A/N: I own nothing and am sorry for all the grammar/spelling mistakes.

Sam: "There's so much evil out there in the world, Dean, I feel like I could drown in it."

Dean: "I mean, there's just chaos, and violence, and random unpredictable evil that comes out of nowhere and rips you to shreds."

(Houses Of The Holy, S2E13)

Sometimes when he looks through a window of a motel room - always a different room, always different scenery out there before his eyes, always a different dirty glass - he sees the world bleeding. He sees how it's falling apart, piece by piece, how it's cracking under the weight of all the evil out there. All around, just evil, pure and simple, black evil.

No matter how many motels they've changed over the years, how many miles they've put between one town and the next, no matter how much time they've spent trying to "save" this world and all the people ... the evil is still there. It doesn't go away no matter how much they try. It's following them; it's in every mile they drive, in every dark corner of every motel room, in the streets of every small American town. It's there, waiting patiently to attack and leave the streets covered in blood.

When he's sitting at another table in another motel room - always a different colored table, always a different hard chair, always a different curtain scratching at his forearm - looking out the window, he imagines how the blood is dripping over the edge of the world.




Into space. Into darkness and vacuum, where there is nothingness waiting to swallow it.

There's just so much evil, so much blood, that sometimes he feels like he can't win. No matter what he does, what he and Dean do, there's just no winning this. The evil is the undefeated champion of the world whose reward is a bath of blood.

But not today. Not this time. Not here in this tiny American town that's known to no one except the 700 people living here. Not if he has anything to say about it.


"Dean," he groans while trying to raise his brother up from the asphalt that is slowly getting saturated by his brother's blood, "come on! Come on, man. Come on!"

Dean's heavy, he's a heavy son of a bitch, but it's a weight Sam has carried many, many times before and will carry many times more in the future, because he can't allow the evil to win. He can't allow the blood to win and make a pool on the dark asphalt for the evil to bathe in.

He needs his brother. He needs to do what he had been taught to do by his dad and Dean and Bobby and fix this. He can't allow Dean's blood to drip off the edge of the world too. Dean is not like other people, his blood is not like other people's blood, his essence is different. He's Sam's brother and that makes him different.

"Gotcha man, I gotcha, gonna fix you up, come on!"

He half drags, half carries Dean away from a dumpster that has been hiding them both from the main street and the local night life, which is pretty non-existent. The evil that has been sneaking around this town had scared everyone into their houses at 6pm sharp. Made their job easier, but it's still eerie to walk around the empty town during night. But still ... it's easier than dealing with nosy people. He has absolutely no patience for them, Dean has even less patience, and now that Dean's leaking blood and leaving a river of it all over the place, Sam will very likely shoot anyone who'd dare cross his path in his face.

"Almost there, we're almost there, come on!"

He grunts and pulls at Dean, making them both stumble and Dean hiss and groan.


"Right here, come on, walk with me..." he whispers into Dean's hair and pulls at him harder, making Dean hide his head under Sam's chin and inside his open jacket.

He can feel fast puffs of Dean's warm breath through his t-shirt and he concentrates on that, because breathing means Dean's alive and hasn't succumbed to the evil.

The evil hasn't won. Yet.

But it's getting there fast, because there's hot liquid running down his arms, Dean's blood, soaking his jacket and shirt and skin with what makes Dean his brother. They have the same blood. They're family. And evil won't take Dean away from him.

He won't let it.


He grips the steering wheel with bloody hands. Wet, sticky hands. The red is almost black in the dark interior of the car, but whenever he drives under a street light, his hands shine vivid red.







He wants to puke, but doesn't. He just grips the wheel tighter and presses the pedal to the metal. He's sure Dean or the Impala don't mind the speed. And even if they do, well ... they will just have to suck it, because he can't let evil win. He can't let it win.


Dean isn't screaming. Or yelling obscenities. Or crying out in pain. He's silent and pale as a stone, freckles standing out on his sweaty cheeks and nose, lips almost purple, hair plastered to his head.

He is alive. Just not all present, which is just fine by Sam. He doesn't need Dean to be awake and aware. He doesn't need to hear and see Dean be in pain.


His brother's blood is warm flowing across Sam's hands, warmly wrapping itself around his fingers, running in tiny tendrils down his wrists, making everything slick and sticky and too hot and too much. It's almost like it's hugging him, feeling him, seeking out its brother.

The smell of iron is making his nose wrinkle and scrunch up in disgust, because it's like smelling rusty nails, but he breathes in and out through his mouth. The smell is still strong, which is a good thing, means Dean is at least healthy in that department, but he's leaning over the wound too close, has to, to be able to see, but the smell is hitting him in all the wrong places and he gags.

