Descent

Takes place during those four lost months of the summer of 2008. Additional warnings: Dark Powers, Yellow-Eyed Sam, Established Wincest, Rough Sex, Size Kinks, Top!Sam, Dirty Talk, Come Play. Spoilers through 3.16 "No Rest For The Wicked", AU twisting of events after that. Also 4.01 "Lazarus Rising" & 4.09 "I Know What You Did Last Summer".

DISCLAIMER: I own neither the SUPERNATURAL franchise nor any of the characters. For entertainment purposes only.


~*~ ~*~ DESCENT ~*~ ~*~


~*~ ONE: The End ~*~


May 2, 2008 - New Harmony, Indiana


Ruby's abandoned host drops to the floor as Lilith smokes out and disappears through the ceiling grate.

Sam drops the Knife, lunges across the room and sprawls to the floor, sliding his hand behind Dean's head.

“Dean, Dean no—”

Dean's eyes are wild, wide, his pupils dilated. His lips tremble, try to form a word maybe, and more blood trickles from the corners of his mouth.

“No,” Sam repeats, leaning down to attempt to hear what Dean's saying. He feels the warmth of Dean's blood seeping into the fabric of his jeans. He squeezes his eyes closed, willing himself away from this nightmare and back to reality.

“Ssss,” Dean croaks, and Sam's eyes fly open.

“Hang on, man,” Sam says. “Just hang on.”

Dean aspirates more blood and his chest flutters up, then down. Both hands splay out on the floorboards and then fall still.

Tears sear hot trails down Sam's cheeks.

He can't think, can't breathe.

He'd thought he'd prepared himself for this, thought he'd built up walls to protect himself from the inevitable. He'd seen Dean die over a thousand times before, and as horrible as that'd been, this is far worse.

The barriers he'd built crumble in a nanosecond at the sight of Dean's shredded chest.

There's so much blood, Dean's blood, and it's everywhere.

He tries to keep it in, to keep Dean from spilling out onto the hardwood floor, but it's useless. The more he tries, the worse it gets, like trying to hold sand in his fist.

Dean's silent and still now, his eyes unfocused and glassy.

More time passes, and there's a final, muffled gurgle from the ruins of his throat.

The Death Rattle.

“Oh, man,” Sam whimpers, pulling Dean's body to a sitting position and hugging him tight. The room tilts, and Sam holds on, certain that if he lets go he'll spin away into the Abyss.

He shuts his eyes again, hoping it'll help.

Dean's always been the rock, the anchor, the one immutable constant in his universe.

And now...

He buries his face into the crook of his dead brother's neck, unwilling to let go, Dean's still warm body obscenely comforting.

He cradles Dean and time splays wide, meaningless. He gently rocks back and forth, his wracking sobs slowly subsiding.

He can almost breathe again when the approaching thud of hurried footsteps jars him back to some semblance of reality.

The heavy bootfalls skid to a stop, punctuated by a harsh intake of breath.

“Sweet Jesus.”

A hand clamps onto his shoulder, squeezing it tight.

“God —”

Sam opens his eyes to find Bobby kneeling beside him, face pale, mouth agape.

“I couldn't,” he stammers, lifting his right hand from the mess of Dean's stomach and staring at his blood-soaked palm. “I couldn't stop it. I couldn't keep it all in. The Hellhounds—”

Bobby covers his mouth and looks away.

The empty house is dead silent.

Sam swallows hard, looking from Bobby to Dean and back again. “Bobby, I—” His hastily reconstructed resolve fails him. He needs to think, needs to move, but the weight is just too much.

Bobby gulps in some air, his face paler than ever. “We really need to get Dean out of here. We can't be around when the cops show up.”

Sam nods. “Uh-huh. Yeah.”

“Good, that's real good. Are you hurt?”

Sam shakes his head. He doesn't know how he managed to survive unscathed, or why. And without Dean, he pretty much doesn't care. “Yeah, I'm okay,” he hears himself say.

Bobby doesn't respond, launching himself toward the side board and ripping open drawers.

Sam's vaguely aware of a rising tide of voices coming from outside. He gazes at Dean, whose eyes are still wide open, blank.

