Out of the Darkness, Sam/Dean, NC17

[runedgirl]

Fic Title/Link: Out Of The Darkness
Author Name/Link: runedgirl
Artist Name/Link: milly_gal
Art Link: Art Master Post
Category: Mini-Bang (6510 words)
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Current canon

Summary: The Darkness falls, leaving the world in blackness and chaos. Sam and Dean cling to each other the way they always have, struggling against not only the effects of the Darkness, but also the feelings they’ve never expressed for each other. If the world is ending, is there really any reason not to act on them?

A/N: Written for wincestbigbang, which I'm so grateful for. So much thanks to talented artist milly_gal, who was an absolute pleasure to work with! She 'got' the story from the beginning, and her beautiful artwork enriched it so much. Mwah! And as always, thanks to my wonderful beta without_me who fixes all my mistakes and then makes me laugh about them.



It seems like the only solution, and he just wants to rest.

He’s so tired, of all of it. Tired of the struggle, the pulse of the mark not only on his arm but in his blood, pushing, always pushing. Too much for the remnants of who he used to be to damp down; maybe there was never enough good there in the first place.

Death is right. This is how it has to be.

Sam fights, of course he does. With his fists and with his words and with that look on his face that says, You’re my big brother, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.

Sam fights like Dean knew he would, and then he stops.

That’s the moment the first particle of doubt seeps through the single-minded determination that’s driving Dean. The first second his entire being isn’t suffused with Just do it just do it just let it be done. It isn’t the photos, the reminder of his humanity. Of his mother and the way she taught him to love. It’s Sam. It’s always Sam.

Sam isn’t fighting like he should be. He’s sinking down but looking up, and his eyes look just the same.

The same as some unimportant long ago October evening, slanted like they will always be but wide then, some of the baby blue left still. Looking up and Dean’s looking down, clinging to the top rail of the crib to give him enough leverage to peer over and say, “Shhhh, Sammy, close your eyes.”

Sam didn’t listen then, either.


I’m sorry. Forgive me.

* * *

Dean remembers the look on Sam’s face just before The Darkness enveloped them.

And even then, Sam bigger and taller and so grown up he’s managed to defeat Lucifer himself—even then, Dean could read that look the same as he could when Sam was four and lightning struck the giant oak tree outside their motel. Protect me.

It’s the same now. The impulse is coded in his DNA. He remembers reaching out as The Darkness roared toward them, his fingers clutching the flannel of Sam’s shirt, and Sam’s fingers closing the distance between them and doing the same, in slow motion like even the universe knew this was it for them; it was over. The last thing Dean saw was Sam’s lips forming his name, when he could no longer hear because the sound was too strong, the Impala shaking like she’d tremble apart.

Maybe it was five seconds; maybe it was fifty. Then the noise was gone as quickly as it came, the whoosh receding into the blackness, the car’s metallic creaks slowly subsiding.

There was nothing to see, but Sam’s fingers were still clenched in his shirt, tugging even harder now, so he knew Sam was with him, and that made all the difference.

“Sammy,” he said, because the irrational fear that if he couldn’t see anything then maybe he couldn’t hear anything either had already entered his shock-addled brain.

“Dean,” came the answer he needed, Sam’s voice choked like he could barely breathe in the blackness, like it was suffocating him.

“You okay?”

“I think so.” Sam paused, his fingers twisting more tightly in Dean’s shirt until Dean thought it would tear. “But I can’t… I can’t see.”

“Neither can I. I don’t think we’re blind, though; I think it’s just….”

“The Darkness,” Sam finished, and Dean could hear the emotion in his voice but couldn’t define it with the certainty he’d have from looking at Sam’s face.

So he did what came naturally. He joked.

“Somehow I didn’t think it would be quite so literal.”

Sam barked a harsh laugh, so Dean counted it as a success.

They sat there in silence for a few seconds, using their other senses the way they’d been trained.

