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Dean, I’m really sorry. I’m really… I think I made a mistake, I didn’t… I thought it’d be quicker, that it would hurt less than this, but it’s taking so long, and I don’t think I’ve done it right, and I don’t want him to… I don’t want to be alone again when it happens… Please, just… Please come. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so-
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Dean finds his brother hunched over and miserable, sitting on the edge of a lonely double bed in Garber, Oklahoma’s second-cheapest motel. He arrives exactly two hours and forty-one minutes from the moment the voicemail was opened, and thank God for that, because he doesn’t think he could have left it any longer.
Already, Sam looks like death. Ten times over.
There’s no colour to him. None at all. He’s whiter than half of the frozen corpses they’ve pulled from the morgue. And he wishes he could say that were the worst of it, but he’s also shaking like an impatient junkie at the doors of a methadone clinic and listing so heavily to the left he’s seconds from dropping to the floor.
“Dean?” he croaks at the creak of the door. Even his voice is frail. No louder, no steadier, than the tinkling of moth wings on a lightbulb. “You came? Did you… You came?”
It doesn’t suit him.
Any other context, any other year of their lives, he’d probably feel sorry for the guy. Would run over without hesitation, set things to rights. Could be the gentle hand he needs, nurse him back to health like he used to with tinned soup and raggedy, water-soaked flannels in borrowed, matchbox rooms.
But there’s one word of Sam’s rattling around incessantly in Dean’s head right now, and that word is mistake. Come help me, Dean, I made a mistake. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I made a mistake. I didn’t listen to you, I trusted Ruby, I let the devil out, it was all a mistake.
Whatever has happened to get him into this sorry state, he did it to himself. There’s only so much sympathy a man can have towards a son of a bitch who only knows how to make his own problems.
Christ. He loves his brother. Of course he does. But he’s getting to be a damn lot more trouble than he’s worth.
That being said, he’s not heartless. Sam starts listing further, further, his head nearly meeting his feet, and Dean heads on over, hoists him back up.
He’s heavy. Heavier than he should be, than the last time Dean held him, and none of that is from acquired bulk. It’s more of a dead weight. Like his nerves have all decided to turn to stone, his blood to lead. There’s no effort on Sam’s part to take on some of the burden; seems as though he clocked off the job hours ago.
“You came,” he says again - with certainty this time, gazing at the hands on his arms with a kind of open, overwhelming appreciation he hasn’t shown in a long while.
“Sure did,” Dean huffs, not quite feeling the love himself. “You wanna tell me what for?”
By which he means, how did you fuck up this time?
The question makes Sam’s face screw up. All ugly, like a wad of gum stuck on the underside of a public bench.
“I’m so sorry,” he whines, uselessly. “I’m really, really sorry. I didn’t mean… I made a-”
“Mistake,” Dean cuts in. “Yeah, I got that. But what kind of mistake, huh?”
Sam looks down, unable to meet his eyes. Screws his face up even more, to the point of unrecognition, as if his whole being may very well implode. It must be bad, Dean reckons, if he can’t even put on his usual airs; that wicked, filthy sense of false bravado and self-righteousness that comes every time before a fall.
Shit. Must be real bad.
“Sam. What mistake?”
No answer. His mouth moves, but makes no sound, gaping and gasping like a beached bottom-feeder. It pisses Dean off like nothing else.
“Is it the blood again? Is that what this is?”
He starts shaking him in a last-ditch effort to re-jig his scrambled pieces. Perhaps he shouldn’t, not with the state he’s in, but his hands are jittery, itching to work, and if he doesn’t shake him up, he’s gonna do something worse. And he’d rather leave that for when he knows whether he deserves it.
“Sam-”
Finally, he’s interrupted.
Not with a response - when is he ever so lucky? - but with a face full of vomit.
It’s vile. A mouthful of thin, sticky, yellow-green bile comes out in a violent burst. It’s insubstantial - the kid must have been on a solid food strike for at least a few days, judging by the looks of it - but no less disgusting.
