After watching Born Under a Bad Sign, I was very disappointed with how they ended the episode. However, I wasn't sure I had it in me to write a tag to it...but I started writing, and this came out. Read and review, please! It's supposed to be a bit disjointed.
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Dean watches his brother dress for bed, eyeing the white gauze around the burns on his arm. He sits gingerly on the bed, his left arm gingerly wrapped around his chest. It hurts less that way.
His face hurts, too, already stained a myriad of dark colors, swollen enough to make blinking feel funny. He can taste blood when he tongues at the split on his lip.
He watches Sam stuff clothes into his duffle and his chest aches.
He knows Sam is hurting. Knows he's confused. Can't imagine what it must feel like to have a demon in control of you, using you like a self proclaimed meat puppet. It twists his stomach into a knot so tight he thinks he might throw up.
He wonders briefly if Sam questions his loyalty.
Dean has never broken a promise to his brother before. Had always treated them like they were precious, something to always be taken serious, and never fucked around with.
He wonders if Sam remembers what he said in the hotel. Wonders if he questions that.
I can't. I'd rather die.
Rather take out his own eyes with a pocket knife. Rather face an army of demons with only a sharp stick to defend himself. Rather be dragged kicking and screaming into hell than have his baby brother stare down a barrel and be the one with his finger on the trigger.
Dean can feel the bile rising in his throat, and chokes it down, making a strangled gasp as he fights to breathe normally again.
"Dean?" Sam's voice comes, concerned. "Is it your shoulder?"
"No, Sammy," he says, voice ragged. "It's not my shoulder."
"I'm sorry about that, you know?" Sam looks uncomfortable, like he doesn't know what to do.
"I know."
"It wasn't me," Sam says, voice still disjointed. "Right?"
He needs conformation. Needs to hear it wasn't him, needs to have it said a hundred times.
"It wasn't you," Dean repeats, meaning it, but he can't shake the sight of his brother behind the gun, the muzzle flash, and the feel of a bullet slamming into his flesh.
He pulls in a sharp breath.
"Dean?"
He opens eyes he hadn't realized were closed.
"Sam."
It's the second time his brother's shot him, without flinching. The second time he was possessed, but god knows he can't shake the feeling that there's something there.
"Dean."
He looks up.
Sam opens his mouth, closes it.
"You look like a fish," Dean says, trying to force a smile. "Don't tell me you're sorry again, Sammy. I know it wasn't you."
He does, so why won't his heart stop pounding? Why is he shaking and sweating?
It's all so wrong.
He's the strong one. Dad made him promise.
Take care of Sammy. Because if you don't...
"Dean?"
How many times has Sam said his name? He tries to count, but his mind is whirling, throwing everything at him with a curve.
Sam isn't evil. Sam isn't possessed. He's wearing a charm like a lifeline, because it is. He's safe now. You're not going to have to -
"Dean!"
He doesn't realize he's fallen until his butt hits the ground and a jolt of pain makes its way across his back, a fiery pain originating in the bullet wound that's been opened wider by unforgiving fingers.
"Oh, God," Sam is saying, his voice sounding far away.
And in the car, Sam wanted to know why he couldn't do it. Why he wouldn't shoot.
It's only if I couldn't save you.
And dammit, Sammy, I'm going to. I'm going to save you if it kills me.
But there it is again, the sound of the gun, louder than he can remember a gun ever sounding. A fucking explosion in his ears and that searing pain. He tastes the metallic hint of blood on his tongue
Sam's eyes are wide and concerned when Dean meets them. Brimming with tears - oh, God - and Dean opens his mouth to say he's sorry, so fucking sorry, but he chokes it down because what good does it do?
He's failed his brother. He's broken his promise, and he'll do it again if the situation presents itself.
He'll break a promise to his father and to himself and let Sam kill him before he can bring himself to pull that trigger. He'll tie him up and drug him and never let him see the light of day again, but dammit he will not kill his brother.
Those wide doe eyes plead with Dean to make some sense of this - to tell him what's wrong, where it hurts, what can he do? - but all Dean sees in them is his brother begging Dean not to let him die.
Don't kill me, don't do it, please -
And then Dean's sure he's going to throw up.
It's not a fever, it's not infection, it's a fucking lose-lose situation.
