So Pooja (Chronic Potterphile) and Sanjana (SPNxBookworm) finally convinced me to do the Supernatural J2 Big Bang over at LiveJournal this year. What followed was caffeine-fueled sprees of late-night writing, crying and panicked texting back and forth as we all ran to make the deadline. And this, this is the result of that.

The story is just over 30k words long, and will be divided into sections of past and present tense. I won't be posting it all at once - even though that's what I did on AO3, but then AO3 is easier to work with. Instead, I'll be posting it in chapters, maybe five or six or so, so that it's not too hard to read and keep up with.

My artist for this fic is the lovely Yuri (yuriookino), and the link to her art for this story can be found on my profile. On AO3 I inserted it as part of the fic, but sadly we can't do that here.

And, last but never the least, my beta is the beautiful, amazing, sexy, talented, and all manner of awesome Dri (dridri93) without whom not only would this fic be grammatically and canonically challenged but also ridden with humongous plotholes, but also a mess and not coherent and honestly I don't know what I would do without her.

Title taken from Unbroken by Black Veil Brides. It's one of my favorite songs that I associate with Sam and Dean.

WARNINGS: graphic depictions of violence, major character death, alcohol abuse/alcoholism

Other tags: sick!Sam, cursed!Sam, hurt/comfort, grief/mourning, protective!Dean, caretaker!Dean, lots and lots and lots of brothertouching

Enjoy!

(show me how) bleeding heart still pounds
Supernatural J2 Big Bang 2015
~iamremy

NOW

Dean finds Sam in the war room, seated at a table dressed in his pajamas and a thin t-shirt, staring off into space. He sighs to himself and taps Sam lightly on the shoulder, causing him to jump. "Jesus, Dean," Sam says plaintively, looking up at him, "don't do that."

"You all right?" Dean asks, taking the seat across from Sam.

Sam nods. "Yeah, man, I'm fine," he says patiently. "Really, Dean. I'm good."

Dean looks at him critically, as if gauging the truth of his statement. Evidently satisfied, he nods and says, "Okay, Sammy. If you say so." He holds in the urge to ask how long Sam's been sitting there, and if he's had anything to eat or not. Hovering too much is just going to make Sam clam up, and if that happens there's not a snowball's chance in hell that Dean will get anything out of him. He's not really talking much as it is. Probably he's exhausted from the curse, and would rather not talk at all than risk giving away too much by not shutting up at all.

"You find anything?" Dean asks, closely watching Sam under the guise of looking at him inquisitively.

Sam frowns at Dean, then at the laptop in front of him. Dean can tell he knows he's being watched, going by the way his shoulders tense up, posture guarded. "Couple of weird deaths," he says shortly, sliding the laptop over to Dean. "Might be a case."

Dean scans through the article that's on the screen, and then glances up at Sam, who looks away just a split-second too late. Great, so Sam's watching him too. "Let's check it out," Dean says, deliberately choosing not to comment. "It's not far from here. I'll meet you by the car in ten?"

Sam nods, getting up. "Okay. Uh, what about you?" he adds, frowning at Dean again. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, 'course I am," Dean says at once, too quick to be believable. "I'm not the one with a curse on me, man," he adds, hoping to deflect but at the same time knowing it won't work.

"No, I meant, about Cas," Sam begins, before clamping his lips together tightly to prevent himself from saying anymore. "I'm just concerned, is all," he finally says. "I know you're having trouble sleeping, and you eat too little and drink too much. I don't think you're okay, Dean." He looks mortified the minute he finishes, realizing he's talked too much.

"Yeah, well, I think you need to keep it shut for a while," snaps Dean before he can stop himself. Immediately Sam's face falls, and dammit, Dean really hates this curse. It's hard to deal with the way emotions show so clearly on his face now, mainly because he's never noticed it before. Sam's great at hiding stuff he doesn't want others to know, like the fact that, Jesus Christ, he'd tried to kill himself right after Lucifer told him he's his true vessel–

Dean shakes his head, rids himself of the unpleasant thoughts, and sees that he's alone – Sam must've gone to get ready. He sighs to himself again and heads to his own room.