In the distance, there were roars and cries; animals panicking in their blindness. There were woods not too far from the deserted bar where Dean had chosen to meet Death, and he could hear the rustling of tree branches, snarls and growls as whatever lived there tried to claw its way out of the darkness.

“I think we should get to the bar,” Sam said, like he was reading Dean’s mind. “We don’t know how long this will last.”

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

Neither of them let go of the other’s shirt. Finally Dean forced his fingers to unclench.

“Get out the door and just stay there, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Sam said, but it still took twenty seconds for his fingers to loosen their grip.

When Dean heard the creak of the passenger door and felt Sam move, he felt beside him for the handle and got out himself. The vastness of the black hit him then, as his hands flew out in front of him instinctively, waving around to assess whether there was anything there. The Impala had been in the open, but he couldn’t be sure she was now.

There was a squelching sound and his boots sunk into something that pulled on him, and panic instantly bubbled up ice-cold in his chest. He was being sucked down, something had him, something….

The mud, it’s the mud. The Impala was stuck in the mud.

Frantic suddenly to get to Sam, Dean repeated the reassurance like a mantra, closing the door and moving around the front of the car, one hand on her roof and then sliding down to her hood, making sure he didn’t lose contact.

“You okay?” Sam asked from not far away, and Dean moved faster just hearing his voice. Two more feet, three, and he bumped into the warm, solid form of his brother.

“Sam,” he said, though that was stupid, of course it was Sam.

They fumbled against each other for a moment, both trying to get a grip, and then Sam huffed and grabbed Dean’s hand.

He should have said something about being girly or no chick-flick moments or whatever ridiculousness was expected, but Dean couldn’t bring himself to joke again. He squeezed Sam’s hand instead, feeling anchored in the blackness for the first time.

Sam closed the passenger door and squeezed back.

“Okay, the bar should be almost straight ahead, perpendicular to the car, I think. Maybe a little to the left.”

Sam was right; Dean’s chest was warm with pride even in the midst of the hell they’d gotten themselves into. Pretty smart, Sammy.

“Let’s take it slow; we don’t know if the wind blew anything into our path.”

They moved forward, shuffling their feet. Dean extended the hand that wasn’t clasped with Sam’s and knew without seeing that Sam was doing the same. Little by little, they made their way across what had been the parking lot of the bar.

Every ten feet or so they switched on a cell phone for a few seconds, though the light got swallowed up alarmingly quickly in the blanket of pitch blackness. Conserving the batteries was primary, and Dean cursed himself for letting his phone run down to almost nothing. He’d thought he wouldn’t need it once Death was done with him.

They made their way haltingly in the direction of the bar. Dean nearly fell when his boot snagged on what felt like a tree branch, and only the solid weight of Sam beside him kept him on his feet.

“Sonofabitch,” he swore, and the words sounded louder than they should have when there was nothing else out there.

“We should be getting close,” Sam said after they’d gone another ten feet or so, and then they both stopped dead.

“What’s that noise?” Dean whispered, like they could maybe hide from it if they were quiet. It sounded like the Darkness was returning, a whooshing sound growing louder, the air swirling around them.

Dean pressed the button on his cell phone, but could see nothing nearby. The noise grew louder; a wind came up, pushing against them in the darkness.

“Get down!” Sam yelled, and they both dropped to their knees on the ground, but not before something hit them, catching Dean square in the chest as he tried to get prone. His cell phone went flying and he felt his shirt tear, felt the unmistakable trickle of wetness that meant the thing had drawn blood, but he had no way of knowing how bad it was, shock still blunting any pain.

“I’m hit,” he said to Sam, because that’s what you did, and then to his horror he heard Sam cry out in pain and felt Sam’s body twist beside him, his hand wrenched out of Dean’s grasp.

That was the worst of all, the thought that something was taking his brother away from him, now when he’d have no way of finding Sam again. If this was the end, he needed Sam beside him, needed to at least know.

“Sam!” he yelled, hands scrabbling in the dirt, searching frantically for flannel or denim. Something hit him again, this time catching him in the shoulder, and Dean reached out for it instinctively. His hand closed around something sharp and then something strange and soft, and his brain scrambled for the clarity that would tell him what the hell it was. Then there was a loud squawk and suddenly he had it.

