eachdraidhean | Bad Company Part One

Sam paced.

Time was almost up. In less than 24 hours, Dean would be taken from him unless he could find a way to save him, and he was all out of ideas. A whole year had trickled through his fingers as he begged, pleaded, threatened or cajoled everyone, everything he found that may have had an idea of how to save his brother. He’d read every text, no matter how obscure, took chances Dean would kill him for taking if he’d known, all in the hope that when his birthday came around again, it wouldn’t be the day he lost Dean to hell.

He continued to pace around the small room that passed for Bobby’s guest room, wearing holes in the already threadbare carpet. Bobby had fled an hour earlier, mumbling about a last lead he wanted to check out. Sam didn’t blame him, and half expected the man to have driven straight to the nearest bar to get shitfaced. Failure was staring them all in the face, and with each passing minute, the tension in the house rose.

Sam wanted a last minute miracle so badly, for some blinding flash of insight to hit him so he could save Dean, pluck him from the jaws of the hellhounds and keep him safe. The dull headache that he hadn’t been able to shift for days, the one that felt like it was crawling down his spine, intensified. Sam stopped pacing and sat down on the edge of the bed, his head down, rubbing at the back of his neck, but easing a muscle wouldn’t take away the real pain.

Before Florida, it had been bad enough, feeling like he was hurtling towards the most unwanted birthday in history, the day when his brother was destined to die.
But then Dean had died. Over and over and over again and then one last time.

Sam hunted alone for six months. He'd faced down whole nests of vamps, learned to exorcise demons faster than any other hunter out there and had honed his instincts to a razor sharp edge. For every minute he'd spent hunting down the Trickster, he'd spent the same looking for a way to keep Dean out of hell because he knew he still had to face that when he got his brother back. There'd never been any doubt in Sam's mind that he would get Dean back and he was determined that when he did, no-one would take him away again.

But it didn’t matter how much he tried to find a way, he kept coming up empty.

Once Dean was back, Sam was consumed by the impending loss that he paradoxically couldn't let happen yet at the same time couldn't stop.

His sanity had begun to slip a few days in to his hundredth Tuesday, and now, the night before Dean’s deal came due, it was hanging on by a thread.

Dean stayed in the shower longer than usual. It was his last, another in a long line of lasts as his year spiraled down to its end. His end.
He scrubbed the shampoo into his hair and the suds ran down his back as he rinsed it. It felt good on his skin and an unbidden thought crawled through his mind.

Will I even have skin?

Fear spiked, fear he still refused to give free rein to because if he did, he’d fall apart and he needed to be strong for Sam.

When he was done, Dean didn’t bother wrapping a towel round his waist. There was only Sam in the house, waiting in the small room next door and they had long ago seen, touched and tasted every inch of each other. Modesty wasn’t something he felt he needed to practice.

He opened the bedroom door and Sam was right there, filling the doorway.

“I thought you were never coming out.” His voice was rough, hoarse, caught between frustration and despair. “Need you.”

Sam grabbed Dean, arms crushing him against his chest and Dean's arms wrapped around Sam's neck, hands digging into his hair, pulling him close, closer, as Sam all but picked him up and pushed him down to the bed, clawing at his skin, bruising him with harsh, desperate kisses, biting hard, making Dean buck and writhe closer, still closer, wanting to crawl inside Sam's skin, wanting to be possessed by him, taken, used, owned.

Nothing separated them but fate and Dean refused to let that stop him from giving everything to Sam. He wasn't hell's, didn't belong there, didn't want to go, didn't want to leave and all this welled to the surface, leaving his soul torn open too soon, but torn open for Sam.

Sam slammed into him. He was out of time, but this he could have, this he could give Sam. Every shred of himself was Sam's, always had been and he cried out as the young hunter took him. Dean's fingers dragged down Sam's back, leaving deep welts, marking him, leaving Sam with a reminder of who he belonged to. They would fade, Dean knew. In a matter of days, they would be gone as surely as Dean himself would be, but he'd be branded onto Sam's soul as surely as if hot metal had been pressed against his skin.

Dean wound his fingers into Sam’s hair and pulled him closer, gasping at the fat drops of tears that fell from Sam’s eyes as they fucked. Dean kissed his face, licking up the salt and kissing Sam’s eyes almost reverentially despite the fierceness of their coupling.

“Yours, always yours, always have been, Sammy, no matter what.”

Harder, deeper, Sam slammed into him and Dean took it all, wanting to face hell with his brother's marks on his skin, on his soul. Then it wouldn't matter where he ended up because all hell would be able to see who he belonged to.

"Sammy!" Dean cried out, coming hard between them, another sign of ownership, another heated brand on Sam's skin, just as Sam marked Dean deep inside, cock jerking and spurting as he came, growling Dean's name and biting down on his shoulder, a last reminder, a visible sign.

They curled around each other. Dean fell asleep in Sam’s arms, exhausted, but Sam couldn’t sleep, thoughts racing through his head.