THEN

"What the fuck," Dean mouthed to Sam, who had his arms full of a desperately sobbing middle-aged woman. Sam just shook his head back at Dean and continued awkwardly patting her on the back.

"There, there," he said, immediately grimacing at how forced and cliché the words sounded. "It's okay, Mrs. Hill. It's all good. You're, uh, all right, I guess."

Dean snorted into his coffee. Mrs. Hill cried harder.

"I just wish it wasn't so hard," she sobbed into Sam's bicep. He tried to focus on stopping her waterworks and not how he'd have to give the suit in for dry-cleaning to get the snot off. "I mean, I understand people die, but it was so, so violent and sudden and I just can't deal, you know? Our marriage was never perfect, you know. He kept saying I was frigid and not sexually interested in him but he never could get it up either. And I found out he had another woman. But that doesn't mean I wanted him dead, ever!"

Sam patted her back some more, making a face at Dean trying to hold his laughter in. "It's not funny," he mouthed over Mrs. Hill's head to Dean. "Uh... how did you say your husband died?" he asked her out loud.

"I didn't," she hiccupped. "Oh, Agent Grohl, it was terrible. He just... it was so bad. I'll never forget what I saw."

"What was it?" Dean asked, trying and failing to look sombre. He just looked a little constipated.

"A heart attack," she replied, and let out a wail. "Oh, my poor dear Jack!" There was a blowing sound, and Sam looked horrified. Dean couldn't control himself any longer – he burst out laughing, and then immediately had to disguise it as a coughing fit when Mrs. Hill turned to look at him in shock.

"I don't know, Sammy, I think you should go back," he joked a few minutes later, as they took their leave of Mrs. Hill and made their way towards the Impala parked at the end of her driveway. "She looks like she kinda needs you."

"Shut up," grumbled Sam, gingerly taking his suit jacket off and throwing it in the backseat. "I feel traumatized." He got into the front passenger seat and closed the door, just as Dean did the same.

"Didn't seem like much of a case, though," he commented once the car was going. "Guy was 55, obese, smoker, had a history of heart disease. Seems completely ordinary to me. Sad, but ordinary."

"Probably got too excited during sex with his girlfriend," mused Dean.

"She said he couldn't get it up," Sam pointed out.

"He couldn't get it up with her," Dean amended. "And come on, Sammy, if she's as emotional during sex as she was now, it's not hard to see why."

"Did you honestly just compare sex to a woman's husband dying?" Sam asked incredulously. "I'd say she had every right to be emotional, Dean."

"Yeah, but the entire, clinging to you and sobbing out her whole life story, that part? Bit over the top, don't you think, Sammy?" Dean said, taking one hand off the wheel and waving it around Sam for emphasis. "She said it herself, the marriage wasn't great. Why's she that broken up?"

Sam shrugged. "Whatever it is, man. Not much of a case. Unless there's a monster that somehow makes its victims cry a lot," he added with a sarcastic scoff.

"Let's just stick around for a couple more days," Dean decided. "If there's nothing, awesome. If something does happen, though, we'll check it out."

"All right," Sam agreed.

They'd just gotten back to the motel when Sam's phone rang – it was the town's Sheriff, calling to say they had another dead man. Dean, who'd just opened a beer, made a face, but put his jacket back on anyway, before stopping in his tracks and grinning at Sam. "Your jacket's got snot all over the sleeve," he pointed out.

Sam grimaced. "Yeah, I know," he muttered. "I've got a spare in the Impala, so no biggie."

"Pity," Dean said happily as they stepped back outdoors, Sam locking the door, "I'd have loved to see what the boys at the Sheriff's office thought."

"Who gives a crap?" questioned Sam, getting out his spare jacket and checking it for dust before putting it on. "They knew we were going to question the vic's wife, so tears and snot were probably a given."

"That many, though?" Dean said, still grinning as he got into the car and started up the engine. "She really did a number on you, Sammy."