“Birds, Sam! It’s fucking birds!”

He let go of the one he had by the legs and it flapped wildly and then was gone, but Dean could hear how many there were, now that he knew what he was hearing. Hundreds, maybe thousands, all in a mad panic, unable to tell up from down.

“Hang onto me,” he yelled, and felt Sam reach for him. They got their fingers twined together and struggled to their knees, Dean’s other hand over his face to protect himself in case one flew right into him. The thought was horrifying, and he pictured Sam with his eyes bloody. The thought that blindness might not make much difference now pushed itself into his head and he shook it off, determined.

He felt over the ground again until he found his phone and jammed it into his pocket.

“Leave the phone off, it’s attracting them. Come on.” He tugged Sam with him, determined to get to the bar.

The air churned with dust and feathers and more than once one of them collided with something in flight, but they kept on, Dean trying to get a bearing on where they were by the feel of gravel under his feet. When they hit grass instead, he turned them to the left, trying to angle toward the walkway he remembered was not completely overgrown.

The birds kept coming for a while and then died down, but Dean wasn’t taking any chances. He moved faster, hand out to feel for anything else they might run into.

“Stairs,” Sam said finally, tugging Dean to the right. He stumbled when his boot jammed against the first wooden step, falling forward, but once again Sam kept him upright. Trying to be careful, they crawled up the steps and fumbled for the door together. Sam got it open and they tumbled inside, nearly falling over each other in their haste to get the door closed again behind them.





The relative quiet inside the empty bar was a relief. Now and then there was a dull thump as a bird flew into the side of the building, and more than once Dean held his breath as one crashed into the single window, but the old glass held.

Keep it together, Dean repeated silently, fighting the panic that wanted to well up inside his chest and choke him. It was easier to do it for Sam, so that’s what he concentrated on.

Beside him, Sam sighed.

Dean switched on his phone, the light illuminating his brother’s face. Sam blinked owlishly, his mouth set into a frown.

“You okay?” Dean asked again. Sam had a small gash on his cheek where whatever had collided with them had scratched him, but it didn’t look too bad. Dean’s eyes skated up and down Sam’s body, checking for any other injuries.

“I’m okay.”

Sam took the phone from Dean’s hand and turned its light on Dean. He immediately reached for the front of Dean’s shirt and parted the fabric where it was torn in the middle.

“Shit, Dean,” he said, and only then did Dean remember the bird that caught him there.

“I’m fine,” he insisted, because it hadn’t really hurt until Sam had drawn his damned attention to it.

It was a good thing Dean had brought tequila as part of his attempted seduction of Death; it made as good a disinfectant as any, and burned like the salt was already in it. Dean returned the favor by wiping Sam’s face with it, too.

“We should conserve the battery,” Sam said when they were both cleaned up. “Mine’s almost out. No signal anyway.”

I don’t want to, Dean thought, trying to memorize Sam’s features just in case. But he did it.

A search of the bar in the dark yielded nothing helpful. No electricity, and neither of them had a lighter. There were supplies in the Impala, but the sounds coming from outside the building made the idea of trying to get to her and then back without being able to see to defend themselves less than appealing. Instead they ate the rest of the nachos because that’s what you do, you keep your strength up. Three times, four, they circled the perimeter of the bar and then worked their way to the interior, flashing a cell phone for a few seconds and again finding nothing useful.

“My phone’s dead,” Sam said finally. Dean’s was in his pocket; last time he’d checked the battery was at 14%.

Even in the dark, Dean knew Sam’s face was falling, hopelessness creeping in.

“Remember the time you jumped down the stairs of that old house with a blanket tied around your neck as a cape?” he asked as they made their way around the bar once again, hands groping for something useful.

“What?” Sam answered, sounding annoyed. Dean liked the sound of his voice in the dark.

“You hit the floor and banged your head and passed out, and when you came to, the blanket was over your head and you thought you were blind. Started screaming like a banshee.”

