A/N 1: It's been awhile since I posted a new story on here. I apologize for the delay. I never intended for my writing hiatus to be so long but it unfortunately happened that way. I want to thank everyone who took the time to contact me through review or pm to send a kind word or give advice. It's very much appreciated. I hope you will like this story.

A/N 2: I started this story right after 10x23 so it's now AU since 11x01 has aired. As I learned more about the season, I added some details but you will see that this is substantially different than 11x01.

A/N 3: The title of this story comes from an Anberlin album. Each chapter is named for a song on the album and contains lyrics from that song.

Dark Is A Way, Light Is A Place

Chapter 1: Down

Feel like a shell, yesteryears gone by
Bad decisions like ghosts that just won't die
I'm so sorry that I can't apologize
For what comes next is another long goodbye-Anberlin

oooooo

You can never have too much sky.

Where did I hear that before? He thought, distantly in the back of his mind. It was one of those thoughts that quickly flashed across the half sleeping, half conscious mind. He realized then, as he became more aware, that he was looking up at the sky. Then he smacked his lips in disgust. Dust. Dean Winchester tasted dust. In fact his whole mouth felt like it was coated with it. However, he didn't really know what had happened or what he possibly could have ingested that gave him the noxious flavor in the back of his throat. He realized his eyes were still half closed and he opened them wider, discovering quickly that when he looked over his shoulder that the world was somehow tilted on its side.

The blood rushed to his head, causing him to feel lightheaded and he remembered being younger, resting on the edge of the bed, his head hanging over the side with the same sort of sensation he had now. There would be someone talking to him, murmuring to him but he really wanted to go to sleep. His thoughts flitted dizzily in front of him like a butterfly floating from flower to flower. There was a house. A house on Mango Street. Had he lived there? No, it wasn't an actual house. It was a book! His brother talked about it with him, while he tried to go to sleep, explaining the metaphor about the sky. Sammy!

Then it all came rushing back to him: his meeting with Death, Sam intervening, the swing of the scythe precariously close to the top of his brother's head, so close that he saw Sam's hair ruffle with the whoosh of the breeze it caused. Then the mark violently evaporated from his arm, reassembling into a destructive force. There was lightening striking the ground, and then there was the darkness. It had erupted like a volcano, spitting and hissing at them as it charged forward as he and Sam, and possibly the world, had quite literally been consumed and turned upside down.

As he tried to regain his bearings, he realized that the world wasn't actually tilted, fortunately hadn't been thrown off its axis, but instead he was, or more accurately the car was. He opened his eyes wider, turning his face skyward again and saw with relief that the black sky had been replaced with an uncanny pristine blue one. A light wind brushed against his cheeks and for a moment he savored it. He realized then that he felt lighter somehow, that the burden of the mark had taken an incredible toll on him and now without it, there was a certain freedom he felt within. His feeling of serenity didn't last long however, because then it hit him, the car's roof was gone, had been completely shorn off. He jerked in his seat and realized there was something still weighing heavily on him, or rather, someone.

Instantly his heartrate quickened because he knew who he was with, and who had to be resting upon him. The car was on its driver's side and Sam had been on the passenger side, had run to the safety of the car as he had instructed, clutched him as the darkness engulfed them, as they felt the car lifted and then knew no more.

He didn't look at Sam at first, couldn't bring himself to do it. Then he rationalized that Sam had to be okay. Afterall, the car was turned on the driver's side and the passenger side was in the air, not against the ground which would be far more destructive. If he had somehow survived, then Sam had to be okay too. However, Sam wasn't on that side anymore. He was somehow strewn over him, and faintly he recalled why, as he had a memory of Sam throwing himself over him as a feeble means to protect him.

He wouldn't let himself ruminate on it though. No, first he had to extricate himself and he knew it would be incredibly difficult to do that, without looking at Sam. He tried to move himself upward in the seat in an attempt to slide out and over the side of the car, but then he realized his shirt was snagged on something. He reached down to pull it free and brushed something cold. He jumped when he realized it was Sam's hand, his fingers still holding on to him for dear life, locked into a white knuckled death grip. Dean took hold of it, noticing that Sam's hand was so chilled that his fear of looking worsened. He yanked his brother's hand away, regretting how callous it seemed and began his trek out of the car. He couldn't understand how through it all, Sam had managed to hold on to him. Yet, somehow he could. No matter how much he pushed him away, how bad things got, or how forces threatened to separate them, Sam always held on. However, as hard as he tried to avoid seeing Sam, he caught a glimpse and there was bright red blood, Sam's blood, splattered across his face.

Dean knew there was no living in denial any longer and he looked down at his brother in his lap. In horror, he realized Sam's head was indeed resting on the ground covered in glass and debris. His hair was full of the same dust that he still tasted, and it was also matted with blood. His body was halfway out of the car, and it had been Sam's legs that were resting on him. There was so much blood, he had no idea where the source was and knew that there were probably multiple sources. He didn't want to think, even though he knew, how Sam's head had struck the ground when they went over, the internal damage that he couldn't see.

He forgot all about freeing himself, and shakily reached out a hand to Sam's neck to feel for a pulse. He knew he felt one, thrumming unevenly beneath his fingers. He breathed a sigh of relief because Sam was alive, at least barely.

"S…S…Sam?" He said shakily. He gently shook his brother's shoulder but it garnered no response. Sam was deeply unconscious. "Sammy?" He tried again. "Come on! You need to wake up!" He kept begging, even though a part of him knew it was fruitless.