"Hey, she was grieving," Sam said, shutting his own door and folding himself into the seat. "A few tears and some snot is totally allowed."

"Yeah, but it was much more than a few," Dean reminded him. "She was really broken up, Sammy. I've got half a mind to drop you back so you can comfort her." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively at Sam, who swatted his arm.

"Leave it to you to make everything sound dirty," he muttered. Dean just grinned, looking for all the world like he was proud of himself.

Sam let it slide; he could tell that Dean was doing his best to act like his normal self, joking and bantering, in an effort to fight the Mark's hold on him. It was obvious that Dean was trying his best to mask his irritation at everything with jokes in the hopes that his homicidal urges wouldn't get the best of him, and Sam wasn't going to be the one to point it out and put Dean on the spot, which might make Dean revert to his irritable, easily provoked self.

So Sam just scoffed and rolled his eyes in an easy imitation of his usual reaction to Dean's antics, and pretended that there wasn't a huge Mark-shaped elephant in the Impala.

"Mark Dunne," the Sheriff told them, when they arrived and all the niceties were done with. "Died of a heart attack, it looks like, which ain't unusual... 'cept the man was healthy as a horse. Ran in marathons, ate nothin but salad, thin as a wire, ya know the type. He wasn't that old either, just 'bout forty-five I'd say, so this one came outta left field. His widow's sure that it wasn't natural, something musta induced it. We're waitin on the autopsy right now, and after that you two gentleman can take a look."

"Right, thanks," Sam said. "Can we get the widow's address, Sheriff?"

The man nodded, writing it down on a Post-It note and handing it to Sam. "Be easy on her, alright?" he said. "She's a friend of my wife's. Nice people. She's just had a loss, don't go makin it harder for her."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Dean said breezily. "Come on, then, Agent Grohl, let's get to work."

If they thought that Mrs. Hill had been bad, that was nothing compared to Angela Dunne. She started out okay enough, offering them tea and biscuits, face pale and eyes red, but that was to be expected from a woman who'd just suddenly lost her husband. She held herself well throughout the beginning, answering the questions posed to her in a more or less calm manner... until Dean asked about the state of her marriage.

"Oh, Jesus," she managed to say, before two fat tears fell out of her eyes and she broke down sobbing. Alarmed, Sam reached out and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Hey, Mrs. Dunne..." he began, rubbing her arm a bit. "We're really sorry, Mrs. Dunne. I know it must be hard."

Without any warning she launched herself at the nearest Winchester – Sam – and threw her arms around him, weeping loudly into his chest. Dean's mouth twitched as he wavered between sympathy and hilarity, before finally popping a biscuit into his mouth and chewing rather aggressively so that he wouldn't laugh. Sam glared at him over Mrs. Dunne's head even as he patted her back. Twice in just as many hours. Fucking perfect. There went his spare jacket.

"He was such a wonderful man," Angela sobbed, clutching at Sam's shirt. He could already feel the wetness forming where her tears soaked into his shirt, and it made him uncomfortable but there was nothing he could do, not while she had a vice-like grip on him and was crying her eyes out. "But by God he wasn't a very good husband, you know? Always – always came home late and got so snappy when I asked about it. Made me think he had another woman, and I'm not gonna lie, Agent, I was so – so angry. I did shout so much at him, you know. But, Jesus, he's gone now and I was so mad at him and now – now I realize we could've just talked it out but we didn't, and I was being so ridiculously distant from him! And now he's never coming back!"

Dean's mouth was slightly open as he took all of this in – her bawling, Sam's distinctly uneasy expression and the tense way he held himself as she cried. There was something off about the entire scenario, and it wasn't just that the biscuits tasted stale. "Mrs. Dunne," he said, trying his best to sound sympathetic. "Is there anyone who'd want to harm your husband?"

She hiccupped, and cried harder, her grip on Sam tightening.

"Mrs. Dunne," Dean repeated, a bit more firm this time, trying his best not to let the ever-present irritation creep into his tone. "We'd appreciate if you calmed down a little. We're very sorry for your loss, but we need you to help us out, please."

