If You Would Just Listen

by SCWLC

Sometimes you have to make people hear you.

Title: If You Would Just Listen

Author: SCWLC

Rating: PG to PG-13 I think. Not quite R.

Spoilers: Some general for the series so far, but nothing really specific, I don't think.

Timeline: Probably after "Death Takes a Holiday". Roughly. But it'll fit in most places this season after Castiel told Sam not to use his superpowers.

Summary: Sometimes you have to make people hear you.

Genre: Angst and a smidge of hurt/comfort. Maybe some Wee!chester too.

AN: Okay, this comes out of the same place Canon-Sues and blatant author self-insertion (make your own off-colour joke and insert here) come from. It's totally wish fulfilment and based on a Mary-Sue-ish mental picture of Sam and Dean I have. So it's angst, but it's really not to be taken as a piece of serious work so much as a piece of angst-centred silliness. If that makes sense.

**********************************

Dean stood there, facing Sam, Ruby behind Sam, smirking.

The bitch was smirking at him.

It really was her fault. It was Dean's fault for not managing to convince Sam not to trust the demon, but she was the one who'd led his brother by the nose, and the one who'd convinced Sam to keep using his powers and the one who'd talked Sam into lying to Dean. Yeah Dean had fallen down on the job, but she was one of the reasons why there'd been a job for him to fall down on.

Here they were. Sam, a hand outstretched, using the last traces of Hell that clung to Dean in order to use those screwball demon powers to screw with his older brother.

Still, it was Sam. He had to try. "Sam. Sam, you have to listen to me."

"No. I don't." He sounded just a little crazy. "I'm sick of listening to you, Dean. I'm sick of always being told that I'm the one who has to listen. Why can't someone listen to me for once?" He shook his head. "At least Ruby actually listens."

Dean felt his eyes goggle. "So all those times I listened to you talk about Jessica, that doesn't count? All the times I listened to you bitch and moan about how Dad abandoned us or some crap like that doesn't count? All of your damn chick flick moments just don't count?"

Sam glared at him, then jerked as Ruby said coyly, "Why don't you show him, Sam? Show him what you've been through. Maybe he'll get it then."

And Sam turned those blank eyes on his brother, and the world turned inside out.

*******************

It was a jumble of impressions. Brief scenes that Dean could recall from his own memory, but flipped around. It took a moment to realise he wasn't just seeing them again; he was experiencing them, and all the feelings that went with them, from Sam's perspective.

Suddenly it all settled, and Dean caught a glimpse of Sam's face – age four if he was any judge – in the mirror. "Sam!" came his father's voice.

Dean was shocked by the feeling of tears pricking at Sam's eyes in the memory. He could feel fear. His brother was afraid of Dad? At age four?

His brother rushed into the room, and Dean was shocked at the paces John put his brother through. Every time Sam slipped up, didn't do the push-up or sit-up right, didn't run fast enough, or anything else, John made him do it all over again, telling him, "Your brother can do this perfectly – better than perfectly. Why aren't you working harder?"

Dean suddenly recalled this day. He'd come home from his grade two class, ready for training, ready to work with Sam. Sam had been recalcitrant and resistant and Dean had finally had to ask his Dad to step in. If he'd known Sam was already exhausted from training before, he never would have done it. Then again, Dad shouldn't have made Sam keep on going.

He was only four.

Memories skimmed by, and Dean was struck by how different they were from his own. Not just his memories of those events, but his own memories of being a small child. He could recall being afraid the thing that took his Mom would come for him. He'd had nightmares and gone to his Dad for comfort. John had cuddled him and helped him get back to sleep.

When Sam was four, he tried that. John rebuffed him with the stern words that his brother wasn't a wimp, neither should Sam be. For every memory Dean had of his father being kind and affectionate, Sam, at the same age, had trouble recalling anything at all of affection from his father.

