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Dean sits in the hard, uncomfortable visitor’s chair, as close to Sam’s hospital bed as he can get without climbing into it. The bed is almost too small for his brother’s sasquatch body. Under different circumstances, Dean would tease him about this, but the situation is too dire for that.
He wishes he could dig into Sam’s body and repair the damage that the trials inflicted on him. Fixing things has always come naturally for Dean, whether it’s a car or some other mechanical device. His hands are strong and capable, and his brain is lightning quick in figuring out solutions to problems.
But he can’t fix what’s wrong with Sam.
His brother is in a coma, lost inside himself, in a place where Dean can’t reach him. It’s as if he’s sailed out to sea, leaving Dean behind on the shore, watching helplessly as Sam’s ship recedes to a barely visible speck on the horizon. Once it passes from sight, Sam might fall off the edge of the earth and be lost forever.
Dean desperately wants to bring him back from the brink, but he doesn’t know what to do. He’s stuck, with no clear path forward, and it’s driving him crazy. It’s not in his nature to sit passively and wait for something to happen. Taking care of his little brother has been Dean’s job for as long as he can remember, but now he can only sit in this hard plastic chair and stare at Sam’s too-still body surrounded by machines that keep him alive.
Damn it, he’s the big brother! He’s supposed to have all the answers!
A stray lock of hair has fallen over Sam’s forehead, and Dean smooths it away, like he did when Sammy was six and bouncing out of his skin in his eagerness to get into the car and start his first day of school. His fingers tremble a little as he continues to stroke Sam’s hair. The touch reassures him that his brother is still alive. As long as he’s alive, there’s hope.
Dean needs that hope, because a nagging little whisper at the back of his mind insists that there is no miracle that will save Sam. He’s used every bit of willpower to try and stifle that whisper, but it won’t shut up.
*
Dean’s had a lot of time to think during these past few days, trying to pinpoint where things went wrong between him and Sam. He’s concluded that it all started after he came back from Purgatory. He remembers how exhilarated and overjoyed he felt when he escaped that place, and how quickly those emotions gave way to bewilderment and anger when he learned that Sam didn’t look for him while he was gone. Worse than that—Sam moved on and started building a new life with a woman and a friggin dog. To Dean, this felt like a betrayal of epic proportions.
Hell yes, he had a reason to be pissed, and he had a right to be vocal about it. He said things to Sam, some of them deliberately cruel. After a lifetime together, he knew exactly how to hit Sam where it would hurt the most.
Benny has been more of a brother to me this past year than you've ever been!
Bang. Fucking bullseye. Samuel Colt himself couldn’t have done better.
Okay, he was under the influence of a ghost possession when he said that, but once he was himself again, those words felt righteous to him. Today, however, he cringes when he thinks about what he said, and how Sam must have felt when he heard those words.
Another memory presents itself for his consideration. Sam, barely able to stand, babbling about Sir Galahad and quests and not being “clean” because of the demon blood inside him. How his eyes gleamed with a creepy, fanatical light as he insisted that the trials were purifying him. Martyr’s eyes.
That should have been Dean’s first clue that his brother was nursing a death wish. Why the hell didn’t he pick up on it?
Before he can examine that question, another memory blindsides him. Sam in the church, eyes haunted and full of pain. You want to know what I confessed in there? What my greatest sin was? It was how many times I let you down. I can't do that again.
These memories are puzzle pieces, fitting together to form a brutally clear picture that hits Dean like a punch to the face. Now he sees why Sam continued with the trials after he started spitting up blood and burning with fever.
It wasn’t about boarding up Hell. It wasn’t about saving the world, or avenging Mom, or curing Crowley. Those were side benefits, at best. The main goal was purification. Sam scourged himself like a medieval penitent because he wanted to be worthy, but not for a quest.
For Dean.
And when Sam judged himself unworthy of his brother, he stopped caring if he lived or died.
Dean’s head throbs and he feels as if his innards have been scooped out. He stares hard at Sam’s blank face. “All this, because you thought I didn’t…love you anymore? Was that it? You thought I turned my back on you? But Sam, that’s not true. Why would you think…?”
He doesn’t finish the question. No need to. He knows why Sam believed this. Dean himself had put the idea in his head.
A tsunami of self-hatred overwhelms him. “Damn it, I’ve got a big fucking mouth,” he mutters.
No response from Sam. Silence means agreement.
He grabs Sam’s hand, squeezing it hard, trying to pour his own life force into his brother. His heart is aching, crumbling into dust.
