Fandom/Genre: SPN, hurt/comfort, angst, case!fic, gen, hurt!boys , schmoop, brother-touching
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: Up until episode 10.05, Fan Fiction
Word Count: ~21k
Warnings: swearing, violence, gore
Summary: A run-of-the-mill job turns out to be much more complicated when Sam and Dean find themselves in a fight that is more than just physical to them.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of this! Just playing in Kripke's sandbox.

Acknowledgements:

There are several people I would like to thank, who are responsible for this fic coming through the way it did. I was somehow pretty busy whilst writing this big bang, and it was quite hard for me to produce.

So there are several people behind this fic being successfully written, and I'd like to thank, in no particular order:

kj_svala, my wonderful artist, for making that beautiful graphic, which planted this idea in my head in the first place. Really, she is awesome, everyone, please go see the art. I was ogling for hours and hours until I had tears in my eyes. 333333333333

amberdreams, who is a fabulous beta, and who returned this to me in ninja speed, with lovely inputs and corrections.

The mods on the SPN Reversebang forum, who hosted this challenge, and then even granted me a nice extension when I spoke to them about my time constraints.

SPNXBookworm, for being my eternal cheerleader, and for being a beautiful person overall.

A/N: This fic is a simple case!fic with some hurt!boys thrown in. It picks up directly after episode 10.05, Fan Fiction, and is one of the least complicated, completely gen fics I've written. Expect schmoop and brother-touching, though, because that's who I am.

The title was inspired from HW Longfellow's poem, The Light of Stars. Apart from that, the fic contains poetry verses — and that's written by me. It's written in pantoum style and I haven't written poetry in a long time, so please forgive me if it's not all that up to the mark. I might have forgotten some rules :S. The verses are also woven into the fic. Hope you enjoy! :)

The story will update every Monday. If you like Destiel with hurt!boys, you can have a look at the other fic I'm co-authoring, Just Walk Beside Me. :)

TO SUFFER AND BE STRONG

One

Round and round; here we go

Life and death and circles more

Into the abyss we fall slow

There's no floor and we soar, we soar

Now

Your legs vibrate beneath you, and your eyelids are screwed shut, strips of darkness soothing your eyes between the sharp bars of light. You have no clue where you are. Your head is pressed against something soft, and your hands tremble on your lap. Your heart races at a mile an hour, making it difficult for you to catch a breath.

Something wet slips down your forehead and catches on your eyebrow, as nausea bubbles in the pit of your stomach. You try to move, but your whole body feels like it's frozen stiff, and you can't find the strength to even twitch. You wonder, vaguely, if you're dying, when you hear a soothing voice.

"Hey, you up?"

You want to reply, really reply. But you can't. Your mouth won't coordinate with your brain.

"Sammy?"

A hand is on your knee. You take a heaving breath, and try to talk again, but all that comes out is a moan. The hand pats your knee slowly. "Take it easy. We'll get you somewhere comfortable…"

You realise, belatedly, that this is Dean. Of course it's him. Who else do you have in your life? And, well, there's Cas, but…

"Go to sleep," Dean soothes. His own voice sounds shaky, and slightly feeble. You wonder if he's hurt.

"I'm okay," he says. "I'm gonna be all right. And so are you."

Are you? Are you both really going to be okay? There's so much hanging above you — so much you have to face, that this is really a question. What does it mean to be okay? What does it mean to not worry? When was the last time that you have been completely carefree?

A jolt of pain leaps through your body, and you almost scream, as your thoughts crumble away. This hurts. It all hurts. So much. You can't move and you can't talk and the pain is getting worse. You just want it all to go away. You just want to feel nothing. You want to be numb.

The thoughts bring another jab of pain, and even though it's only for a second, it's white-hot and pure. Your cells, your nerves, and your body scream in protest as you try to curl up. But you can't.

You don't want this. You don't want to go through this. Not again. Not again…

An embarrassing whimper escapes your lips, and you know for sure, now, that Dean is going to burst out laughing.

But he doesn't.

"Shhh," he says, as he squeezes your knee. "Go back to sleep, Sammy. You'll feel better in a while. I promise… I promise…"

There is something about the way he says it. There is something about how, despite being tired, he seems so confident — that you will, indeed, be all right, and that it will all go away. So you do the very thing that you've been doing since your childhood.

You just listen to his words and let yourself believe him, before succumbing to a shroud of blackness.

0

Then

It was sunny in Lebanon when Sam and Dean pulled into town. Sam let out a sigh of relief as he saw the familiar churches and houses, and rolled his shoulders a couple of times to get rid of the knots from sitting in one position for too long. His injured shoulder was particularly sore, and though he'd been able to ditch the sling, it wasn't a hundred per cent, and Sam reckoned he'd need to take the aspirin for it, after all.

