Title: Synchronicity
Summary: It was so simple but so effective. As long as you remembered to drop.
A/N: This one goes out to Brenna on her b-day. Ask and you shall receive...on your b-day anyway :) Us SFTCOL(AR)S girls have to stick togethre! Much thanks and love to Gem for beta'ing, and all the encouragement from others to get my gear and post something.
Disclaimer: If I DID own them, I would lend them to Brenna for the day :)
Synchronicity
Dean was nervous.
Though he had hunted on his own, he was not nearly as experienced at it as he would let Sam believe. He and his father had always been in close contact, even in separation, sharing research long distance on a nightly basis. Dean may have been on his own, but had hardly been flying solo.
Which was part of the reason he had so wanted Sam to join him when John first went missing. If nothing else, Dean needed a sounding board, someone to affirm his choices if only through the very act of listening.
Dean wasn't sure if he'd still have asked Sam to come if he had known how it would all play out…
But he couldn't change it. And he couldn't quite regret Sam's renewed presence at his side.
After all, Sam was good—Dean had always known that, and despite a four year hiatus, his baby brother had proven himself just as capable, inventive, insightful, and accurate as he had ever been.
And sometimes it felt so right—him and Sam and the Impala—that Dean could almost forget the tragic series of events that brought them together again.
Almost.
But their father was still missing. Jessica was still dead. And Sam…
Well, Sam had barely eaten or slept since they'd left Stanford. What little sleep he did get was fractured with nightmares that left him out of breath, shaking, Jess' name on his lips. Sam had been through the gamut of emotions--agrny, sullen, despairing, apologetic, sometimes in the span of only a few minutes. There was something that Dean recognized had always recognized as fundamentally Sam that just wasn't there anymore. His kid brother was a shadow of his former self.
None of that, however, was relevant to the task at hand—the hunt.
It hadn't been hard to find something to hunt, though he had hoped that Sam might be a little more talkative in the process of choosing where to go. Nonetheless, Dean had taken charge, and now had them parked just outside the farm where their latest case had brought them. "They like basements, cellars—so that's where we'll start. We go in careful and fast. It just takes one bullet—straight through the heart."
It was then that he noticed that Sam hadn't even flinched, wasn't even looking at him.
"Sam? You listening to me?"
Sam looked up, his face finally registering Dean's words. "What?" His voice was distant, distracted.
Dean bit back a reproach. "Did you hear me?"
Sam seemed to shake himself fully from his reverie. "Yeah, yeah. I hear you."
Sam's reassurance was half-hearted at best and left Dean with more than a twinge of trepidation. It had barely been a month since they had left Stanford--for good. Dean had bundled Sam and his handful of salvaged belongings and trucked them both as quickly as he could to Colorado--it wasn't the closure Sam needed, but it was a distraction that they both needed, because Dean knew that after 22 years of searching, one week would bring them no closer to the answers they were all seeking.
"So you're sure you're up to this?" Dean asked, eyeing his brother carefully, hating that he felt the need to ask.
Sam looked at him, and for once his eyes seemed to really focus on his older brother. He smiled, a sad, wan smile. "Sure. Just like old times."
oooooooooo
And it was.
They exited the car quietly, moving in single file, staying to the shadows. Their guns were raised, ready, the silver bullets within them almost aching to find the target. They circled the outside of the house, easily picking up the trail, nodding wordlessly to one another as they approached the lair.
By the time they found the entrance, adrenaline was flowing and the tension was palpable.
Dean met Sam's eyes. With a slight nod, Dean told Sam all he needed to know.
Sam moved stealthily along the wall, sidling to the opposite side of the door. Dean scooted himself back, away from the doorway. When he was sure they were both in position, he kicked it open.
They waited for the cacaphonous noise to settle, both wincing as it splintered the silence.
Nothing.
Cautiously, they advanced down the creaking wooden stairs to the root cellar, swatting away cobwebs, a gun and a flashlight in either hand.
At the bottom, there was no way to go but right, and Sam took point, leading them out into the slowly widening room.
