Title: Seventeen, Thirty-One, Eighty
Author: frozen_delight
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean pre-slash (could probably also be read as gen if you're so inclined)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Shameless hurt/comfort of a vaguely incestuous variety.
Spoilers: Up to and including 10x14 "The Executioner's Song".
Word count: ~ 3000
Beta: Many, many thanks to the fantastic canonisrelative whose thoughtful and generous notes made this story so much better. All remaining mistakes are mine of course.
Summary: As long as Sam keeps counting, he won't slip. And as long as he keeps clutching his brother against his chest, Dean can't slip away from him either.

A/N: Another 10x14 tag and probably not the last one either. Written mostly because I've watched the Sam/Dean hug an embarrassing amount of times and because I have a carried!Dean kink. Also, I'm weirdly fond of Sam's true crime hobby.

Seventeen, Thirty-One, Eighty

"Sam, no!"

Seventeen steps.

"Sam!" Cas's hand is firm on his arm and he shakes his head insistently, dragging Sam back from where he's poised to rush up the wooden stairs.

Biting down hard on his lip, Sam nods and allows himself to be led back to the spot where Crowley stands waiting with an unusually nervous face, notwithstanding the unmistakable sound of breaking glass and his brother's groans one floor above them.

When they found themselves in the middle of the Apocalypse, Sam reached the conviction that he and Dean weren't any more important than the rest of the world and that they might have to sacrifice themselves for the greater good, even if it meant throwing himself into the cage together with Michael and Lucifer. Undertaking the trials only reaffirmed that belief. It's why he let Dean go after Metatron. It's why he's letting Dean face Cain alone.

But this doesn't make it any easier to stand here and do nothing while Cain is hurting – he doesn't allow himself to think killing, not yet – his brother seventeen steps away.

A thud. Sam's been in enough fights to know what it signifies. It's a human body being thrown to the ground and not getting up. Dean's? Please not Dean's.

He wants to recite facts and figures in his head the way he always does when he's anxious, but his mind's been wiped clean save for one number: seventeen.

There's silence, then a cry, harsh, anguished – Dean's – then more silence.

And then there are footsteps on the stairs, at long last – and Sam wishes he could tell for sure that they're his brother's, but he's never heard his brother walk quite like that, so slow and heavy, like every single one of those damn seventeen steps hurts him – he doesn't allow himself to hope, not yet – not until he sees that yes, it's Dean – and not even then, because Dean's carrying a bloodied blade in each hand – and that would be so much worse, Sam knows that now, to have Dean survive the fight with Cain and still to have lost him –

Dean gives the Blade to Cas, Crowley takes off in a silent huff and Sam can finally breathe again as he rushes forward to catch Dean when he collapses against him.

"You did it, Dean, you did it," he babbles, holding his brother against him, not sure if he's repeating it again and again for Dean's sake or for his own. The coppery smell of blood wafts up his nostrils and his shoulder dampens where Dean is sobbing into his jacket, but none of that matters, because Dean's alive and he's still Dean and Sam still has him, and suddenly Sam's body feels too small to contain his pride, his happiness, his relief and his love.

This has to be the best thing that's happened to them in a long time.

Eventually, he becomes aware that Cas has disappeared – probably to hide the Blade away as soon as possible, good thinking. That leaves him and Dean alone in the barn, with Dean clinging to him like Sam's the last thing holding him upright.

"Let's get back to the car, okay," he says gently.

Dean nods, but when Sam tries to guide him in the direction of the exit, his knees promptly buckle.

"Sorry," Dean apologizes, his voice raspy. His hand digs painfully into Sam's shoulder.

"It's okay." Sam drapes his brother's arms around his neck, places one arm under his knees and lifts him up.

"'m gonna kick your ass later," Dean mumbles against his shoulder. The words are almost unintelligible, but they warm Sam's heart as he sets to carry his brother out of the barn.

"You do that."