He was relieved to be getting back to the bunker — home, because as great as these last few days of alone time with his brother had been, he was itching to properly work on cases again. Sam wasn't used to sitting down and living normal in a while. The four months that he looked for Dean had been rigorous — each waking hour important. And then there was this last case, which had been… strange, to say the least. And 'strange' was a massive understatement, but Sam didn't want to think any deeper than that.

He turned to the wooden prop amulet that Dean had hung on the rear-view mirror, and couldn't help the smile forming on his lips. It seemed like a long time ago that Dean had thrown the amulet away, but Sam could still hear the echo of metal hitting against metal as the amulet had fallen to the bottom of the bin. He hadn't reacted then — too shocked to do anything about it, but he had hesitated over the dustbin, hand hovering as his eyes focussed on the bronze figurine and the leather strap.

And his heart had broken. He had realised that there was no use in retrieving it out of the trash, because Dean wouldn't ever want it back, would never believe in Sam again — so Sam had left, trying not to think too much.

Not that Sam had ever acknowledged any of this to Dean. Dean didn't bring it up either, but Sam wouldn't miss how his brother's hand would seek out the amulet for days after that, his muscle memory not letting him forget that he'd thrown it away. He'd look guilty, and then angry, but he wouldn't speak about it.

By the time Sam was back from Hell, though, Dean was used to the amulet not being around his neck.

Instinctively, Sam raised his hand to touch the prop. The light, wooden pendant felt smooth in his fingers, and Dean glanced at him. They'd not spoken all that much since the eventful musical, but this time, it wasn't one of those silences — the ones that had been between them because they didn't want to talk, or were mad at each other. It was quiet because right now, they had no idea what to say without making it, as Dean and those fangirls would call it, a 'BM scene'.

Sam sighed. He had waited for this — for this moment of trust and acceptance for so long, he didn't even know what to say now. The last few years had been a long list of things Sam had done to disappoint Dean, and it hadn't been easy with his brother as a demon. Sam had no idea how he had pulled through — just that he had, without sticking a bullet in his own head, or losing his mind. And now his brother was right beside him, and had even told him — in his own way, that yes, he trusted Sam, and that no matter what, they were brothers. But this… this amulet — did it indicate that Dean hadn't actually meant what he had said to Sam, as a demon? That all those words about their mother wasn't something Dean had been carrying in his heart?

Demons lied, and Sam knew that. But they were known for being brutally honest too.

He reached for the amulet again, and beside him, Dean smiled. "You uh… you know that's here to stay, right?"

The smooth structure rolled between Sam's fingers. He blinked at his big brother. "Thanks, man."

"Nah, it was that girl — Sammy—"

"Sammy?"

"I forgot her name," Dean said, raising a hand to the back of his neck, so he could scratch it.

"Marie," Sam provided, his heart sinking slightly, although he wasn't sure why he wasn't so fond of Dean referring to anyone else as 'Sammy'. It had been a thing when he was a kid — born out of pure adoration for Dean, but as an adult, Sam hardly cared. His name wasn't uncommon, neither was his brother's nickname for him. And why had Marie had to talk Dean into this? Had Dean not done this because he wanted to?

"Yeah, Marie," Dean corrected himself. "She gave me this… Samulet… thing… and asked me not to be a jerk."

Sam snorted. "Samulet."

"That's what the kids called it," Dean shrugged. "I guess it's 'cause you gave it to me."

Sam chortled again. "Gosh, that thing has a name."

Dean cleared his throat. "I told her, though, that it wasn't necessary." Sam's heart began to sink further, but Dean spoke again. "You know, right, that the necklace wasn't a symbol of… anything?" He swallowed. "I shouldn't have thrown it away, but… I didn't need that thing to… you know…" Dean met eyes with Sam, and their gazes lingered on each other, until Sam nodded and coughed slightly.

Yes, he knew.

"Yeah, Dean," he said. He paused. "Thanks."

"Good," Dean mumbled. "Good."

"Good," Sam echoed him, staring straight at the road ahead, as he scratched his forehead.

Dean turned down a lane. "So, uh…" he said, "do we have beer?"

"There's a six-pack in fridge, yeah," Sam replied.

"That's cool." Dean hesitated. "Could rent a movie, though. Maybe get pizza…"

"Yeah, sure."

The silence that stretched between them as Dean pulled up outside the video store after that was much more comfortable than any exchange they'd had in a while.

~o~

"That's it, that's it."

The child's face was sweaty as he raised his head to look up from his cowering position on the stony floor. The room was dark, lit by a dying flame on a torch in a bracket. Distantly, the drip, drip, drip of water could be heard, as though it were leaking from a faucet or a pipe.

