Fic Title: Just Walk Beside Me

Authors: SPNxBookworm, Chronic Potterphile

Genre: Brotherly fluff, slash (Destiel), hurt/comfort, family, angst, mystery

Pairings: Dean/Castiel, background pairings

Characters: Sam, Dean, Castiel, original character, other characters

Rating: R

Word Count: ~63000

Spoilers: Up to 9.14 – Captives, and AU after that.

Warnings: Strong profanity, sexual situations (non-explicit), AU after 9.14, temporary character death

Trigger warnings: past non-con, eating disorders, suicidal thoughts, mentions of gore and infanticide, PTSD/RTS

Summary: Dean is really able to handle all those nightmares and memories from the time when Abbadon possessed him without falling apart, thank you very much. He's coping very well. What he doesn't get is why Sam and Cas are lying to him about the time when they were trying to rescue him.

When a startlingly familiar face knocks on their door with an odd case, Sam, Dean and Castiel scramble to join in and help, and the events lead to too many revelations. Neither of the three of them might be coping at all. Add to this Sam's odd timing for a migraine from hell, a creepy shaman, another familiar face, and a weird note in ancient Chinese, and they might just be all set for a second nightmare in a really short span of time.

Authors' Notes:

HI! Finally! Here is our submission for the Team Free Will Big Bang.

Before you all read the story, however, there are a few people we'd like to sincerely thank:

The tfwbbmods mods, for organizing this. You have done a splendid job!

Our amazing beta, walking_tornado, who stepped in as our saviour and was awesome, and a total ninja. She's the reason this fic is remotely readable.

alaniesanar, for her help with the first two chapters.

The most awesome minarosette, who claimed our fic and was super sweet and responsive and made the most amazing art for our story! We may or may not have flailed helplessly seeing the art, and we know you will, too!

Our friends, mutual and individual, remy-areyousrs, who was a beautiful cheerleader, and who offered to beta too, when we had some issues, and nomercles, who had complete faith in us pulling off these heavy topics.

This fic a sequel to Chronic Potterphile's one-shot, 'The Darkest Night', and is the second part of this 'verse, but can be read as a standalone. This story means a lot to us and we really hope you all enjoy it!

JUST WALK BESIDE ME

One: Riddle Me This

Sam

The doorbell is creepy.

Like, legitimately haunted-house creepy.

And it is creepier since it's almost midnight and no doorbell ever rings at this hour.

Sam grimaces at the noise, and wonders who is at the door, seeing as the house they are squatting in has been abandoned for years. Word is that it had been haunted, and that people had died here — which is true, because there had been a nasty poltergeist, ultimately taken care of by a hunter whose name Sam doesn't care to remember. No one even comes by this house anymore and it's weird that someone is here, using the doorbell, and waiting for an answer, almost as if they know the house is temporarily inhabited.

Sam suspects he knows who's waiting for him outside. He hadn't expected it to happen this way. They've warded the house, cast a spell to keep away intruders; so unless they allow a visitor, no one can enter. Even then, Sam pulls the gun out of his waistband and undoes the safety as he opens the door.

A gust of wind blows at his face.

He blinks the dust in his eyes away and scans the dark landscape to see if he can get a glimpse of his guest, but there is no one. No one shifting about, trying to hide or run away. Sam takes a whiff of the rain and squints up at the blue-and-purple midnight sky, vaguely wondering if a thunderstorm is approaching. It looks like grape juice with whipped cream up there, the moon floating big and full, like a marshmallow separating the frothy layers of cream.

Sam can't remember it, but Dean has often told him, his lips quirking in a smile, that Sam once did demand grape juice with whipped cream for breakfast when he was four or something. And then he puked it back up all over Dean.

"Ruined my favourite shirt, bitch!"

Sam chuckles at the memory and his chest hurts a little because he realises that that innocence will never be back. He sighs, raises his nose, and smells the rain again. Dean would also say that you can't smell rain, but Sam disagrees with him; you totally can. There is a heaviness in the air, a chill, and a characteristic earthy smell all around before it rains, and this is different from the soothing smell of wet mud (which Sam loves just as much).

He remembers a time, a day that's tucked away in his mind, when he and Jess had taken a walk at a park just after a rainy episode. A tree had shed some of its flowers and they laid in a pile on the wet grass, their heavenly scent mixing with the cool air to create a very pleasant atmosphere. It's still a memory that Sam likes to tap into, to calm himself when he gets restless, and it almost always works.

Almost.

