Everything Stops
K Hanna Korossy

"I'm surprised at you, Sammy. Why didn't you kill it? I thought we saw eye-to-eye on this: killing this demon comes first. Before me, before everything."

Sam heard the echo of his own words in his father's, what he'd believed, his mantra. His hands twisted on the steering wheel as he fought their whisper in his heart. Then he glanced into the rearview mirror.

Dean, bloodied, slumped, and silent in the back seat, met his eyes.

And Sam swallowed, finally knowing the truth.

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Bobby and Meg's body were now miles behind them, but Jefferson City was still hours away. Sam knew if they drove the whole way in this tense silence, something would snap.

Probably Dean, because Sam had never seen this white-fisted, nothing-left-to-lose determination of his brother's before. Dean had told him he was barely keeping it together, but Sam was just realizing how much he'd meant it.

"You all right?" he asked in low tones and a slow sideways glance toward the driver's seat.

"Yeah. Why?" Funny how Dean could sound so normal when his jaw was clenched that tight.

"Meg threw you pretty hard into that cabinet." It wasn't really what Sam was most worried about, but it was on the list.

Dean's gaze flicked over to him for a second, face softening fractionally. "I'm okay."

Sam let a mile or so go by on that lie. "We did the right thing. With Meg."

He got a full look for that, Dean's eyes moving up and down his face as if searching for something. Sincerity? Censure? "Yeah? Didn't look like you thought so back at Bobby's."

That was before Meg had thanked them for exorcising her and letting her die, before she'd used her last breath to help them. And before Sam had seen Dean's gentleness in dealing with the dying girl. "I thought…" That they could save her, because he always wanted it all. Leaving Dean to be the realist and make the hard choices. Sam shook his head. "I do now. There was no way to save her—we couldn't leave her like that."

A pause. "No," Dean quietly agreed.

Sam watched a pair of billboards go by advertising a restaurant and a country store. Sometimes it was the normalcy around them that was almost surreal. "You got pretty worked up back there," he finally ventured. He'd never thought Dean would hit her.

Dean exhaled impatiently, eyes on the road. "What did you expect, Sam—she said Dad was dead."

And the thought had cut Sam, but not with the anguish he'd seen in Dean's face. He's not dead, he can't be. Suddenly, Sam had become the realist and Dean the wishful thinker. But he didn't have any more answers than his brother, and reality was looking pretty bleak just then. Before he could stop it, the question slipped out in a small voice. "You think Dad's still alive?"

For a moment, it seemed like Dean hadn't heard. And then his brother looked over at him, really looked at him, and the strength, the quiet confidence Sam hadn't realized how much he needed, was back. "Yeah," Dean said. "I do."

He didn't know. He couldn't promise, or make it all okay if he was wrong. But for that moment, Sam needed his big brother to be all-knowing and powerful again, and maybe Dean just needed to be needed.

It wasn't much, but they'd always made do with what they had.

They didn't speak again until Jefferson City came into sight, and Sam pulled out the map.

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He tried to help Dean with their dad, he really did. But his head hurt so badly it was all Sam could do to keep himself walking, let alone take another's weight. He followed Dean with dogged, unsteady steps, breathing congested from the blood pooled in his nose and throat, nausea churning his stomach and vision swimming. He was barely aware of Dean's repeated glances back to check on him, though Sam's little grunts of pain should have been confirmation enough he was still there. Sort of.

The attack had been out of the blue, the jolt to the ground stunning him, the possessed man's weight pinning him. And then blow after blow smashed into his face, hammering him until he knew nothing but the savage pain. He would have be dead if Dean hadn't shot Sam's attacker, he was certain of that.

Dean had killed a possessed innocent to save him. That was the other thing that had Sam's mind reeling.