They've barely made it outside when Sam's own legs threaten to give out. It takes all of his strength to keep walking. Dean is heavy in his arms, but that's not what's troubling Sam. It's how Dean's face is pale and tinged with blood and tears. It's how he's got Dean in his arms at all. The last time Sam carried Dean – and the last time Dean's face was so marred – had been after Dean's confrontation with Metatron.

He's not dead, he's not a demon, he didn't die, Sam tells himself, glancing down at Dean's face every other second. It's not like last time. But Dean is quiet and hurt, his eyes are scrunched shut. It's too much like he'd been then, and how is Sam ever supposed to forget that?

Sam feels himself hyperventilating and presses his face into the pulse point at Dean's neck, inhaling deeply.

"Pervert," Dean scolds him with a chafed croak and Sam huffs out a laugh, relieved. With renewed energy he tramps on to the car.

Earlier Dean had given him the keys. This comes in handy now, since Dean's obviously in no state to drive, but Sam can't wait to give them back to him. They're pricking him through his jacket.

He unlocks the passenger side door and sets his brother down on the seat. Then he kneels beside him and lets Dean lean against his chest. Dean is shaking uncontrollably and doesn't respond to any of Sam's reassurances, "It's okay. We're okay. You did it, it's okay," so Sam starts recounting serial killer stats instead, thankful that now Dean's with him, safe, his head's no longer devoid of all numbers but the accursed seventeen.

Sam tilts his head to the side and begins to pick the straw out of Dean's hair, whispering the words like they're a soothing lullaby. "Hey. Dean. Hey, remember the Warwick Slasher? His real name was Craig Price. Two victims." Dean's hair is grimy with dirt, dust, sweat and blood. It's the head of a warrior, but the wet eyes Dean lifts up to him are those of a child. Sam smiles at him and presses his face back into Dean's hair. "Mad Dog. Real name: Leslie Irvin. Six."

The facts roll off his tongue, smooth, years of passionate research compressed into a few short syllables, and spill over Dean's hair, mingling with splatters of blood and the occasional stray blade of grass. He strokes one hand over Dean's back and feels the tremors that run through him, while he moves the other to the nape of Dean's neck, and rests it there, a light touch, grounding. "The Hill Side Strangler. Real name: Kenneth Bianchi and Angelo Buono. Ten."

He hopes Dean can hear what he's really trying to say.

You're my brother and I love you.

I'm here. I've got you.

I just want you to be okay.

He keeps on murmuring gory facts and figures into his brother's blood-matted hair until Dean finally stirs against him. In a hoarse voice Dean tells him, "You're a freak," with a barely there smirk, and that's when Sam knows that it's safe for them to head back to the bunker.

o0o

In the kitchen, the remainders of Sam's euphoria rapidly break up into a thousand sharp shards of worry and fear. For once Sam thinks that Dean might actually feel famished, but Dean turns down his offers of food and calmly sips a cup of coffee. Sam tries to tell himself that Dean's just exhausted, like anyone would be in his place, but he looks at Dean and he can't really see him – it's like he's walked down far more than just seventeen steps, descending into a dark place inside his soul where Sam can't follow him, leaving behind a battered, dead shell of a man.

BTK, he recites in his head to stop himself from breaking into tears. Real name: Dennis Raider. Ten.

He pours himself a coffee and offers his brother words of comfort that fail to reach either of them, even though they're both loath to admit it.

"Maybe," Dean says in answer to Sam's "That's cause for hope," with a grimace that's probably supposed to be a cautiously optimistic smile, making Sam reach out to grab Dean's hand – because if this is the best Dean can do at pretending, then they're both so screwed.

Genesee River Killer, real name: Arthur Shawcross, twelve.

But Cas chooses this moment to appear in the kitchen and Dean uses the opportunity to escape.

"How is he? Sam?" Cas asks him. Sam chokes down a sob and keeps his back to Cas. He can't turn around, can't face him, because then he'll start crying for real – and he doesn't think he'd be able to stop again.

"Cas." Each word costs him. "Dean's in trouble."