Dean recalled clearly Sam's grousing about the time when he was nine and Dad had given him a .45 instead of reassuring him it would be okay. Suddenly, it came clear to Dean that Sam had been using it as a single example of a trend. While Dean could see the affection in John's actions toward Sam, feeling the way Sam had felt at the time, suddenly made a lot of things clearer.

Sam was being pushed the same as his older brother. Not having the same training Dean did, but was being pushed to perform the same as a boy four years older than himself. John's methods, honed on Dean, worked. But they alienated his younger son, who didn't hear encouragement in John's comparisons with Dean, only the pounding message that he'd never be as good as his brother. That if he wasn't as good as his brother, he was worthless.

It went further.

"Dad, why do we have to burn the book?" Sam asked plaintively. Dean could feel his brother's desire to save the expensive and rare first edition hardcover. Signed by the author. He could also feel Sam's confusion about why they were doing it. He knew that the ghost was also bound to the book. He just wanted to know why it happened. How it happened. If there was a way to break the bond without damaging the book.

But mostly, he just wanted to understand how it worked.

Dean recalled that moment. He remembered agreeing with his father about Sam's attitude. Feeling his brother's honest curiosity, Dean had another epiphany. This was like the times he'd asked his Dad about how the Impala worked. Why their car could do this and not that. This wasn't attitude, the way his father had maintained. It wasn't Sam questioning necessity. It was Sam wanting to get a better understanding of how the world worked.

John's response?

"Sam! Get your head back in the game. We have to burn the book. That's all you need to know. Stop asking so damn many questions!"

Dean felt himself flinch along with Sam.

Hunting always came easy to Dean. He picked up a gun the first time, and Dad was always smiling at how well he'd picked it up. The hand-to-hand skills to help with fighting off various creatures just flowed for Dean. It just made sense, and he was good at it. It wasn't work, it was fun.

Things were a little different for Sam. All that complaining about training took on a new aspect for the elder brother. He could recall all the gentle ribbing he'd aimed at Sam about being chubby, and about how his baby brother wasn't working hard enough. Following those memories were John's joking comments about Sam becoming a liability if he didn't smarten up.

Suddenly it all took on a sinister appearance. Every time they told him he wasn't working hard enough, Dean could feel the hurt, emotional and physical that came from those sessions. His brother had been working through strained muscles and sore ankles and aching ribs. It didn't come easy to Sam. All that combat and gun training needed twice as much work from Sam to reach the same degree of skill as Dean.

Dean had talent, all Sam had was grit and determination. It served him well, and Sam learned it. But he'd never be as good as Dean because he just wasn't built that way.

Sam tried to make up for it by knowing everything about the creature they faced. Extra hours of research, something he had a real talent for, trying to save his father the effort and make sure they knew exactly what they were dealing with. More often than not, Sam never heard a word of praise for that work.

It was like everything he did was just useless.

Memories continued to hurtle by. He saw him own face looking back at him. Or rather, he saw himself through Sam's eyes. It took Dean a minute to figure out the conflicted feelings he was getting from his brother. Suddenly they clicked into place. Dean knew what those odd feelings of affection were. Some of them were the same he felt for Sam. Others . . .

Dean could only recall feeling that way with one person. He felt those feelings about Mom.

Sam felt about Dean, the way Dean felt about Mom.

A frisson of mild masculine horror about being Sam's mom of all things rippled through Dean, before suddenly finding himself as the bad guy in Sam's memories.

"Dean, why won't Dad answer my questions any more?"

"Dad gave you an order to stop asking. That should be enough."

Sam's inability to understand why he couldn't ask why filled the kid with frustration. Dean, toeing the party line, refusing to explain, giving a completely inadequate explanation made Sam want to hurt his brother. To shake him. To make him understand that some people didn't call that an explanation.