“And then you fell down the damn stairs and nearly landed on top of me,” Sam said, and Dean smiled because Sam couldn’t see it.

“That’s the thanks I get for coming to save your sorry ass.”

“I just needed the blanket off my head, Dean.”

If only it were that easy to fix the darkness this time.

Eventually the post-adrenaline exhaustion got the better of them. They lay down side by side on the wood floor, staring up at nothing. Every so often there was the scuttling of claws or paws on the wood porch, or the dull sound of a body thudding against the wall, or the beat of wings and a crash against wood or glass. Sometimes followed by flutters and squawks; sometimes by silence.

“Sam?” Dean asked when he couldn’t take the silence anymore.

“Yeah,” Sam answered, every time Dean asked. After the twentieth time, Sam slid his hand over to find Dean’s and laced their fingers together. Only then did Dean sleep.



There’s no way to tell if it’s morning, but eventually Dean wakes up. For a moment, as happens after a trauma, he thinks everything is fine. He blinks; again. And then it comes, the rush of icy panic, the memory of the darkness.

He draws in a gasp.

Beside him, Sam says his name and squeezes his hand.

“It’s okay,” Sam says, but of course it’s not.

By unspoken agreement, they don’t let go of each other. They piss in what’s left of the bar’s bathroom, side by side, judging whether they’re hitting the bowl by the sound and mostly succeeding.

They eat the rest of the nachos but leave the tequila. Dehydration will only come faster with alcohol, and it’s more useful as a medicine.

“We need to get to the car,” Sam says eventually. There are still noises from outside, but they’re intermittent. The thought of being hit by more invisible birds makes Dean feel queasy, but Sam’s right. Still, opening the door is terrifying; the old bar feels like their only protection.

The sense of vulnerability is overwhelming.

“Three… two… one,” Sam counts, and then Dean feels the whoosh of air on his face as the door creaks open. He throws his hand out and feels Sam do the same, their other hands still clasped tightly.

They dare a few seconds of phone screen to map out their route and a few more to get themselves inside the car, closing the doors once they do.

Dean lets out a breath, sinking back in the familiar leather seat. “Think we can get her out of the muck?”

It turns out to be a useless question; the Impala won’t turn over. Not even a tick-tick-tick. Whatever knocked out the sun seems to have knocked out the car, too.

“Sonofabitch! What the fuck is this thing? How’s it doing this?”

“I don’t know,” Sam says in the dark; then again, more quietly, “I don’t know.”

Dean can hear the guilt in his brother’s voice, and that shakes him out of his own rage. “Come on, we need to gather all the supplies we can. Get them back to the bar.”

Sam doesn’t say anything for a few seconds that feel like hours. Then he sighs. “Yeah, okay.”

There’s a jug of water, emergency rations, a med kit, blankets, a flashlight that doesn’t work and a pack of matches. There are plenty of weapons that are mostly useless in the blackness, and a few books that are equally useless. It takes two trips to get everything inside. Dean trips over something that comes running across the lot and tangles in his feet, which makes him scream so loud that Sam screams, too. They get slightly off track in their rush to get back inside and Sam slams into what was once the post for the old bar’s sign. But eventually they’re inside behind a closed door.

“Camping it is, then,” Dean jokes as they lay out the blankets and provisions, but Sam stays quiet.

“Probably be gone by tomorrow,” Dean says as they lie down to sleep. His phone tells him it’s midnight, but it feels exactly the same as it has all day.

“Yeah,” Sam says beside him. “Probably.”



By the sixth day, he’s not saying that anymore. The food ran out two days ago; the water in the abandoned bar was turned off years ago and what they brought from the Impala will be gone by tomorrow. The cell phones died long ago. For a few hours each day, they use one of the remaining matches to light something on fire in the bar’s sink, the makeshift torch casting a dim and flickering glow, but it’s better than darkness. It’s fucking wonderful is what it is, because Dean can see Sam. Sam, whose hair is greasy and whose eyes have dark shadows under them. Whose forehead is furrowed with worry. Sam, who looks at Dean like he’s expecting accusation.

