplexed. “What?”
“That we’re here… together.”
Dean chuckled. There really was no other person in the entire universe he’d rather be trapped with 788 feet underground.
“Yeah, me too. Looks like you’re gonna be stuck with me for another while.”
Whether another while meant until search and rescue finally came to free them, or whether he was talking about a while till death do us part – even though, technically, there was no more Death, and he wasn’t quite sure how the whole dying thing worked now – he left open. But who was he kidding? Of course, the brothers would stick together until one or both of them bit it, which could be today, in a week, or decades from now. They’d only ever had each other, and that was more than enough. Their – well, he wouldn’t say it in so many words, but that’s what it was – their love for each other was more than enough. It was everything. Fact was Sam and Dean weren’t meant to be apart. And not even Heaven and Hell or a damned mine could do anything about that. And who knew, maybe they would even share an eternal afterlife someday? Wasn’t there something about bonded souls sharing their piece of Heaven?
And suddenly, dying in a dark hole with his brother by his side didn’t sound like the worst way to go.
It wasn’t exactly acceptance yet, there was still too much fight left in Dean to let go that easily. Too much hope that they would make it out alive. Too many things he still needed to say, needed to do. Too many things he still wanted his brother to experience. This wasn’t how he’d pictured their ending, not at all – a stupid salt mine and an even stupider case being what finally brought them to their knees. It was ridiculous, offending even. But he couldn’t help but feel something warm washing over him that felt a lot like peace. If they died during a crappy hunt, together, would that really be so bad?
But if they actually were to die in here – permanently – it would be a shame not to see a star-spattered night sky one last time, or the awesome map table in the bunker. Or his baby. But all he really needed to see one last time was his brother.
Focus set, Dean carefully pulled away his good hand and rummaged around in his pockets only to find the nearly empty matchbox. He fumbled with it one-handedly, then finally held the last match between his fingers.
“Save it,” Sam mumbled, obviously having noticed what Dean was doing.
“What for? Doesn’t make a difference.”
But it did make a difference. Because that one match would allow the brothers to see each other, maybe for the last time ever. Sam seemed to get it too, and he didn’t protest.
Dean maneuvered his hands to meet above Sam’s head, held the box with one hand, and the match with the other, then ignited it in one swift strike. The orange glow almost blinded him after hours of absolute pitch-black darkness. But he kept his eyes open, not even daring to blink as he looked down at his brother’s face. The face that was tilted upwards, gazing at him like Sam had all his life. Dean’s free hand instinctively wrapped around Sam’s shoulder again. He completely ignored the blood on his brother’s face and just saw Sam. The brothers’ eyes met, twinkling green searching glassy hazel in one last attempt at reassurance. Their smiles were bright and fond, saying without words what they both knew in their hearts. They were memorizing each other’s features, burning them into their minds and souls. There was a hint of bittersweetness in both their expressions just before the light went out.
Their prison darkened again, but Dean’s soft smile lingered.
He might have just laid his eyes on something other than blackness for the very last time. If the last thing in life he saw was his brother, he couldn’t wish for more.
Dean squeezed Sam’s shoulder again, his heart overflowing with affection and gratitude. Then he loosened his grip. His left arm remained loosely wrapped around his brother’s shoulder, but his other hand that had been holding the match fell to his side, too heavy to hold up any longer. Sam seemed to feel similarly; his hand fell away from Dean’s overalls, and only his head rested above Dean’s collarbone. They were still close, closer than most people would probably be comfortable with, but they weren’t crushing each other anymore. They just sat side by side, savoring the moment and giving comfort to one another just by being.
A few moments later Dean closed his eyes. It made no difference after all. Maybe he would fall asleep again. Maybe Sam would too. But they really couldn’t do anything about any of it, so what was the point? From the stillness of Sam’s body against his, he could tell that Sam had probably followed his lead already. They remained silent, only half-listening to the drip, drip, drip until it faded into the background too. After another indefinite period of time, there was nothing but darkness and quietness. And Sam and Dean huddled together, half-asleep, waiting for… what exactly neither of them knew. Death? A miracle? Either way, the important thing was that they were together.
