Written In The Scars On Our Hearts
"Whisky, neat. Quick as you can please, sweetheart," Dean said as he sat heavily down onto the bar stool.
The barmaid put down a two shot glasses and filled them, sliding both towards Dean, "Rough night, huh?"
"Like you wouldn't believe," he said, the words tight and raw, the same as his throat, "leave the bottle." He was expecting an argument, he could see the hesitation in the older woman's eyes but she said nothing, just left the bottle within reach and pushed a bowl of pretzels towards him. He nodded in thanks before pouring another shot and throwing it down his throat.
Half an hour and half a bottle later Dean's stomach and throat burned like fire. He was a thirty year old hunter who'd drank his share of gut rot, but even in his maudlin, self-loathing, semi-drunken state he knew that the cheap whisky had nothing to do with it. Shame was the cause of the eldest Winchester's stomach feeling like it was eating itself up. There was anger too - anger at Dad for keeping such a large part of his life to himself, anger at Sam for going behind Dean's back and teaching 'Adam' the basics of hunting; but the icing on the cake, the cherry on the top of all this fucked up mess was Dean's shame and anger at himself.
Yet again, he'd failed in his duty to take care of Sam, because running into that kitchen and seeing his brother tied down, vulnerable, sweating and grunting stopped him in his tracks, first and foremost because of the sucker punch of arousal it sent zinging through him. Sam was laying there in pain, completely at the mercy of these monsters, and it fucking turned him on. To his credit, once he'd seen the blood pouring and Sam's life slowly slipping away, his protective instincts kicked in. He did what he had to do to waste these supernatural pieces of shit and save Sammy; but ultimately Dean had let his guard down, let his own sick desires get in the way of getting Sam the fuck out of there as quickly as possible.
Over the course of the rest of the bottle, Dean decided that he should just leave for Sam's sake. If he left, Sam wouldn't be subject to the sick desires of his older brother and that would mean one less evil in the world. Sam couldn't do anything about the demon blood running through his veins or magically make all the monsters disappear, but if he didn't have this whole incest thing hanging over his head, Dean was drunkenly confident that Sam would be better off.
Decision made, he headed back to the motel to pack.
#####
Sam wasn't sleeping, how could he when Dean was off at a bar, probably being totally irresponsible and getting shitfaced? The only time Dean was so utterly reckless was when he was in the middle of a crisis of conscience, and from how he was acting after they'd salted and burned Adam's body, how withdrawn he was, the stubborn set of his jaw and shoulders during both the journey back and in the motel itself, left Sam in no doubt that a crisis was imminent.
They'd been here so many times, Dean and his fucking self loathing and martyr complex. It'd always been there but since Hell...well things had gone downhill from there - fast. Dean did what he always did and pretended he was fine even though the younger Winchester knew that Dean knew his brother was no fool. Sam had spent his whole life idolising his brother, following him around and getting to know 'his' Dean better than either of them knew themselves. The tough guy façade was wasted on Sam, he could see through it as easily as a pane of glass. He'd seen into his brother's soul long before they fell into bed together - something Sam would never regret, no matter how much Dean told him he should.
The familiar rumble of the Impala allowed some of the tension Sam was holding seep out a little. Fuck knows what state Dean would be in but at least he was here, where he belonged, within touching distance.
Now Sam was faced with two options - plan A: pretend to be asleep and let Dean sleep off the alcohol in his system; or plan B: try and have it out with Dean...whatever 'it' was this time. Neither option was appealing, seeing as each knew when the other was faking, and the chances of Dean actually talking were slim at best. One thing Sam had yet to learn, despite knowing his brother so well, was how to tell whether Dean was guilt tripping over the past or the here and now. Sam needed an actual conversation that didn't involve a drunken, angry Dean lashing out and saying things that both of them would regret later. He decided on a spur of the moment - plan C it was.