But even that broke and scattered before the agony in his head and the drive to keep going. There were sirens in the distance, and a far more silent, deadly threat. Sam staggered on, occasionally leaning a hand for a moment against his brother's shoulder for support. Dean was already carrying John's weight, however, and Sam didn't want to burden him with more. He straightened and made himself keep going.

Sam was just starting to seriously think he couldn't go any farther when he crashed into a stopped Dean. His brother immediately grabbed him, one hand grasping Sam's jacket at the shoulder, the other splayed against his chest. Sam blinked at him, and realized Dean had set their dad down, John's form half-hidden in the shadow of an alley. Not safe, not the car, and Sam tried to wrap his bruised mind around that.

"Dean, wha—?"

Dean let go of his jacket, wove the arm around Sam's waist instead. "The car's still a few blocks away, and I don't think we're gonna make it that far. You two are going to wait for me here, out of sight, while I go get the car and bring it over, okay?"

Sam winced at a particularly brutal wave of pain. Stopping sounded good—heavenly, in fact—but even his fogged mind recognized the danger. "We shouldn't…split up," he slurred.

Dean's face folded. "I know, I don't like it, either, but…we have to, okay? I can't carry both of you. I'll leave the Colt with you and you can protect Dad."

He shook his head slowly. "Dean—"

"Sam," the small shake of his jacket made him gulp down bile, "listen to me. There's no other way—we have to do this."

It was the tone that got him, not the words. Sam made an effort to focus, and saw the pained shine of his brother's eyes. Falling apart, they were all falling apart and trying so hard to keep it together a little bit longer. He could do this much for Dean, at least. Sam nodded his aching head a tiny bit. "All right."

The hand on his chest patted him, and he couldn't tell if it was meant to be soothing or grateful. Then Dean was lowering him next to John, one hand cupped against the back of Sam's head as he was leaned back against the wall. Dean nestled the Colt in his hand. Sam stared down at the gun, trying to regret that Dean had brought it with them and not succeeding.

"I'll be back soon," Dean said, low and firm, and Sam looked up at him again and nodded. If there was anything left that he believed, it was that.

Dean nodded back, lightly rubbing the nape of Sam's neck, then disappeared around the corner.

Sam swallowed blood and rolled his head just enough to bring John into sight. Their dad seemed to have succumbed to exhaustion, or maybe the drugs he said they'd been dosing him with. His eyes were closed, his breathing thin and weak. Beat to hell, as he'd called them a few short months earlier, after their reunion in Chicago and the daeva attack. That was nothing compared to now, with two of them down and no time to lick their wounds, the demon and its cohorts only a step behind. Sam wasn't sure how long the three of them could keep running, but they weren't beaten yet. Dean had saved him back there, and would hold them together now. He always did. "He'll be back, Dad," Sam murmured, then let his eyes close, collecting his strength for what lay ahead.

The next thing he was aware of was the deep growl of the Impala's engine, and Sam struggled to sit up against the wall, blinking away new tears of pain at the movement. Intense green eyes were studying him a moment later.

"I'm gonna get Dad in the car, then I'll come back for you."

Sam thought maybe he nodded.

John's warm, heavy presence disappeared from Sam's side. A minute later, Dean was sliding an arm carefully between Sam and the wall. "C'mon, Sammy, stand up."

He struggled to obey, but still leaned heavily against Dean the few steps to the car. To the front seat, wincing at the sight of their dad stretched out in the back. Dean eased him in with gentle haste, pulled the Colt from his clenched hand, then propped him up until the last possible second before closing the door. Sam heard the trunk squeal and slam before Dean got in on the other side, hands empty.

"Gun?" he whispered anyway.

"Safe in the back," Dean answered, and reached over to wedge something soft against Sam's shoulder and the window for him to rest his head against. Dean folded a pair of pills into one of Sam's curled-loose hands, a bottle of water into the other, then eyed him critically. "You doing okay?"

He dry-swallowed the pills, knowing the water wouldn't stay down. "I'm here."

