Author's Note: This was written for the following prompt over at OhSam: "Post-10.03. Dean thinks it's a little weird that Sam seems to be just fine, but his let's-talk-about-it-emo-little-brother appears to be functioning all points normal, recovering physically and with no real emotional repercussions of Dean's stint as a demon. Until one night a few weeks later, when somebody Dean ticked off as a demon catches up with them. Dean's more annoyed than anything else, because the idiot was stupidly easy to disarm, and shallow stab wounds hurt like hell, and he's never going to get the blood out of this shirt. But Sam? Sam freaks. Out. Dean gets a first-hand look at just how traumatizing his death was - and how even being a demon doesn't erase the knowledge of how to comfort six-odd feet of panicking little brother." I hope you enjoy! Please note that there is a reference to suicide in here. If that bothers you, do not read.
"Open me up and you will see
I'm a gallery of broken hearts
I'm beyond repair, let me be
And give me back my broken parts."
—Ingrid Michaleson, "Be Ok"
If you could laugh about this whole thing, you would.
You just came back from being a demon—black eyes, fully uninhibited, so far gone that it had felt right—and now you're eating and breathing and being human again. It's so ridiculous to think about, but then again, after everything you and your family has been through, it might not be too far fetched after all.
The only weird thing is Sam.
Sam, your little brother, who you know better than yourself, is acting odd. He won't admit it, of course. He just shrugs and says, "I'm fine, Dean" and when you press it, he glares and gives you that bitch face that he's been doing since he turned 13. So, you play along and pretend like everything is "fine" but you study and you watch. Because you know Sam and Sam is not "fine".
That's the thing about Sam—he's like a puzzle. You've spent your whole life learning to decode him, studying what each gesture means, what the inflection of his words translates to—all of this helps you create a picture of who Sam is and what he needs from you. You've become an expert at reading Sam, often knowing what Sam needs before he does.
And right now, Sam's eyes are bloodshot and he's tapping his left knee every time he sits down. Whenever he walks, he clasps his hands a few times every now and again. During the night, you've caught him staring at you, as if waiting for you to disappear. Sam's on edge and a breakdown is coming. The only question is, can you stop it?
So, you push and you pull and you try to initiate a chick-flick moment, which is hard for you and Sam knows that, but you try anyways because it's for Sam. You're suffering too—the nightmares, the echoes of words growled without a second thought, the blood you shed without a second thought, the thrill of being able to kill because you could—all of this, keeps you up at night, until your eyes finally burn and your body gives in for a fitful rest.
All of this you would gladly tell Sam if it would help him.
You'd do anything for Sam after all.
So, the weeks pass and Sam is still "fine" which, is bullshit, and you two both know that, but the silence hardens into an insurmountable wall and you have no choice but to let this play out. If Sam is going to be stubborn, which you know he will continue to be so, then no amount of words will get him to change his mind. You try to comfort him through your actions, something that is second nature to you. You make him grilled chicken salad—which he proceeds to eat two bites of—and you go to the library and check out all the books that you know he loves to read and you try to reestablish some sort of normalcy.
It occurs to you that normalcy might be overrated.
"Let's go out tonight." You suggest to Sam about three weeks after you've become human.
"Like to a bar?" Sam doesn't even look up from his book of ancient Greek mythology. He flips the page instead, brows furrowed as he takes in the information on the page.
You withstand the urge to give a smart aleck remark and instead reply, "Yeah. Unless you wanted to go somewhere else?" The truth is, you've been itching to get out of the bunker, away from the memories of when you tried to kill Sam, away from its confining walls and the way they make you feel like a prisoner. You need to get out and be with people, to prove to yourself that you are you again, not a demon.
"A bar is fine." He still isn't looking up but it's okay because tonight is going to be the night that you finally get Sam back to normal.
"Great." You grin and you can feel that burden on your shoulders slowly being lifted.
Tonight, things will finally work out.
The bar by the bunker is one that you've only been too a handful of times. The first was when Sam had been sick and he'd insisted on you having a night to yourself, but really, all you'd done was nurse a beer and worry all night. The next few times, you'd come by yourself, just trying to decompress over the various tasks going on in your life. As you come in now, through the din of rock music from the 80's and the roar of the crowd, it occurs that you still don't know it too well. But the bartender is a flirty brunette with legs for days and a smile that makes you feel at home the moment you sit down with Sam.
"What can I get you, sugar?" She bats her cerulean eyes at you and her voice is sweet with a hint of the Deep South coloring your tone and you can't help but grin.
"Two beers." You tell her and then you turn to your baby brother who grimaces at he takes a look around. You nudge him with your shoulder. "Sam?"
"It's nothing." He purses his lips—a tell—and you know he's lying. Still you take a swig of your beer and let him do the same. You're not sure how this night is going to pan out but you won't make the mistake of pushing too hard at the beginning. No, let your lightweight brother get a beer in and then you'll start the mushy talk.
Time moves differently in bars, you've found. A night can feel like an eternity in a bar or it can end in the blink of an eye. Maybe it depends on how much a person drinks and if they're drinking to celebrate or to forget. As for you, you're not sure what you're drinking for. You're a human once more. You're wracked with guilt and coming apart at the seams again.
And Sam is falling apart inside and you're useless to him like this. And you—
"Dean Winchester?"
You blink and the man before you growls and immediately, your stomach drops because you remember him, but more importantly, you remember what you did to him.
