Tag to 13.01.

Sam patches up Dean's hand and helps him cope with the loss of Cas in a way that doesn't involve alcohol and despair...Well not ONLY alcohol and despair, that is.

This is the scene I desperately needed in this episode because JUST ONCE can't Dean and Sam have a moment to breath and time to grieve together? Even for their best friend? Anyway, what do I know? I just love these guys so much and I want them to be ok. So this is for anyone else who really needed a brother hug after all the boys had lost.

Blah, blah, don't own them, there's some language and mentions of (sorta) self-harm. This concludes the standard disclaimers-let the angst begin.

We burn Cas' remains at the edge of the woods.

The only sound to be heard is the crackling of the flames and the high, watery voices of frogs echoing back from a distant lake. They sound mournful to my ears, like a chirping chorus eulogizing the death of the most heroic angel ever created.

I study Jack closely. He appears puzzled about so many things but the expression I see on his face now is only one of deep sorrow and I don't know how anyone could doubt his humanity. There's a simple understanding, an emotional, compassionate side to this strange kid; an unfathomable ocean of kindness behind those dark eyes that reminds me so much of Cas. How he could be so clueless about all the unimportant details of humanity yet effortlessly wise about everything that really mattered.

I watch Jack, I watch the pyre where my friend is laid to rest, I try to focus on sensory details to distract myself from the hole in my chest where mom and Cas should be, but mostly I just watch my big brother.

Out of the corner of my eye I see him standing next to, yet miles away from me. At first glance he appears hard and cold, almost sealed off from the world, closed to me, hostile to Jack, pissed at everything and anyone who could possibly presume to sympathize with him. But I know my brother better than anyone ever has or ever will, and Dean...oh, Dean...with his bad habits and dark thoughts.

He has a habit of holding on to sharp objects, clinging to steely bits of razor-edged pain until it bores through him and severs whatever pieces of his heart remain intact. He is like a jagged thing, rough and raw, cutting into me. He hurts to look at. But I look anyway. Maybe I'm not so different from my brother after all.

I zero in on his battered hand and I don't even have to ask how that happened. Dean's response to loss isn't exactly hallmark movie approved. His coping methods aren't neatly played out steps like you read about in psychology textbooks. Grief, for Dean, always involves alcohol, rage, and some form of self loathing and self-harm.

But seeing his hand actually makes me feel like I could be useful. Finally a flesh-wound, something that I can patch up with antibiotics and sutures.

We stand in the darkness with the flames reflected in our eyes for a long time. I don't know what I could possibly say that would fill in the blank left by Cas and mom, or cover all that they meant to us. I'm not ready to eulogize mom yet, I won't mourn for her or put her in the past tense. I have to believe she's alive. So I stay quiet, and so does Dean.

After the last ember has died down and Cas has disappeared into ash and smoke, we slowly head back towards the house.

Dean is so worn out he can barely walk and he looks like he's aged about 10 years in the last 24 hours. I want to hold him up, support him like he would undoubtedly support me. But our relationship doesn't work that way and I don't dare.

We go up the front steps to the house and he's dragging so much he stumbles and almost face-plants on the front porch.

I catch him quickly by the arm and he rights himself, then jerks and pushes me away angrily.

"I'm okay, Sam. Geez, I just slipped."

I nod, and don't say anything but I still follow him closely. That's my job, it seems, to be ready to catch him but never let him see me hovering.

When we get inside he heads to the kitchen and goes straight for the bottle of whiskey and the glass he has stashed in his duffel bag. He sits down at the table, fills the glass halfway, and downs it silently.

Jack gives him a curious, pitying look, then wordlessly disappears into the living room and sits down on a chair, staring into the distance with a look that says he's processing everything that's happened to him in the one day that he's been alive. Jack has lost is mother too. Before he even got to see her.

I'm torn between wanting to talk with Jack and needing to take care of my wounded lion of a brother but in the end Dean wins, as always and I go to him.

"Is there enough to share?" I ask Dean, sliding an empty cup across the table as I sit in an adjoining chair.

He pours me some and pushes it to me but he still doesn't say anything. He's staring into his drink with a blank look of ill-concealed hopelessness etched into the lines of his face.

"How's the hand?" I ask, pointedly.

"It's wonderful. Perfect." Dean mutters after a few moments when he realizes I'm speaking to him.

"Let me look at it." I slide my chair over and try to take my big brother's hand. He pulls back so fiercely he knocks over his cup of whiskey.

"Son of a bitch!" He shouts. "Don't touch me, Sammy." "I said I'm fine."

I get up quietly to clean up the mess, but there's no rags available, so I sop up the liquor with a well-worn flannel of mine, making a mental note to run it twice through the wash later.

I get my bag of medical supplies and cautiously sit back down beside Dean.

He's poured himself another shot of whiskey and he barely registers what I'm doing.

"Dean..." I say softly, like I'm coaxing a frightened animal, "I have to look at your hand. It might be broken."

He looks at me when I reach out for him again and this time the pained look on his face tears at something deep inside me.

