Work Text:
Long Parched
*
Sam breaks the lock on the steel door with a crowbar.
He scans the corners of the room with his flashlight, brings to life nets hanging from wooden pillars white like cataracts. The basement reeks of urine and stale air, but underneath, a sweet smell tickles his nose, something incongruous to the place but alluring.
Then he finds Dean, a shapeless form pushed against the farthest wall, face hidden in the deepest shadows.
Sam says, "Dean."
Says, "Hey, man."
Says, "Fuck," when Dean turns slowly and the light captures red-rimmed eyes.
Three long steps and he kneels in front of Dean. Sam tests him one-handed: his limbs for broken bones and his chest for bleeding wounds. He finds neither. Dean allows Sam's check-up and then pats Sam's arms and the side of his face. Dean's skin is damp, his breath faltering. His skin is clammy and slimy like the floor.
"I'm all right, Sammy. Was waiting for you."
Sam breathes in air that's clogged with water and so heavy it settles solid in his lungs. The floor's viscous, slippery with mildew. His flashlight digs moving shadows off the walls, a reflection of his trembling hand and his settling heart.
Dean's breath rattles in his chest. Sam thinks, a week and something hard and cold gets loose in his own. He grabs Dean's shoulder, shakes him.
"You came. Been waiting for you. Knew you'd come," Dean says.
Sam wants to say: Sorry it took me so long. Sorry I keep failing you. Sorry, I'll try to be better.
He says, "C'mon, man. Let's get you up and standing."
Says, "Get you out of here."
Dean stands, back dragging against the wall; he says, "No, no. We can't. Gotta save… I gotta--"
"Who, Dean?" Sam asks. He remembers victims they were supposed to avenge: Susans and Janes and Peters, new ones they were hoping to save, before Dean became one himself.
"There," Dean says. He point Sam's hands toward the skeleton of an empty shelf. Behind it there's a door. "I found it, Sammy. Down there."
Dean drags Sam toward the door. "I was waiting for you," he says. "Couldn't do it without you--" His voice fades into mangled words Sam can't discern anymore.
He should haul Dean out of here – he could. Dean looks so frail, a faded old picture. Sam doesn't. Instead he lets Dean pull him toward the door. When Sam crosses it, he sees fresh scratches carved into the frame that glint red in the flashlight.
*
The door leads to another room and then to a tunnel. The air is soaked with dust and damp. But the sweet scent is stronger here, although Sam's getting used to it.
It must be the plants. The ceiling of the tunnel is covered with an intricate canopy of vines, the leaves twisted on long limbs heavy with sherry-red flowers that hang upside-down. Sam takes one, the petals are velvety, thin as paper; inside the crown, the stems are slender and heavy with pollen that leaves a powdery layer on his fingers. He brings one to his nose: it smells amazing.
Sam remembers to ask, "Who took you, Dean?"
Dean shrugs, says, "Nasty sonofoabitch. But I took care of it, Sammy."
Says, "I couldn't get out after, and then I found it."
Says, "I've been waiting for you."
Dean staggers then, and leans onto the wall. The flashlight catches a shower of red pollen and loose petals and leaves.
Sam breathes the smell in. Dean's eyes are bright, his hair is red with dust, but he smiles at Sam, and says, "Couldn't do it alone."
Sam's heart picks up. Dean needs him. "Okay, Dean," he says. "Okay. How far?"
Dean's smile carves dusty crinkles around his eyes.
He says, "We're nearly there."
Says, "It's not far."
Says," Then we get out."
*
Sam follows Dean through convoluted tunnels, and down three-step stairs, around corners and along sharp curves. He moves without hesitation, and Sam wonders how Dean can be so sure of the path, wonders how many times he's walked the same one in the last seven days.
Something scrapes at the back of Sam's brain, something urgent that he needs to say, but the sway of Dean's shoulders and head is hypnotic , and Sam forgets and keeps walking.
The vines are thicker, now; they trail down the walls doubling them with a layer of leaves. Flowers coat the ground like the softest carpet. The path is narrow, and the ceiling is low enough Sam could stretch his arm above his head and touch it.
The air is sweet like melted sugar – an afternoon spent at the fair when he was ten, mouth and hands sticky with cotton candy.
Sam smacks his lips to taste it.
"We're very close," Dean says again from ahead. Sam points the flashlight his way. A few fallen leaves are caught in Dean's hair.
*
The muscles on Sam's legs cramp with each step, but he keeps going , his one-two, one-two, rhythm matching Dean's own. With each step he leaves behind another layer of worry. His demon's blood is a distant memory and as are the apocalypse and the gnawing anxiety he's carried for so long.
Dean starts humming something under his breath, a lullaby maybe, low indiscernible notes that remind Sam of the noise of the wind through the trees. He has to bend to better listen. Dean's smell is amazing.
*
Finally Dean slows down; he turns to gaze at Sam , smiles, and says, "C'mon."
Sam follows. The tunnel opens on a circular room. At Sam's feet, close to the entrance, a woman is laying on the ground. Her face is half hidden by leaves and flowers, the vines twirl around her neck and arms, trail under her cotton t-shirt and along her pale arms and down her legs. Under her body, a mattress of flowers. Her lips are curved upward in a happy smile; Sam smiles, too.
A few feet ahead, a boy leans against the wall, kept upright by a cocoon of thin vines. His arms are loose at his side, his body nearly swallowed by the plant. In the flashlight the flowers glow luxurious and glossy. And then Sam sees a couple, huddled together against a pillow of leaves, their gazes locked on each other. A child, face slack and serene. Women and men and so many other bodies.
Dean's palm is warm on Sam's shoulder. "Shh," he says. "Don't bother them; they're resting. "C'mon," he says. "We can rest soon."
Sam nods and watches as Dean opens a passage through the wall of leaves and flowers. He's gentle, reverent.
"Here," Dean says. Sam bends and gets inside.
"It's nice," Sam says.
Vines stretch upward and twirl around his legs and gently ease him onto the soft ground. Another circles his arms and then his chest. The flashlight rolls from his loose grip, lights Dean's smile from below. There are more leaves in Dean's hair, more sherry-red flowers.
Something moves beside Sam, something solid that grabs his arm and shakes him hard: he looks, recognizes Dean's hand and the familiar smell of his leather jacket. He follows it and meets Dean's gaze and there's something terrible into Dean's eyes that Sam wants to soothe.
Dean says, "Sammy, no -- please."
Tears are caught in his eyelashes and on the leaves and flowers that blossom from his skin. Sam wipes them away. He doesn't understand why Dean looks so stressed. Confused, Sam looks up at the other Dean. Only he doesn't look like Dean anymore, but a vague human shape with arms like branches and legs like the solid trunk of an old tree, his hair is a thick mane of leaves.
"He wouldn't rest up until you came," the tree says with a voice of rustling leaves.
Sam understands.
"He'll rest now," he promises.
He moves closer to Dean and gently pats his face.
Sam says, "You know it's right, Dean. I'm here now. You can rest."
Says, "You've been so tired."
Says, "We can sleep now."
Dean contorts against Sam's hold, but he's too weak and finally he settles.
"Good," Sam says and smiles when Dean's lids slid close.
The flashlight flickers off and Sam too closes his eyes.
--