Empty of everything that made him Dean.

“Dean, we're out of time. I'm going to summon Ruby.”

“No, Sam.”

“C'mon, man. She can help. I'm sure of it.”

“I said no, and I mean no.”

“Let's get him wrapped up and back to the car.” Bobby drops a pile of table linens next to Dean's body.

Oddly frozen, Sam just stares at them, unsure of what to do.

“I'm tired, Sammy.”

“Don't you dare give up on me, Dean. 'Cause I'm not giving up on you.”

“Son, we've got to move. The demons are gone, and it won't take long for the people outside to figger out somethin's up in this house.” Bobby shakes out some of the table cloths and lays them out next to Dean. “Sam? Are ya with me?” He shakes Sam's shoulder.

“But—”

“Let's get him safe. Now.”

Sam releases Dean and lowers him to the floor.

Bobby fusses with the linens, pauses for a second and then closes Dean's eyes. “I'll get his feet.”

Sam moves, but he's slow and heavy, like he's underwater.

A beam of light flashes through the windows and splashes across the walls.

“Sam! Move your ass, boy! You don't want to leave him here, do ya?”

Sam's overloaded brain finally clicks, forcing his limbs to move faster. Bobby's right; they can't just leave Dean here. There's no telling what would happen to him...what they would do to him. He can't abandon Dean.

Especially now.

Anger seeps into Sam's brain, anger toward Lilith, toward Azazel, toward every fucking demon in Hell.

He focuses on that sensation, drawing strength from it, moves past denial, skips over acceptance and right on to revenge.

Together, they hoist Dean up and place him in the middle of the table-cloths. They wrap him up, securing the linens as best they can, the voices outside growing louder and closer with every passing second.

Sam's on auto-pilot now, and the rest of the world fades away. Bobby's lips move, but he doesn't hear the words. The chattering voices recede to the back of his brain, nothing but a dull buzz.

He slings Dean's body over his shoulder and follows Bobby through the dead house and into the darkness outside. His heart thuds in his chest, a hollow roar filling his ears. They move away from the crowd and flashing lights out front, crashing though hedges and ornamental bushes, scaling low fences and garden walls.

Sam carries his burden effortlessly as they scribe a wide circuit through the maze of suburban hell, finally making it back to where they'd left the Impala.

Sam lays Dean down in the back seat and fusses with the ruined table cloths.

”What's with the auto shop, Dean?”

“You're gonna have to know how to do this if you're gonna take proper care of my baby someday. Hand me that box wrench. No, wait. You do it.”

“Are you sure, man?”

“Yeah, wavy gravy. The problem's with the carb. Start by disconnecting the fuel line, here.”

“Do ya have the keys?” Bobby repeats from behind him, his voice laced with urgency as sirens wail a few streets over.

“There's gonna be blood all over the seat,” Sam observes, staring at the motionless form that used to be his brother. “We'll have to clean it up.” He glances to Bobby, who nods grimly and whips open the driver's door. “Dean's got 'em,” he replies to no one.

”Dean, I'm not gonna lose you. Ever.”

“Calm down, Sasquatch. I'm still here. For now.”

Sam shudders at the memory of that kiss, barely days ago. He leans down, pressing his lips to Dean's one last time, and they're all coppersticky and cold.

Lifeless.

Wrong.

The Impala revs to life. “Sam! We're leavin'!” Bobby yells, slamming his door.

Sam pulls himself away from Dean, slamming the rear door and rounding the back of the Impala. He slides into his usual seat, glancing to his left.

It's wrong that Dean isn't behind the wheel.

Bobby slams the shifter into drive and jams the accelerator down before Sam has a chance to shut his door.

He notices the ignition wires hanging down from Bobby's hot-wiring job.

That'll have to be fixed, too, Sam thinks. Can't have 'em loose and dangling like that.

They drive blindly through the maze of curving streets that lead nowhere, headlights off and radio blaring the same cassette that Dean had crammed in the player barely an hour before.

Sam looks over his shoulder into the back seat as Blind Faith sings about finding their way back home.