Thankfully, there’s no red hiding in there. None whatsoever. But there are, mixed within, dozens of tiny, chalky clumps, white and pink, that fizzle and sputter ever so slightly, froth up in the saliva-slick acid.
For one sick, horrible second, Dean stares down at the mess coating the two of them and wishes it were the other way around. That this expulsion was pink and thick, rich with iron and sulphur. At least that he would know how to deal with.
This is all new territory.
Sure, they’ve both tried to kill themselves before. Wouldn’t be caught dead phrasing it like that, but it’s true. They’ve each buried boxes at crossroads, dived right into the line of fire, offered up more than their fair share for the sake of their family, the world.
But never with pills. Never for no good reason.
Like some damned pansy.
“The Hell did you do?” he growls, possessed, momentarily, by a version of him that grew and fed and prospered in Hell.
He lets go of Sam’s shoulders and forces himself halfway across the room before his violent intrusions are made manifest. Watches as his brother, without support, crumbles under his own weight. Slides off the side of the bed and falls to the floor, tucks his head into his trembling knees - near foetal.
“Damnit, Sam, answer me.”
“Please don’t be mad,” Sam whimpers. Miserable, pathetic. As if he has any right to argue, to beg, after doing this to himself, to the both of them. After getting himself into one big mess and expecting Dean to drop all and come rushing back in to fix it. Again.
Fool me once. Fool me twice. Well, Dean’s been fooled every single day of the last twenty-six years, and he’s getting sick of it.
“Oh, I am well beyond mad, Sam, I am fucking furious.”
“I know. I know. I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it!” he yells, and Sam flinches, hardly perceptible beneath those incessant, body-wracking shivers. “I can’t believe you. Everything I gave to bring you back, and you just wanna throw it away again at the first sign of trouble.”
That, at least, seems to strike a nerve. Animates the near corpse at the foot of the bed. He shakes his head, back and forth - weakly, still hidden in his knees like a scorned child - and says, “No. No, Dean, that’s not… I tried. I did. I really did. But-”
“This doesn’t look like trying to me,” Dean cuts in. Makes Sam falter, but only for a moment. Long enough to catch his breath, to swallow back the second bout of vomit crawling up his throat.
“I had to, Dean. It’s… He…”
Sam takes a breath. Dean holds his own.
“The devil came to me last night. He told me that I’m his.”
It hardly registers. Nothing has felt real from the second he walked through that door.
“That you’re his?”
Sam nods weakly. “Like you’re Michael’s.” (Some part of him reels at that. He’s not anyone's. Never was, never will be.) “And I can’t… I mean, you know I can’t let him have me.”
Fucked up as it is, it does make sense; if the devil knocked on his door and asked for a dinner invitation, he may well have been tempted to do the same. Except-
“So, you tried to off yourself? With goddamn pills? I mean, if you wanted the job done…”
He trails off, leaves the rest to the imagination - not that it needs much imagining. They’ve both seen it before - bodies left cold and mangled by their own hands. It comes about a lot in this line of work. Most people aren’t cut out for knowing the truth; get one taste of the supernatural and end it before they can even swallow it down.
Point is. One bullet could have done this. If he really wanted to, it’d be over by now.
Amidst the frustration, the thought instils the slightest shred of hope. Shines light on the idea that maybe he doesn’t really want to die. That some part of him wanted it to go wrong.
Only that light is dimmed in seconds flat, when Sam, now huddled into himself even further, breathing even shallower, whispers through a vomit-thick throat, “This isn’t the first thing I tried.”
Pins and needles start creeping up his back. The room is colder all of a sudden. Paler. More distant. The carpet fibres twitch and swim beneath his boots.
Dean swallows.
“What?”
“He said he’d bring me back. I needed to be sure. Needed to try everything.”
Everything, he says, and Dean’s imagination runs rampant. But all the horrible, violent everythings whipping through his mind right now would produce evidence. Surely. They’d have to.
