Contains dialogue from the episode 'Crossroad Blues', it belongs to Eric Kripke and Sera Gamble.
Part of my Deleted Scenes series. Full list of fics in reading order available on my profile page :)
Dean steps quickly into the hallway and feels Sam following closely behind him. Dean's still not entirely convinced that jackass deserves to be saved from the hellhounds they all know are coming, but if they're going to stop this from happening, it's now or never.
"You alright?" Sam asks softly.
"Yeah, why wouldn't I be? Hey, I got an idea," Dean says brusquely, not giving Sam any time to dwell on that 'lets talk about Dean's feelings' crap he seems to love so much. "You throw George's hoodoo at that hellhound, keep it away from Evan for as long as you can. I'm gonna go to the crossroads and summon the demon."
Sam blinks. "Summon the – are you nuts?"
Dean purses his lips. "Maybe a little. But I can trap it, I can exorcise it and I can buy us time to figure out something more permanent."
"Yeah, but how much time?" Sam's still looking at him like he's crazy, and it's really starting to get on Dean's nerves.
"I don't know, a while. It's not easy for those suckers to claw their way back from Hell and into the sunshine," Dean points out, itching to just get out of here before Sam tries too hard to stop him.
"No. No way." Sam shakes his head, eyes wide but his gaze set and determined.
"You're not allowed to say no, Sammy. Not unless you got a better idea."
"Dean, you can forget it, alright?" Sam snaps. "I'm not letting you summon that demon."
"Why not?" Dean snaps back.
"Because I don't like where your head is at right now, that's why not!"
Dean pauses. "What're you talkin' about?" he scoffs.
"You know, you've been on edge ever since we found that crossroads, Dean, and I think I know why."
"We don't have time for this," Dean mutters in annoyance, turning and taking a few steps away from his brother.
"Dad," Sam says loudly. "You think maybe Dad made one of these deals, huh?"
Dean turns around reluctantly, and faces Sam with a clenched jaw. He's pissed off beyond belief that Sam's bringing this up right now, but suddenly he doesn't have the energy to push it down anymore.
"Hell, I've been thinkin' it," Sam says, smiling sadly. "I'm sure you been thinkin' it too."
Dean swallows thickly. He can feel the wall crumbling, one brick at a time, and he hates that feeling. "It fits, doesn't it?" he says defeatedly. "I'm alive, Dad's dead, the yellow-eyed demon was involved … what if he did? What if he struck a deal? My life for his soul?"
Sam's eyes glaze over and he gets that sad, little brother look all over his face, but he doesn't get a chance to say anything before Evan's calling them from the other room.
"I think I hear it! It's outside!" he yells frantically, and Dean snaps instantly back into hunter-mode.
"Just keep him alive, okay?" he commands, turning his back on Sam and stalking out the door.
The rumble of the Impala in Dean's ears and chest is usually soothing after a hunt. Somehow, after everything he and Sam have been through, the car is like their ground zero. It's the one place where Dean knows exactly where he belongs – the one place in the world where everything makes sense. His baby underneath him, Sam beside him, and nothing but the open road in front of him. It's what takes Dean away from their troubles; it's what carries him forward and keeps him going when everything else is avalanching around them. But right now, the vibrations under his back and legs and hands is doing nothing but lulling him into numbness. He just got finished telling Sam what the Crossroads Demon said about Dad, and Dean's never felt lower in his entire life. He doesn't even have the strength to be sad anymore. He's just empty.
"Demons lie all the time, right?" Sam says quietly. "Maybe she was lying."
Dean rolls his eyes. "Oh c'mon, is that really what you think?"
Sam doesn't say anything and he won't meet Dean's gaze, so Dean knows Sam didn't believe his own words. He just said it to try to make Dean feel better, and that just makes him feel worse.
"How could he do it?" Dean asks, shaking his head in disbelief. He hasn't been able to stop thinking about it. How could Dad possibly have thought that Dean's life was worth going to Hell for? There isn't a damn thing Dean's ever done to be worthy of that kind of sacrifice. He doesn't deserve this; that's what really kills him. He gets to be alive – he gets a second chance and he doesn't deserve it for a single second.