"C'mon Dean. It's not fair. He's not letting you go to the dance. I mean, we're leaving day after tomorrow, we're both pretty much totally packed, back me up. You can go to the high school dance with Caitlyn and do . . . whatever after, and I can go to the game. It won't be any inconvenience to Dad." Sam made a good point.

Dean recalled thinking that Dad's authority needed to be made clear. The chain of command had to be clear.

"Dad said 'no,' Sam."

A wave of hurt and annoyance. They weren't a family. At least, Sam didn't feel that way. He felt like the most junior officer in the army, being picked on by the higher-ups. He had no one to commiserate with. No one who'd agree that Dad was being unfair. He just had an older brother who alternated between putting him in a headlock and giving him noogies, and playing at being Mom. Dean, playing at all the nagging, annoying bits of Mom.

All the bits that wouldn't listen or pay attention to the point he was making.

Years flicked by. Years of being told he'd never be as good as his brother. Years of being told that that meant he was worthless as a person and a son. Years of trying and trying while Dean seemed to get all the praise and attention without effort.

Years of seeing the normal kids get praise from their parents for winning soccer trophies and high grades, and yet never getting a word from his Dad on the topic, save requests that he focus on something more important, because the only place he was getting positive feedback was a waste of his time.

Nevermind how many times the things he'd learned in school helped them figure out how to destroy something, or who the ghost was or how to find a trace of the monster of the week.

Sam got into college with plans. He'd wanted some time to find himself. He always got praised in school, and he freely admitted he wanted to be someplace he got told he was good at things for a while. Someplace where hours of work in the library, and the sweat, blood and tears of academic success meant something. He'd wanted a chance to see what it was like to have a permanent home for a while. Like Bobby and Caleb and Pastor Jim. All those hunters who could go home after a hunt proved to Sam that you didn't have to live like a gypsy in order to be a hunter.

Sam's plan was to go to college and use the chance to get access to the university libraries for hunting research. He planned to take classical studies because so many of the extant hunting texts were in Greek and Latin. He'd wanted to do a second major in journalism. It'd let him be on the road, but have a regular job. It'd let him be able to support his Dad and Dean so they wouldn't have to use credit card fraud just to survive. He'd wanted to get out on his own, the way Dean could but Sam seemingly couldn't.

Dean had been free to come and go as he pleased seemingly since he turned seventeen. Sam had just turned eighteen, and never got to go anywhere or do anything without Dean or Dad hanging over his shoulder.

He'd planned to go to school, meet up for hunts on some long weekends, and spend the holidays still hunting with his family. He'd be available for research if Dad and Dean needed it.

He'd . . .

Be told that if he went to university, he should consider himself no longer part of the family.

All the years of frustration boiled over. Years of trying to make himself heard, of trying to get some positive attention and of simply trying to make someone listen exploded. All his rational reasons for going, all his good intentions flew right out of his head.

Sam just knew he had to get out. That he'd spent more time than was healthy contemplating whether Dad or Dean would even give a damn if they came home to find him OD'd on sleeping pills or with his wrists slit. He knew he was getting closer every day to just breaking and giving up.

So he left. He didn't want to break, and he was perilously close to it.

It hurt more than he could have imagined. One phone call, and a snarled conversation with his Dad, who'd called him a quitter and useless and a great many other things, and Sam knew he'd done the right thing for himself.

The last three years of Dean's refrain that "Dad gave us an order, Sam," of watching his brother sink under the guilt and pain of their Dad's death and the burden John had placed on him; the sick knowledge that Dad, who was rarely wrong about these things thought that Sam was some kinda evil thing and a year of desperately trying to save Dean and being thwarted at every damn turn all wore away at him. The past several months of loneliness and guilt and Dean coming back only for him to condemn what Sam had done to keep from going crazy – it was like he was shouting into an abyss.

Ruby had been the only one to let him talk. To let him explain himself.

Sam was sick of trying to explain himself to Dean.

Dean could see why, now.

It didn't make what Sam was doing right. It didn't make Ruby good. Most of all, if Dean didn't stop this, he'd never get his brother back.