Sam sighs as he thinks of the things that are wreaking havoc in his mind right now. He wonders if he made a mistake after all, by listening to Dean and bringing them here. Dean has taken care of Sam all his life, and now it's Sam's turn to return the gesture, but he can't. If he could, they wouldn't be stuck in Ass-Land, Kentucky, in The Creepy House from every horror movie ever. And seriously — this place sucks more than any other place they've ever squatted. The wood is old and the floorboards wobble beneath Sam's feet. The threadbare curtains on the windows are so dusty, Sam's sneezed around sixty times in the last hour. And, oh, the glass on the windows. The grime and the shit on them, and the way they've melted down, thickened at the edges — they're not even worth looking out of. They can barely help with all the guard that has to be kept.

Apart from all that, every single door in the house whines and groans under Sam's touch — and Dean would make fun of this thought; Dean would, but just like the glass that has melted down and thickened at the bottom, Dean has too. He has dissolved, burned down, given up.

No, Sam thinks. Dean will be okay. He will be fine. Sam won't let it go there. But has it gone there already? It might have, because Sam really, really sucks at everything he does.

Sam sucks because, if he were a good brother, Dean wouldn't have had a near breakdown when Sam drove them to a motel because Sam would have known not to do that. He'd have gotten Dean to talk and release some of his burdens by now.

He sighs again, pulls himself away from the disturbing thoughts as he makes to shut the door, because the fact remains that no one's outside right now. But that isn't before he notices something on the floor, just near his feet.

It's an envelope, a plain, white envelope, with nothing on it, except, in neat, loopy handwriting, a single word — 'Winchester'.

Well, that's specific.

The letter is addressed to a Winchester, and this means that any Winchester can take it, so Sam goes ahead and tears the envelope open. A piece of paper falls into his hand, with what seems to be, at first sight, cuneiform written on it. Sam narrows his eyes as he examines it.

He frowns at the words. A chill runs through him and he stands there, trying to figure out the script that he might be reading.

"Sam?"

Castiel's voice from behind him distracts Sam and he turns around to see his friend perched on one of the old chairs at the termite-eaten dining table. Castiel arches his eyebrows. "Who is it?"

Sam shakes his head. "No one." He shuts the door, walks in, and takes a seat beside Castiel before putting the envelope and the letter on this table. "This was on the doorstep, though."

Castiel takes the letter in his hands and licks his lips as he scrutinises it. His eyes narrow. "This is an ancient language," he says at long last, putting the letter down.

"Yeah, I kinda got that," Sam says, running his hand through his hair. "You can – you can read ancient languages, can't you?"

"I could," Castiel replies.

And that says it all. Sam opens his mouth, and wants to ask Cas about it, but really; is there a point? He just swallows, and clears his throat. "What I don't understand is—" he squints at the paper, "what is this? Is this Chinese? I mean — that would fit, wouldn't it?"

Castiel pays closer attention to the writing, scrunches his face a little, and clears his throat. "This resembles ancient Chinese script, yes." He sighs. "I'm sorry I can't read it, Sam."

"That's okay," Sam says lightly, trying to make it sound like it's normal, but they have a bucket of not normal here and this just…

He's so fucking worried. Too many things. He'll suffocate someday, he feels. Suffocate under it all.

How does Dean even handle it?

"Sam?"

Cas's voice jolts him out of his reverie, and Sam steals a glance at his friend before nodding. "We'll find someone in the morning to translate it for us. Maybe it's just another of Gan's threats." He opens his father's journal and leafs through the pages before locating the right one. They are dealing with a Xi-Shaman, a Chinese sorcerer named Gan Shu Ning, whose case dragged them all this way. Honestly, Sam had really hoped to sort this out without Dean or Cas, because of the circumstances, but of course Dean was stubborn.

Dean. Dean, Dean. Sam is worried. So fucking worried. He takes a sharp breath before speaking to Cas. "Did you check on Dean? How's he doing?"

No, Dean's not doing okay, but Sam still hopes that Dean will get better. Dean will not yield so soon and accept help, though, and Sam knows it. But… fuck.

"The same," Castiel says in reply to Sam's question. "He won't let me too close."

Castiel looks tired and in pain. Sam knows the cause of all of that. Sam knows why Cas can't read Ancient Chinese anymore. Dean doesn't and they've vowed not to make Dean worry any more than he is already.

Sam sighs and nods. "Yeah, being possessed does that to you. I was jumpy too, after – after all the times." He doesn't say all three times, because he doesn't want to count anymore. Three times is three times too many. Sam also doesn't reveal the other thing that is eating at his mind, because he doesn't want to assume anything, or freak Cas out.