They heard it moving--smelled it--before they saw it and by then it was nearly too late. Apparently the not-so-silent approach had tipped it off, and it was poised and curled, ready to pounce. It was big and lumbering and unfortunately much faster than they'd anticipated. It was on Sam before he could squeeze the trigger, batting the gun from his hand.
Without flinching, Sam pulled the knife from his waistband to take its place, letting his flashlight clatter uselessly to the ground. But in the split second his attention had been forced away, the creature had made its move, driving long claws down in a sweep toward Sam's back.
"Sam!" Dean yelled, his gun targeted, leveled at the creature's heart. All he needed was the clean shot.
Sam began to move and Dean saw the creature lurching. It was now or never.
He knew as he pulled the trigger just what a mistake he'd made.
It was code, common practice. When they called each other's name in a fight, they dropped. They just did. Hearing their name meant hit the deck. That'd been drilled into them since day one. Their father's greatest way of defending them when things got dicey was to take them out of the picture and below the line of fire. It had saved their lives more times than Dean could remember.
It was so simple, but so effective.
As long as they remembered to drop.
His stomach lurched when he remembered that Sam had been away for four years. He'd cut himself off from hunting entirely. He had worked hard to rid himself of the rhythm, instincts, and commands that had defined his childhood. Though Sam had taken back to the hunt adeptly, his brother still wasn't in synch.
Dean had known that, but not really. But he realized it with a cruel clarity when Sam spun to face him, his eyes wide and fearful, instead of dropping.
It happened in slow motion. Dean could almost see the bullet as it traveled, spiraling, moving. It was as if he could reach out and touch it, reach out and take it back, reach out and stop it from fulfilling its path.
But he couldn't.
All he could do was watch, his jaw slack, his eyes burning, as the bullet impacted with his brother's chest.
oooooooooo
Sam heard his name.
He turned.
He heard the shot.
Then he remembered. Then it occurred to him. He was supposed to drop.
He felt something distant resound in his body. He looked down and could see the redness.
He didn't feel the pain. He didn't feel anything.
Then, belatedly, he finally dropped.
He didn't feel the floor as he hit it. He didn't hear the beast as it growled above him.
He could only hear the sound of his own heart beating, so loudly against the voices in his head.
It's going to kill you, Sam.
If you walk out, don't look back.
I can't do this...I don't want to.
Why, Sam, why?
Sam didn't know, didn't know how to answer any of them, didn't know anything, anything at all.
oooooooooo
He shot his brother.
Oh, God. Oh, no, no, no, no.
He shot his brother.
Nononononononono.
No amount of denial could will away the way Sam was fallen on the floor, no amount of prayer could stop the blood that flowed on his baby brother's chest.
He was supposed to protect Sam, help Sam, be with Sam. That was his duty. It was what he did.
Take your brother outside as fast as you can.
He had shot Sam.
Go, Dean, now!
The monster behind Sam roared, turning its attention to its fallen attacker on the floor with a sudden fury and flash of claws that snapped Dean from his stupor.
It was all instinct that downed the beast--a well-placed bullet to the heart that didn't even register in Dean's shocked psyche. His trigger finger was numb--not there--and he didn't know if it would ever be again.
And the beast lay where it fell, as though shooting it had been the easiest thing in the world.
Dean almost laughed in sheer disbelief.
This was anything but easy.
This was a mess--a gigantic, awful mess. Sam was...
Sam was shot. He had a bullet hole in him. A bullet from Dean's gun.
Sam was sprawled on the ground, hands clutching at his chest, face twisted in surprised pain, a soft moan emanating from him.
Dean couldn't be sure how long he stood there, just staring. It was Sam who spoke first, holding his fingers above his head, taking in the redness on them with a morbid look of curiosity. "Dean?"
The sound of his brother saying his name spurred him back into action. He fell to his knees beside his brother, pulling Sam's hands away from the wound. "Sam," he muttered, trying to keep his stomach in order. There was so much blood. So much blood.
Sam's chest was heaving and his hands were still fumbling at Dean's, trying to find their way through the blood. "Dean."
Dean couldn't reply, wouldn't reply. He kept his gaze singular and focused, tearing away the layers of Sam's clothes until he saw the bullet wound.