Tears formed a film over the child's eyes, and his cracked lips quivered as they parted to whisper out one word. "Please."

"You want more?"

This was a different voice — an adult, but he was in the shadows, somewhere near the dripping pipe.

"P-Please," the boy sobbed, voice scratchy and tired.

The man in the shadows laughed loudly.

"Hey! Stop!" Another voice interrupted the man's mirth —a woman this time — and the shadows shifted.

"Stop it," she reprimanded as she came out of the darkness, legs jean-clad, a hoodie pulled over her clothes with the hood covering her head and a lot of her face. A strand of blonde hair fell out and she pushed it back into her hood, before crouching beside the young boy. Slender hands held a goblet near his face. "Here, honey."

The boy looked up gratefully, thin fingers going to grip at the woman's wrists, but she moved away with a harsh shriek of laughter. The boy whined, raising his hand to her, and then stiffened, before hitting the floor in a dead faint. He lay like that for a moment and then his body arched against uneven stone, eyes opening to reveal strips of white as he pulled in a deep, rattling breath.

"NO!"

The boy choked, and his limbs begin to flail, froth forming at his mouth and mixing with blood, pouring from the sides as he failed to breathe. What little could be seen of his lips, was turning blue. He choked, over and over, suffocating pitifully and trying to drag breaths, but his lungs kept failing him, until…

"Stop!"

The dream dissolved away as Sam sat up abruptly on his bed, torrents of sweat running down his face, and arms outstretched to hold on to the non-existent, seizing child. He blinked at his dark surroundings and put his hands down, taking deep breaths as he did so. Fuck, that dream had seemed so real.

He rubbed his eyes, and then pinched the bridge of his nose against a building headache. The clock on his bedside table informed him that it was half-past six in the morning. Sam yawned, moving a hand over his painful shoulder. He freed himself from the twisted mess of blankets around him and headed to the sink in his room.

The mirror cabinet contained his aspirin. After dry-swallowing two, Sam brushed his teeth and splashed some water onto his face. He was up anyway, and it didn't feel like he'd be sleeping anytime soon, so he decided he might as well shower.

He pressed his fingers against his throbbing forehead once again, and went over to the drawers to collect his clothes. It was time to find new cases to work on, and get back into a routine. And Sam couldn't wait.

~o~

Dean stared at the glass of whiskey in his hands.

He had poured himself a little — and honestly, just a little, because this stuff went a long way to soothe his nerves.

Dean had had a nightmare. He'd kept stabbing Lester, killing him again and again, blood staining his hands, and his face, and at that point, Dean's brain had thankfully decided that this much graphic imagery was enough, and Dean had mercifully woken up. He hadn't been able to sleep after that, and had reverted to looking for cases on the laptop. Because it was one of the things that he and his brother did that constituted 'normal', and he needed that for now.

He pulled up his sleeve and took a good look at the Mark, which hadn't hurt in a while. Dean knew he would eventually have to kill again or suffer from the increasing need. The Mark being quiet right now didn't actually mean everything was all right, but he was glad of the tenuous peace he had with the Mark for now. They'd have to deal with it sooner or later. They'd probably have to go to Cain himself for a solution, or hope that the Men of Letters had been hiding a book about this crap. And Dean couldn't forget how Cain had made him promise he'd use the Blade on Cain when he called. Dean had been confused, then, but now it all made sense. And the son-of-a-bitch had tried to warn him too.

That would teach him to do reckless shit. And to think, Dean had been the one to pull Sam off the Trials just a few months before he took on the Mark. The same Trials that Sam had jumped into, without an idea that he could die.

Yeah. Sam and Dean didn't look similar and were probably poles apart in a lot of ways, but this; this shit proved that their DNA was, in fact, similarly coded. Why did Sammy have to take after him on crap like this?

Except, Sam's Trials stint hadn't led him to killing innocent people. And yes, he had been possessed by Gadreel, who had been a murdering bastard, but whose fault was it, that Sam was possessed? Who manipulated him into it?

After all the times Sam had been possessed, Dean had known that Sam'd never agree to it, and maybe he didn't understand his brother all the time, and didn't get the whole reason as to why Sam had been so immensely upset at being possessed by Gadreel — because, yes, he had every right to be pissed, but Dean hadn't been looking to harm him. He had only wanted to save Sam's life.

Dean did know that it was his own mistake that led to the Gadreel fiasco, though, and he had decided to accept it, and refused to fight about it anymore. They'd had enough over the past year,. They had hurt each other sufficiently.

The Mark, on the other hand, had been something Dean had taken up himself. Sure, Crowley had nudged him into it, but it wasn't as though Dean hadn't had a choice. Maybe there had been other ways to kill Abaddon. And the Mark and Blade had done shit against Metatron. So yes, as much as Sam tried to beat himself for it, Kevin's death wasn't his fault. But Sam's head almost being bashed in by that hammer? That was definitely Dean's fault.