He wishes Dean didn't have to go through this because it's not fair. At least one of them should have been spared from this shit.

Dean… Well, Dean is messed up. Sam knows better than most people that being possessed for months together isn't going to leave his brother the same as before, but after his own experiences with possession and two hundred years of Hell, he's been all kinds of messed up, so he knows that Dean's been through more than he's letting on.

How much worse can it get than possession? Sam's gut shivers. A lot worse.

Dean's panic attack outside the motel scared Sam. One moment, Dean was yelling at Sam, "Not a motel, Sam," and then he became hysterical and begging, "Sammy, turn around, turn around… please." He had then listed forward, eyes wide, hand at his chest, struggling for breath, and Sam had thrown the car into park as Castiel got out of the backseat while the car was still moving. Both of them had tried to help Dean breathe. Sam rested his brother's forehead against his shoulder while Cas patted his back from behind, both of them alternatively coaching and pleading for Dean to breathe. This one was worse than the many other panic attacks, but it was also the first where Dean had actually allowed Sam and Cas to help.

Sam's room in the bunker isn't close to Dean's, and he hasn't slept properly in a week — ever since they got Dean back — because he's been keeping vigil around his brother's room, looking for signs of distress. His heart has been shredded each time he's heard Dean wake up with a gasp, followed by desperate, muffled sobbing. The first time it happened, Sam burst into Dean's room and Dean had thrown his iPod at him, yelling at him to leave.

"Go. Away. Fuck, I don't want you here! Do you understand?"

And Dean had looked broken.

Panic attacks followed the nightmares, and Dean got worse if he was not left alone, so Sam and Cas just stood outside the room the whole time, knowing what Dean was going through inside, just a fucking wooden door away, and yet, helpless. The last thing they wanted to do was force their assistance upon Dean. Dean doesn't understand what Sam goes through — how he battles something so similar. Dean never did really get it, but Sam knows what Dean needs. Dean requires his own control, his autonomy.

"You should try talking to him, Sam," Cas tells him, breaking him out of his reverie. "He might feel a little better. He trusts you, after all."

"Not anymore," Sam says with a snort. "I said a lot of shit to him, Cas, and—" His voice catches in his throat as he turns away and shakes his head. No, fuck, this is no time to get overwhelmed.

He shakes his head again. "No, you're better off. He'd be more comfortable telling you… if he ever does. I don't know what happened, Cas. I don't know how much more she's done to him that we aren't even aware of, and… fuck." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "And fuck, fuck, I made him think that I wouldn't care if he died." He didn't actually mean that, of course, but he had loved hurting Dean at that moment, and God, how could he have done that?

Monster, says a voice in Sam's head. You're a monster. And, fuck, he is.

"He knows you didn't mean what you said," Castiel tells him.

"He told you that?"

"You saved him." That hardly answers Sam's question.

"No." Sam sighs. "That was you. All you. I just somehow caught her." He buries his head in his hands. "You should probably go see if Dean needs something."

Castiel understands that Sam is asking him to leave, and exits without a word. Sam sits there at the table, the Shaman's message lying in front of him, with his thoughts swirling like the clouds outside, as sour and terrible as grape juice with whipped cream.

He feels sick.

~o~

Dean

Try as he might, Dean can't get any shut-eye. He's retreated to the dark and gloomy bedroom of the abandoned house when Sam and Cas kept insisting he rest. Dean doesn't blame them. He knows he looks like a walking corpse, but he can't help himself.

They'd first decided to stop at a motel but upon nearing it. Dean wasn't able to keep in the terror that kept trying to overpower him. He didn't realize he was hyperventilating until it had turned into a full blown panic attack, which made Sam immediately veer the Impala out of the motel driveway.

Dean runs a tired hand over his face as he stares at the cracked ceiling. He hates being like this, but those memories, those days, they just doesn't seem to let go. They come back, night after night, assaulting him in the form of horrifying replays and dreams.

Have you listened to a girl scream, as you rip her guts out?

Dean remembers the names of some of those girls. Rose, Penny, Kim, Lexy, Alicia… Jo. This Jo hadn't shared any similarities with the Jo he'd known, but he remembers her screams. He remembers his hands moving to rip out Alicia's guts and his eyes meeting hers as the life drained out of her. He remembers laughing because he was never in control.

Sammy… Cas… help, please…

I'd like to see them try.

