"You brother's summoning me as we speak. Wants to make a deal. Bring you back. It's all so expected."-Crowley, 9.23
"I'm proud of us." You say. You with blood dripping from your mouth, eye swollen shut,with your laboured breathing and delirium. You look at me,and you grow pale. Your head falls onto my shoulder. The uneven panting slows until it's gone.
Oh my god. I'm going to puke.
"Dean." You don't respond. Your blood is seeping into my clothes, I'm holding you, suddenly within one of a hundred Tuesdays.
"DEAN!" But you're silent still. I grab the back of your head,hold you against me. But you don't wake up. I don't wake up from this nightmarish hell. Cas doesn't show up and heal you.
I do puke. It's after I let you go and you crumble to the ground,like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Your face hits the concrete and I can feel the bile rise up in my throat. My stomach twists,and the small amount I managed to eat today is gone. I crouch,hyperventilating. You're going to get up,lay a hand on my shoulder, say:
"That was a helluva night last night,Sammy. You are so hungover,dude!" Then you'll laugh and give me aspirin and some water.
And you don't come. No one comes. I'm dry heaving against a wall.
Gone. Again. My fault. There aren't many coherent thoughts,but the few I do have don't make too much sense. I go back to you,and I roll you onto your back.
"You're gonna be okay." So I pick you up. You've lost weight. I can carry you in my arms. Your bruises seem darker, the cuts deeper.
"OK?" And I start to walk.
I fall twice. The first time, I collapse at the end of an ally,you are sprawled across me. I can't breath. I sit for hours,days, I don't know. And I get up. The second time, I surge forward. When we get to the car, it takes several tries to lay you down in the front seat. I'm getting you home.
As I pass the state lines into Kansas, I turn on the radio. Nothing but static. All your favorite tapes are gathering dust. You haven't listened to anything in a while. I nearly crash into a truck and pull off the road.
There's a roar in my ears and I think I'm screaming.
I carry you like a child into your bedroom,hours later. Some darkly-humorous part of me thinks maybe you'll wake up from sheer embarrassment. Your sheets are dusty, unturned, and your iPod lays unused. I put you down,and your head lays at an awkward angle,
I'm bringing you home.
The first aid kit hasn't been used in a while, but I use half of it now. I wet a washcloth and wipe blood from your forehead,your eyes,your mouth. I stitch the wound in your stomach and pat it dry. You don't wake up.
I don't know what I expected. You keep a bottle of whiskey stashed in the library and that's where I head. The bottle's half empty,and the other half does nothing to numb the giant, twisted crevasse in my stomach. Lights are on in the file room and I go to turn them off. My vision's been softened, but it's hard to miss the doors to the dungeon that have been busted open. There's a devil's trap painted on the floor,and stomped out matches littering around a bowl.
Crowley. I pick up the matches you left and take a swig of whiskey. There's a sudden punch in my stomach and hyperventilating's the only option. I strike the match and toss it into the bowl.
You're coming home.