#####
Dean unlocked the door and stepped over the threshold of the motel room slowly. He briefly hesitated, wondering if he should try and be quiet but he knew Sam would be awake so he decided on just trying to keep himself upright. He'd driven back at well below the speed limit but not so much as to attract attention - the last thing he needed was a brush with the cops, especially when he was hardly what you could call sober. This was going to be the last time he drove his baby, there were just too many memories for him to keep driving her without Sam at his side. At least he'd be leaving his brother with a more than reliable car - he wasn't that much of asshole to leave Sam and take the car, too. The two most important things in Dean's life should at least be together if they couldn't be with him.
Sam was sat up against the headboard, arms crossed over his chest and bitchface #37 out in full force. Despite the obvious 'I'm-pissed-off-with-you-but-also-glad-you're-back-where-I-can-see-you' look, his brother looked tired and pale, and Dean cursed himself again. Sam had lost a good amount of blood and Dean's duty as a big brother was to stay and make sure he was OK, but instead, he'd left because he was too caught up in his own head. Another fail of epic proportions, Dean Winchester style. Sam would argue that of course, assuring Dean that he was more than capable of looking after himself - logically, Dean knew that was true, but that didn't mean the Gotta take care of Sammy part of his brain listened to logic.
Dean decided he should act as cool as possible, he didn't want to get into a fight with Sam on their last night together. You could've been spending your last night together kicking back with beer, pizza and buried deep inside him, but you fucked that one up big time...as usual, the most sober and self-deprecating part of his brain supplied.
"Hey Sammy," was the best he could come up with. Shit!
Sam frowned and Dean could almost hear the cogs turning, thinking of all the ways his brother could blow up at him. He was ready for it, the inevitable stream of 'What the fuck were you thinking, Dean?', 'How could you be so irresponsible, Dean?' or the all encompassing Sammy special, 'What the hell, Dean?' which seemed to cover a multitude of sins.
He watched as Sam swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, bandaged arms hanging by his side, hands twitching as if he didn't know what to do with them. When his brother spoke, it was worse than anything Dean had expected. Sam's voice was rough and quiet, not at all the yelling Dean was waiting for.
"I'm so sorry, Dean."
The older Winchester blinked, his alcohol fogged brain not sure he's heard right. "Huh?"
Sam took one of those quick but deep steadying breaths - the ones that drew attention to his broad shoulders and sculpted chest...the one that always went straight to Dean's dick because it was so similar to the ones Sam took right before he came. So not the time to be thinking like that, Winchester. his rational brain said, and when the fuck did Sam move so close?
Dean gulped audibly, his tongue heavy in his mouth thanks to the whisky. He tried to anticipate what was going to come out of Sam's mouth next, but his thoughts were cut off when he found himself with an armful of his brother.
#####
Sam knew he was probably holding Dean tighter than was comfortable but he didn't care. The pressure of his grip was pulling on the stitches Dean has carefully but quickly and effectively closed the wounds on his wrists with, but again, he didn't care. Dean stood ramrod straight in Sam's embrace. When the younger brother went to pull away, Dean's arms came up around his back, fists clinging to Sam's shirt like his life depended on it. He mumbled something into Sam's shoulder that was inaudible so Sam eventually had to pull back, but he kept a hand on Dean's arm.
"'m sorry."
Sam sighed and gave a gentle shove in the direction of Dean's bed. His brother stank of whisky, he was swaying on the spot since Sam let him go - there was no point trying to ascertain what exactly he was sorry for. Maybe he'd find out in the morning, or maybe he never would.
#####
Dean felt the room spinning. He tugged his jacket off with great difficulty and flopped down on the bed. He felt Sam remove his boots and even as he drifted closer to unconsciousness he knew he had to make things as right as he could.
"'m sorry," he slurred, voice raw and strained, "so sorry, Sammy."
He hoped Sam would understand and that one day, long after Dean had left, Sam would forgive his brother for failing him - something that Dean himself could never do.
~~~ FIN ~~~
End notes: Not the happiest of endings, I know, but that's the point. Don't we love our boys even more when they're all angsty and broken?