When the torch burns out, they lie down, though Dean knows the gnawing in his stomach won’t let him sleep. It’s nothing compared to the gnawing in his heart.

“I didn’t mean it,” he says, and hears the minute shift in his brother’s body that lets him know Sam heard him. “When I called you selfish, I didn’t mean it.”

Sam’s quiet for a long time.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, finally. “It was true. It was all I could see, that I couldn’t lose you.”

A wild impulse to laugh comes over Dean, and he pushes it down. How many years did he long to hear that? It’s all he ever wanted, and he won’t get to savor it.

“Pretty sure that’s my line. Pretty sure that’s my life.”

“I thought,” Sam continues, his voice rough with thirst. “I thought we could fight it….”

“Like we always do,” Dean finishes, and he feels close to tears. They’ve cheated death and hell and the apocalypse so many times; why not once more? Why couldn’t it work out for Sam, this one time he decides to move heaven and earth. For Dean. “You took a gamble, Sam, that’s all. You took a gamble.”

“A gamble on the whole fucking world!”

Sam sounds broken, and the pain of that is so much worse that the hunger gnawing at Dean or the growing certainty that death is right around the corner.

“Look Sam, if you’re tryin’ to one-up me, I took a gamble and killed fuckin’ Death—talk about affecting the whole world!”

Unexpectedly, Sam huffs a laugh at that. “Because you’re a crazy sonofabitch,” he says, but his voice is less heartbroken. More fond.

It flows through Dean like warm sunshine on his face, fills him up like he’s not starving and parched.

“Takes one to know one,” he says.

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

Dean doesn’t expect to sleep, but somehow his eyes close anyway.




The cold comes on gradually. Dean tries to ignore it; uses a larger torch while they still have matches, slides another blanket to Sam’s side of the pile. They make another foray to the Impala, hoping to find something they missed the first time, hands searching every inch of the car, but there’s nothing.

A hundred times, Dean wracks his brain for something to say, something that will keep Sam from drowning in guilt, and each time he comes up empty. For the first time in his life, he wishes he was a better wordsmith. Maybe then he could tell Sam how he feels; how he’s always felt. That nothing has ever mattered except for Sam.

Sam’s hand is cold in his own. He thinks he could probably see his breath if there was any light. By the time they lie down for what they think might be night, Dean’s starting to shiver. He wants to move closer to Sam, press his fingers to Sam’s chest to feel his heart beating, feel the warmth of his skin and the solid bulk of his body. He wants to wrap his little brother up in his arms and tell him it’s going to be all right.

An animal scratches at the door, smelling their scent or searching for shelter from the cold.

Sam makes a noise beside him; a choked-off sob that he’s clearly trying to smother.

It breaks Dean’s heart.

There’s only one more match, but Dean barely hesitates before he strikes it and holds it up between them. Sam has to see his face for this; he has to believe Dean.

“Sam,” is all he manages to say, the word stuck in his throat at the look on Sam’s face.

“It’s ending,” Sam whispers in the darkness. “I did this. I destroyed the….”

The match sputters, the flame licking at Dean’s fingers.

It’s the desperate, overpowering need to stop Sam from saying that, to stop him from even thinking it, that drives Dean forward. His mouth on Sam’s stops the words, and it stops Dean’s heart, stops the entire universe.



“Dean,” Sam says against Dean’s lips, so soft it’s a whisper, and then he presses their mouths more firmly together.

The match goes out.

Time slows down again, like it did in the car when the universe shifted and tilted another direction, and Dean can feel Sam’s fingers still clutching his shirt while Sam’s mouth moves against his. Sam’s lips are dry but there’s give to them, and Dean pictures them in his mind, the way they curl up when Sam smiles, the way they curve down in a pout when Sam is sad. They’re pink and Dean has thought more than once that he wished he could kiss them, and then turned away shaking his head at his own audacity. He thinks with a wave of sadness that he’ll never see Sam again.