"He did it for you," Sam whispers.
"Exactly. How am I supposed to live with that?" Dean grinds out, barely managing to keep his voice steady. "You know, the thought of him … where ever he is right now … I mean, he spent his whole life chasing that yellow-eyed son of a bitch. He should've gone out fighting. That was supposed to be his legacy, you know? Not bargaining with the damn thing. Not this."
"How many people do you think Dad saved, total?" Sam asks.
"That's not the point, Sam."
"Evan Hudson is safe because of what Dad taught us," Sam insists, looking over at Dean with those big, imploring eyes that Dean refuses to meet. "That's his legacy, Dean. We're still here, man, so we gotta keep going. For him."
Dean doesn't respond. He can't. He can feel Sam's eyes on him but if he gives an inch he's going to end up caving and giving a mile, and he's pretty sure neither of them are prepared to deal with whatever might come out of Dean's mouth right now. And he can't let Sam know how smashed up he is inside. He just can't. He's the big brother – the strong one. The one who takes care of Sammy; the one who keeps their small, broken family together even when every evil piece of shit out there is trying their damndest to tear them apart.
"Hey, Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"When you were trapping that demon, you weren't … I mean, it was all a trick, right?" Sam asks slowly. "You never considered actually making that deal … right?"
Sam's voice is so small and pitifully hopeful that it slices a hole right through Dean. He can't even begin to think how he'd answer that question – how he could possibly explain it to Sam – so he just turns up the radio and floors the accelerator. If he's honest with himself? Yeah, he did consider it. Dean was the one who was dying, not Dad. He should be dead and Dad should still be alive – Dean would have to be completely heartless not to consider taking the chance to set things right. They messed with the natural order; just like that idiot kid did all those weeks ago when he brought his dead girlfriend back to life, Angela whatever-her-name-was. And as far as Dean can tell, the only thing that's come out of it is the systematic deterioration of his will to live. Every day that goes by that he doesn't figure out what Dad meant about saving Sammy; every time Sam looks at him with those baby-brother eyes and begs Dean to let him in; Dean just feels himself getting weaker and weaker until he isn't so sure how long it's going to be before he crumbles. He's only one man, and no matter how much he tries to convince himself otherwise, he isn't invincible. There's only so much of him the world can chip away before there's nothing left.
For the half hour it takes for Dean to find them a decent looking motel in Nowhere Mississippi, they drive in silence. When Dean chances a glance over at his brother, Sam has slumped down in the seat and his head is resting against the window. From this position Dean can't see his face, but every time they pass a streetlamp Sam's eyes reflect momentarily in the glass and when Dean times it right he can see they're squinted and glassy with unshed tears. He doesn't mention it. He's not stupid enough to think Sam's anywhere near ready to let this go; Dean's well aware that he's going to get an earful about this at some point or another. He just prays it won't be tonight. He can't deal with indulging Sam's incessant need to talk everything out right now. It's too much too soon – he'd just started to feel like his life was leveling out again after Dad's death spun everything out of control. Dean honestly doesn't have the capacity to handle this too, at least not tonight. He needs at least one good night's rest before the shit hits the fan.
When Dean finally pulls into a roadside joint just outside Schlater, Sam's schooled his features back into an emotionless visor that Dean can't help noticing is hauntingly similar to his own. The tiny corner of his brain that isn't swimming spares a moment to be sad about that – when Sammy was little he was so sweet and open and trusting, and Dean hates that he's responsible for Sam learning to hide himself behind a mask like that. But after a minute, the slight sting fades and Dean finds himself pushing it down and hoping they can just go to sleep in mutually unacknowledged tension.
Sam unloads the bags while Dean checks them in, and when the usual king-or-two-queens issue comes up, Dean pretty damn near slugs the guy. He barely manages to grind out 'two queens' and he grabs the cardkey and stalks out of the office a little more irritably than was probably necessary. His mood doesn't improve when Sam's face falls noticeably at the sight of two beds, but Dean can't even begin to deal with that either. He pushes Sam's hurt expression out of his mind and makes his way to the bathroom; splashing some cool water on his face and then dropping down to the porcelain edge of the tub; resting his forehead against his fist and rubbing his eyes. It's just too much. Dean hates feeling sorry for himself but lately he feels like the world is asking him to cope with three times as much as anyone would be able to.