“I pushed you too hard,” he admits. “I couldn’t let it go, even when you told me to. I had to be right, no matter what. Even when you were about to start the last trial, I had to rub your nose in it one more time. Maybe that was the last straw, and after that you thought there was no redemption for you. But damn it, Sam, I never wanted you to think that.”
He squeezes Sam’s hand again, hard enough to hurt, but his brother doesn’t make a sound. “I hope you can hear me, because I need to tell you something.”
He takes a deep breath. “Sam, I forgive you. For everything. I should’ve said this a long time ago. Shit, I should’ve said it at the church. I never realized how much you needed to hear it until now. I never meant for you to—to do this to yourself. I never wanted you to die. For what? Closing Hell?”
He’s breathing harder now, the words spilling out of him in a flood. “Yeah, well, screw Hell! Screw Heaven, too. Screw all of ‘em. I meant what I said in that church. I don’t put anything before you, and nothing else means a damn thing to me if you’re gone.”
In a movie, Sam would open his eyes right now, and they’d have an emotional reconciliation, complete with tears and hugs. The ultimate chick flick moment. But Sam’s eyes remain closed, and his hand is limp in Dean’s grasp, as unresponsive as the rest of him. The skin is cool and dry. It feels unnatural, as if someone has replaced Sam with a wax dummy.
“Sammy?” Dean’s voice cracks a little. “Come back to me. Please. It’s not too late, is it? It can’t be too late.”
No response.
Dean’s heart plummets into his shoes. Again he thinks of Sam on a ship, sailing away from him. Heading for the edge of the world and out of Dean’s reach, forever.
*
The doctor comes into the room with an update, and the news is much worse than Dean imagined. Sam’s internal organs are badly damaged, and his body is using up all its resources to maintain the basic functions. Bottom line: barring a miracle, he’s not going to get better.
“I'm afraid that's in God's hands now,” he says, and Dean can barely restrain himself from grabbing the man and shaking him until his teeth rattle.
He has the gall to mention God? The doctor is an educated man, but there are some things that can’t be taught in medical school. He doesn’t know that God walked away from the blackjack table a long time ago and shows no signs of coming back. Shit, God couldn’t even be bothered to intervene in the apocalypse. Why would he suddenly take an interest in one gravely ill human?
Maybe the God speech is part of the doctor’s toolkit, to be used at times like this when the grieving relative needs some comfort. But it’s exactly the wrong thing to say to Dean, because when the doctor says, It’s in God’s hands, Dean hears, Let Sam go. And to Dean, those are fighting words.
Crap, he’d better get out of here before he hauls off and belts this compassionate, well-meaning man right in the chops.
Out in the hall, he takes some deep breaths and calms himself. It feels weird to be away from the hospital room. Weird, and vaguely wrong. What if Sam dies while he’s gone? Maybe he ought to go back and resume his vigil.
Then he sees the sign for the chapel, and he knows what he needs to do.
*
The hard pew is only slightly less uncomfortable than the plastic chair in Sam’s room. Dean glances around at the other grieving people who are here praying for their own loved ones. Even though he has something in common with them, he doesn’t feel a kinship with them. Like the doctor, these people have faith that God will hear their prayers, and Dean can’t join them in that faith.
He’s not going to beg God for anything at this late stage. For years he’s regarded the so-called Supreme Being as a deadbeat father. Praying to him now would be hypocritical, and it’s way too late in the game for hypocrisy. Instead, he whispers a frantic prayer to Castiel, laying everything on the line, fighting back tears as he asks his angel friend for help.
Then he waits, but nothing happens. This is strange. Cas should’ve responded instantly. Something must be wrong. Cas has been working with Metatron to try and fix heaven. Maybe he suffered an unforeseen setback, just as Sam did.
Winchester luck strikes again.
Panic knifes through Dean. Now that Cas is incommunicado, he feels more alone than ever. Time’s running out. His brother is sailing away, and Dean must find a way to save him before he’s gone forever.
Medicine can’t help. God can’t help. His angel friend can’t help. Where can he turn now?
He mutters, “Screw it.” If Cas is unavailable, maybe one of his fellow angels is willing to help. They can’t all be dicks… can they? Maybe there’s another good one like Cas.
Here goes nothing.
He takes a deep breath and focuses his will. He feels like a quarterback with five seconds left in the game, getting ready to launch a Hail Mary pass downfield, hoping against hope that a receiver will catch it and run it into the endzone for a game-winning touchdown that saves the day and brings Sam back to him.
His burning eyes stare straight ahead as he begins to pray. “Okay, listen up. This one goes out to any angel with their ears on. This is Dean Winchester... And I need your help.”