So, chapter two…the end of The Rapture, from Dean's point of view, showing the other side of the addiction, without Sam's justifications. Same language warnings apply, spoilers for ITGPSW, Death Takes a Holiday, OTHOAP, Jump the Shark, The Rapture, and a bit of WTLB.
Disclaimer: It's not mine, or else Sam would probably have never gotten over his emo side.
Intervention
The utter horror that fills him as his little brother raises his head and turns to face him - face smeared in blood like some kind of carnivorous animal - feels like ice. The ice travels through his throat and lungs, settling at last into the pit of his stomach. There, he knows, it will remain, a constant reminder that he has failed, yet again.
He should have seen this coming.
Dean can't help but stand there, frozen, mouth gaping like a fish gasping for oxygen while above and around him the water solidifies into a wintry prison. Realization washes over him…it all makes sense…Sam's rapid transition from dreamer to exorcist to badass demon killer, all the hiding and secrets, the strange remarks…
And for the first time in a long time, Dean understands what overwhelming terror is. Not of his brother, never of him…but for him, yes. Because the same – creature – standing before him, blood dripping obscenely from its – his – jaws, is the little brother that he has rescued from two burning buildings. The little brother he tucked in at night, fed Spaghettios to, protected from schoolyard bullies, comforted in grief, and reassured about his terrible destiny. And now…everything shifts into place with painful clarity, as if a terrible curtain has been raised in his mind.
Sammy, what have you done to yourself?
The ice solidifies in his limbs, moves through his veins, stops his heart in its tracks.
One week earlier…
"I'll take that as a compliment," Sam says, as they stand over another burning pyre. This time, his brother doesn't shed any tears, another reminder of how much he has changed.
"You take it any way you like," Dean replies tonelessly. He stares at the flames, then into them, and finally past them.
It hasn't really hit him before how much Sam has become like their dad. Or maybe it just took him too long to believe it because of how much they bashed skulls in what he liked to call the 'good old days.' Sam's stamina for obsession somehow became his own in Dean's mind, but he should have seen the other signs: the willingness to keep important details to himself, the hunt always being the priority, the single-mindedness when it came to revenge, his isolation and refusal for help.
His willingness to ruin another's innocence in favour of his 'protection' from what could only be seen as another world.
Dean has spent most of his life, discounting Hell, looking up to his father and attempting to fit himself perfectly into his shoes. Attempting to cast the same shadow, and earn the same respect. If Dean isn't like his father, then…who is he like?
He has answered that question before.
On the other hand, Dean can totally still see John bashing skulls with his little brother, perhaps a little extra because of the whole demonic partnership thing with Ruby. Not to mention the use of his demon-given powers.
When did it all come to this? The parallels to the situation with Stanford are unmistakable, and once again Dean is mentally kicking himself for not seeing it sooner. This time it's him Sam is lying to, lying coming so smoothly and easily to him that it is frankly disturbing. The almost constant arguing is more than just brotherly banter, only this time Sam wants something far from a normal life. If he doesn't tread carefully, Dean knows, he just might live to see Sam walk out on him again.
And this is really not the time for it it, not with Ruby lurking on the sidelines convincing his brother to do God-knows-what with his time. Worse, Sam completely trusts her.
When Adam's body, wrapped tight within its concealing shroud, is nothing but ash, Dean follows (There's another thing….follows? Since when?) his brother back to the car in silence. Sam still seems shaky from the blood loss, but Dean hopes he has patched him up well enough to avoid infection and therefore hospitals. Not so much because he's worried about getting on the FBI's radar again, but because Sam's slashed wrists look a little too…purposeful to be passed off as any kind of accident.
Because, of course, they were purposeful. Just not the purpose of any kind of human being.
They drive.
For a while they don't speak or even look at each other. Dean wonders if Sam is just reeling from the loss of yet another family member, or if something else is the matter. He hasn't taken out his laptop to look for their next hunt, which is a typical distraction in this situation.
They're not even pretending to be fine.
So, of course, Dean may as well ask.
"You feeling okay, Sam?"
His brother looks a bit pale, the occasional small shiver wracking his lanky frame. His fingers are pinching the bridge of his nose, a telltale sign.
"Yeah, um…" Sam pauses, and Dean can practically see the lie balanced like a cliff diver on his lips, but his brother surprises him. "Think I'm getting a migraine or something."
"You gonna hurl?"
Sam shakes his head, leans his head back against the seat with his eyes closed. Dean can see his hands shaking; Sam twists them together to still them.