And there’s nothing here that Dean can see. No stains, no holes, no dangling nooses. Save for the rumpled bedsheets and second-hand clothes strewn all over, it looks exactly as it would have come: neat, tidy, decently clean - for a motel as crappy as this one, anyway.
Everything is in its place. The minifridge and microwave shoved into the corner - a poor excuse for a kitchenette - buzz away, dull and low; intricate wrought iron dividers slot here and there, give the air of a floorplan without ever committing; the cheap, grey, particleboard wardrobe stands tall, looms over, housing nothing, most likely, since the pair of them never learned how to quit living out of duffel bags; the faintest sliver of light creeps in through the crack in the bathroom door, flickers ever so faintly with every footstep on the floor; the…
The bathroom light is on.
He heads towards it, and Sam starts begging with a fervour Dean thought he hadn’t got left in him. Something raw and desperate. All those limp, dead, useless pieces zapped back to life, as if struck by lightning, only to plead, to babble:
“No, Dean, please, don’t go in there, please, it’s not worth it, I don’t want you to see-”
It feels like some kind of twisted homecoming, opening that door.
One step, and he’s back in Hell.
The blood is what catches his eye first. How could it not? Pints of it streak and stain what once were pale blue tiles and crisp white ceramics. Nothing has been spared; even the mirror is coated, dripping, so thick with gruesome red that no inch of reflection can be seen. Chunks run through it all: flesh and bone and hair. Enough has been spilt to kill a hundred men.
That’s not all, though. The bathtub is full, near overflowing, still crackling with latent electricity. An extension cord snakes through the scene - hisses and snaps. The floor is littered with empty casings and lengths of rope and knives of every possible kind - silver, iron, fit for demons.
And there, strewn amidst the carnage, are three pill bottles. Two are orange, thin, uniform, covered in a doctor’s near-illegible script. The other is larger, more familiar: a family-sized container of Tylenol - the same one they’d been dipping into for months before they split. Beside them, a half-empty bottle of bottom-shelf whiskey.
“Jesus Christ, Sammy,” he curses, too quiet for his brother to hear.
His brother. His baby brother.
That’s baby brother’s brain matter splattered halfway across the wall. Baby brother’s belt swinging from the shower rail. When he picks up the bottles from the floor, hands shaking harder than they ever have before, it’s baby brother’s blood that slicks them, that coats his trembling fingers.
It brings to mind a starlit massacre. Severed spines and bloodied palms. Leaves him hollow-chested and dazed.
He leaves the bathroom, containers in hand, and walks over to where his brother still sits, unmoving, pale as the dead. Crouches down to his level.
“These what you took?”
Sam nods into his knees. Doesn’t even need to look. Shame seeps out of every one of his pores.
“All of them?”
Another nod, and then: “Everything that was left. I just… I thought that’d be enough.”
The thought of swallowing that many pills makes Dean want to gag. He remembers when Sam was little, how he’d cry every time he had the slightest fever because he’d hate having to choke down any kind of tablet. Dad was always too hard pressed for cash to buy him any of that kids' stuff instead - the fruity, chewable ones or the liquid stuff you could swallow from a spoon.
If they could get him to take it, it always meant he really, really did need it. That he must’ve been hurting real bad.
“Right,” Dean huffs, snapping to action. He grabs both of Sam’s cold, clammy hands and tries to shift him upwards. “Okay. Come on, we’re gonna get you to a hospital.”
Sam resists. Puts no effort into cooperating. He throws his limp head back, lets it roll against the mattress and whines, “No, Dean. Please. I don’t wanna go. Can’t we just stay here?”
It’s infuriating. Petulant. Dean growls.
“Then why the hell did you call me here then? Just to watch?”
“I didn’t…” Sam chokes out through a wet sob. “It’s not like in the movies, Dean. I didn’t think it would take this long. Didn’t think it would hurt so bad. I got scared, I… I just didn’t wanna be alone.”
Dean scoffs. “Yeah, nice try. Look, I’m not just gonna waste three days sitting here watching you die slowly of liver failure cause you were dumb enough to try to overdose on freaking Tylenol of all things.”
