Kinda the Whole Point

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. Obviously.

A/N: This is a tag to the um..."BM Scene"...in 10x16 "Paint It Black." I felt that Dean was definitely not completely checked into that conversation, and there was definitely more going on than we saw at face value.

For my Girls.

The Mark was angry.

Dean could feel it, eating away at the edges of his control, the steel Will he had placed upon it to remain human, clawing its way toward his soul. It had screamed, earlier, when he was in the grip of the possessed nun—the Hot Nun, he thought with a vague sense of wry amusement—bellowed at him to throw her off and destroy her. He could have done it, and easily, for the Power of the Mark gave him strength very few could match; and certainly not a slight human woman possessed by a fairly weak spirit.

But he hadn't. He had expended most all his physical strength to preventing that knife from piercing his gut (though it'd left a pretty small but painful bruise), but the vast majority of his energy had gone to denying the Mark its excruciating lust.

And it was making him pay.

Sammy was talking to him—and he couldn't even be annoyed, he'd started the conversation, after all—but he was having a hard time focusing on his brother's words.

He caught snippets: "confessional…just saying…your brother, Dean."

"Okay," he said, wincing as his stomach clenched, hoping he wasn't agreeing to anything he wasn't willing to go through with.

"Sister Matthias…mission…it's okay, I've done it…"

All he could see was the woman's face, covered in blood, his own stained hand holding the knife…the knife which morphed into the First Blade before his very eyes, relief and bloodlust flooding his veins in an intoxicating rush…

"Terminal diagnosis…don't go making peace…"

There would be no peace for him, not now, not ever. The Mark was unforgiving, and it was angry. He could see nothing but blood, wanted nothing but blood, would do whatever it took to have it…

"Okay, Sammy." Did he sound as out of it as he felt? God, how much longer could he do this?

"…Like you mean it…?"

Sam was looking at him, expectant. What? What did he want?

"Okay."

Sam quieted then, turned his attention back to the road, and part of Dean wished he hadn't. Despite his lack of focus, his brother's voice had grounded him, given him something to hang onto, a thread of something pure in the maelstrom of blood and violence and gore in his mind. His arm burned physically, and he rubbed at it, hoping to ease the hot ache; but it only hurt worse, agony lancing from his fingertips to his shoulder.

Sister Matthias, dead at his feet, shredded, destroyed.

He moaned and rolled his right shoulder, leaning his head back against the seat. It wasn't real, he'd held on, Sister Matthias was alive and he was headed home, beside his brother, in his Baby.

It's just a car.

Dean shuddered at the memory; all he'd been able to see then was blood, just like now. He'd been able to smell it nearby, let it fill him with that hunger, that desire to destroy, to kill, he'd let it make him want to kill Sammy—

Hazel eyes, unfocused, staring, pale face splattered red, insides on the outside, large frame broken inside a widening puddle of crimson.

Dean jerked at the image, muscles spasming in protest as the Mark sent shocks of agony through his nerves. "No!" he cried, scrabbling at the door, searching for the handle. He had to get out, get away, he had to escape, he couldn't—

"Dean? What….crazy….hold on!"

He was yanking at the handle, why wouldn't it open? What was holding him in here, he couldn't do it—oh wait, the door was locked—a moment of lucidity as he tugged the lock upward then wrenched the handle again. It opened this time, and he barely registered the blurred asphalt before he practically threw himself from the Impala.

Dean rolled, vaguely aware of the sting as the blacktop tore at his skin—the car had still been moving, apparently—but it hurt less than the unendurable fire that was currently devouring him from the inside.

"Dean!"

Appropriate, he thought faintly, that he should die by fire. His mother had, after all.

"Dean!...back…me…"

He'd always wanted to be like her.

White nightgown, blonde hair splayed, pinned to the ceiling, burning, bleeding, broken…

The Mark howled—or was that him?

Sam tried not to huff like a petulant teenager after Dean's third "okay" that he clearly didn't mean, at least not wholeheartedly. Turning back to face the road, he forced himself to consider Dean's point of view, what he might be going through.