That seemed to do the trick, though she was still crying silently as she pulled away from Sam. The front of his white shirt was wet and sticking to his skin, and Dean tried his best to maintain a straight face as Sam groaned silently and buttoned up his jacket to hide it. "What did you say?" Mrs. Dunne hiccupped.

Dean repeated his question, and this time he did sound annoyed.

"Well, not that I know of," she said, stuttering a little, breathing hard from her crying session, face red and splotchy. "He was very – very loved. No, I don't think there's anyone who'd want to harm him."

Dean nodded, and Sam said, "One last thing, Mrs. Dunne. Did you notice anything weird lately, any strange smells, cold spots, flickering lights...?"

She shook her head, looking a little confused. "No," she said. "Why? Should I have?"

Dean offered her a forced smile and handed her a card. "Just covering all bases, ma'am. If anything comes up, though, let us know."

"Still think it's not a case?" he asked Sam, once they were back out in the car.

"What could it be, though?" Sam wondered. "All we know for sure is that both vics died of heart attacks, and both their wives seem to think they were cheating."

"And both wives found your embrace very comforting," Dean sniggered. "Seriously, Sammy, what's that about? Since when do you appeal so much to middle-aged suburban moms?"

Sam made a face at him. "Shut up, Dean," he sighed, already knowing there was no point. "The connections between the vics are pretty shaky," he said a moment later. "Both died of heart attacks... but one was healthy and the other wasn't. Could be a coincidence."

"Could be a case, too," Dean countered. "Angry spirit, you think?"

"They didn't notice any cold spots or flickering lights," Sam pointed out. "Witch?"

"Maybe," Dean replied. "Or maybe it's something else. Let's check for hexbags, and if there's nothing then at least we can cross that off our list."

Sam nodded. "All right, then."

NOW

"Hey," Dean says softly, turning down the music so that they can talk. "I didn't mean that. What I said earlier." It's the closest to an apology he's going to give.

"You did," Sam contradicts simply, still looking listlessly out the window like he's been doing since they set out forty-five minutes ago. "You didn't like that I called you out on the drinking and not sleeping. And you know I'm right. So you snapped at me because you don't want to accept to yourself that you have a problem." For once he doesn't look concerned that he's said too much.

"Jesus, Sam, I'm sorry," Dean sighs. "Look, you're right, that I know you're right. But just... let me deal, okay? None of this is easy on me either, you know. Let me deal."

"I don't care how you deal, as long as it's in a healthy way," Sam says, finally looking at him, and God but he looks miserable. "I... I can't lose you too, Dean." The admission, although brought on by a curse, is nevertheless true, and Dean knows it too.

He reaches out and takes Sam's hand, squeezing it lightly. "You won't," he promises firmly. "I'm not going anywhere, all right, Sammy?"

"I know," Sam says, reciprocating the gesture, and he still looks like he might cry any second but he offers Dean a smile anyway, a soft little shadow of what Dean's used to seeing on his little brother's face. Dean waits for him to say something more, as he's come to expect over the past few days, but for once Sam doesn't. Which means he's got nothing more to say.

Dean doesn't continue the conversation, but he doesn't turn the music back up either. He just holds his brother's hand and continues driving, ignoring the lump in his throat or the sting just behind his eyes, and wishing that for once, they'd catch a break. For fuck's sake... just once in their lives.

"It wouldn't be this hard if we didn't know what's ahead for him," Sam says softly some time later.

"There's nothing ahead for him," Dean says shortly, knowing without asking who Sam's talking about.

"Exactly," Sam replies, the corners of his mouth pulling down, eyes watering just a little. Another short silence follows, and then he says, "Someone's got to tell Claire."

Dean sighs. "Sammy, we haven't heard from her in ages," he reminds him. "And besides... is she even going to care?"

"She has a right to know," Sam points out. "If it was me I'd want to know."