“Dean,” Sam murmurs, maybe sensing his thought, and just the hint of the moist tip of Sam’s tongue slipping between his lips opens Dean’s mouth like it’s the magic button. He can’t help it, wants more of it so badly, wants to have this one thing that means everything before it’s over.

Sam takes the invitation, shifts his whole body closer and leans up on one elbow so he can bend down to kiss Dean deeper, his mouth wet and insistent, his kiss suddenly full of passion. His big hand cups Dean’s cheek, holds him in place for Sam.

Dean has never been kissed like this. It’s Sam, his brain keeps repeating, and every time it sends a throb of lust rocketing through him. Sam’s kissing me. Sam’s touching me.

Sam’s fingers scratch through the stubble on Dean’s chin and slide lower, trailing down the tendon straining in his neck and down his side to push up under his shirts, and Dean gasps at the icy touch, getting his own hand on Sam’s back, searching for skin. Sam shifts so he’s fully on top of Dean, pulling the blankets with him, a cocoon of warmth as their bodies press together. He can feel Sam’s dick, a hard line against his hip, the thrill of it making him buck when Sam rubs it deliberately against him, taking his pleasure.

“Fuck, fuck yeah, Sam,” he mutters, because he wants that, wants Sam to feel something good, wants to be the cause of that.

His own cock is twitching, eager to find pressure against Sam’s muscled thigh.

Sam’s jeans are stupidly loose, and Dean doesn’t think about why, just slides his hand down the trembling muscles of Sam’s belly until his fingers tangle in the coarse hair below and brush the head of Sam’s cock.

Sam groans, and Dean can feel the vibration of it in his own chest, can feel the stutter of Sam’s breath in his own mouth. He gets a clumsy grip on Sam’s dick, already slippery in his hand, pumping up and down while Sam keeps kissing him. It’s awkward and desperate and probably the worst hand job in the history of hand jobs, but it’s Sam’s cock and Dean’s fingers and neither of them can stop.

“Dean, yeah,” Sam says, and his voice is rough, so deep it’s almost a rumble. The sound ignites something in Dean, the awareness that Sam isn’t a boy anymore, that he’s huge and strong and could probably kick Dean’s ass. That shouldn’t turn him on even more, but it does. Sam’s weight on top of him makes him feel pinned, and Dean flushes hot from the thought, tries to spread his legs a little.

Sam’s getting lost in it now, breath coming hard and fast. He’s got Dean’s shirts pushed all the way up around his neck, half strangling him as Sam ruts against his bare belly. He likes that too, likes the way it makes him feel owned by Sam, lassoed and tied down so Sam can keep him there.

Sam’s hands are at his waist now, fumbling for the snap of his jeans and trying to get his zipper down. Dean holds his breath in anticipation, dizzy with it, barely able to tell up from down in the dark.

It doesn’t matter, because the bottom drops out from under him when Sam undoes his jeans and pulls his dick out, Sam’s long fingers wrapping all the way around and tugging hard and rough, just the way Dean likes it.

“Fuuuuuuck,” he grits out, stomach muscles tensing with the intensity of the pleasure curling through him, “God yes, Sammy, Sam…”

It’s good then; Dean could come just like this, both of them with clumsy eager hands on each other. But Sam has other plans.

He doesn’t know what Sam’s doing at first when Sam lets him go, but he trusts his brother. Nothing that’s happened in the past six months has changed that.

Sam shifts on top of him, crushing Dean’s chest with his weight as he lifts his hips and Dean gasps, cock twitching against his stomach. Sam’s slips out of his grasp and he wants to protest, but then Sam grunts and Dean’s breath rushes out in a whoosh because holy shit, that’s Sam’s dick slotted up next to his own, hard and hot and slick. They’re messy together, Dean bucking up and Sam rutting down, Sam’s hand big enough to wrap both of them up, tight and perfect. Dean’s seeing stars, colors exploding in the pitch black as the pleasure builds and he doesn’t want it to end, knows it’s their first and only time and god, he wants to have this.