He only gets a few minutes of peace before there's a gentle knock at the door. Dean's stomach drops about a foot into his gut.
"Yeah?"
"Can I come in?" Sam's voice asks softly, muffled through the wood.
Dean sighs heavily. "Yeah. Okay."
The door opens slowly and Sam steps into the small room hesitantly. Dean grits his teeth and mentally prepares himself for Sam to go off on one of his rants, but what Sam does is much worse. He wordlessly sits down beside Dean on the edge of the bathtub, sniffing and leaning his head down to rest on Dean's shoulder.
"Sammy?" Dean asks, bewildered. "Are you – did something happen?"
Sam shakes his head, his hair tickling Dean's neck, but he doesn't move. Dean's confused for another few moments before he realizes what Sam's doing. It's that whole killing with kindness thing that Sam's tried a few times before – because he knows as well as Dean does that sometimes all it takes is a warm touch and some unwanted sympathy to break Dean's wall down. Dean hates him a little bit for it, and he sure as hell isn't going to give him the satisfaction.
"Get off," he mutters, annoyed.
When Sam still doesn't move, Dean rolls his eyes and shrugs his shoulder enough to bounce Sam's head off it. He stands up and brusquely steps around his brother and out of the bathroom. His entire body is tensed as he trudges away, and he has to employ every bit of self control he possesses to keep from smashing something – preferably that stupid painting of two kids on a beach who have absolutely no right to look so fuckin' happy.
"Dean, c'mon," Sam's voice says from behind him.
"No, you c'mon!" Dean growls, refusing to look at Sam. "I'm not that easy, okay? You don't always get to hug me and use those damn sad eyes to guilt me into doing whatever you want!"
"Is that what you think I was doing?" Sam asks, quietly but clearly upset.
"That's exactly what I think you were doing."
"I … Dean, look at me."
Reluctantly, Dean does; but only over his shoulder.
"I swear, that wasn't … look, I'm sorry, okay? I just wanted you to talk to me." Sam's eyebrows have knitted together and his eyes are wide and sad.
Dean's halfway tempted to point out that that's the exact face he was talking about, but Sam's definitely not faking it anymore. Dean's not so sure now if he ever was. He feels as shitty as always for making Sam look like that, but for some reason it just pisses him off even more.
"Why?" he asks angrily. "Why do we always have to talk about everything? Dad's gone and he's not coming back. Crying about it isn't gonna change anything so why can't you just fuckin' let this one go?"
"Because you really freaked me out today, that's why!" Sam cries. "And you were a total dick to Evan Hudson."
Dean whips around. "The guy had it coming! He made a deal with a demon!"
"But it wasn't him you were really mad at, was it?"
"Sammy," Dean warns.
"It was Dad," Sam continues; glaring at Dean as if daring him to interrupt again. "You do this every single time something's goin' on that you don't wanna deal with and I'm seriously getting tired of it!"
"Do what?"
"You know what."
"No, c'mon, Sammy, tell me!" Dean spits sardonically. "You seem to think you have all the god damn answers, so go ahead! Tell me what exactly it is that I do!"
"You get like this!" Sam explodes, throwing his arms out to his sides in frustration. "You get all snarky and sarcastic, you turn into a smart-ass douchebag and you go around tryin' to start shit with anyone who might be crazy enough to fight back! Like me! Or like some poor guy who's about to be dragged off to Hell for wantin' to save his dying wife!"
Dean can feel a muscle working in his forehead but he doesn't say anything; he just scowls. Sam's right, of course he's right, but Dean's overworked brain really doesn't have the room to deal with that right now.
"All that stuff about how Evan's wife would feel if she knew her life cost him his soul; you and I both know who that was really about," Sam persists, gentler now but still not backing down. "And I get it, Dean, believe me, I really do. I miss him too, and me and him were never a tenth as close as you two were so I can only imagine how all this must feel."
