Author's Note #1: Just a few days ago, I had promised Riathe Mai that I was not, under any circumstances, going to write anything new. That I was going to use the time this horrible Hellatus provided to finish at least 1 of the 4 unfinished stories I have...if it was the last thing I did. Which was made a tad bit more difficult since I haven't seen my Muse since February.
But then I got the email for this weeks Drabble challenge...well, it must have been what she was waiting for because this picture popped into my head and wouldn't leave me alone. So I took it as a sign and ran with it.
Author's Note #2: There's not enough Thanks I can give to Riathe Mai for all her encouragement, words of wisdom, or midnight text brain-storming sessions trying to help me with not only a summary, but with the title. Have I mentioned lately how much I hate trying to come up titles? Harder than the freakin story. Love you.
Credit for both the Title and the summary go to her.
Author's Note #3: Although there is no direct mention of any spoilers, this is intended as a tag to the incredible Season Finale, Sacrafice, happening just a short time after the screen went black.
~~ SPN ~~
Just remember you are not alone
In the aftermath
In the aftermath
Gonna tell ya you'll be alright
In the aftermath
In the aftermath
Just remember you are not alone
In the aftermath
Adam Lambert – Aftermath
~~SPN~~
He feels the bed dip beside him, doesn't need to open his eyes to know who it is.
So he keeps them closed. Not yet ready—or able—to leave the dark nothingness that's holding the pain at bay; lets the scent of leather and gun oil, of home and safety envelope him.
"Wh't time s'it?"
A cool, wet cloth suddenly wipes across his eyes, down his cheeks, before being draped over his forehead; easing the fiery heat that's been his constant companion for so long.
He doesn't startle though, knows the gentle, calloused hand as well as he knows his own, and he leans into the touch.
"A bit after midnight."
His brother's voice is quiet, gentle; and even through the thick haze that fogs his thoughts, Sam can hear the worry. He forces his eyes to open, the effort to get them to focus a Herculean task. He can see the dark bags beneath Dean's anxious green eyes, the scruff that borders on full grown beard and thinks he should have asked what day it was instead.
But the passage of time doesn't matter; never has. As long as they're together, side by side, everything else is irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. He knows that now.
"How ya' feelin'?"
"M'good"
It's a blatant lie.
Sam knows it; knows that Dean knows it as well. He and 'good' aren't even on the same game board, haven't been for a very long time; and Sam doesn't think he sees that changing anytime in the foreseeable future. But he needs to do something to erase the fear from his older brother's eyes, reassure him that he hasn't given up.
That he won't give up.
Not now.
Not ever.
It's their 'go-to' answer, and he hopes—prays—that it's enough. That it offers the comfort and assurance he intends.
It's all he has right now, all he can give.
Pain has found the path he left open, and like waves on a stormy beach it crashes into him without mercy.
Every nerve ending is tingling, the stabbing pain and pressure building in every part of him as it dances along the length of his body. He squeezes his eyes closed against the onslaught.
His breath is harsh pants through his gritted teeth. He can feel himself start to writhe. His long legs scrabbling against the mattress, tangling in the sheets as he fights to get away from that which is now a part of him. He settles for curling in on himself, making himself as small and as tight as possible to trap and contain the pain, give it no opening in which to escape from and capture him again.
The familiar touch breaks through the agony, a glowing beacon, and he latches on to the lifeline and lets it pull him back. Stone one; and he uses it as an anchor to ground himself.
He concentrates on the circles that his brother's thumb is rubbing on his too-warm neck; on the pressure of Dean's hand as it massages the spasms that shake his muscles.
He feels Dean straightening his body—his limbs heavy and lax, and feeling strangely not his own—and his body relaxes into Dean's strong arms. One brother carrying when the other cannot.
"You will be, little brother. You will be."
He hears the steel in his brother's whispered words, the solemn vow that no other outcome will be tolerated or accepted, and thinks himself silly for even doubting in the first place.
A thin sheet is pulled up over him, his arms moved to freedom so it can be lightly tucked around his chest. The cool cloth is back, draped over his forehead, covering his eyes, shielding—protecting—against any that try to claim him. Fingers card through his hair, coming to rest at the towel's edge where they rub soothing circles across his temple.
Sam gives himself over to the oblivion that is calling his name. They may be down, but he knows most certainly they are not out. The best that both Heaven and Hell has to offer has failed in their attempts to turn them...break them...separate them.
Together they are strongest.
Together they can overcome any obstacle.
And now will be no different.