He turns his head to search for Sam, finds his brother’s mouth and then they’re kissing, no finesse in the dark, all spit and teeth and desperation. The slick push of Sam’s tongue between his lips makes Dean burn, his insides gone molten, the heat spreading outward as orgasm becomes inevitable. He’s hurtling toward it, hanging on by a thread when Sam groans out his brother’s name and arches over Dean, and Dean can feel every muscle strung tight as Sam trembles.



Dean can feel him come, dick jerking against Dean’s own cock, spilling warm and slick against his belly. He bites Dean’s tongue when he does, and Dean’s orgasm catches him by surprise, the taste of copper in his mouth and all of him covered in Sam.

It takes a while for his hips to stop wanting to thrust up, slide his spent dick through the mess he and Sam made on him. It feels too good; it’s been too long.

“I think I’ve wanted to do that forever,” Sam says when their hearts aren’t racing quite so fast.

It’s warm for the moment, and Sam is a welcome heavy weight still on top of him, and Dean doesn’t have it in him to lie.

“Me, too.”

“Are you just saying that because I did?”

Dean shakes his head; Sam will feel it even if he can’t see it.

“Guess Zachariah was right,” Sam says, and huffs an almost laugh.

Dean is warmer than he’s been in a week, or maybe forever, an improbable sense of happiness settled in his chest. He’s sticky and sweat-damp and will be cold again soon, but right now his mouth is curved in a smile Sam won’t see. He runs his fingers through Sam’s hair, picturing the way it curls around Sam’s ear.

“Get some sleep, Sammy.”

He turns his head to where Sam’s is resting on his shoulder; feels his brother lift up so they can kiss again. He wishes he’d have more time to do this, to learn every part of Sam.

He stays awake for as long as he can.

The next day they make one more pass around the bar. Sam finds an ancient matchbook underneath the counter. They use the last match to make one more torch, and kiss with their eyes open.




Sam’s lips are blue. They crawl under the blankets; it’s too cold to make love. They watch each other until the fire flickers out. Dean’s feet are numb; his legs feel like lead. Hypothermia, his brain helpfully supplies.

“We could try,” Sam says, his voice already drowsy. “We could try starting a fire….we could walk… see if we could find….”

“Nah,” Dean answers, carding his hand through Sam’s long hair, greasy strands slipping through his fingers. “I’m good. I’m ready. Long as you’re with me, I’m ready.”

Sam leans in to kiss him, missing his mouth and landing the kiss on his chin instead. He corrects himself, lips moving up to the corner of Dean’s mouth, and then to the bow of it. Chaste, soft.

“Me, too. I’m ready, too.”

When Sam kisses him the last time, they lie down and settle close together on the floor, hands clasped between them, legs entwined. Their foreheads touch, and Dean can feel Sam’s breath on his face, hear the rhythm of Sam’s heart.

He’s not afraid. All he’s ever wanted is Sam, beside him.

He falls asleep before Sam’s heart can stop beating.




The first thing Dean feels is a terrible burning in his leg, like a thousand bees are stinging him all at once. He can’t move it, can’t move anything, but it hurts. He’s pretty sure he died last night. So is this hell? Is he back in hell? There’s no way he believes that God or the devil would give a damn about him sleeping with his brother, but he figures what he did as a demon would land him back here anyway. But if he’s here, where is...

“Sam? Sam!”

There’s a low moan coming from nearby, so maybe this is Hell. The sound comes again, and something about it….

Dean snaps to alertness, adrenaline flooding his system. Sam. Sammy. Oh no. Not here, not Sam. Not again.

It’s like lifting a ten-ton weight off his eyelids to open his eyes, but somehow he succeeds, only to slam them shut again when he’s blinded by what feels like fire all around him. Hellfire.

Pain, his slowly waking brain corrects. It’s pain, not fire. And light. It’s LIGHT.

Dean opens his eyes.

“Smmmm,” he tries, but his throat feels like he swallowed gravel. He fumbles for Sam, squinting and blinking as he tries to see.

