Halfway There

Maybe dad was right.

It was a stupid thought, irrational really, but that didn't make the impact any less effective. That voice still whispered in the back of his mind, telling him to do it; it's what dad would have wanted.

It's what he really wanted.

As much as Dean tried to give that argument any validity, he knew he couldn't do it. Wouldn't be able to if the time ever came. Even standing there, loaded gun in hand, at the foot of his brothers bed, he realized it was pointless. He would never, not in a million years, be able to life the gun, let alone pull the trigger.

That thought scared him.

There was something wrong with Sam; it had been blatantly obvious ever since Dean had returned from the pit. Sam thought that he was hiding it; and for the most part, he was, but he couldn't hide it from Dean. Dean had raised the kid, had taught him everything he knew. Maybe he'd have let it go if it was just something that Sam wasn't ready to tell him; he knew his brother well enough to know that sooner or later when he was ready to deal with it, he'd tell Dean.

But there was more to it than that.

There was something elementally different about Sam; something that Dean didn't recognize in his brother. It was in the way he moved, the way he smiled, the way he laughed—or maybe it was the way he didn't laugh anymore. There was something dark about him, darker even than his psychic visions and Azazel's hold on him, and every day, Dean could see it get a little bit darker.

Every day, the instinct to draw his gun on his brother became a little bit more pronounced. The longer Dean waited to confront his brother, the higher the risk that Sam was going to hurt someone, or even worse, himself.

If anyone wanted the Gods honest truth, it was that Dean refused to ask his brother because he was trying to pretend it wasn't real. Because he was afraid of what would happen if it was real.

There weren't a lot of things that scared Dean Winchester, but things concerning his brothers' safety and sanity was definitely at the top of his list.

For now his brother was safe. Right now, he was sleeping—probably for the first time in days—and the innocently peaceful expression he wore nearly tore Dean down. He hadn't seen it in years.

Staring at his brothers form, relaxed and unworried, Dean could almost pretend. He could pretend that there was nothing wrong with Sam, that it was only in his own delusional mind. In some small way, that seemed to help. His brother wasn't a monster. He was hiding something, sure, but it wasn't like he'd grown fangs or claws. He was still just Sam. Dean was just being paranoid.

He loosened his grip on the gun.

As Dean laid down on the bed parallel, he slipped the gun underneath his pillow. Rationalizing in his mind that it was just a precaution; he needed to be ready if anything—or anyone—tried to kill them. It was what they were trained to do.

Somewhere deep in the recesses of Dean's mind, though he'd never admit it, he knew it was for Sam.

Just in case.

It's late Thursday evening when Dean pulls a gun on Sam. Sam's been acting weird—well, weirder—all week. Earlier, when they'd been exorcising their latest target, the smart mouthed demons had made a snide remark about Sam and "that demon bitch".

Dean, who'd momentarily left to grab a new batch of holy water even though he could swear he'd brought in extra, arrived just in time to hear the tail end of the demons comment. Though he let Sam finish the exorcism and let him believe that he hadn't overheard the demon, a few miles down some backwoods highway and Dean had abruptly pulled over the Impala, threw open the door and stalked off, impatiently pacing a feet away.

It takes Sam almost ten seconds to climb out of the car, and that alone pisses Dean off to no end.

"You and Ruby, huh?" His voice is rough with emotion, and though Dean knows better, he can't seem to hide it in the presence of his brother. Anger. Frustration. Doubt. Lingering traces of guilt. It's something else entirely that causes his finger to itch—betrayal.

Sam, trying to be all nonchalant about it, tries to laugh it off. "Dude, I told you. Not since—"

Dean can tell immediately that his brother is lying (and doing a piss poor job of it).

The gun is already in his hand and levelled at his chest before Sam can even finish.

It scares Dean to realize that it really isn't that difficult at all.

"Dean, put it down." Sam's trying to be stronger, trying to be calm, but Dean knows he's terrified. His mind is running a mile and minute, trying to remember if he'd done anything wrong, rationalize his brothers' actions.

"This isn't you, Sammy." Dean grips the gun tighter. It's an empty threat; his finger isn't even on the trigger. Dean knows that.

Sam doesn't. His eyes are wide and terrified and Dean can see his hands are shaking. Sam doesn't know and he thinks Dean could actually do it. Sam thinks Dean could actually shoot him.

The only reason Dean drops his gun is because Sam looks resigned to it; like he actually thinks he deserves it.

That's why he drops it. Not because, in the second, Sammy had mouthed his name. Not because, in his eyes, Dean had seen betrayal and, strangely enough, acceptance. Certainly not because selfishly, Dean wouldn't be able to live with himself.

What he'll never admit to himself, the thought that had absently formed after seeing his gun pointed steadily at his brother, was that maybe it wasn't Sam at all. Maybe Sam wasn't the one who was getting darker; maybe it was Dean himself.

Now it's Dean who's terrified, shocked and uncomfortable with the ease with which he'd raised his gun.

With the image of his gun pointed at his brother haunting his memories, Dean had only once clear thought—something that would keep him up for days in the next few months.

I'm already halfway there.