"No, you can't actually!" Dean's jaw tightens, almost to the point of pain now. Sam doesn't know. He has no idea. "Dad died for me, Sam! He's gone, forever, and I have to live with that for the rest of my life! You have no idea what this feels like!"
"Dean … you're right, I don't. And it kills me to think that he might be suffering, where ever he is." Sam sighs quietly and closes his eyes for a moment. "He doesn't deserve that. He had a lot of flaws but he was a good man. But that doesn't mean it's okay for you to go around being an asshole to people so you can avoid actually dealing with this stuff!"
"Jesus Christ, again with this crap?" Dean snaps. "Seriously, who the fuck are you, Oprah?"
Sam shoots him a look. "You know what I mean."
"Yeah, I do, and I'm sick to fuckin' death of having this conversation!" Dean growls, clenching his fists at his side so tight his blunt nails dig painfully into his palms. "This happened today, do you get that? We found out Dad sold himself for me a few hours ago, d'you think maybe I'm entitled tobe pissed off for a little while before you start bringing out the fuckin' ink blots?"
"Of course you're allowed to be pissed off!" Sam cries, moving a little closer to Dean in desperation. "You're allowed to be whatever you want! You just gotta stop letting it affect you so much while we're hunting! If you need to take some time off to get your head around things then just tell me! But you need – "
"You know what I need?" Dean barks, barely resisting the urge to shove Sam away from him. "I need you to stop telling me what the fuck to do! I'm a big boy, Sammy, I can handle this without you holding my hand!"
"But you don't handle it!" Sam shouts, taking another step forward and getting right in Dean's face. "You don't handle it at all, you shove it down and you try to drown it in booze, and when that doesn't work you take it out on the people we're trying to help! You take it out on me, and it's got to stop, Dean!"
Dean isn't totally sure why he does it. He isn't even really aware of making a conscious decision to do it, all he knows is that something black and furious inside him snaps and before his brain knows what's it's telling his body to do, his right arm is swinging and his fist is connecting brutally with Sam's jaw. The resounding crack echoes in the empty space in Dean's head, bouncing around next to the pounding of his heart. A flash of bittersweet pain shoots up from Dean's knuckles as he watches Sam stagger backwards; one knee awkwardly hitting the edge of the mattress and tripping him; sending him tumbling ungracefully to the floor. It happens in slow motion, like in a movie – Dean sees it through eyes that don't feel like his own, as if he were suddenly standing behind himself; watching a fight between two people that aren't him and Sam. It only lasts a moment, though, and then, like a bucket of ice cold water right in the face, Dean realizes what he did.
"Shit, Sam …" Dean mumbles, immediately boomeranging back to himself and feeling worse than terrible. He reaches for Sam on instinct, but then something stops him. He's not even sure what exactly – just something about the way Sam's crumpled on the floor has Dean willing to bet he wouldn't be very receptive to Dean's touch right now.
Sam picks himself up slowly but doesn't stand; he pushes his body to a sitting position and leans against the bed as he gently rubs at his quickly-reddening cheek. Dean has no idea what to say. His heart is still thundering against his ribcage in a mixture of red-tinged anger and icy guilt. Sam looks so small and helpless sitting on the worn motel carpet like that, and Dean's chest clenches painfully. He feels like he just kicked a wounded puppy.
"Sammy, I'm – "
"Don't," Sam says quietly, so quietly that Dean's not even altogether sure he actually said it.
They exist in silence for another few minutes; Sam with his eyes downcast and his arms wrapped tight around himself and Dean wishing he could just send himself to Hell because an eternity of torture sounds like about the only just punishment for how terrible he feels right now. And then, when Sam speaks again, it's soft and steady and measured, but undeniably angry.
"I feel like I've been more than understanding here, Dean." He sniffs and scratches at his elbow absently before continuing. "I listen when you wanna talk, for the most part I give you space when you don't. I let you make most of the decisions when we're on a hunt because I know you like to feel in charge. I let you drink too much and drive too fast and hit on anything in a skirt even when I'm standing right there and it's killing me to watch you like that with someone else, because I know that's the way you deal. I let you rag on me for going to school and I let you make fun of me for being smart, and I never say a word, do I?"
Dean shakes his head soundlessly, even though he knows Sam probably can't see it.
