A/N: Hopefully chapter two isn't a let down. There's a lot more of Sam for Dean to get through. I will be posting the remaining two parts after this every other day. All my other notes and disclaimers in the first chapter :) Thanks!
CHAPTER TWO
Let him know that you know best
Cause after all you do know best
Try to slip past his defense
Without granting innocence
Lay down a list of what is wrong
The things you've told him all along
And pray to God he hears you
And pray to God he hears you
-from "How to Save a Life" by The Fray
-o-
White turned to black and it took a moment before Dean realized where he was.
The dark expanse from before. Teeth grinding together, he looked around, and he found the same Sam who had taken him through the door in the first place.
His eyes were hazel, but Dean could see the darkness lurking there anyway. "What the Hell?" he accused. "I thought you were going to let me talk to my brother."
"And I thought I explained this to you," this Sam said again. "I am your brother. They were all your brother. Just different parts of him."
"What?" Dean snapped. "The suicidal addict psycho?"
Sam considered that, frowning a little. Then he nodded. "There's a lot of that in here."
It was so a matter of fact that it took Dean by surprise. He knew Sam was off, but to think he was still an addict? That he was suicidal? That he might have been off his rocker since the Trickster?
Dean had always sort of known it was hard on Sam--Hell, lots of things had been hard on Sam over the years. But the kid coped--he always coped--until he just...hadn't. Until Sam just went off the deep end and decided that demon blood and sleeping with Ruby might be a good idea.
Unless...unless Sam didn't go off the deep end because he was blind and stupid. Unless Sam went off the deep end because he was suicidal. Sam had said Ruby had saved his life. Maybe Dean just hadn't paid enough attention.
"You putting it together?" Sam asked. "A little hard to think about, huh? Try living in here all the time and see how well you fare."
Dean's eyes narrowed. Suicidal addicts or not, Dean didn't come here to take a walk through Sam's psyche. Well, he did, but this wasn't a leisurely stroll. This wasn't even friendly. He just needed to get Sam back in the world of the living. Then, maybe, he could deal with this. "Look, I don't know what game you're playing--"
The Sam held up his hands. "I'm not playing any games."
"Then just let me talk to my brother," Dean said. "Not these whacked out memories. My brother."
The Sam didn't look amused. He rolled his eyes. "Dense, dense, dense," he said. "You want the conscious Sam? Then you can go groping through the dark and try to find him again. The rest of them are your best bet."
"The best bet for what? Going crazy?"
"For figuring a way out of here."
"I just need a one-two-three wake up, and I'm good to go," Dean said back, pulling away defensively.
Sam's eyes darkened and he smiled. "I thought you wanted to get your brother out?"
"I'm not going to mess around with this crap," Dean said. Because he wanted to help Sam, not get lost in his head with this. "And I ought to exorcise you right out of here."
Sam laughed at that. "Please, try," he said. "You think the others haven't?"
"So you are an outsider."
"If I was an outsider, I think it would have worked by now."
There was a truth to that, but still. This was a game--one Dean didn't need to play. He needed simple answers, straightforward truths, not this. "Then take me to a Sam I can reason with."
"So, let me get this straight," Sam said. "You're not such a fan of the crazy version. You're not particularly fond of the addict. You'd really rather not deal with the unhinged Sam. And you really don't seem keen on me. So what do you want?"
"Try a Sam I can reason with," Dean said. "You know, one who's not so friggin' nuts."
"Good luck with that one."
Dean charged forward. He was trapped in his brother's head with some smart-ass, black-eyed version of the kid. This should have been a simple in and out job, and Dean still wasn't sure what he could trust and what he couldn't.
He wrapped his fingers in Sam's shirt and shook him. He felt real and the doe eyed look on the kid's face was so Sam that it almost gave him pause. "I just want my brother, you asshole," he said. "Before I end you once and for all."
"Okay, okay," Sam relented. "One Sam, not quite buckets of crazy. Got it."
Dean stepped back, letting go. He evened his breath out. "I just want to get out of here."
"You're free to leave any time you want," Sam said, making a sweeping motion with his arms.
"With my brother."
Sam made a face. "That's a little bit more difficult."
"So let me talk to a Sam who can help me figure it out."