He could certainly see how Dean would be afraid to hope for a solution to this. Hope was a dangerous thing at the best of times, and for normal folks. If you were a Winchester, it was both dangerous and stupid. But call him idiotic, Sam held fast to what he'd told his brother all those years ago: hope was kinda the whole point. And not just hope for other people, no—hope for them, too. Because Sam was just dumb enough to hold on to the belief that normal life or not, he and Dean were just as deserving of happiness as the next family.

Besides, he didn't hope there was a cure for the Mark. He knew it. It wasn't faith, it was fact. All they had to do was find it. And if there was one thing Sam was good at, it was research. It didn't matter if Dean believed it, if Dean supported it, if Dean thought it was useless and told him to give it up: Sam was going to find it.

Thus determined, Sam deliberately loosened his grip on the steering wheel, exhaling and sitting back into the Impala's bench seat. No need to be irrationally tense all the way back home—

His attention was drawn back to his brother as Dean let out a low moan, quiet but pained. Sam looked over to see his left hand clamped over his right forearm, both curled protectively around his stomach and face screwed up in a grimace as he laid his head on the back of the seat. The younger Winchester winced sympathetically and tried to ignore the instinct to ask Dean if he was all right. He already knew the answer.

The Mark was rousing.

He'd seen it over the past few weeks, as more and more time passed with Dean resisting the urge to kill something. They hadn't had a hunt that resulted in a kill for Dean in weeks—unless you counted smashing that Khan worm about ten days back—and Sam knew that if the bloodlust wasn't satiated, the Mark was particularly vicious. Dean never said anything, but Sam wasn't stupid; he'd been his older brother's younger brother his entire life, he recognized pain on Dean's face even when Dean didn't want him to. He knew that Dean retreated to his room for two or three day stretches so he could curl up in a fetal position and feel the pain without trying to hide it behind that mask he still, after all these years, tried to maintain for Sam's sake.

And he knew it was bad, because Dean never even noticed when Sam would look in on him, wishing to the bottom of his soul he could take the pain for himself and swearing anew to find the answer.

"No!" Dean shouted from beside him, startling Sam enough that his control of Baby wavered momentarily; his brother didn't even notice, clawing at the door as if he could get out through sheer willpower. Panic punched Sam in the gut, hard, as he realized that Dean was trying to leave the vehicle.

While it was moving, evidently.

"Dean!" he yelped. "Are you crazy? Stop! Hang on!" Sam wrenched the steering wheel to the right and punched the brake, trying to stop Baby before Dean managed to get the door open.

Dean, hold on, please wait just a minute, wait…

But it was too late. They were still moving about twenty miles an hour when Sam heard the distinctive creek of the Impala's passenger door, and Dean was gone. He reached for his brother, knowing it was useless and hoping Dean had enough sense left to throw himself clear of the rear tires—

"Dean!"

Baby screeched to a halt thirty yards further down the road, and Sam was out almost before he even put her in park, eyes on his brother's prone form.

Shit.

"Dean!"

Shit shit shit…

Dean had clearly rolled a few feet, and was on his knees and elbows, trying to pull himself upright but failing. Sam skidded to his knees beside him, hands landing on Dean's shoulders and eyes raking over his battered form. Bruises, road rash, a laceration on Dean's bicep that was going to need stitches…

"Dean! Come back to me, big brother, come on!"

Dean recoiled from his touch, jerking backward onto his knees with a howl of anguish. Sam followed, grabbing his brother's shirt and yanking Dean against his chest.

"Come on, Dean, don't do this."

Short nails scrabbled at his forearms, leaving gouges that bled; Dean kicked and squirmed as he shouted incoherently. Sam wrapped his arms and legs around him and held on.

"Dean. Dean. Dean."

His older brother tossed his head back on a small wail, cracking his skull against Sam's jaw; but the younger simply called his name, over and over, remembering how Dean's voice had pulled him through withdrawals of his own, once upon a time.

"Dean."