“If I did it, if I embraced whatever fucked up destiny everyone thinks I have, could I save him? Could I stop him from going to hell? Or could I claim him, walk into hell and take him back? But if I did, would he hate me for it? I hated him, for making the deal, for leaving me alone, but it didn't stop me from loving him, from needing him. I hated him for making me watch him die. For a whole year, I lived knowing he would die. For me. Would this be any different? He made a deal for me. This wouldn't be a deal, it would be different. But would he ever look at me the same?”

Sam lay awake all night, holding Dean, refusing to believe that this was the last night he'd be able to wrap around him, smell the scent that had always meant home to him for as long as he could remember. It couldn't be over, not now, not like this. He couldn't let it be over, couldn't let Dean die for him, he didn't want to be left alone.

When Bobby knocked softly on the bedroom door, Sam slipped out of bed leaving Dean asleep. Curious about what Bobby may have found, he pulled on his clothes and padded barefoot out onto the landing where Bobby was waiting for him.

"I think I worked out how to find her. I could do with your help."

Sam nodded and followed him downstairs. If there was any chance to save Dean, no matter how slim, he'd take it.

Later, as they prepared to leave, Sam snuck back into the barn, inwardly cursing his stubborn brother. Now they had the knife, and they knew where Lilith was, but Dean steadfastly refused to listen to what Ruby had to say. It wasn’t about trusting her, it had never been about trust, it was about usefulness, and Sam wasn’t about to let this one chance slip away.

Ruby glowered at him from inside the devil's trap, arms folded as she watched him approach.

"How do I do it? How do I save him?"

"Let me out and I'll show you."

"Show me now. We haven't got much time." Sam glanced behind him, and Ruby smirked.

"Scared big bro will find you and tear you a new one?"

"Ruby, please!"

"All you have to do is say yes, Sammy. Accept the darkness you can feel inside. You've done it before."

Sam's brow furrowed. He shook his head. "I haven't."

"Sure you have.”

"No, I ..." Sam refused to acknowledge that he took control of the kid in Dean’s dream, took control of his mind and killed him. Beat him to death with a baseball bat.

"You can deny it all you like but you're only lying to yourself." Ruby folded her arms and stared him down. "Sad thing is, it takes time to build up your strength, and that's one thing you're fresh out of."

Sam almost growled with frustration. "There has to be another way."

Ruby sighed and stalked off to the limit of her prison. She hung her head for a moment then turned back.

"There is a way to accelerate the process, but it's still not fast enough to stop him from going to hell."

"Then there's no point!" Sam hissed.

"If you're strong enough, you can walk into hell and get him back."

"Then tell me, show me, whatever it takes." There was no hesitation, no consideration for his own safety, for his own soul.

"It's not that simple, Sam. Once you start, you need to take control real fast otherwise it'll take control of you."

"Show me!" He all but yelled, the need to do something, anything, to save his brother outweighing the chance that Dean would find him talking to the demon.

"Fine, but if you won't let me out, you've got to come in. Gotta have physical contact, Sammy."

"Sam?" Dean's voice spurred Sam on and he took a step into the trap. Ruby pressed a finger against his lips, a finger grazed and bloodied from the fight with Dean. She pushed it between his lips and moved it roughly across his tongue.

The copper tang in his mouth disgusted him, and he wrenched away, but then he stilled. His eyes widened as a tingle of power sizzled between his shoulder blades and shot down his arms making his fingers twitch.

"It's all about blood, Sam. Those first drops Azazel fed you were the start, but you've got to be careful."

Sam stared at her for another moment, then reached up and dragged his fingers through the still damp paint of the trap, marring the edges. He turned and walked away without a word.

A shiver ran down Ruby's spine as she watched him leave.

It all went down so fast. Sam’s heart pounded as they ran from the hellhounds, barricading themselves in the room with only goofer dust for protection. Dean’s final plea to let him go and not try to use any power he may have had to save him tore at Sam’s resolve and he did as Dean asked. He watched him die, torn apart by savage beasts, almost unaware that he’d survived Lilith’s attempt to kill him until he was staring back up at her shocked face.

He gasped as his fingers closed around the hilt of the knife, too late to kill the bitch, horrified that he’d lived, that something in him had kept him alive but his brother had still died.

He cradled Dean’s torn and bloody body in his arms. Green eyes that had always sparked with life stared vacantly ahead. Sam's tears dripped, unfelt, onto Dean’s face, and his heart shattered.

It was the pain that tipped Sam over the edge into the dark. All the rage and anger he felt at the loss of Dean came together in a tight ball in his chest, fuelling a fire that burned through his soul. Sam reached inside himself and touched the darkness he'd denied while Dean was still alive.

Power skittered through his veins. He wasn’t strong enough, not yet, but he would be.

Sam got to his feet and picked Dean up. He carried him out of the house and towards the Impala.

“Sam!” Bobby called after him.

Sam ignored him, walking resolutely towards the car and laying Dean down on the backseat. He drove off, leaving Bobby standing in the now empty street.

Four days later, it all went to hell.

Literally.

Part Two