A/N: This follows directly after my other story, Arbitratus, so you really need to read that one first. It is by request of FraidyCat, and credit for the idea of this part should really go out to her, since she gave me the idea of Dean's POV and basically set the scene for me to play in. Thank you!! :) Also, thanks for the super fast beta by the wonderful PsychicWonderKitty, who wants you all to know that she is not in a ditch somewhere and is in fact writing again. YAY! =D
I was going to post this as Chapter 2 of Arbitratus, but I think it works better as a sequel due to the content. The first was about choices, and this is about consequences. Plus our favorite angels don't make an appearance here. So, sorry for the confusion (if there ever was any, lol) and just remember, the other one is kinda necessary for this to make sense! Enjoy!
Oh, and reviews, as always, are ever so helpful. :)
Disclaimer: Still own nothing. Santa sucks. :/
Consecutio
It was dark and crowded, half-shadowed faces darting in and out of Dean's peripheral vision as he sat alone—as alone as possible in a place like this—facing the main source of light in the room: the bar. He'd started with beer, but quickly moved on to his friend Jack because…well, he figured he was entitled.
Hell. That's what he'd been through. Literally. The real Hell, not just a crappy day. And the things he'd seen…the things he'd done… He took a shot.
Plus, there was the friggin' Apocalypse. Hell was coming up to meet him again. All the ripping, the tearing, the blood and tears—but on the surface now, where everything was well lit and the body count astronomical. And if his time down under had been any indication, it wouldn't be just demons doing the dirty work. People shredding people. A flash of memory bombarded his hazy mind then, the sound a soul made when he—No. That won't happen again. No, he would die stopping it.
He took another shot.
"Anna, where are you? It's been…"
Dean's head whipped around at the sound of the familiar name, but turned back almost as quickly when he realized it was just some guy on his cell. Some other Anna. Dean sighed. Did I do the right thing tonight? Anna was…she didn't deserve that. She should've been able to choose. But then Sammy…
Therein lay the problem. Sam. God, he'd do anything for that kid. No way he was gonna let some angel—dick—take him away. Not again. That was how this whole mess got started in the first place. Sammy had died, and Dean went to Hell.
He took another shot.
By now he'd told the bartender to leave the bottle. He was just about to pour another—his Fourth? Fifth?—when a painfully vivid thought occurred to him.
Sam had died. Like Dean. And Dean had gone to Hell. So where exactly had Sammy gone?
A sort of delayed panic rushed through him at the two possible conclusions. Either Sam had gone to Hell, had endured everything he had and just hadn't told him about it, or… He'd been in Heaven. And Dean, amazing big brother that he was, had ripped him from his long deserved peace.
He took another shot.
Why had he never asked? What the Hell? Was he so focused on himself that he had completely disregarded the fact that his baby brother had been somewhere for those three days? Three days. Slightly alcohol-impaired math calculated what three days in Hell would be. One year. Oh, the irony was not lost on him. One year to live for Dean, one year to suffer for Sam.
One minute was too much to bear. But the alternative…
He took another shot.
Would Sam really keep something like this—whatever the answer was—from him? Wouldn't he try to talk about it?
Dean stared into the empty glass in his hand for a moment, knowing full well that no, Sam wouldn't. Not the Sam who'd been working tirelessly to save him all last year. And certainly not the colder, secret-keeping Sam his brother seemed to have turned into in those four months—forty years—of misery.
Dean didn't know which would be worse. What might have been Sam's only chance at redemption—the angels didn't seem too fond of Sam now, after all—stolen by his own brother, or a year of suffering and torment that had probably scarred him irrevocably. As he turned the empty glass in his hands he found a small, selfish part of himself hoping for the latter.
If Sam had been in Hell, then Dean's sacrifice would have saved him. It wouldn't have been for nothing. His life really would have meant something.
A second later, he was pouring himself another shot, self-hate making his hands shake.
How could he wish that on his brother? Even for a second? Sammy didn't deserve…he…it hurt so much…He downed the shot and slammed the glass on the bar, ready to—
"Jeez, Dean. Don't break the building."
Sam. It was Sam, standing there with a smile that didn't mask the pained expression his eyes held as he looked at his big damn brother. He scratched the back of his head and sat down in the stool next to him. "Can I get a glass?"
The bartender obliged and moved back down to the other end of the counter, leaving the Winchesters to themselves. Dean stared as Sam picked up the half empty bottle and glanced at Dean, but didn't say anything as he poured the liquid into his glass.
"What are ya doing here, Sam?" Dean had finally found his tongue, but hated the way his tone betrayed the anguish beneath the surface.
"Was looking for a beer. But I guess this will do." He smirked and caught Dean's eye, but the shallow mirth melted at the look Dean must have been sporting. He looked down at his glass, a mirror image of his brother just moments before. "I came here to talk."
A lump was forming in Dean's throat, but he'd finally managed to school his tone into a flat neutral. "So talk. What'll it be, the World Series or the weather?"
Sam rolled his eyes and God how could I take that away from him? I'm sorry, Sammy. So sorry. I didn't know. I didn't think. I'm so sorry.
"Actually, I uh…" He cleared his throat and wouldn't meet Dean's eyes, something the older brother was grateful for at the moment. "I wanted to talk about Hell. Thought maybe you… Maybe you could use—"
"What? A shoulder to cry on? No, Sammy. I've done my part. I told you what happened. I can't… No more, Sam." His voice had slipped into a gruff tone again. "You don't understand." Please, I'm so sorry.
Sam finally looked back up at him now, met the gaze that hadn't wavered since Dean realized the kid was there. Something flickered in those eyes, something Dean vaguely recognized but couldn't quite place.
"You don't know that."
"What is that supposed to mean?" God help him, but he could feel a spark of that damn selfish hope spring back to life in his chest. Maybe…
"It means…" Sam paused, the flicker back but indecision clearly on his face, if only for an instant. "It means I'm your brother. I know you better than anyone and…and we've been through a lot. Both of us. So maybe I…maybe I can…"
He broke off, but Dean's eyes had widened, mulling over each word his little brother had spoken. "Maybe you can what?"
He sighed, looked down at his hands and back up at his brother. "Maybe I can relate."
They stared at each other for a few moments then, neither one speaking. Dean got the familiar feeling Sam's eyes were telling him far more than his words ever could, and the look of pure understanding written all over his features had the lump in his throat expanding exponentially.
Could it be? Was Sam telling him… But he hadn't… Dean decided right then and there that he didn't want to know. Either way, it was over. Done. Sam was either saved or stolen, but it didn't matter now. He could tell from the way his brother looked at him—had always looked at him—that the kid didn't care either way. All that mattered was the present, the fact that they were both finally here, without a sword positioned precariously over either of their heads.
Dean smiled, and maybe it was the whiskey taking its toll, but the smile turned into a laugh. Relief, affection, hope—and not the selfish kind either—made themselves known in the quiet laughter that shook his frame. Sam stared at him for a moment, confusion and maybe a little concern for Dean's sanity clear, before his face broke into a smile and he chuckled right along with him.
Yeah, they'd be okay. As long as they could remember why they'd been able to stick together this long.
~The End~
Translation:consecutio-- consequence, result