It was small, and hard to pinpoint beneath the slick blood that seemed to cover everything. It had hit Sam in the lower chest--possibly hitting a lung, maybe something else.
Dean's heart fluttered and he pressed down. He could feel the rapid cadence of Sam's heart, the uneven rising and falling of his chest. Sam's face was pale, sallow with pain and blood loss.
"Dean."
Dean's jaw locked and his eyes burned. "Relax, Sammy," he said. "I'm going to call for an ambulance, okay?"
"You hate ambulances," Sam said, his hands finding his brother's, prying weakly at their pressure.
"Well, can't have you bleeding all over the car now, can I?" Dean tried to joke.
Sam almost smiled as his eyes lethargically blinked.
"Sam," Dean said, glancing into his brother's eyes. "Stay awake."
Sam's head lolled sideways and Dean spared a hand from the wound to jerk it back to face him. "Sam."
Sam looked at him, his eyes distant and resigned.
Anger roiled in the pit of his stomach, violent and irrational, sweeping over him like a wave of nausea. Anger at the stupid beast that they'd been hunting. Anger at their father for leaving them alone. Anger at Sam for not dropping. "What were you thinking, Sam?" he spat out finally. "You know you're supposed to drop."
"I'm sorry." Sam's voice was soft, a whisper, broken and real.
Dean was angry at himself for not stopping this, for doing this, for not being able to fix this. Angry for not keeping it together, for not keeping Sam safe. His father had always trusted him to be the second in command and look what he had done.
Look what you did. Hysteria crept into his senses. This couldn't be happening. "That's how it works, Sam. I call your name, you drop, we kill the thing. That's how it works, Sam. Like that. Don't you remember?"
"It's okay," Sam replied.
"It's not okay," Dean snapped back. "This is not okay."
"It's okay, Dean," Sam slurred again. "It's better this way."
Dean shook his head. "No," he ground out. "No, Sam." Didn't Sam see? Didn't Sam understand? This was Dean's fault. This was his failure to carry out his orders, his failure to be the good little soldier. He could make them whole again—bring Sam back, find Dad, make things like they were.
"I should have died that night. I should have died with her." Sam's voice was soft but harsh, whispered yet resounded loudly in Dean's head.
"Sam, shut up," he ordered, somewhat hysterically, pressing down hard, fingers shaking. How could Sam be ready to give up? How could this be happening?
Sam was just looking at him, staring. "It's supposed to be like this."
Dean snapped and his hands slipped, gripping instead at his brother's shoulders. He was barely aware of the hard shake he delivered. Sam's head flopped with it, his body jerking. "Shut the hell up," he seethed. "Just shut up."
Dean's eyes were watering and his anger broke as Sam struggled to focus on him again. His kid brother was lax in his arms, eyes glassy and still staring, piercing, begging.
Sam held Dean's gaze for a moment, his breath coming in stuttering gasps. "I'm sorry," he breathed.
His anger only a memory, Dean felt himself biting back tears. "Sammy, you're okay," he said, sounding broken and young. "You're okay."
This time Sam didn't reply, just stared on, his eyes growing more distant.
"Please, Sammy," Dean said, barely aware of the tear that snaked down his face. "Be okay."
But Sam just closed his eyes and let himself melt away.
oooooooooo
His hands were shaking so badly and his fingers were so slick with blood that it took him three tries to dial correctly. But the voice on the other end sounded so much like a savior that he didn't care.
"9-1-1, what's your emergency?"
Dean wanted to say I shot my brother and My brother is dying and God help me, I don't know how to help him.
Instead he heard his own voice, with just a tiny waver say, "My brother was shot--it was an accident--the gun just went off. He's breathing, but just barely. I think it hit a lung."
The person on the other end of the line must have asked more questions. He must have given answers—a location, directions, something. But he couldn't think. All he could hear was Sam's voice—I should have died with her—over and over, until the wail of sirens finally drowned the words out.
oooooooooo
Dean could remember the first time Sam had been taken to the hospital. It had been a head wound—nothing too serious, but Sam had been so young, so helpless, that both Dean and their father had needed the reassurance of the medical staff that Sammy would be okay.
Dean could still remember sitting in the waiting room, his stomach hollowing more by the second. He had felt lightheaded and he could sense the hairs on his arms standing up, even under his jacket.