Instead of denying or affirming Sam's assessment, Cas sits down in the seat opposite him that Dean vacated. His eyes are filled with earnest compassion. "And you, Sam, how are you?"

Sam buries his face in his hands and takes several calming breaths.

The Tool Box Killers, real name: Lawrence Bittaker and Roy Norris, five. The Co-ed Killer, real name: Edmund Kemper, eight.

To be honest, he has no idea how he is. It's not something he's devoted a lot of time to, too busy worrying about Dean; and it's not something he's been asked all that often in the last couple of months. Maybe the last person to ask him was Cas himself, back when Dean was still gone. Sam remembers telling him, I'll be better when we get him back. After I kick his butt.

There doesn't really seem to be any point in thinking about it now, either, to figure out if what he's feeling is rage, despair, disappointment or just bone-deep weariness, not when something's clearly wrong with Dean beyond the battle scrapes and cuts on his face. He gives Cas a tired smile. "I'll be better, after… After."

o0o

Growing up and sharing one motel room with Dean and often with Dad too, Sam would have welcomed a little more privacy. These days he sometimes misses the claustrophobic comfort of Dean's 24/7 proximity, no matter how nice it is to be able to adjust the heating in his room just how he likes it. It's this longing, to hear Dean's breath and to be able to turn around and see his outline two feet away, that chases him out of his bed and down the corridor to Dean's room.

It's quiet there, but that doesn't mean Dean's actually asleep, just that he's not pacing up and down like a caged animal, and Sam slowly pushes open the door.

On the bed Dean sits up and blinks at him, his eyes glimmering darkly. Illumined by the light in the corridor behind Sam, Dean's face is a faded canvas of cuts and scars, still as a death mask, beautiful even then. In another age, Sam thinks, people would have dedicated poems to his brother's face. Sam's no artist, but he would like scratch off all the grievances that have been carved into his brother's skin, and paint hope over every inch of it instead, in all the colors of the rainbow.

"Sam." It sounds more like a warning than an invitation.

Regardless, Sam pushes the door shut behind him, engulfing the room in darkness, and sneaks towards the bed.

He stretches out on the mattress beside his brother and then slips his arms around Dean, pulling him flush against his chest.

"Sam," Dean protests again, his voice like smoldering ashes. He wriggles and digs his elbow into Sam's kidney, but Sam just holds on more tightly and doesn't let go.

The only other time Sam granted himself the luxury of folding his brother up in his arms had been on his forty-seventh Tuesday. Back then Dean threatened to throw punches if Sam so much as breathed the words little spoon, but he was worried enough about Sam's obvious distress to go along with it. Until he died of an aneurism, that is, right there in Sam's arms. It's not something Dean remembers, of course, but Sam has to.

Son of Sam. Real name: David Berkowitz. Also known as: .44 Caliber Killer. Six.

As a child Sam clung desperately to Dean every time they moved to yet another town and while Dean would ruffle his hair with a laugh and tell him I'm not going anywhere, you girl, he never pushed Sam away. Not until Dad decided he was too old for such behavior. Then Sam started to cling to facts and figures instead. Knowledge is power.

Night Stalker, real name: Richard Ramirez, thirteen.

In many respects Sam is still the same scared little boy, finding comfort in the hard press of Dean's muscular back and the gory stats in his head. As long as Sam keeps counting, he won't slip. And as long as he keeps clutching his brother against his chest, Dean can't slip away from him either.

Milwaukee Cannibal, real name: Jeffrey Dahmer, seventeen.

Dean huffs out, something not quite resembling amusement, but it's close enough. "You realize you're doing that out loud?" He's stopped fighting and rests his head on Sam's shoulder.

Sam snaps his mouth shut with a click. "Sorry."

"Told you it was an illness."