"Ugh, Dean..." he mutters and swallows down the spit that has collected in his mouth.

"Damn, Dean..."

It's a long wound, a slash across Dean's belly, right below his belly button and it's bleeding like a bitch, but easily fixed if one knows how. And Sam knows how. Even if he has to wade through his brother's flesh and blood with nothing between his hands and his brother's insides.

It's alright. It's Dean. And the evil is not going to win.

"There man, all good now."

Stitched and bandaged and alive.


Another thing about blood is, that it's really, really hard to get rid off; it's sticky, like raspberry syrup all over one's hands, between the fingers, on the skin and underneath the fingernails.

So hard to wash off; like putting oil into water, it needs to be rubbed off under scorching hot water hoping it'll get off ... just get off. But some of it is all dried up now. Clinging to him like a lover.

It's making him sick, but when he looks up at the mirror above the little sink, all he sees is calmness and peace staring back at him. He is calm, collected and floating on adrenaline that is slowly going away.

He saved his brother and made the evil loose another game.

He rubs his hands under the steaming water until he feels almost clean.

He never feels completely clean.


The first time he had his brother's blood all over his hands, he couldn't stop looking at it, the way the redness completely covered his skin and his small fingers. How it crept under his bitten nails. He had been mesmerized by it. Then he puked in the grass for minutes, all the while trying to wipe the blood off on the wet grass.

His fingers felt sticky for days afterwards.

Now thought, now having Dean's blood coating his hands is nothing. His hands don't shake like they used to, he doesn't hiss when he puts them under hot water and rubs them down with soap, he gives into the calmness and exhaustion that comes when adrenaline leaves his body. He feels alright, because his brother feels alright. He feels cool and collected, because his brother needs him to be like that.

He doesn't feel nauseated when watching red water swirl down the drain. He doesn't feel scared or panicky when he shuts the water off and there's still blood in the creases of his knuckles or when the sink is tinged pink on its sides.

He feels in control, because it had been him, who made the blood stop flowing from his brother. Him who won against the blood. Against evil.

He takes a towel off the rack, pushes his hands into it and sighs.

He won. The blood lost. The evil lost. He knows it won't always be like that, he knows that one day he will loose and the evil will win and take his brother with it, but for now ... suck it, bitch.

He walks to the bathroom's door and leans on the doorframe, peeling off of it some beige color with his shoulder, but he doesn't care because all he cares about is his brother being okay.

"How you feelin'?"

He whispers and pushes the towel between his fingers and around his wrist, wiping off as much of the water as he can.

"Not that good."

The voice from the bed is raspy and weak, but it'll get better with time.

"Yeah, I bet."

His brother is a white, thick bandage lying on a brown blanket laid over the bed, the lamp on the nightstand to his left the only source of light. Sam fixed it so that the soft yellow glow from it is illuminating Dean's chest and stomach, leaving his head in the semi darkness.

The bandage across his brother's stomach is rising up and falling down slowly, breath after breath. There's a small spot of blood somewhere where Dean's belly button is hiding under the bandage, but Sam can't do anything about that now. Besides, he knows Dean isn't bleeding, because he won, he won and the blood lost.

"Whatcha grinning 'bout?" the words are almost a slur, pain pills starting to kick in.

Because I won! Because I saved you and because I'm gonna keep on saving you and I'm gonna keep you alive and here with me, no matter what and if that means getting my hands soaked with your blood then so be it. Because I need to win against whatever hurts you. Because the evil ain't gonna drown us, because the evil is not gonna win. I won't let it win, Dean. You just have to keep on fighting with me.

Because you're my brother.

"Naw, nothing, just ya know, seeing you wrapped up as a mummy brings me joy of unimaginable proportions."


"Nothin', man."

He turns and throws the towel, stained with pink, to the bathroom floor. He will take care of it later, much later. He needs to keep an eye on Dean now. He might have won the battle, but blood was winning there for a while, giving his brother a case of blood loss and he needs to keep an eye on Dean.

"You a aweshome brother, sammeh..."

Sam chuckles or he'd cry: "Aaand that's the drugs talking. Get some sleep, man."

"Sleeeeph, yeah, sounds awesshome."

"Yeah, it does, doesn't it..."


He walks as silently as he can to the window and pushes the curtains aside a little, to look outside. It's the middle of the night, nothing much to see in the darkness, but he knows that evil is still out there, lurking in the dark, waiting for its blood bath.

He smiles and breathes: "Not this time, you son of a bitch."

The End