He pulled his sleeve back over the Mark, refusing to let his mind go back to that place. He and Sam had had a good few weeks, and Dean felt like they were clicking together again — that everything that had been lost and gone was somehow coming back, and he knew, in a small corner of his mind, that if Sam hadn't had it in him to forgive Dean, they wouldn't be here.

The kid had a big heart. Dean had been a demon, running amok, and had Sam just stepped back, other hunters would have found Dean and killed him. But Sam came for him. Sam fucked up his shoulder and a whole lot of things in the process, yes, but he came back for Dean. He had done it despite all the hurt and betrayal he'd felt.

Dean wondered why there were so many gaps between him and Sam that couldn't be filled anymore. Earlier on, they could function as one unit no matter what, but they had been out-of-tune for a while now. How had things had got so difficult? Suddenly, there were certain things about Sam that Dean couldn't understand. They had never needed so many words to convey anything. Chick-flick moments, heart-to-hearts — it had rarely been them, because they always knew. Everything.

However, nowadays, it took effort. They weren't used to talking, so they didn't talk, but when they didn't, things got fucked up. All said and done, though, Dean did know Sam. He knew Sam better than everyone else, even if he didn't get his brother all the time, and that was enough for him. At least that much was left. The rest of their relationship was a gaping wound, festering away with neglect, brought to their attention, incidentally, by a few high-school girls. Both of them now recognised what they had lost. But Dean was confident that subconsciously, he and Sam were already working on it, and that sooner or later, they'd be the same as before.

"Hey."

Sam's voice dragged him out of his reverie, and Dean put down his glass as Sam entered the kitchen. "Hey," he replied.

His brother's eyes flashed a look of concern as he came to join Dean at the table. Dean sighed, pushing the whiskey away. "Just needed some to get over that weird show, man."

Sam snorted and grinned, but his eyes said that he didn't believe Dean. He stood up and went over to the coffee machine, picking up a mug on the way. Once he had settled back down with Dean and was sipping the steaming drink, he raised very obviously suspicious eyes at Dean.

Dean blinked and looked away for a moment. "Come on, Sammy."

"Dean," Sam breathed, setting his mug down. "You gotta—"

"I'll tell you if the crazies hit me, all right?" Dean said wearily. He didn't even have the juice to snap at Sam right now.

"Then why are you drinking? And if you tell me it's night somewhere—"

"I told you," Dean replied. "I just need…" he rubbed his eyes, "Jesus, I just need a break, dude."

"We are on a break."

"Don't you go Ross Geller on me, Sammy, I'm not your Rachel."

"Shut up." Sam didn't look amused.

Dean tried to smile. "Come on, that was funny."

Sam looked at him for a long moment, and then shook his head. "Pathetic."

"What?"

"That wasn't even a good joke, Dean."

And it was dropped. Dean knew they wouldn't talk about it if he didn't want to — not immediately, anyway, and he gave his brother a genuine smile this time, as he reached over to shut the laptop. Sam, however, raised an eyebrow, stopping him. "Job?"

"Nah," Dean muttered, glancing at the news article. "A kid went missing somewhere in Idaho a few days ago and apparently, they've found a new lead to his case. It's been hitting the news lately, but it's not our gig. I don't think so anyway, because this shit seems to be down to a bunch of clever, sleazy, no-good humans. In that department, I'd prefer not to interfere."

Sam stood up from his place and came over, bending to look at the screen over Dean's shoulder. There was silence, and then finally—

"Oh."

Dean raised an eyebrow at his brother. "Oh?"

Sam straightened himself, and shrugged. "I – I guess you're… yeah, you-you're right, I th-think… uh…" his face looked pale as he went over to the sink to dump the coffee mug.

"Sammy?"

"I'm-I'm going to bed," Sam said, and his voice shook a little at the last word. Dean frowned.

"Sure, but didn't you—" he had barely finished the sentence, when Sam left the room, "— just wake up?" Dean finished in a mumble. What was wrong with Sam?

Dean glanced back at the kid's picture on his screen, and sighed. He'd have to find out what was going on with Sam. And then, just as he was about to shut the laptop, Dean saw it. On a side-panel in the page, was a small article about…

Lester.

Oh. That did explain a lot of things, including the way Sam had just behaved.

Dean licked his lips and shut the website as quickly as he could. Like Sam, he didn't want to think about it either. Not now. Preferably, not ever.

He stood up from his place and stretched. Maybe he should sleep too, he decided, as he put away the whiskey bottle and trudged out of the kitchen, to his room.

A/N: Reviews? :)