“S’all I had.”
Fair enough. Dean supposes he probably hadn’t enough brain left to think about it after how much he blew out in the bathroom.
“Just… Come on. Get up. Time’s a-wasting.”
It’s dawning on him now, finally. The severity of it all. That if they don’t move, he might seriously watch his brother die.
For a moment, he entertains the idea of lifting Sam onto his shoulders. A piggy-back ride to the car, just like old times, back when Dean was young and Sam, even younger. And so, so small. Small enough to fit neatly onto his shoulders - tiny limbs like jigsaw pieces, perfectly matched.
He can almost hear it: the soft, rhythmic snoring of his kid pretending to be asleep, far too tired, too comfy, to make the trip from bed to car seat. The fragile giggle when the ruse worked out. That contented sigh when eased down into the back seat and tucked up in an old blanket.
But even beginning to conflate those perfect, firework-scented memories and this sorry man before him makes him sick to his stomach.
He doesn’t want to. He can’t.
So instead, they stagger in tandem. It takes some effort, but eventually he manages to haul Sam to his feet. Nearly gets his shoulders pulled from their sockets in the process, trying to pull up all that weight alone. On his feet, Sam wobbles like a newborn foal, still slippery with blood and amniotic fluid. Every other step, he threatens to fall.
The Impala isn’t far off, but it sure as hell feels it. Sam whines with every single step. Can barely keep his head above his shoulders, has to lean it on Dean’s for more than half the journey. Twice, he has to stop to vomit - horrible, stomach-churning retching with far too little coming out. Not nearly enough of those nasty, chalky lumps for Dean’s liking.
It’s a mercy they’re on the first floor. And even better, the sleazy-looking manager on the front desk seems to have gone out back for a smoke break. Nobody’s there to witness Dean dragging his groaning, vomit-coated brother through the hallways of this nowhere motel.
He can only imagine what it would look like from the outside. (Not that knowing makes it any better.)
Once they reach the car, Sam drops like rocks into the passenger side. Hasn’t the strength left in him to squirm and fight his way out, no matter how badly he might want to, not after all that. He’s utterly spent - and truth be told, Dean’s heading that way, too, but he can’t check out like Sam. No, that would be too easy.
It’s a twenty-mile drive to the nearest emergency room, and someone has to get them there.
Thankfully, it’s not such a bad drive, all things considered. The roads are clear enough, straight and wide. The world cast in midnight hues, sprinkled with streetlight gold. Tarmac under early-dawn skies has always brought with it a strange comfort - like the wallpaper pattern in a childhood bedroom. It’s all so still, so peaceful.
That is, until Sam starts hacking up blood.
Up until then, it’d only been bile. Frequent, but so little it could all be held in a leftover soda cup and tossed out the window as needed. Gross, sure, but alright. Manageable. Poor Sam was suffering, naturally, groaning and wincing with every heave, but it wasn’t so scary when they could tell themselves he was only bringing up all that bad stuff.
Blood’s worse. Means either his throat is fucked up from all the coughing, or that something inside is, instead.
It’s never nice, coughing up blood. Dean knows that first-hand. Hell, Sam does too, but you wouldn’t know that from the way he’s acting. He can’t handle it the way he usually does, not in the state he’s in, half drunk and drugged out of his mind. Every gag summons tears.
“‘M really sorry, Dee,” he slurs after a particularly nasty bout, one that flecks precious red over his hands, the dash, and a good portion of Dean’s lap.
It takes a lot out of him, this one. Pretty much all the energy he had left. It’s after this that he gives up entirely on staying upright. Starts slumping down, down, until his head is laid against Dean’s knee - eyes fluttering, breaths wheezing.
“Yeah? Well, you can show me that by staying awake, alright?”
Sam shifts, nestles himself in closer. Dean fights the compulsion to rest his hand in that thick, sweaty, too-long mop of hair. To soothe him like he used to when the worst he knew to fear was the dark.