It wouldn't have been enough another time, but there would be no talk now of a hospital or stopping to rest and treat injuries. Dean nodded his reluctant understanding, glanced into the back seat, and started the car. "Hang in there—we've got a long drive ahead."

"Where?" Sam asked, voice still barely stronger than a murmur. It hurt too much to rest his swollen face even against the cushion, but if he angled it, he was at least able to prop the back of his head.

"Place I found in Elkins' journal—kind of a safehouse. We need to get you and Dad cleaned up and figure out a plan."

Sam tried to keep his eyes open despite the comforting rocking of the car. He was beyond exhaustion, but didn't want to leave Dean. Not with his family unconscious and bloody around him. "What do you think it'll do next?" he asked.

Dean took a breath. His eyes skimmed the road but didn't meet Sam's. "It wants the gun," he finally said. "It'll keep coming after us until we kill it or it kills us."

Yeah, that had been Sam's assessment, too. He'd half-hoped for some of Dean's stubbornly reassuring optimism, but they couldn't afford that now. Even Dean was running on empty. I'm gonna be the one to bury you. The truth of that was finally staring Sam in the face, and he didn't like what he saw.

They hit the highway outside Jefferson City, and as Sam cleared his throat to say something, he wasn't sure what, Dean suddenly spoke up. "Just a minute."

It took Sam a few seconds to realize it wasn't his unspoken words his brother was responding to. They pulled off the road into a rest-stop. As soon as the Impala parked, Dean was out the door.

Sam watched him dart inside, then closed his eyes and leaned against the padding under his head. The pills were starting to take effect, dulling the worst of the pain, but the hurt went deeper than that. Seeing his family torn up like this scared him even worse than the approaching threat, and he was finally starting to understand some of Dean's desperation. You don't care about anything but revenge,Dean had said, but that wasn't true. Maybe once, but not anymore.

The driver's door creaked open, and Sam roused just in time to intercept the cup that was thrust into his hand. He frowned at it, then at Dean.

"Ice to suck on," his brother said tersely, then very carefully planted something bulky and, geez!, freezing cold against his swollen eye. "Hold that there," Dean said, lifting Sam's free hand to it. Hissing his discomfort, Sam took the bag of ice and gingerly settled it into place.

Dean checked on their dad before starting the car again, nodding his findings briefly to Sam as he slid back behind the wheel. By the time they were back on the highway, the icy numbness started to penetrate, and Sam's breathing slowed. It didn't quite drag a smile out of Dean, but his brother relaxed a little. A shaky peace, a moment to breathe—the pleasures had grown small but no less appreciated. Forget school and a wife and kids: Sam was just praying for a few hours in which to regroup, figure out how to beat the demon, maybe even live to see next week. His wishlist had become small and simple, too.

Sam spit out a piece of ice, the nausea calmed. "Hey, Dean?" he said quietly as dusk began to settle around them.

"Yeah?"

Sam licked his lips. "You wanna go see a movie Friday?"

Dean looked at him, startled, then again, contemplative. And this time the corner of his mouth did pull up. "Sure, Sammy. But none of that chick-flick crap."

"Right," he said, smiling.

It wouldn't last, but Sam would enjoy it while it did.

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They had to get out of there. Flee, get help, find a hospital, because John's leg was bleeding, and Dean…

God, Dean.

They had to get out of there.

Dean would want him to help their dad first, though, and Sam stepped toward John, supine on the floor, and held out one hand. "Dad, let me—"

John rolled away from him. "I'll be all right. Go help your brother."

Sam yanked his hand back. Even though he had serious doubts shooting John would have killed the demon, his father didn't seem to agree. But it wasn't the first time Sam had let him down, and while it probably should have hurt, the rejection, on top of everything else, barely registered. Go help your brother, though, that made him flinch. As if anything could keep him from Dean. Sam turned his back on his father and hurried back to his brother, dropping to his knees a second time beside him.