"Because you're my big brother, and that's who you are. I don't want you to change, I really don't." Sam pauses again and exhales heavily. "And what happened with Dad was awful, is awful. I don't expect you to be okay about it, because I'm not. Not at all. But what happened to him isn't my fault."
"I know that," Dean mutters, running a hand over his face and feeling his insides twist painfully. It's official, he's the biggest jerk on the planet.
"Then why are you taking it out on me?" Sam asks, looking up at Dean.
"I'm not – "
"Do you realize you've hit me more times in the last few months than you have in our entire lives?" Sam interrupts, pushing his bangs back so the full extent of his miserable expression hits Dean like a sledge hammer. "And you're angry about Dad, you're upset and I get that, Dean, I really do. I just … I don't understand why you're angry at me."
Dean opens and closes his mouth helplessly a few times, but really, what is he supposed to say to that?
"I don't know what I did wrong," Sam says, his voice small and pleading and sounding all of about ten years old. "And you won't talk to me, so I don't know how to make it better."
"Sammy," Dean sighs. God, he wishes Sam would go back to yelling. Pissed-off-Sam Dean can handle, but this dejected, broken Sam just about breaks Dean's heart. "You didn't … there's nothing …"
Dean doesn't even know what he's saying anymore. That empty feeling from earlier is swelling like a balloon in his chest, pushing out every inch of joy and hope until Dean's all but positive he's never going to feel anything remotely like happiness ever again. The way Sam isn't making any effort to get up off the floor isn't helping either – all it's doing is tearing Dean to shreds.
"I can't … I need a fuckin' drink," he mutters after a minute, suddenly so queasy that he's sure if he doesn't get out of here right-the-hell-now he's gonna hurl. He stumbles frantically out of the room, only just managing not to slam the door behind him.
When Dean returns a few hours later, he's not even a little bit drunk off the double shot of whiskey he'd stared blankly into for however long he sat in that smokey bar until the bartender kicked him out. Dean has absolutely no idea what time it is, just that it's still dark, so he creeps back into the motel room as quietly as he can in case Sam's asleep. Truthfully, he's praying Sam's asleep. Dean really messed up this time, he knows he did, but he's still too drained and emotionally numb to have any idea what to do about it. When he slides in as stealthily as he can and manages to get the door shut with just a gentle click, he turns around hesitantly to face the fact that Sam might be standing right there ready to punch Dean back, but he isn't. Sam's in the bed furthest from the door, curled up on his side with his back to Dean, but Dean can tell he isn't sleeping. Sam's shoulders are too tense; he's definitely still awake and Dean really wants to do whatever will piss Sam off the least but he has no idea what that is.
He hovers by the door for a few minutes, weighing his options as best he can in his foggy state-of-mind. It would probably be better for both of them if Dean climbed into his own bed and they let sleep cool them both down, but suddenly Sam's much too far away. It might be a bad call but Dean makes a snap decision to just bite the bullet. He toes off his boots and moves silently toward the bed Sam's in, ridding himself of his jeans as he goes. He pulls the quilt back and lies down on his back beside Sam, but not touching. Sam still doesn't move or speak, but Dean hears his breathing change so he knows for sure now that Sam isn't sleeping. For a long moment, he lies there and doesn't say anything either; wordlessly willing Sam to turn over and look at him. But Sam doesn't, and on some level Dean knew he wouldn't.
"I'm sorry," he says softly, his quiet words piercing the edgy stillness between them.
"Okay," Sam answers, just as quietly.
It's recognition of the fact that Dean spoke; not an acceptance of his apology. Dean's pretty sure he'd feel better if Sam had stabbed him instead.
"I … how do I fix this?" Dean asks, desperately wishing he could reach out and touch Sam's back but knowing Sam won't let him.
Sam doesn't respond right away – he's silent for long enough that Dean starts to wonder if he's fallen asleep. When he does speak, the rough baritone of his voice doesn't sound mad in the slightest anymore. He sounds … blank. He sounds as empty as Dean feels. And that's worse.
"It's fine. Just go to sleep, okay?"
Dean's eyes prickle with tears as he nods. "Yeah. Okay."