The babies were screaming, wordless, wanting their mothers' arms around them, all in onesies, not even out of diapers; some were even toothless. So fragile. So small. Then, his big hands were maiming them, mauling them, as his lips tasted their blood, but Abaddon never let go, her laugh a roar in his ears. Her voice was sickening, and the power she had over him was terrible. When he tried to fight: How about we drain an extra baby today, Dean? In celebration of your efforts?

He wished for the police to find him. He wished for Abaddon to leave. He wished for Sam and Cas to find them, and then, he wished for death. None of that came true anytime soon. He only suffered, on and on. The last straw was the day that Abaddon led him to the motel, to another leering demon who had seemed all too happy to see Dean.

Dean remembers every detail of it because Abaddon wanted him to. He remembers the puke-green walls, the dirty bed with the yellow sheets and the seedy toilet with its stained porcelain. And he remembers the pain. He remembers being pushed against a wall, a strange hand bracing the back of his head, while the other held his shoulder roughly. And he remembers the grunts as he was pushed, repeatedly, against the wall, his bare belly knocking against it, hard enough to bruise. He remembers the blood that ran between his legs and the cries that escaped him when Abaddon relinquished partial control over his body to let him experience the agony first-hand. He was then being shoved against the bed with a mouth on his, a tongue invading his mouth and hands grasping his hair so hard that some was pulled out. He remembers more anguished sobs as Abaddon laughed in his ear and the creaking of bedsprings as he was turned onto his stomach again and pain, pain, pain, pain…

"No!" Dean yells as he jerks awake. He's covered in slick sweat and he regrets dozing off. He runs a hand automatically, back and forth, over the burn where the Mark of Cain used to be. It was useless, powerless without the First Blade and Abaddon had burned it away with some black magic that Dean doesn't remember. The arm was almost completely gone, but Cas salvaged it. The burn mark still remains, though, for Cas to continue healing, but Dean thinks it's there to stay, a sordid reminder of what he's been through.

He tries to relax, but it doesn't help that his heart is hammering against his chest. He works to control his breathing, picturing the way Sam and Cas had helped him calm down when he'd panicked earlier.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

Why isn't this working?!

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

In—

Shit.

No.

Dean's hands splay against the cold floor around him as he tries to take in air. He feels his heart beating even faster and his chest is starting to ache. Instead slowing down, his breaths come in quick pants, but he can't get any air in.

Dean eyes widen as he rests his back on the wall. He tries to breathe through it because this is not happening again, damn it.

"No," he mouths.

His vision starts to blur through a thin film of tears as darkness creeps in. He feels them roll down his cheeks, mixing with the sweat, and he gasps, heaving sobs escaping him as he claps a hand over his mouth to muffle them. He hates the tears. He hates it all. He doesn't know why he's crying. What the fuck is he crying for? Because he should be able to handle this. He's not a kid or a wuss. He's Dean Fucking Winchester and he's not a cry-baby. After all the shit he's been through, he despises the fact that he's breaking now.

The tears stop. He forces them away, sucking them in and coaxing them to stay inside. Crying is for the weak. He won't cry. All this distress will only prove that Abaddon won, and she didn't, she didn't win.

He draws in a breath. It hurts, it hurts everywhere, everything, but…

He breathes again. And again. Through the pain. Through the urge to break down and shatter. Through the want and will to die. He breathes because he has to.

"Pull yourself together," he growls to himself, between heavy breaths, as he holds his knees to his chest and rests his elbows on them, hands clutching at his hair.

It's okay, Dean, it's okay, Sam's voice says in his head. And it's not okay, it's not okay, but Sam says it is…

He breathes one more time and lets it continue.

If Sam and Cas were here right now, they would see how useless and screwed up Dean is.

Dean laughs humourlessly at the thought. They've already seen him having a panic attack once. They probably think, now, that Dean needs some sharing and caring, some back rubs, and someone to play nursemaid. They think he's prepared to be babied, but fuck them; he can take care of himself.

Dean rubs tiredly at his eyes. He's rarely been able to get more than a few minutes of sleep before the nightmares start tearing him apart. He wonders if this was how Sam felt when Cas broke his wall after he had gotten his soul back.

He feels even worse for his little brother, than he did before.

Hearing the doorknob click, Dean tenses. Had someone knocked first, or did he not hear it? He looks up to see Castiel poke his head around the door and Dean immediately stares at the floor. He sees Cas sit down beside his sleeping bag.

He can't explain it, but all of a sudden, he feels enclosed, claustrophobic. He moves ever so slightly away from Cas and almost sighs in relief when Castiel doesn't question it.

