I have very mixed feelings about the episode. It did exactly what I wanted it to, just not how I wanted it.

Originally I was going to write a different tag for this episode, but since I'm in bed with flu and wanted to cheer myself up with writing, I couldn't bring myself to finish it. This ficlet isn't exactly cheerful either, but the other one would have been way worse. :)

Unbetaed, apologies for any mistakes.

Reject. Repeat

1996

The first time it happens when Sam's twelve and Dean seventeen over what should have been a trifle.

There's something different about Dean ever since that last hunt he and Dad went on, burning a banshee in the woods while they made Sam wait in the car. It's in the way Dean walks now, strutting into each room like he owns the place, a cocky expression cemented on his face. It's in the way he talks, trying to outdo Dad when it comes to colorful phrasing, addressing any person of authority other than Dad in a low growl just this shade of insolent. It's in the way he ferociously throws himself into his workouts and never pays attention in class anymore.

But Sam only fully notices something's changed when he wants to play Monopoly and Dean laughs at him off and doesn't bother to soften the blow by ruffling his hair. "Board games are for babies."

Then he steps out of their motel room, leaving Sam behind feeling confused and strangely hurt.

A little later Sam spots him in the parking lot, pressing the waitress of the diner across the street against one of the cars. It looks like she's eating his brother's face. Sam's first instinct is to grab his gun, before he realizes that what they're doing is nothing else than what he and his classmates regularly engage in when they're playing spin the bottle during lunch break: kissing. Even if it doesn't look anything like what he and his classmates have been doing. There are more hands involved, and hips, and tongues, and frankly it's gross.

Disgusted, Sam turns away from the window and takes out his math homework. The numbers keep blurring before his eyes, refusing to make sense. Just like the universe in which Dean told him no for the very first time.

2002

It's cold, dark and wet at the bus station. Dean stands beside him, looking as miserable as Sam's ever seen him.

Sam seizes his wrist. "Dean," he says imploringly, and then falters. He's been preparing the words for months, thinking it best to spring them on his brother at the last moment, so that Dean wouldn't have time to think, so that Dad wouldn't mess it up for them. But now they come out almost shy, more a question than a statement. "You could come with me."

For a moment Dean stares at him with wild eyes. Under his fingers Sam can feel his pulse, fast and erratic.

Then Dean jerks his arm out of Sam's grip and makes a rough sound in the back of his throat, not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. "Jeez, Sam, no, what the hell were you thinking!"

Dean's tone is a vulnerable blend of spooked and offended, and if Sam thought a moment ago that he'd never seen his brother look so wrecked, it's nothing next to what his face looks like now. Sam doesn't know where he went wrong exactly, but he understands that his brilliant plan failed.

Before he can think of anything to say to make this right, Dean turns away, climbs back into his car and drives off, leaving Sam standing alone in the dark, drenched and shivering, waiting for his ride.

2009

"And who the hell are you?" Dean sneers. Like he doesn't get that this is too important to mess it up. Like he doesn't get that Sam needs to fix this. Like he doesn't get that he's no longer himself, hasn't been since the angels dragged him up from the pit.

"I'm being practical here," Sam states as calmly as he can. One of them has to be reasonable here, and it doesn't look like it's going to be Dean. "I'm doing what needs to be done."

Predictably, Dean won't hear any of it. "Yeah? You're not going to do a single damn thing."

Sam really doesn't know how Dean always manages to make it sound like Sam and right aren't even in the same continent without any effort whatsoever.

"Stop bossing me around, Dean," he exclaims, annoyed. Then he takes a deep breath. He can make this right, he knows he can. Right now he's feeling pretty damn invincible. But the idea of killing Lilith and stopping the apocalypse seems hollow if he can't make Dean understand. Because despite everything Dean is still his big brother, and that's everything. "Look. My whole life, you take the wheel, you call the shots, and I trust you because you are my brother. Now I'm asking you, for once, trust me." He doesn't even care that he ends up begging.

"No," Dean denies him without even considering it. "You don't know what you're doing, Sam."

Tears form in his eyes and roll down his cheek, like he's already mourning Sam, and that's too much to take, so Sam knocks his fist straight into Dean's wet face.

2009, again

"I want back in," Sam says, trying to sound like a responsible adult and not like a spoilt child. Which is difficult, considering how he's doubly freaked right now – first by Lucifer's revelations, now by Dean's composed, detached voice on the phone.

"Sam–" Dean begins, sounding impossibly unenthusiastic, so Sam hastily interrupts him again. "I mean it. I am sick of being a puppet to these sons of bitches. I'm going to hunt him down, Dean."

"Oh, so, we're back to revenge, then, are we?" Dean scoffs. "Yeah, 'cause that worked out so well last time."

"Not revenge," Sam clarifies. "Redemption."

Dean barely pauses, but his tone sounds slightly more mellow when he continues. He almost makes an effort to let Sam down gently. No "I don't trust you. You let me down." Instead: "Because whatever we have between us – love, family, whatever it is – they are always going to use it against us." And: "Bye, Sam." It's like he's talking to a witness on a case who happens to be a child, or a pretty woman. Someone who deserves consideration. But still just a stranger.

Sam thinks this might be his least favorite no yet.

2014

It's difficult to believe that after weeks of frantically searching for him without success, his brother's on the other end of the line. His brother who was dead. His brother who's a demon now.

Not that Sam's talking to him directly, it's the crazy little marine who kidnapped him and tied him to a chair in an abandoned barn. But, ridiculous as that might be, it still feels almost as close as an embrace, and he finds himself staring at the phone with a mixture of longing and trepidation.

What his kidnapper proposes is obvious enough – a trade, Dean for Sam's life.

"Dean!" he cries out, wanting to warn his brother. No matter how desperate he is to see Dean again, having Dean walk into this trap for him really isn't worth it.

But then the phone call ends abruptly and the young man's puzzled frown and slumped shoulders tell Sam that Dean said no of his own accord.

He should be relieved, he supposes. But his toes are numb and he just can't feel it.

2015

Since Dean is shaking too badly, Sam grits his teeth, carries Charlie's body back to their car and drives them back to the Bunker.

It's a quiet drive, the only noises the dripping of the rain on the roof and windows, and the purr of the engine. Eventually, Sam can't stand it any longer.

"Dean," he grinds out, glancing at the impassive man next to him. "I'm so, so sorry."

Dean doesn't look at him, and doesn't say a word.

"Dean," Sam tries again. The word tastes of desperation. He's not sure what he's looking for. Judgement, forgiveness, consolation. Maybe he isn't looking for anything. Maybe he just wants to give a little comfort.

But Dean remains an impenetrable wall of silence beside him, refusing to grant him even that much. It's like he isn't even there anymore.

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