"Dean?" Sam rises from the barstool and you're standing now too and you know that this is going to go south any second now, but maybe you can stop that before it gets too far, before you drag Sam into another one of your messes.
"You son of a bitch." There's a knife in the man's hand and you can't even remember his name, but you remember what you did to him. The torture you inflicted on him because he was hunting too close to comfort and Crowley wanted him to stop.
And you stopped him—broke both his wrists, dislocated his shoulder, made shallow incisions all along his chest, and taunted him all the while—and now here he is, an avenging angel ready to punish you from your sins. You deserve to be punished—part of you wants to be—but not now, not in front of Sam.
"You thought I wouldn't find you?" The hunter hisses, green eyes darkening. His sandy hair has grown longer now and he's still stiff when he walks, still recovering from what you've done. "I might not be the best hunter, but you didn't make it hard."
"Let's not do this here." You try to ease him towards the door, but he's not having any of it; his grip increasing on the knife.
The patrons are oblivious and all potentially collateral damage should this get out of hand. The music is blaring and there's only one move to make. You glance at Sam, nod and then you sprint. Pushing through the crowd, you make it outside, into the cool night, into the deserted parking lot. Sam is at your back, you can sense him and the hunter is there too. It's the three of you now and it's time for the piper to be paid.
"You've got a plan?" Sam asks and you just shrug.
"Do you even remember what you did?" The hunter shouts, eyes glistening. "Or are you just that twisted that you forget your victims?"
Sam takes a step in front of you, trying to shield you, but you aren't going to allow that.
"Look," You start, hands up and non-threatening, voice placating. "You're not going to believe me, but for what I did to you, I am sorry. It's a long story, but I'm not the same person—"
The hunter charges, knife outstretched.
There's a scuffle, but it's pretty much over before it starts. Anger blinds people, makes their moves predictable and sluggish. He gets a few shallow jabs in, but you've got him disarmed, unconscious and on his ass in no time at all. Your shirt is cut up and there's blood starting to seep through and you sigh because that will be a bitch to clean out. The wounds burn and sting, but you aren't in danger of dying and you can hear sirens in the distance. Someone must've seen and called the cops. It's time for you to make a hasty getaway. You wish there's something you could say to this guy, some way to make this better, but there isn't time.
"Sam?" You glance at your brother and his breathing is shallow—a warning sign—but you don't have time to figure out why and before you know it, you're pulling him to the car and driving away.
The drive to the bunker is fast and before you know it, you're back and parked and as you step outside, Sam is there.
"You're bleeding." He whispers, voice hoarse. Shaky hands roam your chest and soon your baby brother's fingers are covered again in your blood.
"Sam?" You lower your voice, trying to get your brother to focus on you, but his hazel eyes are locked on the blood, on the wounds and it hits you there—the meltdown is here, the one that had been brewing for weeks and it is a bad one.
"There's so much blood." Sam murmurs, voice cracking. His knees give out and you have to grip his shoulders as he takes you down with him to the sidewalk. "Too much blood."
"I'm okay, Sam." You assure him, but your words aren't going to get through now, not like this. "Let's get inside." You take charge, pulling him up and shepherding him inside. Your brother is locked inside his own mind now, replaying memories that you can't recall because hey, you were dead and then you went and became a demon and said things you can't take back.
As soon as the door shuts behind you two, you face your little brother.
"It's just a few cuts."
Sam doesn't respond, just stands there with that wide-eyed gaze that reminds you of a kicked puppy.
"Sammy, hey."
"I watched you die." Sam whispers finally. "Again."
"I know, Sammy."
"No," Sam shakes his head. "You don't." Your little brother moves past you, placing a hand on your shoulder, grounding him and you. "When you died this time, I knew that was it. Either I got you back or I was going to take my gun and put a bullet through my brain."
The frankness of that confession takes you aback and immediately, you open your mouth to protest, but immediately, Sam continues,
"Don't say that you wouldn't want me to do that when we both know that you would do the same if our roles had been reversed." He shakes his head tiredly and bites his lower lip, as if to keep something ugly from coming out. "I just can't . . ." A tear rolls down his cheek. He doesn't bother to wipe it away.
"Sammy."
You step closer to him, but you can see the panic in his gaze, the fear that any second now you'll disappear from his view once more.
"I failed you!" Sam shouts. "Don't you see? I should've done something to save you!"
"There was nothing you could've done." You assure him, but your words aren't getting through. Sam's not breathing deeply and immediately you know that you have to fix this now.
"I never save you! I can never save you, not from Hell, not from your deal, not from anything—"
You take him in your arms and upon the contact, your brother exhales and the tears start. He sobs in your grip and you just hold him, the rock in his storm. Your knees ache from sitting in this awkward position but this is finally the release that Sam's needed.
"I watched you die!" Sam sobs. "I couldn't save you!"
You just pull him closer, conveying everything Sam needs to know from this hug.
"You saved me, Sammy." You whisper. "You save me every day."
Slowly, the sobs turn into whimpers and then silence.
"Sam?"
"Just . . . a little bit longer?" It reminds you of all the time Sam had been a kid and he'd woken up from a nightmare and needed a hug to help assuage the fear. You'd never deny him then and you sure as Hell aren't going to start that now.
"As long as you need, Sammy."
It's going to take time to work through this—your guilt, Sam's fear, the people you've ticked off as a demon coming after you—but as long as you have your brother, you're going to be just fine.
"We're going to be just fine, Sam."
It's a promise.
Author's Note: I enjoyed using 2nd POV for this story and I hope you did too. Thanks for reading! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!