Devastation and Reform 8/15

[faye_dartmouth]

 

A/N: Well, I'm not sure Dean made the choice you might have wanted him, too, but he's a little freaked and backed into a corner at the momnet, so don't reprimand him too much :) Continued thanks to those who are reading.  Previous chapters here.

-o-

Chapter Eight

Dean was attached to many material things. His car, some of his weapons, things like that. Cell phones, on the other hand, didn't count for much—he went through a fair share, losing some, ditching others, but they were just for convenience, safety.

He held his now, though, like it was everything in the entire world.

All it would take would be to dial three numbers. He didn’t know how to reach the FBI, but he was pretty sure it didn’t matter. 9-1-1 would get him there, one way or another.

His cell phone would end his life. It would save Sam’s.

He wanted to hurl it against a wall, shatter it, break it, destroy it, because it wasn’t fair. It shouldn’t have come to this. It shouldn’t be like this.

But it had come to this. And it was like this.

Sam needed him. He wasn’t a man of compromise, but he’d do anything for Sam.

He dialed.

The operator sounded surprised when he talked to her, but within minutes he was transferred, and he recognized Henricksen’s voice. He’d only heard it twice, but that had been enough.

"Dean Winchester," he said, smooth and easy, his voice controlled and confident. "All this time I’ve been on your trail, and here you are, calling me."

Dean hadn’t called to make small talk. He didn’t call to hear the man gloat or revel in his own victories. "I want to make a deal."

There was a pause, then a half-amused voice. "A deal? What makes you think I can’t just trace this call right now and have a squad dispatched as we speak?"

"You know I’ll run," Dean said simply. "And I told you, I want to make a deal."

"What do you think you have to barter with?"

"Me," Dean said.

"You?" There was a hint of incredulity in the agent’s voice.

"You want me, right?"

"I guess," came the noncommittal reply.

"Well, you can have me, no resisting, no running, no tricks."

Henricksen made a small sound in the back of his throat. "For what?" he asked, his voice tempered.

"Sam," Dean replied, his voice unwavering. "Sam goes free, not a mark on his record."

There was a moment of consideration. "I don't need to take this deal, Dean," he said finally. "I know Sam's hurt. Not just a little hurt, but really hurt. They tell me he's dying. He's half-dead as it is, given how much blood he left behind. You really want to trade your life for his?"

Dean swallowed back his panic and kept himself focused. Henricksen would take this deal; it was too good of an offer to refuse. "What kind of life will he have locked up in some federal prison?"

This time Henricksen did laugh. "You know what, Dean," he said. "Okay. I've read Sam's file. I think your baby brother's had it rough his whole life—the black sheep of the Winchester family. He could have been clean, if not for you. I'll bet you even set that fire in his apartment that night—killed his girlfriend, but managed to save Sam. Made sure he had no one else to turn to but you."

Anger flared in Dean's chest and he wanted to hang up, to disconnect and run. But his eyes shifted to Sam, barely alive on the bed. He could not afford to satisfy his pride. Not now. Not with this much at stake. "Do we have a deal?" he demanded, his voice taut.

Henricksen snorted, and for a brief second Dean thought he was going to reject it.

But then the snide, smooth voice replied. "Deal."

-o-

The wait seemed interminable.

Henricksen had ordered Dean to stay put, that he'd send an ambulance and a police escort and if the deal was to stay good, he and Sam better be right where they said they were.

Everything inside of Dean screamed to leave, but he couldn't. He was anchored here, at Sam's side. He'd always known he'd give up everything for his brother, but with his freedom hanging in the balance, he was suddenly aware just how much of a sacrifice he was making.

He perched himself on the edge of Sam's bed, studying his little brother, almost memorizing his features. He'd known Sam better than anyone else in the last 23 years, but it surprised him how rarely he often stopped to look at his brother.

Sam has always seemed young to him, and with his boyish features lax in unconsciousness, now was no different. The worry lines were gone. Sam exuded a certain innocence. It made people trust him, respect him, even people who hardly knew him, people who Sam was lying to. Sam was genuine in all the ways that mattered, and that gave him a childlike faith that define him.

Sure, Sam was always the one to ask why. But, unlike Dean, Sam believed in a greater good, something beyond the visible, the proven; he just sometimes struggled to figure out how he fit into it, how his family fit into it. While Dean believed in things he could strictly see, Sam was preoccupied with what he couldn't, with what he didn't have, which inevitably led to friction.