“Hey Dean?” Sam asks through a yawn, the words all stretched out and misshapen.
“Mmm?”
“Please don't tell Dad. He's gonna… He’s gonna be so mad.”
(God. Oh, please, God help us. I can't do this. I can't.)
“No one's mad at you, okay? You're alright, Sammy. You're gonna be alright.”
Too weak to even shake his own head, all Sam can do is weakly sob, the words brittle and resigned, “Don’t think I am.”
“Don’t say that!” Dean snaps. Harsher than he ought to, maybe, but he figures he deserves it. “I already watched you die once, I'm not gonna let it happen again.”
He sniffles. Chokes through a throatful of blood.
“Didn’t think it would hurt this bad.”
“I know.”
“Just want it to stop.”
“I know. I know. It’ll be over soon.”
He means the journey, but between leaving his mouth and hitting his ear, the connotations seem to skew. Something’s gonna be over, that’s for sure. This night will end one of two ways, and as much as he hates to admit it, it’s too soon to call.
Moments pass with no response. The only security Dean has is the gentle batting of eyelashes against his jeans, the terrible chattering of teeth beneath the engine’s roar. It’s not enough.
Finally, he gives in. Spares a hand to ruffle Sam’s hair, muss it up just the way he used to when they still felt like brothers. At least as long as he leans into the touch, soaks up the heat, purrs at the affection, Dean can be sure he’s still alive.
They make it to the hospital in just over thirty minutes.
That’s an hour from when Dean found him; three hours and forty-one minutes from when Dean first listened to the message; five hours and forty-one minutes from when Sam first left it; eight hours and forty-one minutes from when he first swallowed (to his recollection) about ninety 500mg tablets of Tylenol and sixty 10mg tablets of propranolol.
Eight hours and forty-one minutes. One hundred and fifty tablets. About half a bottle of whiskey to wash them down.
That’s what they explain to the nurse in triage - as best they can, given the circumstances.
That’s all it takes to get Sam strapped to a gurney and rushed straight to Resus.
Two days, seven blood tests, three bags of NAC, and one psych eval later, Sam is given the all clear to leave.
One of the nurses from their first night - an older woman, probably has kids of her own about Sam’s age, they type to take things to heart - chases them down just as they’re being discharged. She places a hand on his shoulder, smiles bright enough to rival the stark white LEDs above, and says to him, “Thank God it all worked out. We thought we might lose you.”
Sam, always so polite, so agreeable, returns the smile. Thanks her for all her work. Regurgitates the same, tired, practised lines he fed the doctors and the crisis team and anyone else who dared ask: I know now I have so much to live for, I’m so happy to still be here, it was a mistake, a terrible mistake.
But Dean can see it. The regret behind that carefully manufactured joie de vivre. His mouth smothering the words he truly means to say.
God had nothing to do with it.
It’s only after they’ve managed to swipe Sam’s belongings from the motel unseen and made it twenty miles south that Dean finally works up the courage to ask, “How much of what you said was…”
“All of it,” Sam replies, blunt as anything, with a voice like shattered glass.
“So, the devil…”
A sharp nod. Eyes on the road ahead. His face is carefully cordoned off, completely impassable - all those skills of deception forgotten when facing death now returned, still perfect.
“We’ll get through this,” Dean assures him, only half believing it. “Just… don’t ever do anything like that again.”
His voice breaks at the end. Neither acknowledges it. It’s hardly the most humiliating thing to have come out of the last three days.
“I swear,” Sam lies, and in all the endless years to come, not once do they ever speak of this again.
(Just to be sure, three weeks after Dean came to save him from digging his own grave, Sam takes a successful intentional overdose of OxyContin.
He dies in only three hours - two of which he isn’t even conscious of. In a motel bathroom much like the one before, though this time with his brother sleeping soundly just on the other side of the door, Sam’s skin shifts blue, his limbs wilt, then seize, his breath turns to end-of-life gurgling-
and the Devil makes a visit.)