His father had taken to pacing, long strides across the room, so intimidating that the other patrons dared not leave their seats for fear of crossing his path. And Dean could remember the way his father had checked his watch then sighed, running a large hand over his stubbly chin.
It was a look of resignation—the first one Dean had ever seen. He would see it again, more times than he wanted to remember, from time to time, when either Sam or he was hurt, and more when Sam was a teenager and in the aftermath of their colorful fights.
But what had so impressed Dean was John's utter control. He looked worried, yes, but he had seemed so in restrained, so collected. He could still hear his father's voice as he told him, "As long as we're together, Dean, we can beat anything. Do you hear? Anything. So don't worry about Sammy. He'll be okay. As long as we're here, we'll be okay."
The words had been so confident, so assured, that Dean had believed them without question.
He needed to believe them now.
He had never been as self-assured as his father, especially not in waiting rooms, and part of Dean wished for more than anything for his father's unwavering presence. When John Winchester spoke, things seemed to happen. When John Winchester believed, things seemed to fall into place.
John wasn't there, though; John was part of the reason he and Sam were back on the road at all. And as much as he tried, believing in John's promises was hard when John wasn't there to make them real.
The only family he knew was a unified one. They may have traveled from city to city, lived from motel to motel, but the only thing that was consistent, the only way that he knew how to define home was the three of them, in tandem as a unit, knowing what the other was going to do before they did it.
When Sam left, Dean's world had nearly fallen apart. John didn't talk about it—tried to pretend that removing all reminders of Sam would somehow make Sam's absence less painful. They both still checked up on Sam—each for their own reasons, and they never talked about it with each other.
Truthfully, most of the time during Sam's stint at college, Dean had tried to pretend that Sam was staying at Pastor Jim's or that he was cramped up back in some motel during a hunt that was just too dangerous to risk having him along. Anything to help him keep the illusion of togetherness.
It hadn't worked. Sam's absence still made him ache, still made him angry.
Angry at Sam for wanting to go. Angry at John for giving the ultimatum. Angry at Sam for leaving anyway.
Angry that he so wanted--so needed--Sam back. For those four years, Dean hadn't known how to be happy, how to be complete, without his baby brother in his life.
If he was honest though, he had to admit the truth, at least to himself: he had wanted Sam back, but he hadn't wanted Sam back like this.
He didn't want his brother to be vengeful. He didn't want Sam to be grieving. He didn't want to hear Sam say I should have died with her. It was betrayal. It was like having Sam leave all over again, hearing Sam say that he belonged somewhere else, that he wanted something else.
He had just wanted it to be like it was. He just wanted unity.
He wanted Sam.
They hadn't let him stay with Sam, and by the time they'd gotten to the hospital, Sam had been so lifeless that Dean hadn't been able to resist them. The weaker Sam got, the weaker Dean felt, so when the nurse relegated him to the waiting room, he went without protest.
So he waited.
He waited to hear that Sam was okay. He waited to hear that everything would work out.
He waited to hear that the unity, the rhythm that was lost could be found again.
oooooooooo
"The surgery went well," the doctor said. "Better than was expected. The damage to his lung was minimal and the bullet didn't cause any secondary damage. All things considered, Samuel is a very lucky young man."
Dean's relief was palpable. He smiled warmly and thanked her but he didn't tell her that he didn't believe in luck, or fate, or anything like that.
Dean believed in guns, rock salt, knives. He believed in curses, blessings, and rituals. He believed in his own strength, skill, and knowledge.
Because Winchesters only had one kind of luck--bad luck--and it took everything in their power to win against that.
As long as he was still alive and fighting, nothing bad would ever happen to his baby brother. Not again. No matter what.
"Can I see him?"
"He's in recovery. Once we have him settled, I'll have a nurse show you to him."
oooooooooo
Dean couldn't express the overwhelming relief he felt at seeing his brother. Even under the equipment and gauze, the physical presence of his brother encompassed him and the sound of Sam's heart monitor resounded so strongly within him, that Dean felt the rhythm more surely than his own.
But as he looked down his brother, Dean realized he had no idea who this person was.
