Shattered
By Philote
Rating: PG
Summary: Sam had just wanted Dean to let himself feel. Tag for "Everybody Loves a Clown."
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of Supernatural do not belong to me. I make no money from this story. Please don't sue.
Warnings: Spoilers for "In My Time of Dying" and "Everybody Loves a Clown"
oOo
Sam hadn't been all that surprised by Dean's reaction to Dad's death. It was typical, stoic Dean; gloss over any heavy emotion, avoid any sentimental moments. Keep everything together by keeping everything inside.
But nothing about this situation was typical. This was Dad.
Sam knew Dean was hurting. He hated that Dean couldn't share that with him. Part of that was a little selfish—him wanting the comfort of grieving with his brother and talking about Dad and hopefully moving on together. But part of it was pure, honest worry about Dean. There was some dark undercurrent to Dean's reactions that he couldn't quite identify, and it scared him.
So he did the only thing he could. He tried to talk to him. He admitted Dean was right about him wanting to please a dead man; he was as honest as he could be. And when he didn't get a reaction, all he knew to do was walk away and pray some of it had affected his brother.
He didn't make it far. Shattering glass was a hard sound to ignore.
Instinct made him turn and run the few feet back towards the Impala. But the sight that greeted him stopped him cold.
It was surreal. He'd known Dean was harboring some anger. But this was blind rage displayed by uncontrolled violence—and he'd directed it against the Impala. That car was his baby; he'd been nursing it with more care than he did his own wounds.
Sam winced with every blow as if he were the one being struck.
He waited until the storm had passed, until Dean had stepped back and stood motionless, staring at the damage like he didn't really see it. Then Sam moved cautiously closer. Not that he thought Dean would ever direct that at him, but…well. The scene had left him a little unsettled.
Dean glanced at him as he rounded the back of the car. Their eyes caught for a moment, then Dean looked away.
Sam couldn't think of a single thing to say.
When he just stood there, Dean snapped out of whatever state he was in and cleared his throat, looking at the trunk. "Well. That ought to set back the repairs a bit. Bobby's gonna think we want him to adopt us or something."
Sam's jaw fell, and he stared openly. "You're kidding me, right? You're going to just pretend that was nothing?"
Dean's smirk didn't reach his eyes. "Don't worry about it. It's not like I'm gonna make you fix it."
Sam watched him in disbelief. He was closer to Dean than anyone, but he felt completely out of his depth here. "I don't know what to say to you, Dean. I don't know how to help you," he finally confessed.
"It's not your job to fix me, either."
Sam exploded, throwing up his hands. "Then whose job is it? It's not like Dad's here."
Dean's expression grew shadowed. "Sam, just drop it."
"I can't. I can't lose you too."
Dean snorted as if that was a stupid, irrelevant argument. "You won't."
"I will! You're shutting me out! And if you go around like that," he waved his hand demonstratively between the trunk and the shattered window, "you're going to get yourself killed."
"I don't need a nanny, little brother. I can take care of myself, without you constantly in my face!"
There was that anger again, clear in Dean's eyes. Anger was better than nothing, better than having to watch as everything was carefully shuttered, and Sam grabbed onto it. "So, what? You want me to go away too? You got used to being in charge and you were starting to disagree with Dad's motives. Do you like it better this way, without him around to tell you what to do?"
He saw the punch coming; he just didn't bother to duck away from it. Dean didn't pull it in the slightest and when it struck true, it sent him spinning to the ground.
He tasted the blood immediately, even before the throbbing in his jaw set in. He stared up at Dean, allowing everything he felt to show plainly on his face. "You want to hit me? Fine. If it helps you to beat on the things you care about then please, do it again." His voice cracked on the last word, tears he'd been choking back for a week finally breaking loose. He let them fall; let them mingle with the blood trickling down his chin.
Dean was absently rubbing his knuckles as he just stood there, breathing heavily. The tears blurred his vision but Sam blinked them away and held the eye contact, willing Dean to have some sort of reaction. He didn't know what he'd do if Dean just retreated right back into that protective shell.
After a long moment, Dean turned away. Sam tried to suck in a deep breath and choked on a sob. Dean murmured a frustrated, "Damn it, Sammy." In one fluid motion he turned back and went to his knees in front of Sam, pulling him into his arms so quickly that Sam wasn't quite sure what had happened.
After a moment of shock he returned the embrace, grabbing hold before Dean could change his mind. He couldn't stop the tears. Dean was warm and strong, a solid offering of comfort that he leaned into greedily. This was what he'd been waiting for for the past two weeks, right?
Except that Dean still wasn't grieving. No tears fell against Sam's shoulder; his breathing was a steady cadence beneath Sam's own ragged breaths. And he seemed to have left the anger behind. He slipped easily back into the controlled big brother persona, hushing Sam and patting his back as if he were five again. And as much as Sam wanted to just let go and nestle in the comfort, he couldn't. He knew he was still getting nowhere with Dean.
"Why can't you just let yourself feel it?" he gasped out. "Why do you have to make it even harder?"
"I'm okay, Sammy."
He snorted, an unpleasant wet sound. "Yeah, that's obvious."
"You don't need to worry about me."
Again with the insinuation that this wasn't his problem. Angry now, Sam tried to push away. Den locked his arms and held tight, not even allowing Sam a glimpse of his face. He didn't have the strength to fight and after a moment he gave up, slumping back into his brother.
This wasn't at all how he'd intended this encounter to go. And he was getting a sinking feeling in his stomach, a cold tinge of fear that something else was going on here. Maybe it was his psychic sense. More likely it was his brotherly one. But he was pretty sure that this was more than holding in a reaction to Dad's death. Dean was keeping something from him—something big.
"Why won't you talk to me?" he whispered, frustrated.
Dean's only response was to tighten his grip—but that was his answer. Dean was protecting him. Dean would keep right on protecting Sam until it killed him, too.
Sam fisted his fingers in the back of Dean's shirt and tried to nurse his anger. As much as he loved Dean for taking care of him, he needed him to share the load. They were all each other had now. If Dean was going to try to take on everything himself, he was just going to turn into Dad.
"You're an idiot, you know that? I'm not a kid." It might have been more effective if he wasn't clinging and soaking Dean's shoulder with his tears. He took in a steadying breath. "You have to trust me."
"Of course I trust you, Sammy." The tone was calm and soothing…and blatantly placating.
Sam huffed and shook his head, knocking into Dean's chin. "Idiot," he repeated, the word laden with an odd mix of desperation and affection.
"I think you're the one with the trust issues here. When have I ever let you down, huh?"
And what could he say to that?
Sam wanted to scream that that wasn't the point, that this wasn't about him, that in fact he needed it to not be about Dean protecting him. But it was fruitless to be attempting this argument while they were locked in each other's arms, while he couldn't even manage to stop crying.
Sam shut up, pressed his face against his brother's shoulder, and just let Dean hold him. Maybe it was all he could do.
If he could ignore the despair that was choking him, he could even pretend he was doing it all for Dean.
oOo