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And What of the Damned
Three days, fifteen hours, seven minutes and ten seconds was how long it had been since Dean Winchester had made the deal with that cross road bitch to bring back the one thing, person he had left in the world—his baby brother—and killed the thing that had started their journey through the darker side of life. In those days he’d done nothing but watch Sam’s every move; his every gesture, every breath, every slight change in the timbre of his rich voice Dean logged. It was hard to be sure—it hadn’t really been long enough since being brought back—that it really was Sam in the body currently sitting across from him in the diner alternating between stuffing salad and French fries into his mouth. He prayed that it was; prayed the demon had lied.
Everything spoke of it being Sam encased in the body of his younger brother. Not some demon pretending, or a soul tainted by whatever that yellow eyed sonovabitch had done to him.
But the way Sam had emptied his clip into Jake was not like his younger sibling at all. The way he wiped the drops of blood from his face as though it were nothing more than a few annoying drops of rain. The thought that it wasn’t totally Sam hadn’t crossed his mind until the demon had taunted him with the thought.
Three days, fifteen hours, fifteen minutes and five seconds gone from the clock—time they’ll never get back—and they haven’t talked beyond deciding where to eat or finding a case. He hadn’t been able to look Sam in the eye in all that time either. He was afraid of the hatred he’d see; afraid that Sam would take that as an invitation to talk about the last three days, fifteen hours, seventeen minutes and eight seconds.
The most they’d talked about it was that night on the way back to the car. Ellen had called him a piece of work. Bobby had let him know again that the Winchester habit of falling on their sword would do none of them any good, any time soon. But Sam had been the harshest. His words had cut Dean to what was left of his soul: “I was dead?! When were you going to tell me, huh, Dean?! You selfish sonovabitch! You should have just left me dead, Dean. You always tell me how selfish I am, but you, Dean, are the really selfish one. You should have left me dead.”
He’d damned them both. He would never tell Sam of that fear—that thought—but he was afraid that he’d assured both of their paces in hell by forcing Sam back from the dead at the offer of his soul.
They had yet to talk about the details of the deal he’d made. He didn’t want to tell Sam that he only had a year; or rather 362 days.
But Sam was alive and they had one year of hunting, bonding and being brothers before she would come for him. He was determined to make that year a lifetime for his brother; if only they could get passed the anger Sam held about being brought back from the dead, and Dean could suppress his suspicions that Sam wasn’t wholly himself.
Sam had been right that night; Bobby and Ellen too. He had been selfish in wanting Sam to live and be damned with anything else. It was far too late to take it all back now. If he found a way to break the deal Sam would be dead and he’d have to live with what he’d done. And if he lived out the year, Sam would have to live with what he’d done.
The pain of Sam’s death had so clouded his mind that he hadn’t even taken into consideration who would look after Sam once he was gone. Neglected to think through enough to wonder who would be there to make sure that Sam stayed Sam; or who would be willing to kill Sam if he did turn evil. Didn’t matter, he decided as he watched his brother surf the internet looking for the next gig while finishing off the last of his cola. None of it matter because he’d do it again if he had to.
Sam was worth more than him any day of the week, and he’d make the trade again if need be. He was going to hell long before he ever made the deal.
“I’ve damned us both.” It was a thought that had filled his mind since walking through that door in South Dakota to his very much alive younger sibling and lied to him about what had happened passed Sam’s recollection. As long as Sam was alive there was hope at saving at least him. Dean held no illusion of a saving grace or a peaceful rest. Just so long as Sam could be saved, none of that mattered.
Three days, sixteen hours, twenty-five minutes and fifteen seconds had passed since the brother’s Winchester had spoken about more than cases, diners, motels and the FBI; keeping on that track it was going to be a very long and cold year Dean had left with Sam. “I’m sorry.”
The End