Sam had left a rebellious teenager, too smart and too stubborn for his own good. But the man who lay in the hospital bed before him was a stranger.
What had happened in their four years apart? What had Sam been doing? What had he learned? Who had he met? How had he changed?
It hurt Dean with a sudden ferocity to think that there was so much he didn't know about his little brother. He had made a lifetime of keeping track of the kid, of being there for him. He'd always assumed, even in their separation, that he and Sam would always be perfectly in synch, that he would always be the one who knew his brother best.
But Dean didn't know anything about the life Sam had led. He didn't know about Sam's hobbies, Sam's habits. He didn't know what he did with his girlfriend, who he hung out with.
No, his Sam had left four years ago and Dean was suddenly all too aware that the man in front of him was hardly the same boy Dean had helped raise.
Sam may have been on his way to physical recovery, but Dean feared that the emotional aftermath was more than either of them could handle.
oooooooooo
Dean couldn't quite recognize Sam's lunch. There appeared to be something green on the side--vegetables, Dean figured, but the mound of beige-brown meat was nearly unidentifiable.
Sam was eating it without looking at it, his eyes staring right through the plate on his tray.
Dean wrinkled his nose. "That stuff looks disgusting. Are you sure you don't want me to bring you something?"
Sam shrugged. "This is fine."
"I don't even know what that is," Dean commented, leaning closer, trying to inspect the food.
Sam merely took another bite.
Considering his options, Dean leaned back in his chair. Nothing he said seemed to mean anything to Sam. None of his jokes, none of his jibes--nothing. He hadn't thought much could be worse than Moody Sam or Angry Sam or Sam Walking Out the Door. But the nothing--it was worse than anything he could have ever imagined.
It had been two days since the accident, and Sam was out of ICU and resting comfortably in his own room. The doctor said his recovery was remarkable--quick and without any hitches. She was already discussing his date of release.
"You sure you're feeling okay?" Dean asked.
"The doctor says I'm fine."
And Sam did look healthy. The color was back in his cheeks and he look better than he had since they'd left Stanford. In fact, with routine meals and an IV still going, Sam was eating better than Dean had seen in weeks. With the pain medication, Sam was sleeping hard and long, nearly quelling the circles that had so long been present under his kid brother's eyes.
But none of that assuaged Dean's growing concern. In fact, the terror that was slowly taking root in Dean was stronger than anything he'd ever felt before--stronger than his baby brother walking out on him, stronger than pulling Sam from the flames, stronger than watching Sam bleed out from a wound he himself had inflicted.
"I know what the doctor says, Sam, but I'm asking you."
Sam stopped eating, swallowed hard and stared hard at his fork.
"Sam?"
Sam finally looked at him with wide, vulnerable eyes. Beneath the healthy glow of Sam's skin, Dean could sense a greater weakness beginning to manifest.
Because Sam was awake, alive, healthy...and disappointed.
It was written all over his brother--in the hollowness in his eyes, the slouch in his posture, the hair hanging lower than usual in his face. And Dean could hear it in the monotone of Sam's voice, the simplicity of Sam's words. Sam had not exactly been talkative or upbeat since leaving Stanford, but ever since the accident--
Well, the emptiness had emanated from Sam in waves. Sam was caving in on himself, retreating into a world of seclusion and separation.
When Sam spoke, he looked at Dean, his voice was thick and wavering. "I'm okay, Dean."
Dean knew it was a lie, knew it was the biggest fallacy his brother had ever tried to tell him. But Dean's own tongue seemed to fill his mouth and he felt his throat constrict. Somehow he forced a smile to his lips. "Right."
Sam held his gaze for a moment more before he looked away, suddenly desperate. He resumed attacking his food with his fork and Dean had to look away.
oooooooooo
For once in his life, Sam didn't mind the hospital. He didn't lying there, doing nothing, following mindless orders like an automaton. It was just so much easier that way, so much safer. There were times when his mind almost felt as blank as the four sterile walls in his room--it was sweet escape.
So he ate when they put food in front of him and he rolled over when they told him to move. He did the exercises they requested and told them with a lifeless smile that he felt fine. It made them happy and they made positive remarks on his chart and life went on.