"Well, let me know if you are. You know how I feel about puke on the upholstery."
They don't mention the blood on the upholstery from only a few hours earlier.
Dean keeps driving, listening as his brother's breathing gradually quickens while he pushes through the pain. Maybe Sam's arms are still bothering him. Maybe he should have asked…lately, he feels so out of sync with everything, when he used to practically be able to read his brother's mind.
"Um, Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"Pull over," Sam mutters weakly.
He decelerates smoothly, settles with barely a bump on the side of the road. Dean watches as his trembling sibling opens the door (somewhat less smoothly), mostly tumbles out of the car and starts retching horribly. He cringes.
"Jesus, Sammy," he says, and he is out of the Impala and half-running to his brother before he stops, feeling awkward. The same feeling of uncertainty crowds his senses, and Dean realizes he doesn't know what to do for his brother. He settles for crouching softly beside him when Sam seems to be finished with turning himself inside out.
"Sam? You okay? Is it your head?"
Sam takes a breath. "Yeah…I dunno, maybe…it's not that bad."
"Your arms?" Damn, he knew they should have pinched some painkillers and antibiotics from Adam's house.
"'M not sure…"
"I'll check them when we find a place to crash. Can you get up?"
"Yeah…"
His brother gets shakily to his feet before Dean can extend a hand to help. He watches Sam stagger back to the car, then he slides back behind the wheel. Dean eyes the sweat beading on his brother's forehead, reaches behind him for his duffel bag and pulls out the aspirin. He shakes the bottle at Sam, who glances at him blearily.
"No, 's okay…I'm fine."
"Sam, I don't have time to baby you right now," Dean says impatiently, thrusting the bottle at him. "I can see from here you've got a fever, so take the damn pills and I'll find us a motel so you can rest."
His brother complies and Dean steps on the gas.
They have to stop twice more so Sam can throw up. Dean is beginning to feel desperate when he finally spots a side road leading to a somewhat dilapidated inn. He pulls up to the main building, checks them in, and drags his giant and semi-conscious sibling into the room. He deposits him unceremoniously on the far bed and drags off a few of the kid's ridiculous number of shirts.
"Dean…s'fine…"
"Shut up, Sam."
The arms are clean, neatly stitched and bandaged, no different from several hours before. Huh. The hole in his side looks fine as well. Dean bites his lip.
"Damn it, what's wrong with you, Sam?"
His brother blinks slowly at him, his eyes glassy.
"Maybe s'just the flu, Dean."
"The flu?" He runs a hand through his cropped hair. Maybe he's overreacting, maybe it's just a bug. After all, those ghouls can't have had clean hands when they were digging around inside his brother. But he hasn't heard so much as a sniffle from Sam all day.
His brother groans and shivers, and Dean decides to treat the symptoms, even if he doesn't know their cause. He goes to fetch a cold cloth from the bathroom.
"There's a fire, Dean…"
"I'll be right back."
"Don't want her to burn…no…s'not me, I di'n't do it…"
Soon Sam is under the covers, sleeping fitfully, but the fever appears to be under control. Dean sighs, relaxes on his own bed. If it really is the flu, they'll probably have to hole up here for a couple of days while Sam sleeps it off. He'll need to find a bar, make some cash so they can get food…
He wakes up an hour later, glancing sideways in time to see Sam entering the bathroom with something clutched in his hand. He nearly gets to his feet to help him, but he hears the door shut and the lock click. That's a little unusual…Sam is typically clingy to the point of annoying when he's sick.
Dean hears the unmistakable sound of his brother retching again, and winces. There can't possibly be anything left to bring up.
"More like flu on steroids," he mutters, shuffling over to the bathroom and knocking softly.
"Sam? You good?"
The response is surprisingly strong and lucid.
"Yeah, Dean. Go back to sleep."
He pauses, uncertain.
"You wake me if you need anything…"
"Just go back to bed. I'll be fine."
Somewhat disconcerted, he complies.
He wakes up again with the sunlight streaming through the dusty windows, and Sam shaking him roughly.
"Dean, time to get up."
He mutters and stretches, throws off the covers grumpily. Then he looks at his brother.
"Sam? How you feeling?"
"I'm fine, Dean. Let's hit the road."
And his brother does look fine. Better than fine, actually, to the point of being disconcertingly fine. Sam's colour is normal, his movements are brisk and efficient. There is no evidence that, just a few hours ago, he was unwillingly sacrificing his insides to the local porcelain god.
