Wait Until Darkness Comes.

Summary. . . . . . . . . . Sam's defeated and feeling alone, and for the first time in his life Dean's not sure how to help, or even if he wants to. Season 5.

Disclaimer. . . . . . . . Sam, Dean, Bobby and the Impala belong to Kripkie. As always I'm just toying with his creations.

A.N. . . . . . . . It's that most wonderful time of the year! Written for Sammygirl1963 as today is her special day. Happy Birthday Jean, here's a bit of limp Sam to make your day all the more brighter.

Dampness soaked through the worn denim of his jeans and seeped through his pores to penetrate deep within him, but he didn't shiver, didn't draw into himself to preserve warmth, didn't feel any chill; he felt nothing. He sat with his back pressed firmly against the roughened bark of a centuries old oak, but didn't feel the bite of the knots digging into flesh hard enough to bruise, flesh that had wasted away over the previous weeks until it was papery thin and wrapped so tightly around his bones, the others were fearful every time they touched him incase it broke, and the blood they had fought so hard to save would be released; he was now little more than a shadow of his former self. He dropped a heavy hand to the brown paper wrapped parcel beside him, lifting it to his dry and cracked lips and gulping down copious amounts of the liquid gold the bottle held; the cheap fluid burning as it traveled down his throat, but he savored the pain it brought, a large part of him wishing it would hurt all the more, at least whilst he was hurting he didn't feel guilt for a few precious seconds. Withdrawal had been like that, pleasurable pain that eased away remembrance and guilt and remorse and made him forget, just for a while, just how much of a monster he had become; but withdrawal hadn't lasted, and he found himself wanting, needing, craving something, anything to take the sting of failure away again. So he had replaced one addiction with another, pushing aside all offers to help as he drowned himself in bottle after bottle.

He'd left after their pitying looks, and whispered words, their reassurances and their disdainful stares, had become too much; stealing out into the night without a word, or a note being left. The fact that two weeks had passed and he had seen no sign of them, spoke volumes to him; they no longer cared, he disgusted them, they were glad he was gone, he was nothing to them. So he had retreated even more into himself, allowing himself to wallow in shame and contrition, not caring how he looked, or smelt. His eyes became sunken and ringed with darkened circles as sleep betrayed him, his mind unwilling to subject itself to daily reminders of what he had done, of what he had become; his previously glowing skin became pasty and dull, as he hid from daylight and became almost a creature of the night, hiding in shadows; his hair, that he had once taken such pride in as a means to rebel, hung in lank greasy strands around cheeks that were covered in a thick stubble; his clothes hung from his emaciated frame, becoming stained and pungent as he went days without washing. Somehow he had found his way here, ditching the car he had stolen along the way, and using all his spare cash to keep up a constant supply of the only thing that felt good to him anymore. At first he had watched from a bench, but his gradually deteriorating appearance spooked others and he was soon warned away, which was how he had come to where he was now, watching, waiting for the heady rush of compunction he knew would come again soon.

He peered through the foliage that surrounded him, his body hidden from sight out of necessity, at a spot in the distance. His eyes roamed unseeingly across the bright colors of the children's playground, his ears unhearing of the squeals of laughter, across the sea of a green field, where a soccer match was playing out, towards the houses that surrounded the area, towards one house in particular; a house whose front door slowly opened, revealing the only occupant still left of the household. He watched as the man slouched slowly forward, beer bottle in hand, even from this distance he could see him stare at, but not see, the joyous moments being had in the park, before his form slumped down onto the rickety porch steps. Staggering to his own feet, he clutched at tree limbs to steady himself as he clumsily made his way closer, the need to see the hurt and destruction he had created overwhelming him. He dropped unceremoniously to the ground once close enough and continued to stare at the man before him, unable to look away even though it pained him deeply to witness the grief that rolled of the man in waves, grief that had been caused by his hands just as surely as Azazeal had, so long ago, caused his own. He brought the bottle back up to his own lips, following the movements of the man he was watching. He swiped at a tickle on his face that disrupted his thoughts, surprised to find his hand come back wet, tears that fell steadily from the man's eyes echoed upon his own cheeks. For hours they sat there slowly drinking themselves into oblivion, hoping that for just a short time they could forget these past few weeks; one wracked with grief, the other with guilt; one remembering good times passed, the other pleas and screams and dying breaths.

He watches from a distance, as he has done everyday. Watches as the man he cares for deeply vanishes before his very eyes. He wants to help, wants to offer comfort, wants to tell him that everything will be fine; but these words have been spoken before, and each time ignored, the remorse, the shame, the guilt, just too deep to penetrate. So he followed when he left, witnessed as he crashed, helped out only when he knew his help would not be remembered in the dawning of a new day; and each dawning day he wished he could do more, wished that he could stop the destruction he was witnessing, but deep down he knew that it was not his help the man required. His eyes finally turn away from the grieving man on the steps; turns away from the figure slumped in the foliage, slowly drinking himself to death, the figure he so desperately wants to save; and looks instead at the other man watching, the man that has stood every day in his own shadows, the man that witnessed everything yet stayed hidden, keeping his feelings shrouded behind a stoic mask, the man who with one word could end the obliteration of his brother; but who chooses every day just to stare.