Life went on.
Sam hated that. Hated it more than hunting. Hated it more than lying and cheating and stealing. Hated it more than hearing his father tell him to never look back. Hated it more than seeing Jessica every time he closed his eyes.
Because it didn't feel right. Nothing felt right. Nothing felt okay about watching her die, seeing her eyes pleading, questioning, begging. He didn't feel right being alive when she was dead. When they both were dead. When people had died for him.
They didn't talk about that, but he knew it in his heart. They died for him. They died because of him. He was as bad as the things they hunted, worse, maybe, because he tried to look so innocent.
He should have died with her in that fire. He should have died with his mother when he was just a baby. He should have died. He wasn't worth the sacrifices that had been made for him. Anyone could see that.
After all, he was a traitor. He had left his family to follow his own dreams. He had left Jess, ignorant and vulnerable, to try to make things right with his brother. Two people had died over his head, made the ultimate sacrifice for loving him, and he'd given them nothing in return. He hadn't even given Jess the benefit of the truth. He'd just left everyone in his life—regardless of who they were or how much they had given up for him—and offered nothing in return.
That's what he deserved now: nothing.
Dean hovered around him, nervous and distant, but Sam could say nothing to his brother. Dean had no idea—Dean couldn't possibly understand the depth of Sam's betrayals. Dean couldn't know that Sam had had a chance to prevent all of this, and he'd been so desperate to stay normal, that he'd ignored that too.
He didn't even deserve to live. That thing may have killed her, but he was just as guilty in his silence. He knew that Dean hadn't meant to shoot him, just like he hadn't meant to take it straight on—but it had felt so right, more right than Sam could explain. So much that Sam had been sure that when the darkness took him, he would never wake again.
Waking himself in the hospital had been a harsh disappointment. All of his pain, all of his guilt—it was still there, waiting for him. He had no way of escaping it, and that was almost more than he could stand.
He could see that Dean was worried about him, fretting with as much masculinity as he could muster, but Sam could do nothing to ease Dean's concerns. Because Dean didn't know. Dean could never know. This burden was Sam's and Sam's alone.
oooooooooo
After Sam had been moved into his own room, Dean had holed up at the closest and cheapest motel he could find. It seemed empty and lonely--the extra bed almost resonating with the absence of presence.
Consequently, Dean tried to avoid staying there for as long as he could. He was a regular at the hospital, of course, but the more and more he visited Sam, the more disconcerted he was that things felt just as empty when he was with Sam.
The hours between visiting hours and sleep, Dean spent at a diner halfway between the motel and the hospital. It was greasy and drab, but the motherly waitress who worked days had taken a liking to him, and knew him now by name. By the time he sat down in the booth, she would have his cup of steaming coffee ready for him.
The day was overcast, and Dean was almost dreading his daily trek to the hospital. Though he went through the motions of chatting with the Lucy and of ordering with his flirtatious flourish, his heart wasn't in it.
The hamburger was overdone, but Dean didn't care. He tried to let his mind wander, to think of their next hunt, of a lead on Dad, but his mind could not get off of Sam.
Dean could see it happening—could see Sam slipping farther and farther away from him—but he didn't know how to stop it. He didn't even know how to approach it. He'd kept hoping that if he just gave it time, if he just gave Sam space, that everything would be okay. Sam would grieve, Sam would brood, but ultimately he would be the same. After all, they were together again and could face anything together. Dean would never let anything else hurt his brother. Nothing could matter as long as they were united, together.
But it wasn't all that mattered. And it wasn't the same. Sam wasn't the same.
He was more, he was less. He was different.
Sam was broken.
The thought almost seemed humorous, in a detached, abstract way. Like his brother was some plaything snapped in half, to be patched together with super glue.
But Dean knew there was no amount of glue in the world that would put the pieces back together for Sam. Dean knew that part of Sam had gone up in flames the night Jessica died, and he wasn't sure his brother would ever be complete again.
Worse, the part of Sam that was lost was the part that Dean had never known. It was a mystery to him—this normal version of Sam, this happy college student who had thrived in an environment utterly foreign to anything he'd ever experienced. It was a part of Sam's life he had never been a part of—that he would never be a part of—and now that it was gone, Dean didn't know how to appreciate the loss.
