Chapter Text
He could hear them clawing at the door. He could hear them snarling as they no doubt knew that their prey was near. He imagined that he could feel their hot breath on his neck.
Even though it was horrific to look at, Dean found his eyes glued to Ruby’s – No, Lilith’s – face as she set her hand against the door handle.
“Sick him, boys,” Lilith crowed, and she opened the door to let the hellhounds in.
Dean’s world narrowed. Seconds became hours as he literally stared death in the face.
Or faces. There were two hounds.
Strings of saliva dripped from their mouths. Their fangs were bared, promising that a world of agony awaited him at their mercy. Their long bodies were black as night, and their claws lacerated the wooden floor as they took their first steps over the threshold.
Dean’s eyes found his brother’s.
Sam was being held up against the wall by Lilith, but he was straining to get free. His eyes were wide, terrified, and he was shouting something that Dean wasn’t present enough to comprehend.
Dean was too busy being mesmerized by how the grown-out bangs were falling across Sammy’s forehead as he struggled. Dean would always remember that brown mop between his fingers for every time he’d ever teased Sam by scruffing it up. He could practically feel it now, remembering stroking the kid’s head soothingly after a long night spent worshipping the porcelain gods when he was six. He had told Sammy to keep his distance when Dean himself had gotten the bug the previous week, but of course, the little squirt hadn’t listened.
Sammy never listened, not when Dean really wanted him to. He hadn’t listened when Dean had told him to run when that vampire found their motel room in Austin, instead almost getting his neck bitten out because he refused to leave Dean alone. He hadn’t listened when he’d been explicitly told to stay at the cabin when Dean and Dad had gone after that werewolf, though Dean would only begrudgingly admit that the kid had great aim and timing because his silver bullet nailed that mother right as it was about to start chomping on Dad.
No, Sammy never did listen when Dean wanted him to. Dean was the oldest, he knew what was best, and he was always going to watch out for his little brother. It was his job.
So even as he was trying not to think about how serrated teeth were about to end up impaling his skin, and even though he was halfway to pissing himself with fear, he found that he couldn’t bring himself to truly lament the fact that he was about to die. Because he was about to die for Sammy, and that was as good a reason as any.
It was the best reason.
The next best reason was pinned between Dean and the wall, one hand fisted in his flannel.
He really wished that he could have seen her finish growing up. She was nineteen, a woman in her own right, but she was still his little sis. She would always be his little sis, no matter how old she got. Half-sister wasn’t in his vocabulary. As far as he was concerned, Jamie was all Winchester, and anyone who suggested any different could answer to him. That was the only thing remotely right about this moment: Dean was standing between her and the threat.
She was holding onto him hard like she normally did, as if she thought she could pull him back and protect him instead. It had worked for her a couple times when something knocked him unconscious on the first try, but while he was still standing, he was shielding her. No matter that Dean had been the one to train her, and he knew that she absolutely could kick ass. To him, he was always acting in self-preservation. Because if she hurt, he hurt. It was as simple as that.
The first time Jamie had been injured on a hunt still haunted him. Dean had been taking her to Bobby’s despite her insistence that she should be watching his back on hunts since Sam was at school now. Dean had stuck to his guns: no real hunting until fourteen. Jamie still had almost two full years to go.
Jamie was ecstatic when Dad called and instructed them to take a detour and meet up with him in Nevada on their way. Dean regretted to this day that he hadn’t kept on driving to Sioux Falls.
It was Dean’s fault. Dad had trusted him to take care of her when he split off from them in the woods. In his darkest nightmares, he saw the wendigo’s claws raking her side, leaving bright red slashes that leaked crimson blood. Even with that, Jamie had still managed to be the one to fire the flare gun into the thing, her own lifeblood spurting through her fingers as she did it. She’d passed out on him a minute later.
Dean remembered abandoning the bag of weapons he’d brought (Dad tore him a new one for that.) and running faster than he had in his life, even with Jamie’s dead weight in his arms. He’d been screaming for Dad, something he never did (And another thing he was berated for.), and finally found him a dozen yards from the cars.
He didn’t think he breathed until hours later when he’d stitched up what needed sewing, and she still had a pulse. She was always going to be fine, Dad insisted, it was just shock, but Dean had still called Sam at three in the morning, sobbing uncontrollably, after Dad had left to keep going to Montana where Caleb was waiting. It had been the first time he’d broken their silence since Sam had left for Stanford three months earlier. His little brother probably broke every speed limit between Palo Alto and Carson City.
Because Dean couldn’t take that alone. And coming together for the person they both loved more than life itself was as good a reason as any for Sam and Dean to break their stalemate.
It was the best reason.
Dean could see that the hounds were about to pounce, and then that would be the end of him. At least he had done his job, fulfilled his duty. He had done right by the people he loved most in this world, and he could die knowing that.
The hounds had separated to come at Dean from both sides, and the one on the left leapt at him so fast that he barely had time to put his hands up to shield his face. He was knocked aside by the large dog, hitting the wooden floor hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He had fallen facefirst, and he expected to feel those claws sinking into his back at any second. His skin would split, and his soul would descend.
Sam’s bloodcurdling scream made the hairs on Dean’s arms stand up, and he wondered if maybe his brother could see the hellhounds too in these final moments. Then he realized the name Sam was shouting wasn’t his. He flipped onto his back.
A high-pitched keening suddenly filled the room, and Dean thought it was Jamie, but her mouth wasn’t open.
Her stomach was.
It was as if invisible claws were ripping her apart. Gashes erupted across her torso, long and deep. The gray t-shirt she’d been wearing was becoming saturated with dark red. Her eyes were closed, and she was silent. Somehow that made it worse.
Dean’s breath hitched, and the whining stopped at the same time. He realized it had been him making that sound.
It was all over quick. Too quick.
Jamie’s body stopped convulsing, the assaults on her finished. Dean waited for a heartbeat, almost expecting her chest to begin to rise and fall again. Because it couldn’t…it couldn’t be. This couldn’t be real.
When the stillness persisted, Dean felt himself unfreeze. He rolled to his hands and knees and crawled to his sister. Her eyes were still closed. She could be sleeping.
She was sleeping. She was sleeping in the farthest bed from the door. Sam was out getting coffees. Dean and Jamie were going to meet him over at the library to do some research before they went back to the college to question the professor.
She was sleeping. She was sleeping in the farthest bed from the door. It was late, so he tried to be quiet. He didn’t like to leave her alone, but he’d needed to hustle for some cash. She’d wanted to come, but he drew the line at having his fourteen year-old sister at a dive bar.
She was sleeping. She was sleeping in the farthest bed from the door. It was the last time they’d share a room for a while, and Dean was nervous about leaving her behind tomorrow. It felt too permanent. She would be safer here with Bobby, away from him and Dad and hunting. The still healing cuts in her side proved that.
The cuts were open again. There were more of them.
The thud of Sam’s knees beside Dean’s was thunderous. He could hear his brother’s agonized sobs, echoing around the room. Sam was gripping his upper arm so tight that he was losing circulation, and Dean’s own hands were rigid as he clutched Jamie to him. He could feel warmth seeping into his jeans.
Last time, his knees were cold. It had been cold in Cold Oak of course. Last time, the body he’d been cradling was larger than him. Jamie was smaller than Sam of course. Last time, the hand on his arm was smaller. Sam was bigger than Jamie of course.
His face was wet.
His hands were wet.
His knees were wet.