He Had Said He Didn't Care
Summary: Scene from 9.23. One-Shot. Dean's dead, and Sam had told him he didn't care whether that happened or not. But, oh, what a lie that had been.
He had said he didn't care.
And how stupid was that? To say to his own brother, the only true constant in his life that he didn't care if he had lived or died. It had been such an idiotic thing to say, and it had been a lie. He could see that now, when Dean's death was staring him right in the face now. He had lied and said he didn't care and now Dean was dead.
And God, did he care. He cared so much that he practically felt his insides ripping themselves apart. He cared, and it fucking hurt.
Sam sat there, holding his brother's stiffening and cooling corpse in his arms, unable to move. Nothing even felt real to him at the moment. He couldn't feel his own body, nor the earth under him, nothing but Dean's body in his arms. There was nothing else to him. The world had fallen away from him, and there was nothing to focus on but his brother's dead body in his arms.
He had said he didn't care.
Finally, after minutes or hours, he managed to pick up Dean's body, sling it over his shoulders, and carry it back to the car, past all the people who were still waiting for Metatron to save them.
"Oh my god, is that guy dead?!" "Look at all the blood on him!" "Where's Marv, though? I saw him go back there too." "Do you think that guy could've killed him?!"
Their chatter flew right over Sam's head, hardly even registering in his brain. A quiet numbness had settled over his whole being, making everything in the world look dull and colorless. He didn't think as he walked, wouldn't let himself think, because if he thought he would fall apart, and that would help no one. He just kept himself moving towards the car.
He had said he didn't care.
At the car, he took Dean from around his shoulders and laid him in the back seat. And then Sam didn't move. He stood there, utterly still, and stared at the corpse of his brother, not thinking and not even really looking, but just staring. He didn't cry, didn't fall to his knees in remorse and grief, just stood there blank and numb, almost expectantly. As if Dean would just jump back to life by Sam just watching him.. But of course he didn't, and Sam felt the greatest weight in the world settle on his shoulders, one that he was used to, but still felt as though it would crush him under it, the weight of his brother being dead.
Then he moved, got a bottle of water out of the trunk, and quickly washed Dean's face and hands. It was crude, but he'd fix that later, at the Bunker. And then he got into the driver's seat and left the place where his brother had died. Again.
He had said he didn't care.
About an hour into the drive, with about eleven more to go, Sam began to talk. To himself, to Dean, it didn't matter. He just talked.
"What the hell did you mean by 'I'm proud of us'? Seriously, did you take pointers from Cas on how to be as vague as possible? And what the hell is there to even be proud of, anyway?
"That we survived? Because honestly, we haven't really done a good job of that, if you haven't noticed in the past nine years. I mean, we've both died more than once (you way more than once), but further than that, even when we were both alive, we didn't really do a bang up job of surviving, especially this last time.
"I guess you could be proud of the fact that we saved the world. Again. But what did we ever get for that? You dead, and nothing else. No thank yous, no recognition, just you and some friends dead. How can you be proud of that?
"But that's not the point. Not really. Whatever you meant…whatever it was…I'm glad…" Here he swallowed thickly, fighting back the tears that threatened to overwhelm him. He just wanted to get back to the Bunker, and he couldn't do that if he had to pull over and break down. "I'm glad that you're – were – proud of us. Even if I don't understand why. Because…it meant that you still…you still believed in us. In me. Thought good of me, even with all the crap going on this year. So I'm glad.
"And I hope you know…hope you knew, anyway…that I didn't mean it…that I lied to you…when I said I didn't care what happened to you. Yeah, I said it back then, when you were dying and could hear me…but I hope you believed me. I'm sorry that I said we weren't brothers anymore. I never meant it…and I'm sorry I said it in the first place. Made you think that. Because, seriously…it's not true. Never has been. And I'm sorry. God, I'm so fucking sorry, Dean."
He was definitely crying now. The initial shock was fading away, and was being replaced by an insurmountable amount of pain. It was like a medication that was wearing off, and the ache coming back in full force. He scrubbed a hand up and down his face, but continued to drive. He just needed to get back.
He had said he didn't care.
"And another thing Dean. When I said I'd let you choose your own life and death…that was a lie, too. Yeah, yeah, I'm a hypocrite I know, but I somehow managed to…forget…how this felt. How desperate and broken it feels for you to be dead. I don't know how I ever did forget that, but I was pissed. Still…I should've thought more about it. And yeah, I would've done the same thing as you when I was in that coma…'cause I can't lose you…I just can't.
"And I'm not going to…you're not allowed to choose your own life or death right now. I'm bringing you back, anyway I can. I'm sorry Dean, but if I'm not allowed to stay dead…then…neither are you. That's just not happening. I…just…can't do it. I can't."
"You know it's funny. Well, not funny like I could laugh, but funny strange. People would think…that after all the times I've seen you…seen you dead…watched you die in front of me…people would think that I would be…used to it somehow. Like, I would just be able to get you back without…without feeling like I'm gonna break in two. Well…fuck 'em. You never…never…not in a million years…get used to your brother dying. Never. Somehow…every new way you…die…tears a wider hole in me…even though I've seen it before…"
At that point, Sam had to pull over on the shoulder, unless he wanted to get killed. (And wouldn't that just be what he needed.) He gripped the steering wheel in his hands, his knuckles turning white against it, his head between his arms, sobbing uncontrollably. The numbness had finally and completely worn off, and the pain was worse than he thought it would be. Although, when Dean died anytime, it was always worse than he thought it would be.
He had said he didn't care.
When Sam pulled into the garage of the bunker after twelve miserable hours, he hadn't expected Cas to be there. But there he was, standing in the doorway. A cold wave of dread suddenly washed over Sam upon seeing the angel. The only reason Cas would be here…
Suddenly he was a blur of motion, parking the car and practically throwing the door off its hinges in order to get out. In two steps, he was in front of Cas.
"What happened? Did you get Metatron? Please, Cas, God, tell me you got him," he said quickly, desperately, his voice rough from crying. It was bad enough his brother was dead, but for the person who had killed him to still be walking this earth, it made him sick.
"Metatron has been dealt with," Cas said evenly. There was no celebrating, no "we did it", no explanation for why he was here, nothing other than that.
"Then what are you doing here?" Sam didn't mean to be rude really, but he was not in the mood to deal with anything other than getting his brother back to the living.
"Metatron…Metatron told me…that Dean was dead. I had to see for myself," he said, his voice even quieter than before.
"Oh," Sam said simply, because what else was there to say? Of course Metatron would want to gloat over Cas, even in his defeat, and this was the only way he would be able to do it. With Dean's death.
Cas walked slowly to the backseat of the car. How he knew Dean's body was back there, Sam had no idea. He opened the door, still moving ever so slowly, as though he was trapped in gelatin. Once the door was open, he stared at Dean's body in the backseat, the same way Sam had hours before. Sam stood where he was, allowing Cas to take in the details for himself. He stood there for a long time, just gazing, and then suddenly turned quickly and walked back into the Bunker.
"Where are you going?" Sam asked softly. He felt sorry for him. His best friend, suddenly dead and in the backseat of a car. It had to have been hard on him.
"I need a drink," he said in a wobbly voice. For everything that he had gone through that day, hearing Cas's voice wobble like that nearly pushed Sam over the edge all over again.
He let Cas go into the Bunker, and then collected Dean from the backseat. Sam needed to get together a summoning ritual, and quickly, because there was no way he was going to let Dean stay dead for long.
He had said he didn't care.
End.
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