He knew now he had to free himself because he had to get Sam help. He carefully moved Sam's legs off of him, noting that his whole body looked distorted, almost shrunken, like a spider's body after it has been crushed. He finally succeeded in getting himself out of the vehicle and into a standing position taking stock of their surroundings, deeply panicked. He saw the cantina that they had just been in had been entirely decimated, as if a tornado had blown it right over. There was just a pile of rubble, the burnt out letters of Juanita's sign long gone. Only one wall was left standing, featuring a remnant of the Day of the Dead mural staring ominously back at him. It was as if it was mocking him for thinking Sam could somehow escape death.

He knew they were in the middle of nowhere, Nebraska. He had specifically chosen this place for that reason. He reached into his pocket searching for his phone and then registered his own injuries. His shoulder ached and he'd apparently wrenched it in the accident. He rolled it uncomfortably and realized it wasn't even that bad. His ribs pulled slightly and he also noticed he had a small wound over his eyebrow, weeping only small drops of blood. He'd gotten off easy. But Sam? Sam was on the brink of death. He located his phone but it was a lost cause, completely obliterated.

He crouched down next to his brother, and thought whether or not he should move him. Sam was on his back, his upper half on the ground, with the other half twisted unnaturally sideways still within the confines of the car. One arm was strewn above his head and his face was turned the opposite way. His mouth was ajar, with one side of his cheek pressed into a pile of glass. He could see some of it already embedded into Sam's face. He knew Sam could have a broken neck, but leaving him crumpled in a heap was just not an option. He ever so carefully turned Sam's face towards him and watched as blood spilled sideways from Sam's head and accumulated back into a pool that had already had formed on the ground. For a moment he watched it, transfixed by the dreadfulness of it all. Sam's face was literally crisscrossed with dirt and jagged wounds. He could see the one that appeared to be bleeding the most, however, was a deep gash on Sam's temple.

He shook himself back into action and carefully grabbed Sam under his armpits to slide him away. Sam was completely deadweight and made no objection to being moved. He didn't make a sound in protest and Dean could only imagine that Sam's twisted limbs meant his bones were probably broken too, which meant he had to be in pain. However, he was simply too unconscious to be aware of it.

He dragged Sam, just enough out of the way to be free of the glass and debris. He placed his hand on the back of Sam's head to lower him to the ground as gently as possible. As he removed his hand, he saw in shock that it came away slick with blood. He could see now that it was actually not Sam's wound to the temple that was the most serious, but instead a deep wound to the back of the head. He carefully turned Sam sideways again and saw Sam had a gaping hole in the back of his head, so deep that he was almost certain he saw bone. He bit back the sting of vomit in his throat in revulsion, as he gingerly placed Sam back on the ground. He crouched down next to him and again tried to rouse his brother.

"Sam? Sammy? Wake up!" He demanded, tremulously.

He looked Sam over and didn't see any other noticeable signs of injury. There were no bloody wounds to his torso, but Dean knew that meant little. Sam could very well be bleeding internally, his organs damaged from the trauma. He checked for Sam's phone but couldn't find a trace of it and surmised it had probably been thrown from him during the accident.

The air was very warm but Sam's skin was clammy so he probably was already in some type of shock. He shook himself out of his own jacket and covered Sam with it. He then carefully removed his overshirt, leaving himself in just a t-shirt. He winced at the discomfort it caused him but the physical pain was completely bearable compared to the mental distress he felt over Sam's well being. He ripped a sleeve off his shirt, having to tear hard to rip the material. He took most of the remains of his shirt and balled it up, placing it under Sam's head, gently lifting it and pressing it against the back of the wound on Sam's head. He then took the torn off sleeve and pressed it to Sam's other gash in an attempt to staunch the flow of bleeding. He felt at this point it was like putting a bandaid on a bullethole but he had to do something.

Suddenly, Sam jerked awake. Dean was shocked at Sam's sudden return to consciousness but he guessed that Sam's head was sensitive and his ministrations had awoken him. He didn't remove the compression on Sam's wounds though, keeping a firm grip on his head.

"Hey. You with me?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded half heartedly and then began to drift away again.

"Sam? Sammy? No! You have to stay awake okay?"

Sam appeared to be struggling to follow him and then finally he cracked his eyes open. However, Dean noticed Sam wasn't looking so much at him, as through him.

"You in pain?" Dean asked, feeling like he was stating the obvious.

Sam nodded again, squinting his eyes as if he was trying to focus. Then he scrunched his eyes closed as if he was just registering it. He brought his fists up to his face and gritted his teeth.

"My head," Sam grunted, through gritted teeth. "Feels like it's about to explode."

Dean could bet it did if that head wound was any indication.

"Come on, stop," Dean instructed, pulling Sam's arms away from his face. He didn't want the glass doing more damage.

This is good though, Dean thought. Sam was moving his arms so clearly he still had some function. He was also answering questions in complete sentences.

"Let me up," Sam croaked, struggling against him. "Let go of my head."

"No you can't. I have to apply pressure," Dean said, placing one of his hands on Sam's chest. Sam was hardly in any condition to protest. "You're bleeding."

"Wha…what happened?" Sam stuttered, apparently sensing the seriousness of the situation and keeping still.

"Car got flipped in the um…aftermath," Dean responded, trying to find the right words. "Where does it hurt besides your head?"

Sam didn't say anything.

"Okay, I'll make it easier. Where does it hurt most?"

Sam gestured vaguely at his midsection and Dean felt his own insides twist because he knew that probably meant something internal.

"Did the darkness do this?" Sam asked, quietly.

"Do what? Flip the car?" Dean asked confused, yet somehow relieved that Sam still knew what was going on.

Sam shook his head.

"I'm not sure what you're asking Sam."

"Make it so dark."

Dean was taken aback for a second.

"Why is it so dark Dean? I can't even see you."

Realization dawned on Dean then suddenly as he realized what Sam meant. It made sense why Sam's gaze hadn't met his yet. Sam couldn't see. He was blind.

TBC

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