Dean shoveled another soggy French fry in his mouth.
He'd seen Sam's empty grief and denial in Stanford. He'd seen Sam's rage in Colorado. He'd seen Sam's guilty brooding in Indiana. And in the weeks since, he'd seen Sam's depression slowly take his brother down. All of which were emotions he knew, but could not truly grasp. He knew that Sam had lost everything, that Sam's life had been torn apart. But it wasn't a loss Dean knew how to understand. Because it was a part of Sam he had never known.
In the end, all that mattered to Dean was that he got his brother back again. He would never have wished for this kind of pain for his brother, for this kind of loss, but he could not deny that sense of relief that came from having him by his side again, broken or not.
But he kept seeing Sam lying on the floor, bleeding out. I should have died with her.
And the faraway look in Sam's eyes seem to expand daily.
Dean was going to lose his brother, even though he was right by his side.
He didn't know how to fix Sam. He didn't know how to help Sam grieve. All he knew was hunting, that there was some indefinable point that stretched before them point--some distant, perhaps mythological place of peace that only existed with the thing that started this died. He could hunt. And he could make sure Sam survived the hunt. But in order for that to happen, he had to get Sam back in line, following orders, on the hunt again.
There was simply no other option.
He stuffed the last bit of bun into his mouth and swallowed without tasting it.
He had tried patience. He had tried giving Sam space. If Sam didn't respond to those things, Dean would take a page from his father's book--anger to mask the terror, orders to belie the desperation.
Anything to make Sam fall in line again, to make Sam obedient, if not okay.
After all, Dean only knew one way of coping: following orders, carrying on. It wasn't much, but it was all he could offer Sam now. It was all any of them had left.
The loose ends of their life had to be tied off, completed, or they would never have any peace. They would never be whole. Finding Dad, finding what killed their mom, what killed Jess—that was the only closure they would ever find. It was the only thing that would ever make them whole. Make Sam whole.
Dean took one last swig of coffee before leaving a ten dollar bill on the table. He needed to get to Sam.
If he could just get Sam focused on the goal again, the end, then maybe he would start to heal.
ooooooooooo
"They say you'll be up and out of here by the end of the week," Dean said, fiddling with the buttons on his coat.
Sam didn't respond, simply kept his gaze out the window.
"I know you'll be sore, but the doctor's say it looks good. So we should ease you back in slowly, but I've already got a lead on a gig in Minnesota."
Sam's posture didn't change.
Dean waited, hoped for a change--any signal that Sam was still there--that somewhere inside the shadow in front of him lay some semblance of the little brother he knew. "Are you listening to me?"
Sam looked down and scratched around his hospital bracelet.
"Sam?" Dean's voice was demanding now.
Sam nodded slightly.
Dean's patience was snapped. It wasn't a virtue he possessed in the best of circumstances--and when coupled with the need to be sensitive, it was nearly nonexistent. He just couldn't do this anymore. "What the hell is going on with you, Sammy?"
Sam's mouth opened, as if to speak, and wavered for a moment before any sound came out. "I don't know how to do this."
Dean waited for more, for some kind of explanation, some addition that would make those words easier to understand. "What?"
"There's something wrong with me, Dean, and we both know it."
"The only thing wrong with you, little brother, is that you almost got yourself killed back there."
Sam shook his head. "That's not it--"
"Yes, it is it, Sam," Dean insisted. "I know you're hurting. I know you miss her. But, damn it, you've got to get your head in the hunt. You're no good to anyone dead, especially not her."
"It's my fault--"
"It's not your fault," Dean interrupted. He could handle a lot of things, but this wasn't one of them. He didn't want to think about why Jess and his mother had died over Sam's head--he only wanted to enact revenge on the thing that did this to them--that did this to Sam. An inequity in justice was something he could fix--it gave him an enemy, a vendetta. The why just tore at the fabric of their existence that was already threadbare and ragged. "You didn't put her on the ceiling. You couldn't have stopped it. You couldn't have known."
The haunted look on Sam's face said that Sam didn't believe him.
Dean swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat.