So in spite of the fact that he wanted to beg Sammy's forgiveness, to tell him he was sorry for misinterpreting Sam's desire to go for university, to get away from his family, Dean had a job to do.

"You think you're the only one who no one ever listened to?" Dean snarled. "How about a brother who knows damn well why he needs to follow orders but won't listen to those orders. How about someone who's so busy wrapping Dad around his little finger he won't pay attention to anyone but himself?"

Sam's eyes narrowed in fury. "You're still just not paying attention. That's just like you, Dean."

"Me? You're the one who's self-centred. I gave up my childhood for you!"

Ruby broke in then. "So Sam still has to listen to you? Your 'poor me' pity party?" She sneered, but the expression turned into something sweet and angelic the moment Sam glanced her way. "Sam, I think we've heard enough, don't you?"

That flicker of uncertainty on Sam's face, his continued impulse to see both sides of an issue gave Dean a flare of hope. He'd hated that in the past. Hated the way Sam would feel sorry for some thing that was killing people, hated the way Sam insisted on defending police procedure and hated having to debate everything to death. But this time it meant Sam might hear him out.

"You haven't," Dean said. "You never bothered to listen to me, either." He put on his best, 'I'm pissed at you,' glare and said, "You say Dad and I were too focussed on the hunt and didn't see other options – you never gave a damn about what I was actually focussed on. You just saw what you wanted to see."

Ruby's mouth opened, but Sam's eyes had narrowed. "Well, how about I see what you were seeing then, huh?" A small smile quirked his lips and Dean felt the world flip upside down again. Right before it did, though, one thing fanned that small flame of hope. Ruby looked horrified. She looked like her plan had just fallen apart.

And then Dean felt something rifling through his mind, like Sam had taken those ginormous hands and was just sifting through his brain with them. His earliest memories went on display first, because he could feel that Sam was watching those memories like they were a TV show.

Mom.

Dean was reliving those days after Mom died. The loneliness that came from Mommy being gone, from Daddy seemingly choosing to ignore him and from the fact that Sammy was crying all the time. Daddy just wasn't all there and he smelled bad sometimes and talked all weird.

So Dean got up early every morning and put out the little white pills Daddy wanted every morning he came home late smelling funny, with a big glass of water. He kept Sammy with him all the time so he'd know when Sammy was smelly and needed his diaper changed, or when he was hungry or scared. Dean learned how to make the toaster work, he'd watched Mommy do it enough times, and he could make eggs and oatmeal with the microwave. Cereal was easy too.

Dean also remembered when Daddy told him they were leaving to find the Bad Thing that made Mommy go away.

They'd left most of his toys, and his racecar bed sheets and everything behind. They'd packed into the Impala, with Dean having to be the one to take care of Sammy all the time because Daddy had real important things to do.

It was Dean's sole comfort for a long time.

Daddy's doing real important things. That's why he doesn't have time for you or Sammy.

Dean could recall when Dad first started teaching Sam how to handle a gun.

"Dad? I'm having some trouble with the .45. Could you give me a hand?"

"Sorry buddy, I gotta help Sammy with his grip."

"Dad? I just finished the sawed-off. You wanna check it over?"

A cursory glance, "'S'fine. Sammy, when you're sighting down the gun, I need you to keep both your eyes open."

"Dad? Where's my bullet mould?"

"Huh? Oh. Sammy needs to learn how to forge silver bullets himself. I let him keep it."

Dad? Why are you giving all my stuff to Sammy? Dad? Why don't you notice all the work I put into my shooting stance? Dad? Why are you spending all your time at home with Sammy?

When Sam started going to school, always coming home with those really high grades that he seemed to get without even trying, Dad seemed to forget that Dean was working his butt off to keep up that B average that would keep the CPS of their asses.

"Is there some reason you got a C on this test Dean?" Dad was standing there, one eyebrow raised, pissed off and not wanting to hear excuses.

