fannishliss

SUPERNATURAL  S4 ficlet:  Snow on snow, snow on snow

Summary:  Dean can't stand that Sam is actively embracing the fate he only escaped through Angelic intervention.


---
Dean had always liked that his birthday was in January.  Even though it came so close to Christmas, that didn't matter, cause Winchesters didn't do much in the way of presents.  But it seemed fitting to Dean -- a new year begun, another year older and wiser.  Another year of putting away monsters before they put you away.

Now though, January seemed so empty, bone cold, ground frozen, trees bare, frost limning every shadow and no birds singing.

Dean watched the day of his birthday come and go and wondered what was the point.   Years meant nothing in hell; there was no world turning there, no sun at the center of everything.  Just a vast expanse of horror pulsing outward in every direction, on and on, little cruxes of concentrated misery spindling it all together.  Day, night, month, decade -- none of those words meant anything.  Only the feeble spasms of human agony, the rabbity pulses of the impossible heart, throbbing in terror, torn out, devoured and instantly replaced, measured the time.

When Dean got back, when he laid eyes on Sam, that was when he first felt that he was really alive again.  He'd pared the dirt out from under his fingernails, put on fresh clothes at Bobby's, but his heartbeat felt like a tempting lie, his breath didn't feel real till Sam was pressed against him, warm in his arms, filling his nostrils with the old familiar scent that could only be his brother.

Dean turned thirty and life crawled on. Measuring by the calendar, Dean had lost four months.     Judging by the way Sam hid from his eyes, he'd lost a lot more than that.   Sam was obsessed with finding Lilith:  it was all he could think about, her head on a platter, bloody.  Dean thought Sam's blood thirstiness was shocking.  His little brother had never been that way before.   It turned out to be even worse -- he wasn't just bloodthirsty now, he was actually drinking blood, demon blood, storing up power, changing himself into a weapon powerful enough to take down Lilith.

Dean had felt that kind of change.  He remembered the power he'd had as a demon, the way it grew whenever he let go and let himself wallow in the anger and the bloodlust.    Only Castiel had saved him from the fate of other demon souls he would have happily tortured under his blades.  And he had been eager to twist the knife in Alastair, despite the fact the Demon only seemed to enjoy it.

Dean knew from tragic experience that Demons could enjoy.  He remembered the sickening relief he'd felt down deep when he finally gave in, got off the rack, and took up the knife.  The absence of torment -- turning that torment onto others -- it ate at his soul and turned his eyes inky, until the Angel healed him and lanced out that damnable infection.

Now Sam was choosing to consort with a Demon, actively choosing to drink demon blood, nurturing the taint inside himself,  so he could be strong enough at last to kill Lilith and free Dean from the marker on his soul.

Dean didn't really care any more about his soul.  Sure, he'd do anything to keep from going back to Hell -- but he figured he'd go wherever the Angels and Demons cared to send him, in the end.

Sam was a more pressing matter.  Dean needed Sam to be himself again.  He needed Sam to regain his moral center.  Sam had somehow gotten the wrong idea, putting Dean's survival and well-being ahead of his own.  He liked it, just a little, but his over whelming response to Sam's scheme  was an anguished no.

Don't do this to me, Sammy.  I saved you when you were little, and then again when you were big.  Please Sam, I'm begging you, don't give yourself to a demon's way in.  They hurt you inside and you can't stop them.  Please, please, Sam -- don't do anything you'll regret.

But who knew what Sam might regret these days.  He was with Ruby, and she was making him strong -- strong enough to kill Alastair, when Dean, despite all his knives, couldn't.  Was this the kind of thing Sam took pleasure in now?  Did he feel that pulse of demonic joy, down deep in his gut, and lower, whenever he felt the damaged he inflicted with his powers?

It made Dean sick to think of it.  What was Sam becoming?  If he embraced the power of a demon, how would he ever regain his humanity?  Would the Angels pull it out of him, like Castiel had with Dean? Or would they simply smite him and send him to the Pit, like Cas had threatened?

The Angel couldn't really be trusted, Dean feared -- Cas too had too much of that savage satisfaction -- I pulled you out of the Pit-- I can toss you back in.

Everything Dean had suffered in Hell, it had all been to keep Sam safe.  He'd never wanted anything else.  His little brother, free and alive, maybe even happy someday -- even after he broke, even in the smoldering rage and dark joy of his demonhood, he thought it might have been worth it.   Dean had done things in Hell he could never live down.  He never wanted Sam to face that kind of darkness in himself.

Sam had never wanted to be a Hunter.  Now Dean could only hope that those old peaceful instincts would kick in, and keep Sam's soul from mortal blight.

If Dean could have cradled Sam's innocence in his arms, he would have, running with it tenderly, like he'd run so long ago.

But maybe it was already too late.    Dean was rising up from his time in Hell, getting better, slowly but bit by bit. Too late -- Sam was already barrelling his way down.

Please, Dean prayed, let him be okay just a little while longer.  We almost have this whole thing figured out.  Let us fix it and then fix Sammy.

Dean didn't know who he was praying to.  He  could only hope his prayers would somehow be answered.

---

Notes: The prompts from Midwinter day by drabble were:
4 deep;
6 "Every mile is two in winter."  --Jacula Prudentum by George Herbert;
and 1, In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter, long ago.-- Christina Rosetti.