Resolute

Dean's woozy and vaguely green, but conscious. Which is really the best Sam could have hoped for, because there's really a lot of blood.

Jesus, that's a lot of blood.

Even after all these years, something about seeing Dean down and bloody triggers memories Sam wishes to God he didn't have. Now, he's also forced to think of all those horrifying times he must have missed.

This is the worst thing you've ever done.

Lucifer's matter-of-fact voice teases him, echoing and ricocheting through his mind like a fired bullet.

You didn't even bother trying to find him.

Sam swallows, gets a hand under his brother's chin, supporting Dean's wobbly head. His fingers slip in the warm blood collecting there. "Dean, hey. You with me?"

"Mm," Dean hums through white lips. He sags in Sam's grasp, eyelids falling closed.

Sam doesn't find much reassurance in the response. He tilts his brother's head into the light, frowns down at the sight of the split in Dean's forehead, where it disappears into his hairline. He wasn't counting the sickening smacks of his brother's head against the wall and doorjamb, but it was more than enough to do some damage. The cut is bleeding freely and he's gonna have a hell of a shiner; the bruising is already stretching from his temple to his nose, coloring the skin under his eye with a deep plume of crimson.

He bounces a bit on his heels, tosses a quick glance over his shoulder. "Mildred, could you, uh, could you see if you can maybe find a first aid kit?"

"A first aid kit?" The woman's eyes widen as she points a shaking finger to the blood-covered side of Dean's drooping head. "Sam, he needs a hospital!"

Possibly. Probably. The worst of it – what's visible, anyway – could likely do with a stitch or two, and Sam could handle those himself in a matter of minutes. But he can't see getting that past Mildred, who's hovering one step below the threshold of losing her shit entirely. He shoots Eileen a meaning look.

An expert in wordless communication, she easily understands what he wants, purses her lips and nods. She touches the older woman's elbow, points her in the direction of the door.

When it's just the two of them in the room, Sam squeezes his brother's shoulder and rouses Dean's attention, bleary as it may be. "Wanna play 'how many fingers'?"

"Nughh," Dean groans. He brushes Sam's hand from his arm and pulls himself into a straighter sit with a grimace. "Get offa me. I'm fine."

"Sure you are." Sam returns a light hand to Dean's chest, keeping him upright against the wall as he glances around the room. His eyes land on the weapons duffel his brother brought back from the bunker, and leaves Dean propped up precariously as he crosses the short distance and searches the bag's contents. He easily unearths a penlight, because Dean would have made a hell of a Boy Scout.

"What's the damage?" Dean asks with a pained smirk, wincing his way through his brother's inspection.

Sam frowns again, tucks the light away. "You'll live." Dean's pupils are sluggish but reactive, and the bleeding has slowed. "How ya feeling?"

"Never better."

"Sure."

"Sam?"

He looks up to see the women have returned, and Mildred holds out a small white tin. "We found this at the front desk."

"And this," Eileen adds with a smile, offering a clean, damp hand towel.

"That's great," Sam says slowly, so Eileen can read his lips. "Thank you." He accepts the items gratefully, and goes to work getting his brother cleaned up while Mildred hovers worriedly overhead.

Dean still looks like shit without all of the blood, but in a less urgent way, drawn and bruised, and Sam no longer possesses enough panic and concern to keep his curiosity at bay. Can't help but think, as he's helping his brother to his feet, why you?

The exercise of clean up and cops and escaping Mildred's clutches takes them well into the afternoon, and by the time they leave Oak Park, Dean is looking pained and exhausted and pretending to be neither.

Through it all, the thought lingers in Sam's mind like a sour aftertaste, mixes with the guilt that's been plaguing him for days.

Why you?

It's just a fifteen-minute drive back to the bunker, but shaky as SHIT, lacking any of Dean's usual grace or finesse behind the wheel.

He should have put up a fight, should have wrestled the keys from his proud, stubborn brother's hands. Not that Dean would have allowed such a thing, head injury or not. And now that Sam's thinking about it, he isn't sure he's driven the Impala since his brother's…been better.

They've been up for nearly two days straight with this hunt, and Sam wants nothing more than to crash. But first, he has to reconcile these nagging thoughts, and he dreads turning out the light and closing his eyes, releasing Lucifer to taunt him once more from the corners of his subconscious. He needs to set things right, for both their sakes. He rubs the back of his sore neck, turns to his white-faced brother. "Drink?"

"Yeah, uh…" Dean swallows, and when he speaks again, his voice is thick. "Just gimme a…sec. Gonna hit the head."

More like puke his guts out, because he'd been pinched and silent through the entirety of the short drive home, the glare of the setting sun coupled with the rocking motion of the car had clearly been making him nauseous.

But Sam only nods, and has a beer waiting in the kitchen when his brother comes shuffling in. It's not ideal, but Dean will need to replenish fluids, and Sam gave up pushing water on the man a decade ago. He scrolls through news sites while he waits, makes sure they haven't created too big a splash among the locals with this latest gig. Once Dean sits, and they go through the formalities of worrying about Cas, he dives right in.

"You were right" is always a good start, piques Dean's interest and curiosity as to what it is his brother has to say, because it's not a concession Sam offers lightly.

"Wait. Say that again. The – that part about me being right."

Sam chuckles, drops his chin. "You're an idiot."

