Coda to 2.21.

Blissful Ignorance by Whilom

One part of knowledge consists in being ignorant of such things as are not worthy to be known. - Crates

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The minute Dean saw his bedraggled brother, bruise blooming on his jaw, hand clutching his shoulder, but a big smile on his face—the minute he saw Sam and then some guy with a knife come up behind him, he knew.

When he saw Sam's eyes squeeze shut in pain, then open on his as muddy brown, he knew. You could always see everything about how Sam felt in the way he moved or stood, but you could practically see the beat of his heart when he looked at you, looked past your face to your soul. There were no halves with Sam. So when Sam's eyelids barely lifted and his gaze shifted away from Dean's face, he knew.

From the way Sam fell boneless against him, letting his brother hold his heavier weight, even hold his head up because Sam couldn't do it himself, he knew. It had been a while since he'd held Sam like that, the times when Dean could carry him from the car to the motel room just because Sam was tired growing more infrequent as Sam grew older, insisted he could do it himself. It was only when Sam was sick—feverish and sore—or wounded—all sparse breaths and clenched teeth—that he reached for Dean to lean on. And even then, Sam had always tried to help, take some of the load. So, when Dean reached for his collar and ended up with Sam's chest against his, he knew.

Getting Sam up out of the mud, only able to do it when Bobby mentioned blood and too much and watch his back, he knew. His brain went on autopilot, filling in the blanks with Sam's hurt and patch him up and where the hell do we get help out here. He forgot about the fact that Sam wasn't Sam anymore until they settled him on the dusty mattress and Bobby began to arrange his limbs so the body didn't look so much like a body anymore and started to look like a soul was still in there somewhere. When Dean felt Sam's dislocated shoulder shift and rub under his fingers in a way that would have had Sam screaming if he had been there, when Sam didn't make a sound as the joint popped back into place, he knew.

When he sat down to patch Sam up and Bobby walked by with a strange look on his face but didn't offer to help, he knew. He'd rolled Sam over, wove a towel underneath him, pulled out the kit and threaded a needle, even dabbed antiseptic along the edges of the wound. He was just leaning over Sam, murmuring softly with a hand at his brother's shoulder blade to keep him still, when the older hunter's solid frame filled the doorway. Bobby's jaw locked and his face drained of color. He didn't say anything, just stood there, until Dean looked down at the needle in his hand, the dark fluids staining the towel under Sam, the still form underneath his palm. He growled, "If you're not going to help him, then leave." He went back to his work with tears burning his eyes—stitch, pull, stitch, pull—and when he heard Bobby's fading footsteps, he knew.

When he sat next to Sam in the empty room with bags under his swollen, red-rimmed eyes and a new rasp to his voice and Sam didn't say a word, he knew. Sam had always been the talker, always trying new words and asking questions from the time he could toddle around with Dean as his radius. John hadn't had time for his youngest's curiosity, sometimes needing time away from Sam simply because the baby reminded him too much of Mary. So Dean had taken over Sam with a patience few mothers exhibited. He didn't just answer Sam's questions—he pointed out things, told Sam new words, praised him for his sentences and laughed when Sam used a bad word because he'd heard John say it. So when Dean unfolded his precious memories and spread them out in that dark room and Sam didn't stir on his dusty mattress, he knew.

It was the same stone-in-the-gut kind of feeling he had gotten when he'd seen Sam slip into the car after checking the P.O. box, an envelope with Stanford as the return address clutched in his hand. It was the same feeling he'd gotten when Sam shied away from him after waking from a nightmare, not wanting to admit that months later he still saw Jess on the ceiling. It was the same feeling he'd gotten when they watched their dad laid out in a hospital, no breath in his lungs, no pulse in his veins.

Dean had always prided himself on knowing Sam better than anyone. But there were some things, he thought, wondering if a man could die from the crushing weight of grief—there were some things about Sam he never wanted to know.

He had said he did. Just once. He was sixteen and arrogant, and Sam was trying to become his peer in the way that little brothers did when they entered their teens. Sam had plagued him about missing soccer practice, gloated about a good grade, and then proceeded to spill half a can of Coke all over the car magazine Dean had carefully been keeping at the bottom of his duffel. Just once, he had shouted, just once, Sam, I want to know what my life would be like without you in it. He'd regretted it later, but never as much as he did now, hunched on a rickety chair, staring at a dusty mattress and the little brother who was lying so still on it.

Darkness crept in through the cobwebbed window. Dust motes settled over Sam's chest. Dean's hands shook.

Now you know.