“Sam,” he says again, and now he can make out the shape of his brother beside him, tossing his head and making soft noises of pain.

“Sam, it’s okay, I’m here.”

It’s still painfully cold, but Dean can see now. He can see.

They’re on the floor, sunlight streaming into the deserted bar through the single window.

Moving is agonizing, but he gets his legs shifted inch by inch, pins and needles like electric shocks as the blood starts flowing again. Sam won’t wake up, his lips purple and his face deathly pale, so Dean drags him across the floor on his knees, kicking the door open and half falling down the stairs, pulling Sam with him into the blinding sunglight. He can only manage getting to his feet when they’re at the car, and it feels like a Herculean feat to get all six-foot-four of Sam into the passenger side, still mostly dead to the world.

Despite the sun, it’s freezing. Silent.

“Please, please, please,” Dean chants as he turns the key, and when the Impala turns over he nearly sobs with relief. He turns the heater on and pulls his brother to him, holding him to his chest and rubbing his hands over Sam’s back, up and down his arms.

“Come on, Sammy, come back to me, come on.”

He counts the minutes as the car slowly warms.

“Dean,” Sam mumbles after an eternity of silence.

“Open your eyes, Sammy.”

Sam does, and then buries his face in Dean’s shoulder.

“Is it….”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s over. You can open your eyes now, little brother.”




They drive slowly. The road is littered with animal carcasses. Some of them are torn up, clawed or bitten by something they never saw. Some must have starved, or frozen. The survivors scatter as the Impala comes into view, scavengers making quick work of the dead.

As they near civilization, there are abandoned cars, too. Dean holds his breath every time they have to drive by one, hoping there won’t be anyone inside who didn’t make it. Beside him, he can see Sam doing the same.

Dean chooses the least-traveled side road he can find; fewer cars on it when the Darkness descended should mean fewer corpses to overwhelm Sam with guilt.

For once, he gets lucky.

When they reach the first town, people are still clustered around churches and schools and department stores, where they had food and water and blankets that the Winchesters didn’t. Apparently some batteries worked even if the Impala wouldn’t; portable generators are still running in the local Target and Home Depot.

“Looks like most people fared better than we did,” Dean tries.

Sam’s lips are pursed in a tight line. He doesn’t look over at Dean, just stares out the window. “Even if it’s only one, that’s one too many.”

Dean knows.

“It’s on me, Dean,” Sam says, a terrible sadness in his voice.

“And on me. I took on the Mark. I started all this. I didn’t know what would happen – but neither did you, Sam.”

He’ll be damned if Sam is going to bear the guilt for this alone.

They pull into the Southland Diner; the lights are on, and already there’s a line of people waiting. Dean’s stomach wrenches at the thought of food, it’s been so long.

“You thought you were doing the right thing,” Sam argues.

“So did you. You were trying to save me.”

The knowledge of it warms him, even if Dean thinks it shouldn’t. He should feel more remorse, more guilt. His heart shouldn’t feel like soaring, knowing how much his brother loves him.

Sam shakes his head. “I don’t even know what I…”

He trails off, still not meeting Dean’s eyes. “I just knew I couldn’t lose you.”

It’s not a conscious thought when Dean slides his hand across the seat to find Sam’s. It’s something he’s done again and again for days, every time he needed to know his brother was still there. It seems silly to stop now.

Sam startles and forgets not to look; he turns his head toward Dean. His blue lips are pink now, pale but coloring, and there’s a faint blush on his cheeks. He doesn’t move for a moment.

“You won’t,” Dean says, and it comes out rough. “You won’t lose me.”

Sam shifts his hand, winds his fingers through Dean’s. He looks down at their hands joined on the seat.

“Are you sure you want to…” he starts, and looks up. “It was the end-of-the-world, I mean, I get it….”

Dean shakes his head.

“Open your eyes, Sammy,” he says, letting all the emotion he usually keeps hidden show on his face.

He keeps his own eyes open until the moment Sam’s lips meet his.