Once Dean realizes where the conversation is heading, he predictably tries to cut his brother off at the pass, but Sam presses on, eyes drawn to the small but gaping gash in Dean's forehead. Everything comes out easier than he'd anticipated, though Dean won't really look at him as he says any of it.

I should've looked for you.

I should've turned over every stone.

I didn't.

I stopped.

And I've never forgiven myself.

"Shut up and drink your beer." Dean's way of saying thanks and we're good and most importantly, let it be, Sammy.

And it's all so easy, Sam can't believe it took him three years to offer this apology. He laughs, and he drinks, but he under it all he feels like a dick. He should really do better by his brother.

"You gonna be able to sleep tonight?" Or, to translate, can we talk about anything else, PLEASE? The light's obviously bugging Dean, and he presses the heel of a hand to his forehead.

"Yeah," Sam returns, and he means it. "Yeah, I think so." He frowns, taking in the slumped shoulders and unhealthy pallor of the man sitting across from him. "What about you?"

"Well, I still got some ringing going on in my head, but nothing some good music can't wash out."

Sam can't imagine the headache his brother must be dealing with, to cop to "some ringing." He frowns, unsatisfied, but rises from the table and heads toward the hall only to pause on the threshold, heart lighter, but mind not quite yet put at ease. He turns back, put a voice to that last thought that has its claws dug in. "You know…I still can't figure that out. I mean, Banshees go after the vulnerable, right? So why did it go after you?"

The easier a response comes to Dean, the more cause Sam has to doubt its validity. He knows that.

"You're overthinking it," Dean says immediately. "It was going after Mildred, it saw my gold blade, acted out of self-defense." He stares up at Sam, his bruised eyes bright. "Simple."

Sam taps his tablet against his leg, knowing better than anyone that things are hardly ever simple. "Yeah," he says, instead of all the things he should, because there's only so much honesty that Dean can tolerate in one sitting. Sam has to space that shit out. "You're probably right."

"I'm always right."

He gives up easily, by design, but finds it harder to think straight as he moves farther down the hall. Because, as usual, the answer comes to Sam only after he's given voice to his confusion.

Dean is right; the answer is simple. Sam's apology for what happened while Dean was in purgatory only scratches the surface of what he owes his brother.

Occam's Razor – the simplest answer is likely the right one. And yet it's not simple at all. Not when it means Sam has to admit that his brother is vulnerable.

And that he's the reason why.

He never thinks of Dean as vulnerable, and that's exactly how he leaves his brother exposed, time and again. Because Sam is what makes Dean vulnerable, and in more ways than Dean's acknowledged before.

We're not stronger when we're together, Sam. I think we're weaker. Because whatever we have between us – love, family, whatever it is – they're always gonna use it against us.

The bad guys see it, too.

You'd do anything to save him. And he'd do anything to save you. And that's the problem.

But this is more than physical vulnerability; so much more dangerous than the possibility of something nasty using Sam against his brother, or Dean's preoccupation with keeping Sam safe, with putting his little brother's life before his own, always.

It's emotional, and mental vulnerability. It's that Sam expects Dean to be okay. To be strong. And that expectation continuously leads to his brother pushing himself too hard and too far. To driving home when he's reeling from what is probably a mild concussion, instead of shoving over to the passenger seat and taking a knee.

It's about Sam's inherent, lifelong need to have the last word. To land the final verbal blow. It's about his inability to forgive and forget that leaves his brother vulnerable, to himself. To his own horribly ill-advised, boneheaded, self-sacrificial decisions.

Go. I'm not gonna stop you.

He's still paying for that moment. Still seeing the effects of always having to be right, and leaving Dean alone when he'd been all but begging for his brother's forgiveness. When he was practically screaming for it. Sam knew then – in that moment – that he might as well have pushing his brother in front of a freight train.

And he still did it.

And the next time he'd laid eyes on his brother, in that hospital in Grantsburg, Dean had been wearing the Mark of Cain.

Sam's apology in the kitchen had been about him and what he needed, not Dean, because Dean's forgiveness isn't the issue. It's NEVER been the issue, because it's never been a question. It's become another expectation. His entire life, Sam's been spoiled by his brother's consistency and dependability.

Shut up and drink your beer.

Dean wouldn't take it, because he doesn't need it. Never has. And Sam's always taken that for granted.

Being human means settling your debts.

That had been the entire point of the trials. To take the weight from his brother's shoulders, to bear the load for himself, for once, instead of letting Dean jump into the line of fire. To not take advantage of his brother's strength and dependability, and to quell this feeling that's still sitting in his gut like a rock.

It's a task Sam can still carry out, if he takes these small opportunities as they're presented to him, instead of giving in too easily, by design. You're probably right.

There's more, and Sam knows it. Dean knows it, too. The Mark of Cain might be gone, but they're still dealing with the fallout. There's something going on between his brother and the Darkness, something that's scaring the shit out of both of them.

Sam hasn't always done right by his brother. Hasn't always fostered the sort of environment where Dean can feel comfortable being vulnerable. Even now, when it's been laid out before them like Christmas morning, Dean can't own up to it.

Simple.

He's right, it is, and Sam simply won't pretend anymore. Won't overcomplicate things, and won't be the reason his brother hurts.

And tonight, resolved to do better, Sam sleeps like a baby.

Author Note: I'd been stewing over this one for a while; wanting to do a tag to ITM without really knowing what I wanted the point to be. In the end, I wanted to tie together some pieces laid out between "The Devil in the Details," "Into the Mystic," and "Love Hurts."

Thanks for reading!