He still had to try. "Dad, we hadn't started doing all that stuff about refraction and reflection at Kildare Heights. They've been doing this for a month and a half here, I just don't know. The teacher wrote on the paper that—"

"I don't need your excuses Dean. Start doing better or I'll have to ground you."

But the teacher said she was amazed I got a C on something I had to learn in one weekend. Dad never let him say it. It was always about Sam.

Sam had just headed upstairs for bed, when Dad held him back. "Dean, Sam's doing fine with all this moving. I expect you to keep a decent average. Do you understand me?"

"But Dad, Sam's good at school, I'm not and I don't—"

"Do. You. Understand. Me."

A twitch of the lips. "Yes."

Lowered brows from his father. Clearly Dad's decided that Dean's being sulky rather than grimly resigned. "Yes what?"

"Yes sir."

Always being trapped between Dad's immovable object and Sam's irresistible force.

"Dean, keep your brother quiet and happy."

"I don't want grilled cheese. I want Froot Loops."

"Dean! Why the hell'd you give your brother Froot Loops for dinner!"

"Dean! Why won't you give me Froot Loops? I want Froot Loops!"

"Dean! I told you to keep your brother quiet!"

Always being left alone with Sammy. Sometimes for days. Lying to the neighbours, the school, the CPS, the cops, the motel owners and good Samaritans all over.

Not that Dad ever noticed. Sammy didn't either, but Dean was actually trying to hide it from Sammy. He'd tell Dad, and all he'd get was a grunted, "But you kept 'em off?"

"Yes, Dad."

"Good."

When he couldn't, when they had to move, Dad would get this look. The same look he had after the shtriga. That look that said it was all Dean's fault and Dad was disappointed.

Dad was never disappointed in Sam. Angry at his questions, sure. But he never looked at Sam like he'd failed at everything.

Then he comes home one day to see Sam exploding everywhere about how Dad's keeping them from reaching their potential. About how Dad's quest to kill the thing that took Mom away is a joke and worthless. Shouting about how much he hated hunting and living with his family.

Sammy, who was the only real constant for Dean, other than the Impala, wanted to leave. Wanted to leave Dean. Who heard his name through a haze, and it's only on reliving the memory that he caught Sam saying that he wanted Dean to come with him to Stanford.

All he knew in that moment was that Sammy was leaving and Dad always left even if he always came back, and Dad had never completely come back from when Mommy died.

Getting Sam back four years later was at the cost of seeing his brother happy. The road and demons and monsters and death and angels have taken their toll, and Dean's frightened and alone. He's got no one to talk to, to joke with, to share life with. All he's got is a little brother who he's frightened for and becoming frightened of. He's got angels hanging over his shoulders telling him just what Dad told him in that hospital before he died. Right after Dean should have died.

"You have to save Sam. If you can't, you'll have to kill him."

He's even more lonely now than right after Mommy went away forever and Daddy started smelling funny. Because at least he could climb into Sammy's crib and snuggle close and know that Sammy wouldn't go away too.

With a wrench, Sam was gone and Dean was on the floor feeling like he imagines rape would be like.

Sam's eyes were wide, and he looked green. Like he was going to hurl.

"Dean . . . I . . ."

And then he turned to Ruby. Furious. And for a moment, that hand was up, and she was twitching and gagging and dark smoke was coming out of her mouth.

He stopped.

"No," he said. And then he's across the room, a knife out, and he ripped off the bottom of Ruby's shirt. Right under her bra was a binding link, which Sam sliced through and with a push, she went flying into the devil's trap Dean had drawn on the ceiling to catch her.

"Sam!" she said, looking scared.

Dean was still gagging on the floor, but he looks up to see Sam, his jaw working, and glaring at her, just the way he'd looked at Meg and Azazel and every other monster out there that had hurt someone Sam cared about. "You're through."

