Dead Men Walking

Part 2

Sam lay on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. There were no shadows. No water stains. No dead mothers. No dead girlfriends. Nothing.

Just the ceiling in Bobby's spare room.

Sam and Dean's honorary bedroom.

Sam and Dean...

Dean and Sam.

Sam swallowed hard –

In 364 days it might just be Sam.

Exhaling shakily, the young hunter closed his eyes. The codeine helped take the edge off the pain but his back still throbbed, a deep ache that went further than life.

But that wasn't the worst.

The worst was the bone numbing cold that pervaded almost all other emotion in his body, only succumbing to gut-twisting fear; a dual fear. For Dean… and for himself.

Dean snorted in his sleep and smacked his lips. He breathed out, 'Baby' and shifted on the bed. Sam held his breath afraid to steal this precious time from his brother. Time un-tormented.

Dean was going to hell…

If Sam couldn't save him.

Bobby's conviction hung loosely around him, not as comforting as it had been in the kitchen. It was harder here, in the dark, lying mere feet from his slumbering sibling, to take any reassurance against the suffocating reality that was his brother's sacrifice. Dean had given his very core to save Sam –

And killed the demon that had haunted them for most of Sam's life.

All within 24 hours.

Wow…

Once again Sam was in awe of the man his brother was. And cowed by the responsibility that was now his; he had to save his brother.

Save Dean.

Holy shit –

Sam was on the floor in the bathroom dry heaving before he could consciously move. Thank God for quick reflexes and a bathroom right across the hall from their room.

How the hell had Dean survived the past year with that very same decree, willed to him with their father's death? Save your brother…

It was his brother's default setting, and a slap in Sam's face.

Dean had saved him and in doing so he'd saved them all.

How could Sam do anything less?

"Hey," the husky sleep slurred voice startled him and the distressed young man lifted his head to see his brother leaning in the doorway of the bathroom. The gash on Dean's forehead stood out in stark contrast to his pale face. "Y'kay?"

Now that was a loaded question…

Sam spit into the toilet and then pushed himself up forcing unsteady legs to hold his weight. His shaky "Yeah" didn't sound very convincing though, even to him.

Dean didn't say anything. He just watched Sam for another moment as the younger man flushed the toilet and turned on the tap to get a drink. Sam's hands shook. Badly. Only then did the older man turn around and go back to their room.

Sam followed, unable to bear distance between them. He winced as he crawled into bed and lay back down, vaguely wondering at the tightness in his shoulder and then remembering. Oh yeah, Superman had dislocated it with one punch. Ouch. Dark humor twisted his mouth into an almost grin. It would seem the Grim Reaper had been kind enough to reset it for him. Apparently Death held a medical degree…

The smile died on his lips. Hilarity was wasted and the young man shivered instead and carefully wrapped his arms around his body. God, he was so cold.

"So," his brother's quiet voice broke the silence. Sam heard more shifting and knew Dean was looking at him now.

He waited for the older man to continue but when he didn't, Sam sighed, "So? What?"

"So what was it?"

Sam was genuinely concerned. "So what was what?"

"You go to college for two years and this is the best you can come up with?" Dean grumbled. "Geez Sammy, I'm still half in the bag and even I know what I'm talking about!" Sam's throat closed on 'Sammy'. "You sick or something?"

"I'm fine," Sam stretched the truth. There was nothing Dean could do to help him anyways. Nothing except still be alive 365 days from now.

"Yeah… and I'm Tiny Tim," came a rather disgruntled sounding rebuttal that brought a small smile to Sam's face.

"So I've heard," the younger brother couldn't help but tease back – and it felt so good… so normal. For them.

"Hey!" disgruntled turned indignant. "No 'dissing Little Dean."

"Little Dean?" Okay this time Sam gave a genuine laugh, and God help him. It felt right. "I thought it was 'Tiny Tim'."

"Only in your dreams," Dean smirked and then chuckled. "Actually… not even in your dreams."

"Oh yeah. Geez. Thanks, Dean. That is exactly what I want to be dreaming about," the younger man snorted. His brain already fried on the image.

"Perv."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

And that was it. Sam lost it.

He couldn't breath –

It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room –

He panicked –

And then Dean was right there.

A warm hand – warm – on his back, fingers thrumming heat through his chilled body…

His brother's voice – the words unimportant – murmuring hot breath against his ear...

It was everything Dean desperate to fix everything Sammy –

And suddenly Sam could breathe again.

Twisting, Sam turned and wrapped his arms around his brother and held tight, gasping in deep soothing breaths of sweat, leather and rock-salt. Dean.

His brother stiffened and then relaxed, a resigned sigh breathed out in exasperation but there was no heat behind it. No heat that cooled anyway.

"Oh, Sammy…" Dean's voice was low and sounded oddly strangled, even as he returned the hug gently; less desperate but no less fervent. "I'm sorry, kiddo. I'm truly, honestly, sorry…"

Sam was confused and slowly pulled himself back. "Dean?" that one word held everything, neatly packaged. His hazel eyes searched his brother's face – did Dean regret saving him?

Dean let his arms drop. His eyes when they turned towards Sam were bloodshot from lack of sleep, grief, alcohol, but they were surprisingly clear. Coherent. "I'm sorry… that this is something I can't fix for you…" He reached out, his own fingers trembling lightly and placed a hand on either side of Sam's neck. He gave a gentle squeeze. The younger man closed his eyes and swallowed hard. This time his brother's heat burned him. "But I promise you this…" Sam forced himself to look again. "You are still my little brother… and as long as I'm around nothing bad is gonna happen to you."

The words warmed. And chilled. He had to ask. He had to know.

"What about after… after you're gone?" the words whispered past Sam's every defense, even more broken out than they had been in. His eyes filled and he no longer cared what his brother saw.

Dean deserved to know how much this hurt him.

How much Sam was terrified of losing him –

How much Sam needed him –

Of how much Sam loved him.

His brother smiled even as he thumbed the tears away. He knew. "Ain't going to happen, kiddo, cause you'll never let me go…" Dean's smile was contagious. "Besides which," and so was his snark, "hell's never going to be ready for Dean Winchester."

And Sam laughed. And laughed. And laughed.

Truer words had never been spoken.

It hurt his back and he winced and wished Bobby had given him morphine, but it also felt good. And for the first time since he woke up with a hole in his back, Sam was warm again.

He could do this.

He could save his brother.

Because he still had Dean to help him.

And then said brother remembered how drunk he was and passed out. On the floor.

The Real End… this time!