Sam nodded. "I think I know just the one."
"Yeah? One who's not a freakin' psycho?"
"Sure," Sam said. He smiled a little, waggling his eyebrows. "One totally sane Sam, coming right up."
Dean took a breath, steeled himself as best he could, and the scene blinked out.
-o-
It was the air Dean noticed first.
Fresh and cold. It smelled like dirt and death.
It was night. He was on a beaten street. Western style buildings loomed above him in the shadows.
Dean's heart clenched.
It couldn't be.
He heard his own voice call out. "Sam!"
Dean didn't want to look. He knew what he would see. And yet, it was impossible not to.
He turned slowly, one foot in front of the other, until he was facing down the muddy path. He saw himself, crouched in the mud, his brother's slack body in his arms.
Dead.
Of all the memories, of all the moments--Dean had not wanted to relive this one. That feeling of loss, of failure--it seared through him with a fresh intensity that left him feeling sick.
"You should have left me here," Sam voice came suddenly.
Dean startled, looking beside him. Sam was there, staring out at the scene. He looked wistful and sad, and almost faded around the edges. Then, Sam turned toward him, his body flickering and Dean realized what he was seeing.
Sam's spirit.
Sam was dead.
Of course he'd known Sam was dead--the cooling limp body had been kind of hard to forget--but to see his spirit, to know it had departed from his brother's body--it was a whole new kind of pain.
"You should have burned me, so there was never any chance of coming back," Sam continued. He shook his head. "It's what I wanted."
"You were dead, Sam," Dean told him flatly. "You didn't get a vote."
At that, Sam looked at him. "I could say the same to you."
It wasn't said in malice, but it hit Dean hard just the same. "You telling me that me making the deal is the same as you skanking around with Ruby?"
Sam just looked weary. His features were tired and worn, and the paleness of death did nothing to help. Sam made a soft approximation of a bitchface and sighed again. "The decision to live or die is the greatest thing we have."
"Jake didn't ask you that," Dean said coolly.
"And neither did you," Sam replied just as evenly.
Dean squared his shoulders. He would not apologize for this. He glanced again at the scene behind them. Bobby was there now, pulling Dean away, trying to see, trying to understand--
He looked back at Sam's spirit. "You didn't deserve this."
"And I didn't deserve to be brought back," Sam countered.
"So that's why you brought me here?" Dean snapped. "To make me feel guilty for looking out for you?"
"I didn't bring you here to teach you anything about yourself," Sam said.
"Then why are we here, huh?" Dean said. "Because these trips down memory lane are so much fun, but back in the real world, you're dying."
Sam smiled ruefully. "A bit of irony," he said.
Dean was not amused. "Let just blow this joint," Dean said plainly. He looked again. He saw himself sobbing now, clutching Sam, while Bobby could do nothing but put a hand on his shoulder and ride it out.
"I don't get to make that choice."
Dean swore. "You do. This is your memory. Your head. You call the shots."
Sam looked back at the scene and shook his head. "I can't be trusted," he said. He looked back at Dean. "Isn't that why you made the deal? Because it wasn't my choice anymore."
Dean groaned. "That's so not the same."
"Powerless is powerless," Sam said. "I've been fighting for control my entire life, but it's always been a fallacy. Every time I thought I had it--at Stanford, standing up to Jake--it was taken away from me. All actions lead to the same end. That's destiny."
"That's not destiny," Dean snapped. "There's no such thing as destiny."
Sam just cocked his head a little. "I fought against the demon's plans for me. I refused to kill Jake when I had the chance. I did that right, and yet I was still the last one standing when it was over. Destiny. I could have killed Jake right away or I could let him live, and it would have still worked out the same."
There was logic to that, but Dean refused to buy it. "It's not destiny," he said. "It's just crappy bad luck. It's just unfair."
"Whoever said that destiny was fair?" Sam said.
Dean didn't have an answer for that.
Sam shrugged. "You have a destiny, too. It's why Castiel pulled you out. It's why the demon let you make the deal in the first place. Because it was destiny. You were chosen to do great things."
"Yeah, well, destiny can shove its greatness."
Sam smiled a little. "It's yours whether you want it or not. Just like this is mine."
"Just like what?"