He needed Sam to believe. So much of who he was, what he was able to do--was because of Sam, because of Sam's undying belief and trust. He knew Sam was different, but more than anything, he needed Sam's implicit trust or none of this would work.
But Sam didn't believe him—not about this. And it was painfully clear that he didn't know how to make Sam believe it. That would be a losing battle. Sam had his secrets and had made it more than clear than he intended to keep them.
Fine. If Sam wouldn't believe, then Sam could fall in line. In the end, that's what mattered. That's what would keep Sam alive; that's what would keep Sam with him. And in time, Dean could only hope that trust would blossom again. "You think dying will bring her back? That thing killed mom, it killed Jess. And we have to find Dad. I need you, Sam, but I need you together and with it or you're going to get us both killed."
There was a guilt factor laced in his words that Dean didn't like using--thrusting his own well being into Sam's already shaky hands wasn't fair and would have devastating consequences if anything ever did happen to Dean--but it was all ends and means for Dean, and he would do what it took to bring Sam back into the fold. Because only then could he protect Sam, watch out for Sam, help Sam like he needed to.
"Dean, this isn't about you."
"Oh, really?" Dean asked sharply. "And what part of you hunting without your head in the game doesn't concern me? I need you to watch my back, and if you're not on the same page as me, then you might as well hold a gun to my head and pull the trigger."
Sam had paled even more, looking sunken and drawn. His eyes were dark and lowered. "I just--I--" Sam searched for the words.
Dean softened. "Sam, look at me."
Sam was trembling, his muscles taut, his eyes down.
"Sam," Dean ordered. "Look at me."
Dean was about to reach over and force Sam's head up, but his baby brother raised his eyes tentatively.
Dean met Sam's eyes and did not relinquish the hold. "If we go down--and that's an if--we go down fighting," Dean said. "Not because we screwed up, not because we gave in, but taking down as many bad guys as possible. We will go down fighting until the very end."
Sam could not look away, could not escape the depth and power of Dean's conviction.
"Together. There's no other option. You got my back, I got yours. Do you understand me?"
Something trembled in Sam's features and his watery eyes threatened to overflow. "Dean, I—I...You don't understand."
"Understand what?"
"The things I've done—"
"Just stop, okay?" Dean snapped. "I'm not going to listen to this. I'm not going to sit here and let you justify throwing your life away. I mean, what the hell were you doing back there? Trying to get yourself killed? You know you're supposed to drop."
"I didn't mean to take the bullet," Sam said quietly. "I just—it had been so long. I just…forgot."
"Maybe," Dean conceded. "But you gave up, Sam. You gave up. I saw it in your eyes. I heard it in your voice. You just rolled over and let that thing win. I don't ever want to watch you give up like that again. You fight. Until the end. You fight. Do you understand me?"
Sam was shaking, his mouth opening and closing.
"Do you understand me?" Dean said again, more forcefully this time, offering Sam no alternative.
Sam's will was cracking, and he looked away. "I can't do this. I can't. Not now. Not after all this."
"You can," Dean said, resolute. He left no room for argument. "And you will."
"You don't know, Dean. You don't know."
"I know enough. And, yeah, it'll take you awhile to get your rhythm back. But a few more weeks, just you and me—it is like riding a bike, Sammy. You've just got to keep your eyes on the road."
Sam swallowed hard, blinking away his tears. When he looked up again, there were still tear stains on his cheeks, but Dean could see the tendrils of solidity in his brother's eyes laced with a desperate hope. "How can you be sure?"
Where he had offered smiles and encouragement before, Dean's posture, his expression no were rigid, unapproachable. He would make Sam listen. He would make Sam understand. And he'd keep pushing until Sam could do it on his own. "You're a Winchester, Sam."
He fixed Sam unwaveringly with his stare. It was a command, an order. So sure, confident, that John Winchester would be proud.
Sam straightened in the bed, for the first time in weeks seeming to fill out his tall frame. His hair seem to fall out of his eyes and Dean could see a spark of something familiar in Sam's eyes.
Dean felt his chest swell with a sudden rush of pride and relief as he recognized a glimmer of the brother he loved and knew. "That's what we do."