"Dean, please, tell me - "
Something cuts Sam off with a howl of pain he can't recognize as a human sound. Sees Sam draw back in something like shock, and realizes it's him.\
Screaming, or sobbing, some grating sound that's coming from the back of his throat, rendering it raw, and making the veins in his neck stand out, but he can't stop until he's panting, gasping, choking for a breath.
Vaguely he can feel something hot running down his battered face, and wonders if he's bleeding again.
It takes him a minute to realize that he's sobbing, and that Sam is staring at him like he's grown a second head, because the impenetrable walls that make up Dean Winchester have all but collapsed, and he's losing his fucking mind.
He's crying, clawing at the space between him and Sam with both hands. He feels the wound tear, split, and open, a hot rush of blood soaking his shirt, but he can't stop, grappling. He's on his knees now, and Sam's scrabbling backward, trying to get out of his reach.
"Dean, Jesus!" Sam cries, backing up the wall and to his feet.
He stops clawing the air - doesn't have the strength to continue, and he wasn't trying to hurt him anyway. He doesn't know what the fuck he was doing, but it's out of his system, and he folds.
Sam's still staring at him, back pressed against the wall, and all Dean can do is wrap his arms around his knees and cry.
He hears Sam's voice from far away, asking him if he's okay, asking him what's wrong, to say something, anything.
He tries, he really does, but all he can do is sob into his folded arms.
"Dean, please," Sam begs, kneeling in front of his brother again.
"Fuck you, Sammy!" Dean spits, looking up with anguish in his eyes.
Sam reels backward, eyes questioning.
"How the fuck can you ask me that, Sam? How can you?" Dean growls, cheeks streaked with tears that look so out of place on him.
"I - what?" Sam says, backpedalling.
"You want me to kill you?" Dean asks, springing to his feet with a sudden lividity.
Sam winces, as if afraid Dean might suddenly go after him again.
Instead, Dean crosses the room to his bag, and reaches inside, his left arm hanging uselessly at his side.
He brings out his gun, knuckles white around the pearl handle, and Sam shouts.
"How the fuck can you ask that of me?" Dean hisses, all the sorrow replaced by icy anger.
Sam falters.
"Do you know you're asking me to kill the one good thing Dad ever did?" Dean says, his voice hollow.
Sam shakes his head and begins to speak, but he's cut off as Dean presses the gun to his own head.
"I'd sooner spray this room with my own goddamn brains, Sammy. Don't you know that? Don't you understand?" His voice cracks, but the tears are gone.
For a moment, Sam's afraid Dean might really pull the trigger.
"Dean, please," he says softly. "Put the gun down."
"No," Dean chokes out. "If there's one of us that deserves to live, Sam, it's you. You're so hung up on this, so dead sure you're gonna go darkside and kill every innocent person you come across."
"I did," Sam says, stepping forward.
Dean's finger involuntarily tightens on the trigger.
"No. No," he says. "Why can't you see it, Sam? Dad didn't tell me to kill you, he told me to save you."
"He told you you might have to kill me, Dean," Sam says in a broken tone. "How else am I supposed to take that?"
Dean laughs humorlessly. "I'm not lying when I say I'll kill every bastard who tries to hurt you, Sam."
There is a darkness in Dean's eyes, a depthless look Sam isn't sure he likes. It's sorrow, and anguish, it's anger the likes of which he's never seen.
"I'll march into hell and massacre every one of those sons of bitches, but you mark my words, Sammy, they will never lay another hand on you," Dean says in a voice full of promise. "I swear to god, I'll kill them all. I don't care if it's a demon or some poor bastard the demon's in. I will kill them, in cold blood, and I won't lose any sleep at night for it."
Sam swallows hard, and watches as Dean lowers the gun.
"But don't you ask that of me, Sam. Don't you ask me to kill you. It's like asking me to kill myself. Worse. I'd rather die than point this gun at you," he says, letting the gun fall to his side.
"Okay," Sam whispers. "Okay..."
Dean drops to his knees, chin tucked to his chest, exhausted.
"Dean," Sam ventures, watching his brother's head raise.
Hazel eyes fix his own with a blank stare.
"I'm sorry..." Sam says, filling the words with every ounce of meaning he can muster.
Dean opens his mouth and whispers something.
"What?" Sam asks, leaning forward.
"I said 'shut up', Sammy."
Sam shuts up.