A/N: I couldn't help myself. I needed more. More!

Windows of Opportunity

Grabbing the chair is an instinctual act of self-defense, but the motion of actually swinging it at Dean is nothing more than sheer desperation.

Even as he's bringing the sturdy legs of the chair down across his brother's back, even as the wood's splintering and Dean goes limp, all Sam is thinking is, don't make me hurt you.

He should be thinking, don't make me hurt HIM, because it's not really Dean that's surging forward, swinging fists and twirling the biggest knife from the butcher block on the counter, but the sight of Dean violently surging forward is one pretty well-ingrained in his recent-enough memory, and there's some degree of self-preservation kicking into gear here.

But it's not just his brother's life that's at stake, but those of Naoki and Kat, too, and all Sam's got on his person is a handgun. He can't get close enough to choke him out, and Dean's understandably not a fan of being pistol-whipped; the chair is the smallest, lightest piece of furniture within his immediate reach.

He's gonna have one hell of an interesting bruise, and Sam's got at least two weeks of laundry duty to look forward to when they get back home, but the hit's not going to be enough to keep Dean down, not with a friggin' Soul Eater riding shotgun.

Stay there, Sam silently pleads anyway, as he stumbles back toward the unfinished blood sigil. The one drawn from a rag dipped in Dean's blood, because they figured both sides of the sigil needed to be made from the same source to be effective, and there wasn't exactly a guarantee that Dean would wake in the nest with a jar of Sam's blood in his pocket.

Not it, he'd said back at the motel.

There was once a time when Dean wouldn't have even put the issue up for debate, wouldn't have even entertained the notion that Sam might be the one to go into the nest.

So when, exactly, did you're not gonna do this become not it?

Sam clenches his jaw and drags the bloody towel downward, completing the sigil, and turns just in time to see that creepy, white-eyed, stolen Dean come to a sudden stop not two feet away.

Dean's entire body goes rigid, arms thrown out at his sides. He convulses, and then the Soul Eater is viciously ejected, opaque and hooded and soundlessly screaming as it dies.

It's a traumatizing enough sight, and no doubt painful. As the creature dissipates behind him, Dean's eyes roll up and he drops, hard.

Not at all for the first time, hunter and brother war within Sam as his eyes cut quickly between the blood sigil on the wall and Dean on the floor. Then Dean wakes – comes back – harshly, with a jerk and a severe, loud intake of breath, eyes blowing wide in panic and confusion and darting all over as he reflexively moves to push himself onto his knees.

"Hey, Dean – Dean, you good? You good?" Panic and fear and concern leave Sam in a rush of air as he wraps an arm around Dean's heaving chest and drags his brother upright and as close as he dares, fumbling for words. It's okay seems appallingly insufficient in the moment, seeing as Dean just put his soul up for grabs because he lost yet another round of Rock, Paper, Scissors.

GOD, never again.

"I got you," he says shakily, raising a hand to pat Dean's shoulder before dropping it lightly atop his head. He wasn't expecting that; Bobby's notes are barely notes, and there was nothing in the lore to suggest the Soul Eater could possess a victim. Nothing to suggest Sam would be able to get his brother back once it did.

Five shuddering inhales and an incalculable number of rapid heartbeats later, Dean gives Sam's leg a double-tap with his trembling fist, and that's his cue.

He releases Dean, who collapses sideways onto his palms and needs another moment to collect himself enough to rise. Sam drags himself away and to his feet, turning his back and granting his big brother some privacy to do the same.

He tests his tender jaw, which clicks painfully and loudly as he shifts it side to side, and he lays the heel of a hand to the aching side of his face.

He turns enough to study his brother, who's standing now but ignoring this show of Sam's as he goes to work stretching and testing the sore, abused muscles of his own back. Dean appears tired and hurting and confused as to just why that may be.

And Sam has to wonder if his big brother even knows this side of him had been borrowed.

Dean frowns and rolls his shoulders, fidgeting like he's got an itch he can't quite scratch. Even when he was a demon, he was still Dean, and he has no true point of reference for the sensation he's no doubt experiencing, not like Sam does. Of retaking ownership and control, of stretching and filling the cracks inside, and that strange feeling that someone's been in the house while you were out and rifled through all of the drawers.

"Y'all right?" Sam prods, hopeful but probably stupidly.

Dean nods tightly. "Man," he says, once he can do so without an unsteady tremor to his voice. He twists, drawing forth a pop from deep in his spine. "Must've gone down harder than I thought when that son of a bitch grabbed me."

Dean's tone isn't the one used to shake Sam off of worrying; it's earnest. He doesn't know, Sam realizes with a start. "Must have." He swallows roughly, dropping his hand from his sore cheek and offering his brother a shrug. "Plus, I had to drag you down the stairs."

"What, feet-first?" Dean bends, wincing as he does, and drags up the left leg of his jeans. A ring of deep bruising, evidence of long, unearthly fingers, wraps around his calf above the boot. "Damn."

Sam eyes the bruise, vaguely curious as to the shelf-life of this particular mark. Even putting aside the Mark of Cain for the moment – difficult as that may be – it had been months before the blistered edges of Castiel's palm faded away completely from Dean's arm. It seems his brother's always being grabbed, be it literally or figuratively, and shoved to the front of the line, to be put to someone else's use.