It was like all the humanity in her melted away. Her eyes rolled, and she snarled. "I hope you know what you've done. You were my last chance to get at that bitch, Lilith."

Sam's nostril's flared, but Dean was the one who replied. Sam started the exorcism. "Tough luck. Say hi to the crowd back home for me, willya?"

"You'll regret this!" she shrieked through the pain of the exorcism. "You'll . . ."

". . . In nomine Dei!"

Her head tilted back and with a scream, the flood of now-familiar black smoke poured out of her mouth, headed for Hell.

Sam knelt beside the young woman on the ground, checking her pulse. It was weak, but fairly steady. While Dean slowly pulled himself together, Sam put in an anonymous tip to 911 and manhandled Dean out the door and to the Impala.

It was only when they were a half-hour's drive away, pulled over on the shoulder that Sam turned to Dean and said, "I'm sorry."

"For what, exactly?"

Sam frowned, his head tilting in confusion, before he understood. Dean wanted to know exactly what Sam was sorry about. If Sam was still lying to him.

"For . . . for everything. For not making you understand why I wanted to go to Stanford, for making you carry all my emotional crap along with yours, for asking you to kill me, for being so crappy about your deal, for lying to you, for trusting Ruby instead of you, for being a spoiled brat when we were kids and never appreciating all the work you had to do," he paused there. "And for just now, when I raped your mind. I can't . . ." he trailed off for a moment, jaw working as he looked for the words.

Before, Dean would have let him off the hook. Would have played it off as a chick flick moment. Now, he needed to know. He needed to know if he had Sammy back. If there was a chance they could get back any of what they once had.

Sam took in a shaky breath. "I can't even offer to leave. I know you didn't want me to go before, but maybe you want me to go now." He looked at his brother with tears in his eyes. Tears Dean could feel pricking at his own eyes. "I just . . ."

Dean looked at his little brother, staring miserably at the steering wheel. He remembered all those memories Sam had hit him with. All the times Sam felt like he was five kinds of worthless, and all because Dad couldn't bring himself to tell either of his sons he was proud of them.

He'd been bitter because Dad was always telling complete strangers how smart his younger son was, and because Sam had kept on harping about how Dad didn't give a damn about him. He supposed it's a little hard to know someone's proud of you if they don't tell you or show you or anything.

And finding out that Sam had had every intention of coming back, had wanted to go to university to make hunting easier, it healed a sore spot in Dean that he'd almost forgotten was there.

"I should be sorry too. You were right. Dad and I never listened to you. Not really."

"Dean!" Sam looked horrified. "Don't apologise. I just raped your brain for chrissakes!"

Dean looked at him, seriously. "And it brought you back from the edge. You're not gonna use those powers any more, are you?"

"No." Sam's voice was definite. No hesitation, no hints of, 'Maybe if we're in serious trouble,' just certainty.

"Then it was worth it."

"Dean-" Sam tried to speak. Dean cut him off.

"I'm not sayin' you don't owe me," he told his little brother. "I get to pick the food for the next month, at least. And I want pie."

"Dean-"

"Dude. Pie."

Sam looked like he was going to cry, but he turned the key and pulled back onto the road. In search of pie.

Things weren't okay by a long shot. But maybe now, they could be.

The End

Author's Endnote: And then Castiel appeared in the back seat and told them that Dean had fulfilled the primary work he'd been brought out of Hell for, and all they had left to do was visit some guy from Texas on a TV show which episode was entitled, "Brothers who let their differences break up their relationships." And Dean said that if they wanted them to go talk to anyone from Texas, it'd be that hot chick in that bar with the best BBQ wings in the state and not Dr. Phil, but Castiel insisted so they wound up on the show and hugged and Sam cried and the FBI decided it couldn't be those Winchesters because no crazed murderer would be stupid enough to go on Dr. Phil for therapy, and they lived happily ever after killing ghosts and scary crap.