Sam smiles against the back of Dean's head. He remembers Jess, frowning at him in the middle of an intense study session. What's a Wendigo? Because apparently, sometimes, he didn't keep his recitation of facts about monsters and how to kill them to stay sane confined to the privacy of his head. He'd stammered something about a Mexican sniper, and Jess had laughed and kissed him like it was cute. Should have known you'd have a freakish serial killer obsession, you being an aspiring lawyer and all. It's strange to think that these days his passion for true crime which he'd developed back then is the most normal thing about him.

Dean is quiet long enough that if Sam couldn't feel him breathing against his chest and underneath his arms, he'd think Dean had finally fallen asleep. Then Dean suddenly twists his head to stare at him. It's too dark to make out his expression, for which Sam is grateful, since it gives him the chance to pretend that it's different from the dead look Dean wore back in the kitchen. "Do you also keep tabs on how many people we've killed?"

Sam swallows. "Yes."

For a moment, Dean keeps looking at him. Then his head slumps back into the pillows. Sam can feel the muscles in his brother's stomach contract. "On some days I think I've lost count."

"That's alright."

Dean's tone is raspy, barely audible, and Sam has to bend closer to hear him. "It really isn't."

Sam marvels at how low Dean's voice has become over the years – low with rage, lower still with grief and guilt. It's almost like with each new blow life deals him, Dean starts to speak in a new frequency, one that fewer and fewer other human beings can comprehend. At the present Sam is one of the few people who can still hear Dean. He's afraid of the day when he won't any more.

The pang he feels at the thought reminds him of a documentary on deep-sea fish he watched once, his heart breaking for those nightmarish-looking creatures with the grotesque jaws and regressed eyes. Down at the bottom of the ocean, it's dark. And lonely.

Sam caresses Dean's bruised knuckles. "Dean, you're not Cain."

He feels the tiniest shake of Dean's head. "You can't know that." Dean's hair is soft and tickles his chin. It smells of his non-descript shampoo, like it always does, like it should. Like nothing has changed, and Dean is still the same guy who patiently taught Sam how to tie his shoes, cooked him one hundred and one variations of macaroni and cheese, and gave him in-depth tips on how to get to second base on prom night that were sweet, useful and gross all at the same time.

"Thirty-one," Sam replies after a beat.

"That's a low estimate, even for you. Seriously, man, we kill more than thirty people in a single year."

"I wasn't talking about our killing stats, genius. I was talking about you." He squeezes Dean's hands. "Thirty-one years I've known you. So yeah I know that."

"You're the serial killer expert here," Dean says, and Sam can tell he's trying to inject a note of lightness into his voice. It doesn't sound much better than his Maybe earlier in the kitchen, but since Sam's not going to get anything better, he'll have to make do with this.

He's still got questions, starting with What happened? Tell me what's wrong. But that's another thing thirty-one years have taught him – there are some things Dean will never tell him. Dean's trying, Sam knows he is, telling Sam he's scared, allowing himself to fall into Sam's arms is proof of that; letting Sam hold him now…

If they had forever, Sam might urge Dean to try harder. But they don't, so he doesn't.

Dean's warm and breathing in his arms, he hasn't lost him yet, not today, and Sam knows he can't ask for more than that. Maybe after.

As if in answer to his silent thoughts, Dean takes one of his hands, lifts it up to his face and rubs his cheek against the back of it, before dropping it again. The gesture is uncharacteristically sweet and makes Sam's heart clench.

"Eighty," Dean murmurs.

"What?" Sam asks him.

"Eighty. That's what I want you to make it to."

Dean's voice is a hoarse pit of hopelessness, leaving Sam teetering on the edge, staring down into the darkness that wants to swallow him up. From those depths a vaporous song of lament rises up towards him, proclaiming that even if Sam escapes from the fate of Abel, defies everything dark and monstrous in creation waiting to torment and smite him, and pulls off the miracle of living until eighty, Dean will never make it to eighty-four. Sam scrunches his eyes shut tightly and bites back a sob.

It's okay, he tells himself. We'll be okay. After.

He can still feel the soft burn of Dean's stubble on the back of his hand.

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