I didn't want to prolong the misery another week, so here's one more unhappy one early, then on Sunday things start getting better, I swear! -KHK

Scabs and Scars
K Hanna Korossy

He was researching in the bunker…then Crowley was there…shot him…an angel arrived…a fight.

The angel was in him. A flood of memories. People he didn't know, killed by his hand. Kevin.

Sam said no. Threw the angel out.

There was a…dark place, and Cas and Dean and…Crowley? Being shuffled out. And pain, lightning in his head, twisting in his belly and lava in his bones, knife to the heart. Dean, Bobby, angel, Dean, Charlie, Chef Leo, Dean, Cas, trust me, angel, Vesta, Dean, have a little faith, Metatron, Crowley, Dean, Kevin, Dean, Dean, Dean…

Someone shoved him into the Impala. He slumped, not sure which way was up, what was real, what he could trust.

Dean.

But his brother, a solid outline in the driver's seat, wasn't talking.

He scrabbled for a handhold of vinyl seat, of his hair, anything to hold on to.

The memories started to settle like sediment, puzzle pieces fitting together to make a whole picture. Hospital, limbo, the angel. Healing him, Cas, Charlie. Killing…a punk rocker? A father. Kevin. And Dean knowing the whole time, brushing aside his worries, lying to him.

"Pull over."

Dean's head turned, still not meeting his eyes. "What?"

Sam pushed himself up. His arms shook and his stomach dipped, but for someone who had holes bored in his head and a body that was still a mess from the Trials, he was doing okay. Anger helped. "Pull. Over."

The Impala lurched to one side and jolted to a stop.

Sam fumbled the door open and got out. Wet—it was raining. It didn't matter. He tripped and staggered, unsure of his body—possessed, he'd been possessed, again—but he kept going. There was water, a pier, and his boots struck wood, finding purchase. He flung himself on until he found a railing to lean against. A flimsy anchor, but all he had.

He finally turned to face his brother, looking for his true foundation. Stone number one.

"Let me hear it," Dean said. No more you're okay, or trust me.

"I'm pissed," Sam said, understatement. Anything he could say would be an understatement. "You lied to me. Again."

But Dean didn't apologize, not really. There was an explanation, sort of. Defensiveness and hurt. A pointless absolution of Sam and an avowal of justice for the angel, Gadreel. But the bottom line was, Dean was leaving. He was poison, killed everyone close to him, hurt more than helped, blah, blah.

"Go," was all Sam could manage. "I'm not gonna stop you."

And Dean left. He left.

Castiel healed his head and the worst of the internal pain. Led him gently to some car and helped him into the front seat. Drove them back to the bunker. And didn't say a word. Not while tears rolled down Sam's cheeks the whole way back. Not when they stopped twice to let Sam throw up. Not until they got to the bunker…and found Dean's room stripped and empty.

"I am sure he will return…" Cas finally murmured.

"No," Sam said dully. "He won't." Not when it mattered. Even if he came back, the damage was done. He'd done this to Sam, then left him to deal with the aftermath alone.

And as Sam staggered to his own room and dropped on his bed, the wound was already scarring instead of healing, his heart growing hard.