As it turned out the while Dean had been talking about earlier was only a couple more hours, not that he could actually tell. He would later be told that it took about a day after their luck had run out for a tiny spark of fortune to finally return. Faint sounds that weren’t the irritating drip, drip, drip filtered into Dean’s awareness. They sounded like shuffling, scratching, like… muffled steps? He’d long dozed off, his brother’s snoozing form pressed to his chest. But now something disturbed the peaceful quiet.
“Hey!”
And that’s when not only an annoyingly loud voice almost seemed to crush his eardrums. There was more. An even peskier light tickled his senses to semi-wakefulness.
A voice? Light?
Oh.
Oh!
“Here!” Dean croaked out before he’d fully woken up, slightly turning his stiff neck upwards.
His throat felt like sandpaper, and his tongue felt much too big. He hoped whoever had been shouting had heard his paper-thin voice. He blinked his eyes open, squinting against the harsh brightness a beam of light was casting on him and Sam. Dark outlines of people appeared behind the light at the edge of the cliff, hardly discernible. His brother awakened at this moment too, lifting his head an inch and craning his neck towards the source of the light. Dean quickly checked Sam over – pale, bruised, bloody and tired but alive – then looked up again, hope and relief washing over him so fast that he felt lightheaded. Or maybe it was thirst and hunger. It didn’t matter because search and rescue had finally come to save them.
Hallelujah. It really was a miracle.
“Found ‘em!” an unfamiliar voice yelled from above, other voices chiming in and shouting things Dean couldn’t grasp.
Their saviors had indeed found the brothers – huddled up to one another, despite their loosened hands in a way still hanging on to each other like their lives depended on it. Which was kind of accurate, to be honest. It probably looked funny to the strangers staring down at them, two grown men being that close. But Dean couldn’t care less. Apparently, Sam felt the same way because even now he only lifted his head from Dean’s shoulder but didn’t move away entirely.
“Your friend called, saying you haven’t come home after your salt mine tour and you might’ve gotten lost,” a strong voice echoed against the walls, louder than the rest and different from the one that had spoken first. “Had a pretty good intuition of where to look for you guys, too.”
Cas.
A smile flitted across Dean’s face, and he sent another silent prayer to the angel. Thank you.
“Sam, we’re getting out of here,” he whispered, one-handedly squeezing his brother’s frame once more.
He’d lie about it to his dying day – which, gladly, wouldn’t be today – but he hadn’t been quite sure anyone would come for them. He’d slowly started making his peace with dying in this damn salt mine, of all places. He’d come to terms with his brother taking his last breath right here, right beside him. Sam knew it, of course, but they would never breathe a word of this for the rest of their lives.
And now Dean was just overwhelmed with relief that today was not their last day after all.
The rescue team was preparing to get them out of the hole. It was only a matter of minutes now until they would get out of here, get some food and liquids in them, some pain meds in their systems, and their heads could finally hit a comfy pillow for the night. Oh yeah, Dean was so looking forward to his memory foam mattress. Cooking up an excuse for why they had ended up here in the first place, in the closed tunnels, was the least of his worries. He’d make something up on the fly, as he always did. They would be fine.
“Sammy, we’re gonna be okay,” he said.
Sam craned his head a little to be able to give his brother a tiny smile. “We are okay.”
Despite cracked lips, bruised and dirty skin and what felt like the worst hangover ever, Dean smiled back. After everything, Sam and Dean were still fighting, still brothers, and that was all they needed. Nothing could come between them. So yes, Sam and Dean were okay, and they knew that now. If there was one good thing coming out of this whole salt mine fiasco it was this.
They were no longer trapped, but they were stuck with each other, as they were meant to be.
The end.