Title: favors owed
Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun.
Warnings: spoilers for everything aired; AU before "Bad Day at Black Rock"
Parings: technically, none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 540
Point of view: third
Dean waits for Sam to cry himself out and helps him to bed, tucks the blanket around him. Sam's exhausted and sleeps deep; Dean's still reeling, though, and knows it'll be awhile yet for him.
If he understands Sam's broken explanation correctly… no. Can't be. So the only thing to do is test it, prove Sam wrong.
Dean goes into the bathroom, grabbing his knife on the way. He stares in the mirror for a long moment, gathering courage: of everything he's done in his life, he's never purposefully hurt himself. But he needs to know.
The blade is cold against his fingertip; he flexes, biting the sharp metal down—and nothing. No pain, no cut, no blood. Nothing at all. So he moves the blade to his left forearm and saws down. But the skin never breaks, never divides beneath edge.
Dean stares at his traitorous skin, dumbfounded. What doesn't bleed doesn't die, Sam'd told him, tears and laughter in his voice. We'll live forever.
It's wrong. It's so wrong. He wants to scream and rave, to demand the demon take it back. But—
And there it is. Now, Dean can make sure Sammy stays safe. He can stay with Sam. Forever.
He walks back into the bedroom, knife in hand, and stares at his little brother. There's still a destiny, something neither of them can really comprehend.
Sam can't be hurt, either. He knows that. But still—
He's spent the better part of twenty-nine years taking care of Sammy. And now… well, now, everything has changed.
He went from having a year to having forever, and now he's just lost.
"Damnit, Sammy," he whispers, dropping onto his bed. "What've you done?" It's a new world—everything's changed. Sam made a deal, somehow bargaining for eternity.
Dean can watch out for Sammy forever now. And they can't be hurt. Won't bleed. Won't age. Won't die.
Forever. Seems like a damned long time.
He slides the knife beneath his pillow, craving contact to ground him. So he slips into bed beside Sam, listening to him breathe.
What doesn't bleed doesn't die. Dean closes his eyes, his mantra from almost a year ago echoing in his head: What's dead should stay dead.
Yeah, he tells himself. Maybe so. But not if it's Sammy.
And now, it'll never be Sam. Never be Sam so cold and stiff, blue and gray, so still. Never ever again.
Sam shifts and Dean moves closer. They have forever. Invincible and immortal, eternally young—something Dean can't remember ever thinking before, even as a teen. He always knew better. He always knew he'd die, that Dad would die—that—that Sam would die. But he never thought he'd be the only Winchester left, and then he was. He was.
Now, though, he'll never have to worry about that again.
Sam didn't tell him everything, Dean knows. But he has forever to get the rest.
Forever. "Aw, Sammy," he whispers. "You foolish, stupid kid." But he can't really blame Sam, not after what he himself did.
Dean stares at the ceiling, waiting for sleep. Sam lies beside him, slumbering deeply—when Dean finally dreams, it's of a crimson river and Mama crying because her babies will never come home.