"This," Sam said and he nodded toward the scene. Bobby was holding Dean now, a fierce hug designed to restrain as much as comfort. Sam's body was limp on the cold, wet ground. "Death and destruction."
"You can't believe that."
"It doesn't matter if I believe it," Sam said. "Just watch it. It's true."
Dean closed his eyes. He didn't want to watch. He didn't even want to remember. He just wanted to get out of here.
"I've watched this happen a thousand times," Sam continued. "And every time it happens, I am faced with the same answers. The same fate. I died here. You brought me back to life, but it was never the same. I was never the same."
Dean's jaw locked and he opened his eyes and fixed Sam with a cold stare. After everything, after all the lies and the pain, after the sacrifices Dean had made--he couldn't listen to that. Anything but that. "You don't get to say that," he said. "You have no right to say that. I gave my soul for you, and what you did with it? Was on you. All you, little brother."
Sam listened to him impassively and nodded. "I know," Sam said. "It was all me. Everything I had left, which wasn't enough. Maybe it was never enough and I just never knew it. But what I do know, what I know better than anything, is that the person who died here--the person who bled out and died--was the person I wanted to be. The person that was brought back? I never asked for. I never would have asked for."
"You were dead!" Dean screamed. "I held you as you died and I couldn't handle it!"
Sam just smiled. "I think I know the feeling."
It caught Dean off guard until he remembered that he had died, too. He had died bloody and painfully right in front of Sam, with every graphic detail clear for Sam to see.
It was funny how he'd never thought about that. Never thought about what that would do to Sam. How that grief that pushed Dean to the crossroads had done the same to Sam, only he'd been denied the easy out.
Dean's anger was stymied and he gaped at Sam a little, who had turned his attention back to the scene. Dean turned his eyes there as well, watching as Bobby helped Dean pull Sam up and hoist him over Dean's shoulder. Dean saw himself stagger with the weight, face blank and wet, as they made their trek back to the car.
It was Sam who looked away first. "I stayed here," he said. "I couldn't even follow you."
Dean looked at him. "What?"
"I stayed here in Cold Oak. My spirit couldn't leave."
"Your...what?"
"I didn't go to Heaven and I didn't go to Hell," Sam said. "That surprised me."
It was almost too much to hear. To think of his brother dead was hard enough--to think of his brother's spirit? Just did not compute.
"The thing was, I wasn't angry," Sam said. "I wasn't angry at Jake. I wasn't angry at the demon. I was just...gone. And it was okay."
It hurt. That Sam could be okay with Dean being alone. It just wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Dean felt his chest tighten and his lips curled into an incredulous snarl. "Well, then, that'd be typical, Sam," he said. "Always thinking about yourself."
Sam's eyes narrowed at that, and Sam's disposition changed. "This is the only time it's ever been good, do you understand?" he asked. "The only time it was, ever. There was no more too little, too late. There was no more bad son. There was no more vengeance. It was just over and I couldn't hurt anyone anymore."
"But I need you, Sam."
"No," Sam said, insistently now. "You don't."
"Yeah," Dean said. "I do."
"I know how this ends," Sam told him. "It's better off this way."
Dean knew how this ended, too. He knew about Hell and he knew about Sam's addiction and he knew about the apocalypse. But, standing there, on the streets of Cold Oak, Dean knew there was no other decision to make. Losing Sam had been losing everything. That failure, that damning, encompassing failure--it would have killed him one way or another. Bringing Sam back--Dean got to die a hero, at least. It didn't make it better, but, somehow, it made it worth it.
And there was still a chance to bring Sam back. Not just from the brink of death, but to being his little brother again. They could get over it all--they could get passed it. They just needed to be alive and kicking to make it happen.
"Look," Dean said. "Just because things go wrong, doesn't mean that it's better off with you being dead."
"But if I stay dead, you don't make the deal," Sam explained, with perfect logic. "You don't go to Hell, you don't break the first seal. You don't have to come back to find me sleeping with Ruby and drinking blood. The apocalypse doesn't start--at least not on our watch."
"But I can't handle you dead."
"You can't handle me as a junkie either!" Sam snapped back. He sighed, his eyes looking wistful. "Don't you see? I get to die good. I get to die whole."
