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Your dead brother walks into camp.
It sounds like the start of a shitty joke but it’s not. It’s just another scene in what has become a long and shitty life. You almost wish it were a joke, it would be funnier that way, but that would mean it’s not true and-
Your dead brother walks into camp.
He’s bloody and limping but he’s breathing and you think it’s probably one of the best things you’ve ever seen. The amount of blood coating his neck makes you sick to your stomach but he takes a shuddering breath and you feel your body react in kind, taking its first full breath since you watched your brother get dragged away. Scared and bloody and-
Your dead brother walks into camp.
There’s a hint of a smile on his face when he sees you, but his eyes have a shuttered look to them that makes your palms sweat. You take a step towards him, a magnet pulled towards true north. You can see his knees shaking and you want nothing more than to wrap him in your arms before they give out. But there’s a figure over Sam’s shoulder and he bows his head in shame when your eyes cut over to it.
You recognize the face instantly but your brain can’t compute it into a regular thought. He’s not supposed to be here and you feel your jaw clench and your heart race. He’s not supposed to be here and you’re gonna kill him. Your gonna rip him apart limb by limb and tear—
Your dead brother and the devil walk into camp.
The framing of the joke is all set up now and you feel the anticipation of the punchline deep in your stomach. You push down the impending hysterics because this isn’t a joke, this is the real devil and your real—living—brother collapsing to the dirt in front of him. This isn’t a joke because if it is that means that there’s more to come.
The devil’s hand is on your brother’s head now, resting on his hair like he’s some sort of dog. Sammy’s shaking, literally fucking trembling, and the next thing you know the devil’s shirt is fisted in your hand and Cas is stepping in like a teacher breaking up a school-yard fight.
One of Cas’ hands is on your wrist and the other is on Lucifer’s shoulder, pushing him away. You’re thinking about the ethics of kicking Cas’ legs out from under him when your brother finally talks. It’s just one word but it’s the only word that’s ever really mattered.
“Dean.”
Sam’s voice is quiet and gravelly but he’s pulled himself off the ground and onto his shaking legs. There’s mud on the knees of his jeans and you are sickeningly reminded of Cold Oak.
“Sammy,” you say, reverent as you grab his shoulders, touch his blood-stained neck, clench your hand in his dirty shirt. His weight collapses onto you and you repeat his name like a prayer, like salvation.
“Dean,” his voice is barely a whisper but it’s all you can hear. “I—“
There’s no need for him to finish his sentence because you’re his older brother and you know what he needs. It’s your one job and you try not to think about all the times that you failed.
“Dean,” he repeats again and this time there’s a hint of pain in his voice that makes your stomach churn. You move your hand between his shoulder blades and start to lead him, his skin warm under your palm. You hope he can’t feel your fingers shaking.
You bring him into a shack with holes in the walls and dirt for the floor. You’re not sure if you’re supposed to be in here but at this point, you can’t find it in yourself to care. There’s a cot to sit your brother down on and a bucket of water to wash the blood off his neck. You’re pretty sure it’s not the worst place you’ve ever stayed.
Your brother’s eyes track you as you grab the moth-eaten cloth that is supposed to pass as a blanket off the cot and dip the corner of it into the bucket. The water is kind of murky but it’ll get the blood off of Sam’s neck and that’s all you really care about.
The blood is dried in some places and tacky with sweat in others. The sheer amount of it coating your brother’s neck makes bile rise up in your throat. You’re scrubbing harder than is probably necessary but it’s dried into the little hairs at the nape of his neck and you're pretty sure it’s stained his skin and—
“I’m sorry,” Sam says, voice surprisingly steady but still holding that hint of pain. It’s the first full sentence he’s said since you got him back. You almost wish he hadn’t spoken at all.
“Don’t,” your voice cracks on the word. You can’t get yourself to meet Sam’s eyes, focusing on his neck and the drops of pink water soaking into his shirt.
“I brought him here,” he spits the words out like they disgust him. You are reminded of a younger Sam with bangs in his eyes and hands that shook with righteous anger. “I brought him here,” he says again, quiet and guilty. The anger is gone, burned away just like the little brother who still believed that the world owed him something.
You want to scream at Sam, shake some sense into him. You want to ignore him, wash the blood off his neck and pretend he never spoke a word. You want to go back in time and never let him walk through the stupid rift in the first place. You can’t do any of those and it makes you hate the world just a bit more than you already did.