"You know your brother wants to go to the Darkness. He needs to go." Said with one hand on Dean's soul, seeing and hearing and sensing things Sam's not privy to. And he can't forget, they already had one soul eater to contend with before this hunt, and who really knows what uses she's got planned for Dean.

Sam tears his eyes away, stare drifting to the dripping sigil on the wall. "Hey, Dean."

"Yeah." Dean follows Sam's gaze, rubbing absently at the cut scabbing over on his palm, from where they'd collected the blood for this side of the sign.

"What was it like, in the nest?"

Dean leans back against the kitchen counter, tossing an odd look at the knife discarded on the floor. "Like Mary Henderson said." He jerks his chin toward the room. "It looked just like the house, but…dark, faded. I saw things." He runs a hand down his face. "And I saw Bobby."

Sam jerks back, nearly giving himself whiplash, and gapes. "Wh – you saw Bobby?"

"Yeah." Dean shakes his head like he's got water in his ears. Like he's trying to make sense of something that's just out of his reach. "And it wasn't like…I mean, he saw me, too. I think."

Sam rocks back a step, raising his hands. "What? I mean, how is that even – " His cell rings suddenly, interrupting the thought. He meets Dean's eyes as he drags the phone from his jacket pocket, glancing at the screen. "It's Naoki," he says, relief and surprise mingling to pull his voice to a higher register. "I should…"

"Yeah, you should. I'll just…" Dean gestures vaguely down the hall and sets off to wander stiffly through the house, loosening those abused muscles and doing a final check of the rooms while the sun rises and Sam confirms both Naoki and Kat are awake and doing better. Dean doesn't mention or question the chair lying in pieces in the dining room, and that's just fine with Sam.

The walk out to the car is stiff, slow and riddled with deep thoughts and theories that are beyond either of their grasp or comprehension. Dean's suggestion of getting drunk isn't without its merits, but the job's not yet done.

Sam starts around the front of the Impala, but Dean doesn't break stride, doesn't allow an opening for him to scoot past to the driver's side.

"This time, you're goin' to the nest."

Sam laughs it off as they drop into the car, but it sets him thinking. "Hey, you said the Soul Eater made you see things. Plural." He can't help himself, needs to know what might be lurking there in the most closely guarded corners of his brother's soul, because this job isn't the only one. Not really. "So, what else did you see?"

It's brief, but it's there – the pause as Dean weighs the pros of the lie against the cons of the truth. "I saw you," he says, "dead on the floor."

Sam doesn't know that he was really expecting Dean to say he saw anything else, but he wasn't expecting to breathe such a sigh of relief at this drop of information. "Huh."

Neither, it seems, was Dean. "What?"

Sam shakes his head. "How messed up are our lives that you seeing a vision of dead me is actually kind of comforting?"

Dean looks away. "Yeah." But as he moves to start the car, his dark expression doesn't match his agreement of Sam's assessment. His eyes remain pointed forward as he hits the gas without another word.

So, maybe not as comforting a thought for Dean as it is for Sam. Maybe there's still a whole heap of bad going on in his brother's head, regardless of this seemingly benign and expected fear of losing Sam that the creature had apparently been able to wring from his soul.

Souls are a touchy subject for both of them, but Sam's isn't the one that's been in the line of fire as of late. This connection his brother has with Amara – who's been known to eat a few souls of her own – it's scaring Dean.

It was the Banshee. That's when Sam started paying attention. For all his brush-offs and explanations, Dean had been different after that attack. Quiet.

Vulnerable.

And after taking on the Aramaic kiss of death curse, Sam had finally told him, "You don't have to do this." Be the guinea pig. Be the martyr. Try to carry the weight by yourself. Do THIS.

Told him, "I got it, Dean."

And then Sam let his brother stroll through the veil into the nest of a Soul Eater, without really knowing what that was or what it could mean for Dean, and when he's already proven himself vulnerable. Already admitted to it.

Sam's not used to this role, and maybe he hasn't been connecting the dots as well as he'd thought. He fidgets on the bench seat. "Dean – "

"Sam, I am beat. Now, I can drive or I can talk, but I can't do both." Dean eases the Impala to a halt at an otherwise deserted four-way stop and rolls his head on his neck, pins Sam with a look that manages to be both pleading and daring.

He should apologize, or clarify his remarks, or ask for Dean to clarify his own. The window closes as the seconds tick by, the wall going back up, brick by brick.

Sam realizes that Dean's already clarified the best he can, already dipped into reserves of honesty he hasn't drawn from in years, and that he's the one dropping the ball here. He'd already volunteered to take on the weight, and he once more resigns himself to the fact that he's through letting his brother take the hits.

"Yeah," Sam says, nodding. "Yeah, you're right." He jerks his chin toward the road ahead. "Let's just drive."

It's a moment before Dean nods, turning his attention back to the road and giving the car a little gas to nudge her forward.

And he was right back at the house, too, because they're never settling ANYTHING with that childish, asinine game.

Not ever again.

The End

Edited 3/31/16: Now with a companion fic! Go check out BlueRiverSteel's "Windows to the Soul." It's a beautiful piece that explores what was going on in Dean's head through all of this. Go. Now.