"You died with a knife in your back," Dean told him, the memory choking him. "That's not noble."
"But I died as pure as I could," Sam said. "I died on my terms. I made my choice, I chose to let Jake live. I chose it, and these are consequences I can live with. These are consequences that won't haunt me for eternity. This is my only chance for peace. The only chance I'll ever get. Don't take it from me. Please. Don't take it from me."
It was hard to tell his brother no. It always had been.
But this wasn't negotiable. "I could never let you die like this."
"So you'd rather let me live like that?"
The compassionate answer was no.
But, Dean realized, this wasn't about compassion. This had never been about compassion or what was best for Sam. This had been about Dean.
Dean exhaled, his frustrations melting to regret. There was no good outcome to this, he realized. Deals with devils were always too good to be true, but the thought of losing Sam? Even now? After all this time?
Was more than he could take.
After all, he was here. Not in Cold Oak, but in Sam's head. Trying to figure out how to bring his comatose brother back to the land of the living.
So he was pretty sure that telling Sam to go toward the light wasn't the right choice--now or then. Not for Dean, anyway.
"Right now, I just want you to live."
"But I'll betray you," Sam reminded him. His face scrunched up and he let out a lone sob before he pulled himself back together. "I'll change. I already have."
It was funny, looking back. How, in the end, it still had to be worth it. "I can fix it."
Sam shook his head. "You can't fix me," he said. "You can bring me back, you can make me live, but nothing can fix me."
"You don't know that."
"And neither do you."
"But I know you," Dean said. No matter what Sam thought or what Sam said, Dean knew Sam.
Sam swallowed. "Yeah? Then who am I, Dean?"
The question again. But here, in Cold Oak, knowing this was the time he had lost Sam for good, he knew why Sam still mattered. After everything. After the lies and betrayal. There was still one thing that didn't change, no matter how much Dean wanted it to. "You're my reason for fighting, Sammy. Without you--there's just nothing, okay? Nothing."
It was all Dean had to offer. His only appeal to bring his brother back. To convince Sam that Dean still needed him, even after everything Sam had done to him.
Sam's expression was torn, though: a mix of understanding, love, and brokenness. "But what is that worth, Dean?" he asked softly.
"I told you," Dean pleaded. "My reason for fighting. Without you, I'd roll over and, I don't know. Die?"
"Maybe then," Sam said. "But not now. Not anymore. You have greater purposes than this. I can see it in you. You believe it now. The Dean. Meant to save the world. You don't need me."
"But I needed you then," Dean reasoned. Because he had. He would have let Hell come without a fight if he'd lost Sam then.
"Your soul would have been at rest," Sam told him. "You could have spared yourself Hell."
"I don't care about Hell," Dean said. "I just cared about you."
"You believed that," Sam told him with a slow nod. "You want to believe it now. But you don't. Do you?"
Dean wanted to deny, to tell Sam he was wrong, but the words wouldn't come.
Sam pursed his lips. "Tell me what it's worth again, Dean?"
Dean remembered Hell. He remembered the first seal. He remembered Sam's lies and betrayal and Sam's fall. He remembered that as much as he didn't want to fail, he didn't really want to make this sacrifice. If he'd known then--if he'd know about the torture, about the seals, about Sam--
What was that worth?
"It was never my decision," Sam told him softly as he started to fade. "If it was, I never would have left here. But I never had a choice."
Then Sam was gone and Dean was alone on the still and silent streets of Cold Oak. He shook his head. Once, twice, and again and again. "No," he said. "No, no, no, no."
He turned, looking for any sign of Sam.
There was nothing.
"Sam!" he called. "Sammy!"
But he was gone.
Gone.
The loss was acute and painful and fresh, and, for a moment, Dean didn't care if he was in Sam's head. He didn't care about anything. Just this loss he couldn't handle, the loss that broke him worse than Hell.
But he didn't know who Sam was and he didn't know what that was worth and it was too much. Too much Sam and not enough and Dean didn't know.
He went to his knees, dropped his head, and the dirt was cold beneath his legs. He remembered this--he remembered this too well. The moment his world ended. The moment of failure that nothing could make right.
He couldn't stop himself from crying.
He cried until the scene faded away and he willed himself with it. He could go back to the panic room, back to the ramshackle cabin. Anywhere but here.