Sam had spent his life trying to make sense of the way he lived. He could never reconcile the familiar nature of the hunt, the betterment of the world, with the pain and insecurity and distance he felt because of it. And after Jessica, there was always something missing in Sam, no matter how much his brother tried to hide it. He could remember all too clearly being in the carnival and listening to Sam tell him he didn't want normal, that he was having second thoughts—that Sam was slowly leaving all his hopes and dreams behind.

It was what Dean had always wanted to hear his brother say.

But as he sat there by Sam's bedside, he only wished he could take it back, take it all back. He wanted his brother to be happy, to be free, to be everything he wanted. He wanted to see Sam have that, be there with him. It wasn't until he'd signed his life away that he realized that maybe he wanted it, too. Maybe he could have gone to school when this was over, settled down, had a life. He didn't want normal, but he couldn't deny that laying down roots suddenly had some appeal. Right when he couldn't have it.

But Sam could. Sam could live a long, happy life. Sam could be fine and settle down, become a lawyer, meet some nice girl. That could still happen.

Dean had to cling to that.

He sighed, clenching his jaw as he finally reached forward and smoothed his hand through his brother's hair. "I'm sorry, Sammy," he murmured. "I hope you understand."

Sam wouldn't, he was sure of that. At least not right away. Sam's anger would be great. His heart would be broken.

But he'd be free.

They'd just have to figure out the rest from there. Besides, Dean knew Sam would never stay mad at him. Not now, not ever. No doubt, Sam would work tirelessly to free him, either legally or illegally, Dean was pretty sure he'd attempt both.

That wasn't what he wanted for Sam, but as long as Sam had a life to waste, Dean could probably deal with it.

-o-

The FBI arrived first, in an unmarked car with a siren clapped to the top of it. Henricksen climbed out, donning a suit and a tie, and his partner threw it in park while Henricksen stalked toward the room.

The ambulance was only thirty seconds behind, which was the only reason Dean moved to open the door when Henricksen pounded on it.

Dean only hesitated for a second, taking a deep breath in order to steady himself. Glancing backward at Sam, he assured himself this was the right choice, and opened the door.

A smirk spread across Henricksen's face. "Dean Winchester," he said, clearly amused, as he shook his head. "So we meet again."

Dean didn't back down, didn't avert his eyes. He kept himself focused and steady. "Let the paramedics in," he said, nodding behind Henricksen, where a pair of medics stood waiting with their gear.

Henricksen shrugged. "Okay," he said with a shrug, stepping out of the way. "Sam's not my concern."

Dean stepped back from the entryway. The two medics exchanged uncertain glances before moving in past him. Dean hesitated, wanting to go check on Sam, but not knowing what that message would tell Henricksen.

"Go ahead," Henricksen said, reading his expression with a conciliatory nod. "You might as well spend what time with him you can. My partner is covering the back window. I'll be right here. You're not going anywhere this time. I'll make sure of that."

It almost hurt to accept the leniency, but he swallowed his pride and turned without a word, following the medics to the bed.

They had pulled the covers from Sam and one was peeling away the bandage in exploration. The other was busying herself setting up an IV.

"How long has he been like this?" the man pulling back Sam's bandages asked.

"Nearly two days," Dean reported, his tone somber.

One of them almost winced before managing a sympathetic smile. He was tearing open a new gauze patch to place on Sam's side. He murmured something to his partner who nodded, opening another bag of equipment.

"How is he?" Dean asked, edging forward hesitantly, feeling Henricksen's presence behind him.

"He's stable enough for transport," one said, reaching for the backboard. "We need to get him to the hospital, though—soon."

Dean swallowed hard, trying to quell the fear growing in his stomach. If he'd waited too long—then it'd all be for nothing. It couldn't be for nothing. Sam had to be okay.

The medics moved quickly and quietly, maneuvering Sam onto the backboard and lifting him off the ground. Sam was still throughout it all, limp and deathly pale. The medics started toward the door, and Dean moved to followed, but a hand on his arm stopped him.

He looked up, almost surprised, to see the agent leveling him with a sardonic glare. "It's time for us to head off," he said.

"I want to go with him," Dean said, straightening himself with a confidence he didn't feel.

Henricksen shook his head, a little bemused. "That wasn't part of the deal, Winchester."

Dean didn't flinch, didn't register the comment. "Doesn't matter. I need to know he's okay."

"Again, I'm afraid that just wasn't a part of our negotiations," Henricksen said, his voice laden with mock sympathy.