After several minutes, the squirming lessened, Dean breathed heavily, deep shaking breaths that caught and sounded suspiciously like sobs. Sam loosened his death grip on his brother, rubbing his chest where he could feel Dean's heart thundering against his ribs, fast and desperate.

"It's all right," he heard himself muttering. "I'm here, Dean, just hang on, I've got you…"

Sam fought tears when Dean's hand caught his where he was still rubbing unthinkingly against his brother's shirt. Dean latched onto his fingers like a vice.

"S'mmy?"

"It's me, Dean, I've got you."

God, Dean. Please hold on a little longer.

He woke slowly, painfully, harshly. His right arm throbbed around the Mark, his head ached something fierce, and he felt like he'd been run over by a truck. Repeatedly.

"God," he moaned, trying to turn over and feeling new pains make themselves known with the movement.

"Mmm, guess again," a familiar voice muttered from close by, hoarsely. Dean didn't even have to open his eyes.

"Sammy. Didja get the guy that ran me over?"

A tired chuckle. "Nah, I'm too old to be chasing down cars."

The Mark knew he was awake. Dean clamped down on it mercilessly before it could pull another coup like it had in the Impala. Wait, in the Impala…

Aw crap.

"Sammy, what did I do?" He wrenched his eyes open, blinking furiously to adjust to the dim light in his room. He tried to sit up, but gave up with a gasp when pain lanced through his torso. Sam's warm hand landed on his shoulder firmly.

"Easy, Dean, stop. Lie still. You cracked a rib when you decided to channel your inner stunt man back there. You're lucky that's the worst of the damage." Sam's face was pale and drawn, even in the low light, and Dean was willing to bet he'd not left this room since bringing him home.

"God, I'm sorry," he moaned, embarrassed at his overreaction. "I thought I was…I couldn't…"

"It's okay," Sam hastened to reassure him. "I managed to nearly stop us before you…jumped. Mostly just gave me a heart attack, is all."

Dean nodded, too tired to argue. Damn this. Damn the pain, the bloodlust, the rage, damn all of it.

"It was the ghost, wasn't it?"

Huh?

"What? No, it was the freaking Mark, Sam…"

"Yes, but," his brother interrupted. "The fact that you held back from just unleashing on Sister Matthias, that's what triggered it."

Oh.

"Yeah," he answered hesitantly. He could practically feel Sam's pride from over there in his chair. He didn't freaking deserve it.

"You did good, Dean."

Dean bit back a retort, knowing Sam meant well. His little brother thought he was keeping it together, seeing him through rose-colored glasses, Dean the Big Brother, the Hero—

"Course maybe next time you could just tell me it's that bad instead of throwing yourself out of a moving vehicle. I'd have happily pulled over for you."

Dean managed a smirk, which of course was exactly what Sam had intended. They were quiet for a minute, before he spoke again.

"I know you're coming apart at the seams, Dean, and," he held up a placating hand as Dean opened his mouth to stop him—he hated the talking, dammit. "And I know you don't want to discuss it. I won't make you, but I have something to say, so shut up and listen."

Dean pressed his lips together grimly, resigned.

"I know it's eating at you, and I know you feel like you're barely hanging on, but…I'm proud of you. Fighting like you are? It's huge. And don't you worry—this ain't blind adoration like I know you hate. I know the stakes, I know how it hurts, I know how hard it is. But you're fighting, and that's what I'm proud of."

Dean clenched his jaw to stave off the emotion building behind his eyes.

"And I know you want me to stop looking for a cure, but I haven't."

Surprise, surprise.

"And I won't. So….there."

Dean felt his lips twitch as he looked over at Sam, arms crossed over his chest, looking for all the world like a determined eleven-year-old.

"'So there'?" he teased lightly, and Sam seemed to realize what he'd said and how he was sitting. He uncrossed his arms and grinned a little.

"It's all right, Sammy," Dean sighed, closing his eyes again. God, he was tired. "If anyone can find it, it's you. And anyway, what is it you like to say? 'Hope's kinda the whole point,'?"

Complete silence for a moment, then Sam responded in a somewhat-choked voice, "Yeah, man. It is."

Dean grinned into the darkness.