Anywhere but here.
-o-
Fresh air. Daylight.
Dean breathed deep and savored it.
Then he opened his eyes and saw the shimmering waters of the lake. He was perched on a wooden fence and there was a beer in his hand.
Glancing over, Sam was seated not far from him, already mostly through a beer of his own.
"I know you want time, Dean," Sam said. He took a drink and looked out over the water. "But I don't have time."
The secret, Dean realized. This was where he told Sam about Dad's secret.
Sam looked at him, and his eyes are a little cold. "I don't know how you could sit around while I'm supposed to go evil."
"That's not what the secret was about," Dean said.
Sam laughed at that, short and bitter, and took another drink.
"This was why I didn't want to tell you," Dean added.
Sam nodded a little. "Sure," he said. "Thanks for that."
Dean just rolled his eyes. "After all the crap I've stuck by you with, you owe me this one."
Sam looked at him again. "Like you owed me the truth?"
That one was below the belt, and Dean's anger flared reflexively. "It was Dad's last wish."
"I know," Sam said. He gave a small, ironic smile. He took another swig, swallowing hard. "Why he asked me to leave."
"What?"
"Back in the hospital," Sam said. "He told me to go get coffee. He sent me away so he could trust you with his secret. You were right. I was too little, too late, and that just proves it. Even at the very end, when he knew what was going to happen, he didn't want me around. He didn't want to say goodbye. He didn't want to make amends with me. He didn't want anything to do with me. He just wanted me out of the way."
"Oh, come on," Dean said. "His last orders were about protecting you."
"Right," Sam said. "The never ending duty, entrusted only to his precious good son."
"It wasn't like that, Sam," Dean snapped. "Do you think I wanted this?"
Sam's expression sharpened. "You think I wanted this?" he asked back. "Dad knew what he was doing. He knew he was going to die. And he didn't want me there. To think I beat myself up every day that I tried to pick a fight, when it didn't really matter. He didn't want me as a son. He didn't view me as a son. He viewed me as a burden. To save and to protect, but not to say goodbye to. Not to trust."
"That's not how it was," Dean said.
Sam's smile was wry. "Then tell me how it was. Tell me why he didn't want me to know. Tell me why he asked me to leave. Tell me who I am."
There was anger there, that much was true. But there was more than that. There was pain--raw pain. Disappointment and regret and misery. He'd known Sam wasn't okay with their father's death--Hell, the kid had told him as much--but he hadn't quite realized just how hard Sam had taken it. Just how deeply it had hurt.
Dean had just always figured if there was a problem, he'd work it out for both of them. Sam would keep asking him, keeping pushing for answers.
And he had--at first. But the questions had stopped. They'd dwindled and Dean realized that in the months before this incident, Sam had stopped talking about their dad almost altogether.
In fact, for an emo kid, Sam didn't say very much at all.
Which, when had that happened? When had little Sammy stopped asking questions?
Maybe about the time he started getting answers. Maybe about the time those answers became punches and threats.
So this question was one Dean had to answer. One Dean had to answer right.
He licked his lips, leaning in. He rested a hand on his brother's shoulder, eyes steady and voice sure. "You're John Winchester's son," he said.
Sam's snort of incredulity was not as reassuring as Dean might have hoped, but it was hardly a surprise. Nor was the question that followed next. "Yeah? And what is that worth?"
"It's worth staying true to his principles," Dean told him, and that one was still a hard one to admit. Their dad had screwed Dean over good--and it had taken Dean a lifetime to come to terms with that. But, for all of their father's flaws, there was still something true in his commands. To honor family. To fight for each other. That was why Dean was here--that was why Dean kept coming back to Sam, kept saving Sam, even when Sam didn't deserve it.
Sam seemed to consider that, and he sighed a little. He nodded, and took a collected breath. "He believed what was evil should be killed," Sam said. His eyes focused in on Dean, and there was regret and resignation there. "I know why he didn't tell me."
Dean felt himself shaking. That last secret from his father had nearly destroyed everything--had nearly taken Dean's world apart--and it was still hard to talk about. "He wanted to protect you," Dean told Sam, because it had to be true. It had to be. Dean didn't trust his father very much, and he didn't want to honor the old man, but that much was the most truth Dean could make of that order.