“Hey,” you say, draping the ruined sheet over the side of the bucket. “Don’t blame yourself for what that bastard did. Don’t blame yourself for coming back alive.”
Your hand is still on his neck and your voice is unsteady but you need him to know you mean it. You need him to know that you’d let Lucifer have this world as long as you got him back.
“Okay,” he says, and he won’t meet your eyes but he gives a little nod of approval. “Okay,” he repeats, like if he says it enough times it’ll make it believable. You figure that this is as good as you’ll get given the circumstances.
“Great,” you say, wiping your hands free of imaginary dirt. “Now that that’s out of the way, where are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” he answers, but his shoulders are hunched and his eyes are overly focused on his clamped hands. You think he must take you as a fool if he thinks you believe that.
“Come on,” you say, trying to inject as much humor as you can into your voice. “I know I may have dropped the ball recently, but I can see when my little brother is limping. I’m not exactly blind.”
Despite your best efforts, it still comes out sounding a bit too desperate for your liking. It doesn’t seem to make a difference because Sammy still won’t make eye contact, just keeps staring at his hands like they hold the answer to all his problems. You feel your stomach drop when you notice his right thumb rubbing across the palm of his left hand. You wish the familiarity of the motion made it better.
“Sammy,” you say, soft like you’re talking to a spooked animal. You are not surprised when you don’t get an answer.
Your eyes stay focused on his hands and you catch a glimpse of nail marks overlapping the old scar on his palm. There’s dried blood and dirt coating the edges of the cuts. Looking at them makes your mouth taste like bile and dust and past mistakes.
You thought that you left this behind years ago. The blank eyes and hoarse whispers not meant for your ears. You remember throwing up in the stained porcelain of a motel toilet, stomach acid and whiskey burning like fire on the way up. Sam was in the other room, his too-long limbs squeezed into the space between the two queen beds, his eyes tracking something only he could see. He was mumbling to himself, quiet and subdued, you listened just long enough to realize that Alistair was not half as creative as you thought. Just long enough to realize that there was so much more that hell could have taken from you. So, when you watched an Angel grasp your brother, bruised and dressed in white, you had selfishly hoped that that was the end. But now, looking at your brother hunched over on the too-small cot, you realize you were only fooling yourself.
“Sammy,” and this time you grab his hands in yours, squeezing so hard you can feel the bones. “Sammy, please.”
“I’m fine,” he says again like he didn’t just zone out for the past 2 minutes. His voice is detached and you can feel his heart pounding in his wrist, fast and unsteady.
He’s still staring at his hands, squished together by your own, and you watch as he blinks at them like he’s never seen them in his life. You can tell when his brain finally catches up to his surroundings because he pulls his hands away from yours fast enough to startle you. Pulls them up, close to his chest, quick enough to make his shirt sleeves ride up but not quick enough to stop you from seeing the finger-shaped bruises surrounding his wrists.
You can’t remember the last time you ate but it burns on the way up. Tastes like blood and ash and a dirty motel room with your brother curled up on the floor. There’s a hand resting on your back and you know it’s supposed to be comforting but the pressure feels suffocating.
“It’s fine,” Sam says, voice steady and calm. It makes you sick listening to it because it’s not fine. It’s so far from being fine and—
Your dead brother and the devil walk into camp.
There’s vomit soaking into the dirt floor and your throat feels thick. Your brother’s neck is still stained with blood and dark bruises circle his wrist. His hand is on your back, lips forming words you are selfishly glad you can’t hear. He’s comforting you despite the fact that he’s the one that—
Your dead brother and the devil walk into camp. One of them is limping.
You really wish it were a joke but you don’t think that you remember how to laugh. All you can remember is delirious words, a stained toilet, and the phantom mark of fingers holding your brother down.
Neither of you says anything as you stand up and brush the dirt off your knees. It would almost be peaceful, the weird shack you have made your safe haven, if it wasn’t for the look in your brother’s eyes and the sound of laughter—taunting and disgustingly familiar—filtering in through the holes in the walls.
Your dead brother and the devil walk into camp. It sounds like a joke but it really isn’t funny.
Lucifer’s laughter is still echoing through the air, making it feel thick and weighted. Your hands are shaking and you want to wrap them around his throat, pretend it doesn’t make you think of fingers wrapped around your brother's wrist. Instead, you spit out stomach acid that tastes like defeat and pull your brother into a hug. Try not to let the weight of his head on your shoulder feel like failure.