FACING YOUR DEMONS

This is a little tale of hurt/comfort, pure and simple. The brothers learn that sometimes demons that have to be faced aren't always the black-eyed variety.

Vague spoilers for season 8 because this takes place in and around the B-place, but otherwise has no particular resemblance to canon. Rated T for the odd naughty word.

Disclaimer: don't own Sam or Dean, but I can dream!

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Chapter 1

Taking up residence in the Men of Letters Bunker had afforded the brothers the chance to have, at long last, what other families took for granted all the time; stability, comfort and privacy, and best of all, the security of simply having a home to go to.

Both Winchesters quickly embraced the bunker (or the Batcave as it would come to be known) as their own, and all the benefits, both great and small, that came with it. Sam had instantly gravitated toward the library; it's miles of leatherbound tomes promising fuel for his enquiring mind for years to come. Dean's positive glee, on the other hand, at having a well-stocked pantry at his disposal (Sam had suggested he get himself put on the payroll at the grocery store in town, seeing as he was spending so much time there) meant that the simple joy of sitting together with his brother at the grand old dining table in the main gallery to eat home-cooked meals was suddenly Dean's absolutely most favourite way to spend his time.

That's why the first inkling that Sam had on this particular morning that something was wrong was while the brothers were eating their breakfast.

He watched furtively from over his coffee mug as Dean laboured his way unenthusiastically through a bowl of oatmeal; his fourth in as many days.

It wasn't the lack of enthusiasm that concerned Sam, it was the fact that Dean was eating oatmeal at all; or at least doing his best to choke down the watery sludge.

Since he began to 'nest' in the Batcave, Dean's days of leftover pizza for breakfast appeared to be behind him. These days he was far more likely to fill up with a mountain of granary toast dripping with honey or peanut butter followed by a massive bowl stacked high with some seizure-inducingly sugar-laden cereal which he insisted was healthy because he'd balanced a strawberry on top of it.

Oatmeal just didn't even feature in the elder Winchester's universe.

But, now that Sam actually thought about it, he realised he hadn't seen Dean eat much at all in the last few days. Recent mealtimes had suddenly become very Sam-centric with Sam looking over a massive pile of food at Dean sluggishly working his way through a bowl of soup, making unconvincing excuses about sampling too much of his own cooking to be hungry.

Sam ducked his head, taking a sip of his coffee and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he slyly observed the slumped figure opposite him through his unruly bangs.

xxxxx

"Enjoyin' the show?"

Sam was snapped out of his musings by Dean's irritable snort, his dripping spoon hovering midway between the bowl and his pale, unshaven face.

"Sorry bro'," Sam replied abruptly, shaking his head to clear his thoughts as he put his coffee mug down; "it's just that you don't look too great."

Draining his spoon, Dean grimaced as he swallowed. "Thanks," he huffed; "you're no oil paintin' yourself."

"No," Sam corrected himself with a wry smile; "I mean, you don't look all that well, are you okay?"

"And," he added without waiting for Dean to answer; "since when have you started eating oatmeal?"

Dean rolled his eyes and dropped his spoon back in the bowl; "I'm fine," he snorted unconvincingly; "quit your frettin', I just wanted some oatmeal for a change."

"No you didn't," Sam almost laughed out loud in response; "you hate oatmeal; you're hating every mouthful of it right now."

A loaded silence fell across the table as the Winchesters glared at each other.

Did Dean look thinner? Sam inwardly considered whether Dean's face looked thinner or whether it was just a trick of the light, it was hard to tell under the three days' worth of stubble he was sporting. Were those Dean's collarbones jutting up underneath his T shirt, or just creases from where the darn thing had been screwed up rather than folded up in the bottom of his drawer for God knows how long?

Or was he just imagining it all? In the space of ten seconds a kaleidoscope of thoughts and potential scenarios flitted through Sam's mind, and absolutely none of them were good.

Eventually Sam cracked. "Okay, he sighed; "sorry, I just thought …"

"Well don't, Dean replied quietly; "I'm fine, really. You're supposed to be researching that poltergeist hunt, aren't you? Concentrate on that, not me." Returning to his oatmeal, he made the effort to manufacture a smile for Sam's benefit. It was crooked and didn't reach his eyes.

Sam nodded, completely unconvinced.

xxxxx

If Sam had his suspicions that something wasn't right about Dean, they were proved spectacularly correct the following morning, when Dean didn't actually appear for breakfast at all.

After half an hour of sitting alone at the huge table, waiting for Dean's larger-than-life presence to emerge triumphantly from the kitchen carrying enough food to feed a siege, Sam made his way along the corridor to Dean's bedroom, to find the door firmly closed; a sure sign that the elder Winchester was still ensconsed in his precious room. He hesitantly tapped on the door.

"Dean, you awake?"

The response was barely audible through the thick, iron-coated door, but Sam just heard a breathy sigh of "yeah."

"You gonna make some breakfast, or shall I do it?" Sam prompted gently.

"Not hungry," Dean replied economically; "make some f'yourself, okay?"

Sam frowned as he listened to Dean's voice; "you alright dude?"

There was a long pause; way too long.

"Peachy," the response eventually came, and Sam's frown deepened.

It could have been the effect of the heavy door between them, or perhaps the lingering effects of sleep if Dean had only just woken up, but Sam could have sworn Dean sounded like he was eating his pillow.

"D'y want coffee?" he asked, trying a different tack to coax Dean out of his room.

"No, m'fine; beat it," came the gruff response. Even through the door, Sam could hear that Dean was sounding progressively more irritable with each exchange.

What the hell was he doing in there? He sounded like he did that time when he put seven oreos in his mouth at once.

Sam took a deep breath and squared his shoulders to fortify himself. The gesture was more for his own benefit given that Dean couldn't see it; "Dean, if you're fine, come out and show me," he announced sternly; "I'm worried about you.".

"Tol' you, 'm'fine," Dean spluttered; "wanna lie-in 'n read my book, g'way."

Taking another deep breath, Sam counted to ten; "right, I hope you're decent," he warned; "because I'm coming in."

"No, Sam; don' …"

Sam knocked once then flung the door open, striding into Dean's room.

He stopped in his tracks at the sight that met him.

xxxxx

tbc