Sam shook his head, giving a sad smile. "You don't keep secrets to protect people," Sam told him. "Trust me. I would know."
Dean swallowed hard against that.
"We keep secrets to protect ourselves," Sam said. "And because we don't trust people with what we have to tell them. Dad didn't trust me with that knowledge. Why wouldn't he trust me, Dean?"
Dean's chest ached and he wanted out--now. But Sam wouldn't let him out until Sam was ready. He shook his head. "Sam, come on--"
"You know why," Sam persisted. His voice was soft but penetrating. "It's the same reason you kept it a secret."
"I was honoring his last wish, man."
"Because you both thought it was true," Sam said. "You thought it was true. You both thought I would go evil. You both thought it was inevitable."
"We wanted to save you, Sam."
"Because you didn't think I could save myself," Sam finished for him.
The words were gentle in tone, but heavy in content. Dean's defenses flared, and he shook his head. "You have no idea," he said. "You have no idea what that burden is like."
Sam just blinked at him. "I know," Sam said. "Because no one ever trusted me enough to carry it."
"No," Dean said flatly, and he shook his head. "You asked me to follow through with it. You asked me to kill you, too. You just made the burden worse."
Sam nodded a little, and he looked down. He sighed again, turning his eyes over the lake. "I'm sorry," he said. "I just...if you didn't believe in me--if my big brother who I looked up to my entire life didn't believe in me--I didn't know how to believe in myself. I figured you were right, just like always."
That wasn't what he was expecting. It was honest, though, and made a sudden sense that made Dean's stomach turn. Save or kill. That had been the proposition. There had never been any element of Sam in that. Sam was the object; Dean was the one who acted. He'd never thought of it like that: that protected wasn't safe. Protected was powerless.
Sam asking Dean to fulfill the promise wasn't just about Dean. It was about Sam giving up. Sam resigning himself to his destiny. It was a hard thought--to think that Sam hadn't needed someone to watch out to see if he went evil. He'd just needed someone to tell him he could do it on his own.
Sam looked down. "Too little, too late," he said. He glanced up. "Right, Dean?"
Dean's shoulders sagged. "Sam--"
"You tried hard enough," Sam assured him. "You should have given it up years ago. Dad should have ended it before it got to this point. Would have saved us all the grief."
"Sam, come on--"
Sam just shook his head. "Too little, too late," he said. "I'm a slow learner sometimes, but I get that now. Too little of a brother, of a son. Too late to make amends. I wish I could walk away like you want to, but I don't have that option. Hunting is what you do. You can leave it whenever you want. This evil inside of me--it's who I am. No matter where I go or what I do, it's with me. Always, Dean. Always. You can leave me and I won't blame you. I won't blame you at all."
There had to be something to say, something to make this better. But the answers always turned out wrong, and Dean didn't know how to make this better.
Dean didn't know, and maybe Sam was right. Maybe this was too little, too late. Maybe Dean should walk away and just not come back. He didn't owe his father anything. He didn't actually owe Sam anything.
So why was it so hard to leave? Why was it so hard to leave Sam to himself? This wasn't his mess--
So why did he feel guilty? Why did he feel like he had a hand in it? He'd been right, hadn't he? Sam just couldn't handle the revelation. In the end, Dean had been right about everything.
And yet--seeing Sam here, staring out across this lake. To think of his brother reliving these conversation, stuck in these moments. Knowing Sam dwelled on the secrets, no matter how well intended. Knowing Sam believed he was just destined to be evil...
Who am I, Dean? What is that worth?
Dean had to find the answer. He had to. And he had to pray it wouldn't be too little, too late.
Then the lake shimmered into the sunset and it faded into light and Dean was gone again.
-o-
The sun was still shining when the world came back. There were clear blue skies and Dean breathed fresh air.
Looking around, the scene was far less inviting.
Gravestones, as far as the eye can see.
The grounds were peaceful and well kept, with manicured lawns and carefully kept trees. Bright flowers decorated the graves, with balloons and flags on a few.
It was a strange sight, really. For all they spent their time in graveyards, they very rarely visited during the daytime.