They sit like that, in silence, for a while. Each moment weighs heavily on Dean, but he appreciates that Castiel gives him his space. He is more than thankful to him.

Dean warily looks up at the eyes staring at him. Uncomfortable, Dean clears his throat and Cas looks away.

"You need anything?" Dean asks him.

"No."

Dean nods. "Something wrong?" he asks.

"Not really," Cas answers back.

Dean's temper rises. "Dude, just spit it out!" he snaps.

Dean almost feels guilty as he finally meets Castiel's eyes and sees the hurt and shock in them. He's snapped at Cas before, and he usually regrets doing it; Cas doesn't deserve it, but Dean can't seem to control his emotions. He just feels so fucked right now… Cas doesn't have any right to be moping around the way he is.

He tries to rein in his temper. It's not Cas's fault, he reminds himself.

There is a moment of silence. Dean watches Castiel purse his lips before asking, "Are you okay?"

Dean lets out an exasperated sigh, looking towards the ceiling. "I'm fine, Cas. More than that, I'm tired of people asking me that."

"Dean—"

"I'm fine, okay? I'm alive, aren't I?" Dean snaps again. "Look, I'm happy you guys got me outta there. Yeah, it's been hell. Yeah, I probably freaked you and Sam out, but I'm fine. What else do you want me to say?" Dean yells.

Cas faces Dean. "I want you to be okay. That's all, Dean. We both know the truth here," Cas says in a gentle tone.

Dean groans as he lays his head in his hands. "You don't know anything," he says.

"No, I don't, and neither does Sam. We are not pushing you, Dean. We just want to be there for you," Castiel says calmly.

That does it. The anger simmering just below the surface boils up as Dean lets out a snarl. He gets to his knees, facing Cas angrily. "Look! I know you two have done a lot for me okay? But this? This is my problem. So you can stop, 'cause I can take care of myself.

"And as for what happened all those weeks that I was with her? You don't know; and trust me, you don't want to. So, don't you even try to understand what I'm feeling, 'cause you can't. Just...leave me alone, Cas. Just go."

"Dean—"

"GO!" Dean bellows.

Cas raises his hands in surrender. "Fine. I'm leaving." He gets up and moves towards the door, Dean's glare following him. Just before leaving, Castiel turns around and meets Dean's eyes. "I know you probably don't want to hear anything from me right now," Cas says, holding up a stern hand when Dean tries to interrupt. "But just know that I'm here. Sam and I, we're both here."

He leaves the room, looking more tired than Dean has ever seen him. Dean feels the anger drain out of him as he flops back onto the sleeping bag. A wave of sadness rushes over him, and all he wants to do is scream and cry and fucking kill something, preferably himself. But he can't. It's just overwhelming and he… he can't. He pulls at his hair, almost relishing in the pricks of pain when a few strands come loose.

"Fuck," he whispers to himself as tears blur his vision and surpass the rims of his eyes to run silently down his cheeks.

~o~

Sam

The guilt that Sam feels trumps everything right now. Outside the dilapidated window, there is a flash of lightning and Sam looks up, smiling wistfully as he listens for thunder. He remembers being little, and hiding under his blankets, keeping his tears at bay during thunderstorms, and he remembers the young voice from the bed next to his.

"Sammy, I'm here, pal. Just go to sleep."

Dean had always been there when he was scared. Most kids have a mother who tucks them in and kisses their skinned knees, but Sam had Dean. Dean, who made fun of him for being scared, but was there to console him nonetheless. Dean, who gave up his own childhood to conserve Sam's.

What a damn shame, that Sam is unable to find a way to be there for his brother now when it's most necessary.

He looks at the Chinese letters before him again and vows to get them translated first thing in the morning. He's tired now, and he wants to rest for a bit. Maybe when he's awake, his mind will be clearer, too, because right now, with everything going on, Sam can hardly think straight.

Sifting through the muddled thoughts in his head, Sam buries his face in his hands and feels his eyelashes fluttering against his fingers as he shuts his eyes. He is distracted by a familiar voice coming from behind him.

"Hey, need any help?"

Sam turns around then, still trying to get used to his guest. He looks at the tall figure and the familiar clothes before peering into the dark eyes. This figure used to intimidate him, but right now, Sam can't muster enough strength or emotion for anything.

Meanwhile, John Winchester smiles faintly, showing off his dimples, as he steps into the light. Sam smiles back at him, equally wanly.

"Hey, Dad."

A/N: Well? Reviews? :) We have worked haed on the story, and feedback would be beautiful!