May 3, 2008 - Pontiac, Illinois


Sam leans on the window frame of their...his hotel room, nursing a beer and staring at the busy street three stories below. Dusk is morphing into full-on night, and most of the passing cars' headlights are on. He watches as they crawl across the wet pavement, pedestrians sometimes darting out into the street and impeding their progress.

The next moment, the huge, neon sign of the hotel blazes to life, bathing everything in a sickly, red glow.

Like blood.

He hasn't slept in over forty-eight hours, yet he's still not tired. Adrenaline rush, maybe. Or just that he doesn't want to sleep, doesn't want to close his eyes out of fear of who and what he'll see.

Despite the fact that he'd just taken a long, hot shower, he feels dirty, soiled somehow. He can still feel the stickiness of Dean's dried blood on his hands, even though he's probably scrubbed off layers of skin in the scalding shower. His clean set of clothes don't feel right, and everything's off, messed up.

Unreal.

The police scanner mumbles importantly to itself, the volume turned way down. He doesn't know why he snapped it on. More from habit than anything else. Plus the fact that the room was too quiet with it off.

Dead quiet.

Empty.

Without Dean, the whole fucking world seems empty.

Not to mention pretty pointless.

He drains his bottle and dumps the empty into the stained sink of the kitchenette. “You ready for another?” he calls out, leaning into the fridge for two more cold ones. Without waiting for an answer, he pops both caps and joins Bobby at the small table in the center of the room. He slides one of the bottles of Budweiser across the scarred tabletop.

Bobby eyes the fresh beer as if it might bite, and Sam notes that the bottle cradled in Bobby's fingers is barely half empty.

Sam wishes they had some Jack handy as Bobby stares at him some more, a host of questions clearly weighing down his gaze. He knows Bobby means well, and he's appreciative of the support, but what he really needs is for Bobby to leave.

He needs to be alone. To get down to business.

“What's on your mind?” Sam says, picking at the label of his beer bottle, knowing full well what's eating Bobby. Best to go through the motions, at least.

Bobby looks up from under the brim of his baseball cap, weary eyes rimmed with red. He drains his beer, sliding the empty away and grabbing the fresh one. “It ain't right,” he says, his voice low. “Dean deserved to go out like a Hunter.”

“He did.”

“You know what I mean. He shoulda had a proper funeral pyre, instead of bein' buried in a cheap pine box less than three feet underground.”

“I didn't want his body destroyed. He'll need it.”

“Like it ain't gonna be worm food anyway. That is if wolves and whatever else don't get to him in the meantime.” Bobby lips harden to a thin line. “He's gone, son.”

“I've made up my mind.”

Bobby downs a good portion of his Budweiser. “I bet you have.”

“He's my brother,” Sam replies flatly.

“And he's dead, Sam!” Bobby spits out, his temper flaring again. “We did our best, and it didn't work. No matter what we all said, weren't none of us that really expected to get Dean outta that deal. Don't think you're the only one who's all torn up inside. I can barely believe it myself. It don't seem real, but we've just gotta accept what is.”

Sam shakes his head. Bobby just doesn't get it. “I'm not giving up on him.”

“Accepting Dean's death ain't givin' up, boy.”

“Right. So I should have just stood around and watched Dean die after the accident, right? Or just sat around with my thumb up my ass after his electrocution?” Sam stands and stalks back to his window, upending his Bud. “I got him back before, and I'll get him back again.”

Bobby slams his beer bottle down on the table. “Do you hear what your sayin'? How many times are you gonna drag him back?”

“He sold his soul for me, to bring me back. Can you understand what that means? Dean gave up his life for me, Bobby. How can I do nothing? What kind of brother would I be, huh?”

“More wrongs ain't gonna make it right. Now listen—”

Sam whirls around. “No, you listen!” He scratches away at the thin scab covering Dean's death, allowing the tiniest bit of rage to escape. He can feel it course through him, shoring him up. “Dean's in Hell, Bobby. Writhing in The Pit. I'm not leaving him there.”

“So what, you'll make another deal with another demon and start the whole crazy cycle up all over again?” Bobby throws up his hands. “When are ya gonna learn?”

“You don't understand.”