More than that, they rarely visited them for the purpose they were intended. Winchesters didn't honor the dead with gravestones and yearly vigils.
No, Winchesters honored the dead vengeance and retribution. They didn't just give up a few hours on a weekend afternoon, they gave up lifetimes.
And then he saw Sam.
Dean recognized the suit--the cheap Goodwill purchase that had gotten him through the funeral. It was a little short, and Sam's tie was painfully bland, but Dean knew right then, at that moment, his little brother wasn't worried about the suit.
He wasn't even worried about the bouquet of flowers in his hand. He was too focused on the tombstone in front of him.
Jessica Lee Moore.
Dean had been here. He'd gone with Sam to the funeral, stood by his brother who hadn't so much as twitched throughout the entire service. He'd even stayed by Sam's side even after everyone else had left and Sam just couldn't move.
But Sam had gone back. The day before they headed out to Colorado, Sam had come back. For what, Dean couldn't be exactly sure, but Sam had asked for some time and privacy to do this, and Dean had obliged, albeit reluctantly. Sam had been all over the map that week--raging with anger and crying himself to sleep--and while Dean didn't think Sam would necessarily do anything stupid, the thought of leaving his little brother unprotected in the graveyard where his dead girlfriend was buried? Sort of hit hard on the big brother worry-meter.
Sam put the flowers down and sighed. He looked out into the sky for a minute, before turning his eyes back to the gravestone in front of him. His face was pinched and sad, but Sam wasn't crying. There had been tears, of course, on and off throughout the week. But Sam was different here. Broken, yes. But resolved.
It was a look Dean knew well. One that had stayed on his father's face for twenty three years. One that Dean had worn while Lucifer walked the earth and Dean's sole task was to get rid of him.
"I was going to marry her," Sam said softly.
It caught Dean off guard. "What?"
Sam glanced at him. "Jessica," he said. "I was going to ask her to marry me. I wanted to settle down with her. Get a job as a lawyer. She was going to be a nurse. She wanted a big family. Lots of kids. I thought I could give that to her."
He'd known Sam had dreams like this. But hearing them come out of Sam's mouth was harder than he'd imagined. To think, all the years he'd resented Sam for wanting these things, all the times he'd thrown these dreams in his brother's face. You're a selfish bastard.
Sam had just wanted to be happy. To have a job, a wife, a family. Good things. Precious things. Things Sam would never have.
"You were right," Sam said. He ducked his head and smile a little. "She was out of my league."
"Nah, Sammy," Dean said. "You two were good together."
Sam's smile faded and he swallowed. "She didn't know me."
"Of course she did," Dean said.
Sam just shook his head. "She didn't really know me," he said. "I lied to her about my past. About hunting. I think that's what harder than anything else. Not just that I let her die. But that I might have been able to save her if I'd been honest. That I might have given her a chance to get the Hell away from me if she'd known the truth about me."
Dean felt his teeth clench. "This isn't your fault."
Eyes flaring, Sam shook his head again, more vehemently this time. "She died because of my selfishness," he said. "She died because I wanted to believe I could escape."
"Sam, you can't do this to yourself," Dean said. "Jessica's death was not your fault."
Sam gave a humorless laugh. "People die around me," he said. "Mom, Dad, Jessica. Madison, even. You. I used to think I was cursed, but now--now, I don't know. I think maybe I am the curse."
Dean's stomach roiled. There was such self-loathing, such resignation in that. Because it wasn't just a melodramatic musing. It was what Sam believed.
No wonder Sam didn't think he could go back to this. Dean was afraid his brother would want to go back to normal, but really, Dean should have been afraid that Sam would never look for normal again. "You don't believe that."
Sam's lips quirked into a smile. "No, but I know it," he said. "And I think you do, too."
"I know you're a pain in the ass, but a curse? I don't think so."
"Then how do you explain my blood?" Sam said. "What I do to you in the future? The way I lie and I drink blood and let Lucifer out? I know you've thought it. A monster. A burden. Your curse. All heroes have to be afflicted with them. I'm yours, just like I was Jessica's and Dad's and Mom's."