As he watched the tears flow down a face that had once been so full of life, he knew he had to act, knew that this had gone on too long already. Moving forward he aimed for the remorse riddled figure still slumped on the ground, his own heart breaking as hazel orbs looking pleadingly into his own eyes, and whispers for death reached his own ears. He felt wetness dribble down his cheeks as he took in the sight of the broken shell of the man, but he knew now was not the time to wallow in his own grief, instead he threw the almost empty bottle away, and with surprising ease began to lift the desolate man, calming him down as he started to fight, and turning him away from the grieving man on the steps, and back towards where his battered up truck was parked. Within a few feet he was hauling a dead weight, the younger hunters body beginning to drop into a deep pit of drunken oblivion; yet still he struggled on alone, stopping only briefly to spit out words laced with anger at the man who still stood in the shadows.

"Ya stupid stubborn idjit. He's still ya brother, no matter what has passed."

The older brother though showed little sign of acknowledgment, his eyes still firmly set looking straight ahead, the goal in life he had once cherished, now broken. Only as Bobby began to get further away did words finally leave his mouth.

"I don't know what to do."

Bobby stopped and turned back Dean's way, seeing for the first time the mask drop and the emotions he normally kept so hidden shown for all the world to see. "Just be his brother."

Dean hesitated before answering, his voice weary. "I don't know how to be." He paused and took a shaky breath before adding. "I don't know whether I want to be anymore." Although shocked, Bobby knew enough to stay quiet and allow Dean to continue. "I don't know whether I want to help him. I'm wondering if this has gone too far this time, I'm wondering if I should just do what Dad asked me to."

"You son of a bitch! Things get tough and you plant ya tail between ya legs and run. I guess Sam's not the only one who's changed. I guess ya aint the man I thought ya were, cause the Dean Winchester I know would never, and I mean never, abandon his brother." Bobby shouted, his face turning puce with anger.

"You don't know nothing!" Dean yelled back. "You don't know how far Sam has gone. You don't know what he did."

"Yes I do! D'ya think I'm stupid? I looked in the car, Dean. I saw the girl, saw the bites."

"Then how can you stand there and judge me? How can you bare to even help him?"

"Because he was fooled Dean, just like you was, just like I was. She manipulated all of us. Yes he was fooled more, but deep down he thought he was doing the right thing, and deep down I think, like me, you rejoiced at the idea of having tis powerful force on our side, knowing what we were about to face."

Dean turned angry eyes Bobby's way, but wouldn't refute his claim. Deep down he knew the man was right. He had been duped also, duped into believing that all demons were not cut from the same cloth, duped into believing that Ruby had changed. And Bobby was also right about something else, when he had witnessed Sam in action, he had enjoyed the idea of having him and his powers on their side; but seeing what having those powers had done to Sam had made him wonder was it all, in the end, worth it.

"He's needs ya Dean. He needs his big brother, his role model, his idol. If ya turn away from him now, we'll all lose because Sam will cease to exist."

"But I don't know what to do?" Dean cried.

"Just be ya self. Just be near. Just be a brother. I'm not saying it's gonna be easy. I'm not saying to forgive and forget. I'm just saying give him a chance to redeem himself."

"I can't promise anything. This may turn out bad."

"I'm not asking for promises Dean, and bad I can deal with. Now are ya gonna help me get him home? Or are ya gonna watch me struggle?"

Dean turned back to the sight that had so captured Sam these past few days, and watched as the man stood up and walked back into his now silent home, his own remorse at being unable to stop his brother, at being unable to prevent the mans loss churning inside him. He looked back at Bobby struggling to keep hold of Sam, to keep hold of his baby brother, and felt the grip around his heart begin to lessen. The man had lost his wife and he was very sorry for that, but he was damned if he was gonna lose Sam. He would fight to get his brother back, and he would make each and every demon pay for what they had done. It would be hard, it would be long, but the trust they had lost would be found. Turning he wrapped Sam's arm across his shoulders and eased the burden from Bobby, he caught Sam's drooping head before it rolled back, his free hand easing it into a more comfortable position before moving to cup his chin. "Don't worry Sammy, I got ya. I got ya." Through moist eyes he looked back Bobby's way. "Let's do this! We got work to do."

The End.

A.N. . . . . . . . . Well Jean I hope that you liked your little birthday gift? Thanks to everyone else for reading, will be back soon with new chapters for my other fics, catch you later, Peanut x