"Please, Sam" and his voice is a hoarse whisper, "Please don't touch me."

"Dean...I...I" Suddenly, for the first time since we lost Mom and Cas I feel like I'm gonna break down. I don't exactly know why I feel this just now, but there's something in my big brother's tone that echoes a mournful note inside me. I know what he's feeling, how it is to be so afraid of breaking, of letting go in the slightest. To be terrified of losing that control and never getting it back again.

I clear my throat and try again. "I just need to see if it's broken."

I reach over, gently but resolutely, and try to assess Dean's battered hand.

"I said don't touch me, Sam! He pulls back as violently as before. "Just don't fucking touch me!" He tries to yell but it sounds rough and broken. "Jesus, Sam can't you just listen to me for once? I'm fine! Ok? I said I'm fucking fine so please, please, for once in your entire life can't you leave me the hell alone?!"

I shake my head, and laugh humorlessly, "No. No, Dean. I will not leave you alone. Not ever, and especially not now."

Dean loses it then, he jumps up and with one swipe, brushes everything off the table, not even bothering to favor his injured hand. Glasses, bottle, and my medical kit go flying. The glasses shatter and the open bottle of whiskey rolls away, leaving a trail of liquor that pools in a sticky puddle, sopping into the weathered, wood floors.

"What happened?" Jack appears, standing in the doorway looking more puzzled than ever. He's staring at Dean who's breathing heavy and looks like he will eat alive the next person who tries to get near him.

"It's ok, Jack" I say quietly. I'm trying not to make any sudden moves, it's like Dean is a bomb that will go off at any moment and I'm trying to defuse it. But snip the wrong wire and everything will explode in a fiery ball of repression and unhealthy coping. And if Dean is about to combust, then right now, Jack is an open flame. I need him to leave and let me handle this.

"It's ok." I repeat, "Just an accident. I got this."

Jack looks like he wants to say something else but he just nods slowly and goes back into the living room-thank Chuck for small miracles.

Dean's shaking slightly now, holding his hurt hand at weird angle and panting. "Sammy" he gasps "...I..."

I don't know for sure what he was going to say because he chokes up suddenly and looks away from me, studying the peeling wallpaper with over-bright eyes.

"Dean." I say and my voice is sharp and quiet. I sound so commanding, and I'm surprised at myself. This is not usually a tone I would use on my older brother. "Sit." I say it like it's not a request and to my everlasting awe, Dean sits.

I pick up the bits of my scattered medical supplies, stuffing them into the bag-I'll organize it later-and sit down beside Dean for the third time that evening.

He sits still and lets me fix him at last, barely flinching as I press and pull gently at each knuckle, feeling cautiously for a break. It doesn't seem to be broken, just severely bruised but there are some gashes so deep they go practically to the bone.

"What did you do to yourself, man?"

"Punched a door." He mutters, "The door won."

"They usually do." I try for humor but we aren't laughing.

I know the back of Dean's hand like...well...the back of my own. I know most of the scars on his body and where they came from. I sewed up 90 percent of them. I set his broken bones too many times, always wondering how many times you can break the same bone before it stops mending? How many times can you rip the scab off a wound before it stops healing?

I get out a pair of thumb forceps and carefully remove a few splinters from the gashes, and then quickly and methodically suture up my brother's hand.

The cuts, while deep, are not very big, and luckily I have enough margins to suture the skin without risking it tearing back open.

I steal furtive glances at Dean while I work, but he remains impassive, staying silent as I make each stitch. Lastly I take out a tube of topical antibiotic ointment and apply it carefully.

"There ya go. Try not to tear those back open and remember to keep putting the antibiotics on it and you're good."

I start to get up so I can clean up the mess in the kitchen when Dean says my name so quietly I almost don't hear him.

"Sammy..."

"Yeah, Dean?"

"Thanks." He says.

He's staring at me intensely and for a split second I see all the jagged pieces of my brother's soul standing out like shattered glass in his raw gaze. His clear, green eyes are red-rimmed, wet and full of so much black despair, but I recognize a stubborn fire glinting deep down. He's patched up on the outside but inside he's an open sore and he's so close to breaking apart at the seams.

I don't say anything at all, and I know I'm risking life and limb, but for that moment, I simply don't care. If the bomb that is my brother goes off, I think, let me be the one to absorb the shock. It's what he would do for me.

I reach over and pull him into my arms, he tenses, barely breathing, and then goes absolutely limp, his head buried in my chest.

I hold onto him for several minutes and try not to shatter myself at the way his breaths come in strangled gasps, how my shoulder is suddenly damp, how he fists my shirt with his good hand like he's being pulled into the pit again and I'm the only one he has to hang on to.

We are both still kind of crying when we sit back and Dean wipes tiredly at his eyes, looking away in embarrassment at his uncharacteristic display.

"Thanks for fixing my hand...and everything..."

"Thank you, Dean." I say "For letting me."

~End.

Well it was short but hopefully sweet. What do you think of that ending? Too abrupt?

Reviews are kittens and unicorns and rainbows and candy and happiness to me.

Thanks for reading!!

~BDC