The hard part was, the part Dean didn't want to admit, was that it was sort of true. More than sort of--Dean had felt that way. The word curse wasn't one that had come to mine--but burden, chore, duty, responsibility. Those were terms he'd bemoaned a lot, especially now. Even coming here, getting in Sam's head--it was something he had to do because he was Sam's brother. He hadn't done it because he felt Sam was overly worthy to live or because he really wanted Sam around. Things were easier without Sam most of the time, because Sam was a liar and an addict.
A liar and an addict and a broken man who hated himself.
Dean let that sink in. A man who hated himself.
Dean had always valued his family more than himself, had always assumed his own self-worth to be only as good as the person he was serving. But, hating himself? Not so much. Not at all.
This level of self-loathing--so skilled and so practiced and so ingrained--ran deeper than Dean had realized. With roots in Jessica's death, Dean wondered how he hadn't seen it. How he hadn't grasped it before.
He looked at his feet and kicked at the grass. He looked back up at Sam. "I'm sorry."
Sam gave an incredulous snort. "I'm the one who should be sorry."
"I just--I didn't know."
"Didn't know what?" Sam asked.
"That you felt this way."
Sam gave him a look of confused hesitation. "How else am I supposed to feel?"
"That life gave you a bad hand," Dean said. He shrugged. "That life sucks. I don't know. Just not--this."
"I knew it by now, though," Sam said. "I knew I was a freak. I knew I was a monster. The dreams and visions. Death and destruction. I didn't want to admit it was there, but it was always was. I've always been a monster."
"You're not a monster," came Dean's automatic reply.
Sam smiled. "You don't believe that."
"No, but I know it."
Sam pursed his lips, pulling in on himself. He nodded. "Okay," he said. "Then who am I?"
"You're part of the team again, Sammy," he said. "Together we can get through this. Together we can get through anything."
Sam swallowed, as if to buck himself up. He nodded, once, twice, and looked at Dean with parched features. "And what is that worth?"
The question wasn't a surprise by any stretch of the imagination, but it was still hard to answer. Dean sighed. "It has to be worth sticking together," he said. "You and me together, little bro. We can do this."
Sam's smile was sad. "I tried to believe that," he said. "I told myself it was true. I believed it."
Sam looked down, his posture stiff. Dean wanted to say something, to offer him something more, but Sam looked up again, and his eyes were wet.
"I was wrong," he said. "It cost me Jess. It cost me my dreams. And I know it'll cost me everything else in the end."
The thing was--the heartbreaking thing was--Sam was right. Dean was so used to lying to Sam, to telling Sam beautiful lies--that he never thought about how hard those lies could crash. How horribly they could fall apart.
"I would change it if I could," Sam said. "Which is why you need to leave. Why you should have left. A long time ago."
And then the scene faded and Dean felt himself going with it until there was nothing of him left.
-o-
Then he was face to face with Sam again.
His black-eyed tour guide. Though the bitch did have the audacity to hide the eyes.
The Sam smiled. "Nice trip?"
"Shut up, jerk off."
"So you're not enjoying it?"
"Going through the dark side of my little brothers memories? Yeah, not so much."
Sam laughed. "Try living them."
"How about we try getting out of here."
"Well, that is the end goal," Sam said with a nod. "But really, that's up to you."
"Dude, I'm getting tired of this crap," Dean said, stepping forward. "I'm here to help, not wander around in the recesses of Sam's mind."
Sam did not look impressed. "So tell me again, then, what exactly is your definition of help?"
"Find Sam, tell him to wake up, and then get both of us out of here."
Sam nodded, thoughtfully. "So the thought hasn't occurred to you, then."
"What thought?"
"That maybe it's not that easy?"
Dean groaned, turning away. "I have been dragged through enough of this crap. The who am I and what is that worth." He turned back to Sam with a sense of fury. "I just need him to wake up."
"But what about what we need."
"You need to dwell in your freakishness a little longer."
Sam's face went hard, his eyes blackening. "The others think we should just make you leave," he said.
Dean was tired of this, tired of Sam and his black eyes and whatever version of Sam this was. He was tired of these games, tired of the up and down and back and forth. He was just trying to help Sam out, and this freaky little trip? Was so not what he bargained for. "Yeah?" he asked. "And what do you think?"
"I think you have a lot left to learn."
And before Dean could ask the question, he was reeling again, hard and fast into the dark.