“Don't you dare try'n tell me what I get and don't get. You boys are family to me; always have been.” Bobby places both hands on Sam's shoulders. “I couldn't love ya more if either of ya were my own flesh and blood. You better understand that.”

Sam glares down at Bobby, wrenching himself free. “Really? So you love Dean so much that you're content to let him rot in Hell? You love him so much that you're not going to lift a finger to help him?” He knows he's pushing far more than he should, but he's got no other choice. He doesn't want to hurt Bobby, but he can't stop himself. He can see the pain in Bobby's eyes and goes for broke. “That's great. Good damn thing I love my brother a lot more than you do. A lot more.”

Bobby grabs his beer with a shaky hand. “You don't know what you're sayin'”

“Oh, I do. And so do you. You've known about us for awhile now. Don't try to pretend you don't.” Sam watches as Bobby's expression collapses.

He guzzles more beer and turns away. “I never said nothin' 'cause it wasn't any of my business. I ain't the judgin' type, neither.” He moves between Sam and the window, his eyes more tired than Sam has ever seen them. “The Hunter's life ain't easy. I know it better'n anyone. And if you an' Dean found a way to make it work for yourselves, then more power to ya. Not like you had any other options, anyhow.” He crosses the shabby room. “But you can't let your feelins for him cloud your judgment, that's all I'm tryin' to say.”

Sam tips his bottle to his lips, the last of the cool liquid numbing his tongue.

Of course Dean means more to him than anything. They're brothers, partners, best friends...and lovers. Either or any combination of those should be enough of a reason to get him back. Add to that the fact that Dean's burning in Hell, and it's a pretty clear moral imperative. It's also clear that no matter what Bobby just said, he doesn't get it.

“I'm getting Dean out of Hell. Whatever I have to do, I'm bringing him back. He'd do the same for me.”

Bobby shakes his head. “There's no getting through to ya, is there? Every bit as stubborn and pig-headed as your Dad. Typical fuckin' Winchester.”

Silence hangs heavy in the room, the police scanner abruptly mute.

Only the faint sound of traffic from the street below intrudes.

They face each other like a pair of wild west gunmen, each waiting for the other to flinch.

Sam stands his ground, and it's Bobby who blinks first.

“Sam—”

“Time to go, Bobby. I need to be alone now, to think things through,” Sam says, grabbing another beer. “I'll give you a call in a couple of days.” He opens the door to the hallway. “Thanks for all your help—with Dean, I mean.”

Bobby sets down his bottle and shrugs into his jacket. Slinging his duffel over his shoulder, he brushes past and leaves without another word, the slam of the door ringing in Sam's ears.

Sam moves back to his window, sipping the Bud. With his free hand, he fingers Dean's charm now around his neck. He watches Bobby cross the street below and drive off without looking back.

He stands there for a long time, drinking his beer as the world goes by.

There's no way that Bobby could really get a handle on it.

No one could know the depths of the bond that he shared with Dean.

They'd been everything to each other for as long as he could remember.

Dean has always been there for him. Always.

So it wasn't really a question of whether to get Dean back, as much as it was of how and when. Well, when was as soon as possible. As to the how...

Sam grabs his laptop and sits at the table. In less than a minute, he's hacked into a nearby wireless network.

He's got a few ideas of how to begin, who to tap for help. He's built up some contacts over the last few years, a few Hunters that know of Bobby by name and reputation only. Definitely time to call on those folks.

The other thing he's sure of is that he can't hold back anymore. He's going to need to use every weapon at his disposal, even those that he's shied away from in the past. Like his ability to see the future and his telekinesis.

He's going to quit fighting who and what he is, quit the hand-wringing and open himself up.

Just like Ava did back in Cold Oak.

There are things deep down inside him that he'd never shared with anyone, not even Dean. A darkness that he knows is linked to the demon blood flowing through his veins.

Something that can lead him to his destiny.

Not the destiny Azazel had in mind, though. A new one, one of his own making.

And now's the time to unbury all those things and put them to good use.

To flip those switches.

Because nothing is going to stop him from finding and killing Lilith.

Whatever the cost, he's getting Dean back.