"You want me to answer any questions? Then you let me go with Sam. You can cuff me, watch me, anything—but until I see that he's okay with my own two eyes, you're not getting anything out of me."

Henricksen's expression was distant, considering. "I'm going to agree to this," he said finally. Then he smiled. "After all, where you're going, it's not like you'll be seeing him or anyone else for that matter any time soon."

The threat was cruel, but Dean ignored it. He willed himself to be silent, taking what little he could get. He'd deal with Henricksen and his flippancy and just how screwed he probably was later. Right now all he needed was Sam.

-o-

He had always thought that waiting rooms were lonely places and he’d always hated being in them alone.

But he'd take the loneliness over a room full of police any day.

Henricksen stuck to him like glue, seated casually in the seat next to him. There was a uniformed cop standing at post on a wall nearby, looking bored and far too stiff—he could have been a mannequin for all Dean knew, except for the occasional shifting from one leg to the other.

It was an awkward wait, with his entourage and all, not to mention the handcuffs which made getting comfortable nearly impossible. They'd at least had the decency to cuff him in front, though it did mean that he was never outside of two feet from some form of law enforcement.

The hours passed in silence. The uniform at the door changed shifts, nodding absently to one another, but Henricksen didn't move. The man didn't even flip through a magazine, didn't attempt conversation.

They just sat, side by side, in total silence.

It was the hardest wait of Dean's life.

Waiting to know if Sam would be okay was never easy, not by a long shot, but this time, it was so much worse.

He wasn't just waiting for word on Sam.

Dean was waiting for his own freedom to end. As soon as Sam was safe and okay, he'd be taken away and would probably never see the light of day again.

He'd never hunt again, never save anyone's life. He'd never get to clean his guns or drive his car or flirt with the waitresses at little local diners. He'd never get to charm a woman, order a slice of pie, check into a motel under some ridiculous alias.

He'd probably get to see Sam again. The kid would visit him, no doubt, but he'd never see Sam be happy again. Sam would try, for his sake, but he knew his younger brother would only blame himself. It would be all Dean could do to keep the kid from doing something stupid; keeping him happy would never happen.

They'd never find the demon together. They'd never avenge their parents’ death. Sam would have to face the demon alone. He'd never get to make Sam go back to school, he'd never stand up as his best man. There would be no Uncle Dean to Sam's kids, there'd be no kids of his own. He was a man without a future, and it was hard to take.

Hard, but not impossible. Not impossible if Sam would be alive and free.

When the doctor finally arrived Dean had no idea what time it was. He wasn't even sure if he was awake or not, but as soon as the doctor said Sam's name, Dean was up and standing.

"How is he?" he asked without preamble, without apology.

"Well, he lost a lot of blood, son, and that's not something you mess with," the doctor said, his bushy eyebrows raised and furrowed. "We've transfused him, which is helping with his vital signs, but there are still risks associated with blood transfusions."

Dean's mind couldn't comprehend it, didn't want to think beyond a simple okay or not okay.

The doctor smiled at Dean's confused look. "Barring any complications, he will be fine. We've got him in the ICU to monitor him, but I figure we'll be transferring him out within the day. He'll have an impressive scar, but should pull through just fine."

Relief washed over Dean and he felt tears prick his eyes. It was all he had wanted to know. All he had needed. This was the reason he had sacrificed everything. So Sam would be okay. So Sam could live a long and happy life.

Henricksen moved closer to him from behind, and Dean could feel his presence bearing down.

"Thank you, doctor," Dean murmured.

The doctor looked at him, then at Henricksen, nodded and then left.

Dean watched him go, his stomach turning. He had no regret, no doubt, just a shred of sadness that he wouldn't be there when Sam woke up.

But Sam would understand. Sam would get it. Sam was strong, resilient; he always landed on his feet. Dean was sure of that.

It didn't mean it was easy to go. It didn't mean that he didn't want to run hard and fast out of there, away from the FBI, away from the deal he'd just made.

That was his instinct, his fight or flight response, but it could never be. Not at the risk of Sam's safety and freedom.

Taking an uneasy breath, he turned, meeting the dark eyes of Agent Victor Henricksen. The agent had a bemused look on his face, and Dean willed himself to stay true. For Sam. "Okay," he said. "Now we can go."

Dean tried to ignore the look of glee on Henricksen face as he moved in, a steady hand gripping him hard, and moving him toward the door, away from freedom, away from Sam.

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