The dark blond head was sagging to the floor now that Dean's meager adrenaline-fueled strength had given out. Sam slid a hand under it to support it, and reached for the blood-soaked shirt with the other. "Dean, let me see how bad you're hurt." He shakily peeled up the clothing.

"Dad?" The bloody rasp hurt to hear.

"He's okay," Sam soothed. A glance over his shoulder confirmed the eldest Winchester had already levered himself to his feet and was watching them uncertainly. Sam turned away from him again. "He's okay, Dean. Let's worry about you, huh?"

No answer. Nothing but labored breathing and that unfocused stare.

There weren't any cuts or punctures. Nothing but red-coated skin, as if the blood had been crushed out of Dean. No injury to bind or put pressure on, although it didn't look like any more blood was oozing out. Terrified and relieved, Sam smoothed the shirt back in place. "That's okay," the words slipped out of him, breathy. "You're gonna be okay. Not even a scar to show off to women, Dean."

But there was no answering quip, no shared sigh over just how much life sucked. Dean was broken, mask torn off and nothing left but naked hurt.

"Just hang on, I'm gonna get you out of here." Sam kept babbling because he couldn't remember ever being this scared. But he had to keep it together for Dean. His older brother had drawn the demon's attention away to protect Sam; now it was his turn to fight for their family. "Hang on, Dean."

He lifted as carefully as possible, one hand still under Dean's head, the other circling his back and sliding under him. But the small sound of pain that tore out of his brother despite Sam's best efforts made his eyes water, and with Dean only halfway upright, Sam stopped and pulled him close.

"We're gonna get through this," he murmured against his brother's ear.

Dean's breath was damp and uneven against his skin.

Sam swallowed a few times. "Everything's gonna be all right," he said firmly, gathering his brother up. "Everything's gonna be all right, Dean. We're getting out of here."

There was no way he could do a fireman's carry with whatever internal injuries had Dean breathing so wetly, and his brother wasn't walking anywhere. Cradling him was the only answer, and Sam gritted his teeth as he heaved to his feet. It took two tries to stand, but then he leaned his limp brother back against him and walked fast, knees bent to jostle his burden as little as possible.

Thankfully, the car was parked near the cabin. John had hobbled out at some point while Sam was preoccupied with Dean, and Sam saw with a flash of irritation that his dad had taken the front seat. The annoyance died some when he also realized John had left the back door open, which was an obstacle Sam hadn't considered. But he didn't like relegating Dean to the back seat alone, not in his condition or state of mind, nor Sam's, for that matter. There just wasn't time to argue, and he slid inside the car with his brother.

Dean was silent as Sam eased him against the far door, only the stutter of his breathing betraying his pain now. Sam didn't dare lay him down, not the way he was breathing, nor give him water, and there were no wounds to bind. There was nothing he could help make better…except maybe those disturbingly defenseless eyes that trailed after his every movement.

Sam stopped. Couldn't resist anymore what he'd wanted to do ever since the demon had started cutting into Dean, emotionally and physically. Letting his own eyes fall shut, he leaned against his brother, their foreheads touching. "I need you," he whispered fiercely.

Dean's weary choke made Sam's heart crack a little more, too.

The front seat shifted under John's impatient weight, and Sam reluctantly tore himself away. "Hang in there, big brother," he said hoarsely, eyes locking with Dean's one more time before he backed out and shut the door behind him. Sam slid into the car, glancing into the rearview mirror as he started the ignition. Dean was still watching him, still hurting, still broken. But Sam thought maybe, just maybe, the family that broke him could fix him, too. Whatever came next, he just hoped fervently they'd have the chance to try.

Because, ultimately, if they lost Dean, nothing else mattered.

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Sam held his brother's gaze a moment longer before answering his father. "No, sir."

He shook his head as he finally turned his eyes back to the road. He got it now, what Dean had been trying to tell him all along. Sam shook his head once more.

"Not everything."

The End