Dean lets go of his hand and pats him on the arm. "We'll figure it out," is all he says, knowing it's not a real answer but not really wanting to think about it in too much depth either. It's too soon, it's still too raw, and while he may not be able to let it out the way Sam's forced into doing, that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt any less. Maybe it's worse this way, feeling it but having to hold it in so that it feels like there are tiny slivers of razor-sharp glass embedded in his insides, in the lining of his organs, digging deeper with every breath. Maybe it would be better to just let it out like Sam, but he knows he can't do that either. Someone has to have their shit together, and it can't be Sam. Fucking curses.

He's jolted out of his thoughts when Sam yawns, blinking sleepily, and Dean remembers that Sam was up in the war room when he woke. He wonders again how long Sam's been awake for. Instead of asking, though, he just smiles at his brother and pats his shoulder. "Get some sleep, Sammy," is all he says. "We've still got a lot of time before we get there. Get some rest."

Sam nods. "Yeah," he says, leaning against the window and trying to get comfortable. Dean watches him out of the corner of his eye, until finally grabbing his jacket at the bicep and tugging him closer so that his head rests on Dean's shoulders.

"Not a word," he says when Sam opens his mouth to talk.

Sam huffs. "I was gonna say thank you," he grumbles, then yawns again, closing his eyes. He shifts some more before settling comfortably, and is out like a light within minutes.

It's evening when Sam begins shifting restlessly in his sleep, his face going from relaxed to tense and uneasy. Dean, too busy driving and humming along to Guns N' Roses, doesn't notice, not until Sam begins crying out in his sleep.

"Hey," Dean says as he pulls over, shaking Sam with his free hand and speaking loudly. "Hey, c'mon, Sammy, it's a dream. C'mon, wake up."

Sam stirs but doesn't wake, twisting around in his place, curling up and making himself smaller. Seeing it gives Dean a sick taste in his mouth, but he pushes it to the back of his mind and shakes Sam harder. "Come on, Sam, wake up. It's just a dream."

Sam comes to with a shout and wild gasp, breathing hard as his eyes fly open and he takes a moment to orient himself and register his surroundings. "Dean," he says the minute he realizes where he is.

"Just a nightmare," Dean tells him, tone soft and placating. "You're all right, Sammy." To further emphasize his point he squeezes Sam's fingers.

Sam nods. "Okay," he says, still breathing a bit too fast. "It seemed very real," he tells Dean a moment later. "I dreamed I was back in the Cage."

It's Dean's turn to shift uneasily. Neither of them like to talk about their time in Hell. The topic is steered far away from when it comes up in conversation, and any bad dreams pertaining to it are kept under wraps and dealt with in their individual manner of choosing – alcohol for Dean and copious amounts of physical exertion and/or research for Sam. The only exception to this rule has been Sam's only other Cage dream, and that's a night that Dean would gladly erase from his memories, if only so he doesn't have to hear Sam screaming like that ever again.

"Well, you're not," he finally tells Sam. "That was a long time ago, Sammy."

Sam laughs mirthlessly. "A couple of years doesn't seem that long when you've spent thousands of years being flayed alive," he points out.

To his credit Dean doesn't flinch, but the sick taste in his mouth is back. He's never asked about Sam's experiences in the Cage – what with that entire thing about neither of them wanting to talk about it – but he's always known it made his years look like a vacation. He doesn't ever want to know, God, what could've happened in there to make Sam the way he is–

"It's all right," he repeats, trying to reassure himself as much as Sam, reaching out and keeping his hand on Sam's shoulder, centering both of them. It's not nearly enough and it can't ever be if he wants to really help Sam, but it's all he has.

Sam bites his lower lip and leans in, his head back on Dean's shoulder. He's entirely silent, and when Dean feels hot tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt, he knows why. Instead of commenting he just moves his arm so that it's around Sam, and wordlessly rubs small circles into his skin, over his shirt. Eventually the tears stop, but Sam doesn't go back to sleep. He doesn't move, though, and neither does Dean.

"It's all right," Dean says one more time, Sam's head heavy on his shoulder. It's not enough but it's all they've got.

to be continued.

Feedback would honestly be lovely, you guys. I slaved for literal months over this fic, and I'd love to know what you all think!

Take care x