Noticing Dean's stare, Sam shrugs and smiles slightly.
"Guess it was just one of those 12-hour bugs, you know?"
"Yeah. Right."
Sam drives, but mostly because Dean is watching his brother more often than the road.
Present…
Sam's eyes meet Dean's, dark and terrifying; his expression is unreadable. Nevertheless, there is a hint of hesitancy in his little brother for the first time. Dean isn't sure which one them breaks eye contact first, which one isn't strong enough to maintain it. But Sam turns back to the writhing, whimpering demon that is his prey, raises the knife above his head and brings it down with terrible power.
Then he stands, turns, raises one hand.
Dean recoils backward from his brother, surprising even himself. His frozen heart is beating fast, persistent, as if trying to break out of his chest, and he realizes that, for the first time, Dean is afraid of Sam. There is horror, yes, for what his brother is facing, but now a tinge of his own fear has crept in.
It's the very worst thing he has ever felt.
But Sam's eyes are not on him, and so Dean, with Castiel beside him, turn to see the demon possessing Amelia stop in its tracks. He has never been so close to this display of raw power, and for a minute the horror is sidetracked by fascination as the black smoke pours steadily out of the woman's mouth and disappears, smouldering, into the floor, as if pulled by an invisible hand. Which is, of course, Sam's.
He looks back at his brother, now (he can't help himself), and sees the same unreadable expression. No trace of pain, or struggle, which Dean has seen many times before with Sam's abilities. But perhaps – his heartbeat is faster and louder than ever, and he wonders if Sam can hear it – a hint of enjoyment? Acceptance of this power. A certain…relishing of his own dark strength. Sam is in the shadows, and so Dean is unable to see into the depths of his eyes, but he knows that what he truly fears is what he might perceive there.
Once more.
Several months earlier…
He sits alone, now, on that park bench, pondering what Castiel said. He's been labelling all the angels as dicks with wings lately (and Uriel certainly proves that generalization), but his apparent "saviour" (despite all the screwed up shit he's been dumping on him lately) has surprised him.
Maybe…maybe he's found someone who cares as much about the people of this world as he does. Who (perhaps?) would stand in front of a town of strangers and save them from certain death. Who has doubts about the people "in charge" upstairs, and knows that just because there's angels flying around doesn't mean everything's going to be all fine and dandy.
It's something to think about.
These days it seems he has way too much to think about. Sam, for instance…Sam isn't talking much to him lately. Probably because Dean won't talk to him either, at least not about Hell. It's all come back to him full force, every last slice and scream, but there's no reason to show his brother how weak he was, not when he's trying so hard right now to be strong again.
Sam's different too, though…changed. He noticed things at once, little things, when he got out of the pit, as well as the obvious. And his brother isn't telling him much of anything about those four months. But it's Sam's broken promise tonight that is truly putting things in perspective for Dean.
He'd tried to treat it like one of Sam's visions, putting his brother to bed at the motel with some strong aspirin. But it wasn't so much what Sam had done that was bothering him, as how it had affected him. How much strain could his mind put up with before…well, he didn't want to even think about that. But it had been hours after Samhain before Sam's nose had stopped bleeding.
That was when any vulnerability was halted in its tracks. Sam's shield was back up. He pushed Dean's hands away when he tried to help his brother into bed. Worst of all, he wouldn't meet Dean's eyes, as if he was just waiting for Dean to take another swing at him.
It had crossed his mind, but Sam looked like shit. No way could he survive a decent ass-kicking. Dean is just hoping the angels will see it that way, too.
He had come out to the park, tired of waiting for Sam to sleep off the night's activities. Mostly, he wants to get the hell out of Dodge and put the angels' stupid test behind him. Dean can't sit here alone any longer with his thoughts; he trudges back to the motel. Sam is sitting on the bed with his back to the door, fully dressed with both their duffels packed.
"Sam?"
His brother doesn't look up.
"How you feeling?"
"Fine," Sam mumbles. He doesn't move, though. Something's up.
"You gonna tell me what's going on in that freaky head of yours?"
There is no response. Sam runs a hand through his long hair, then finally stands and turns to face Dean.
"Let's hit the road," he mutters to the carpet. Dean frowns.
"I dunno, Sam, you look like you're in need of a major chick-flick moment here. What's up?"
"Just leave me alone, Dean," Sam tells the doorknob, moving to leave. Dean blocks his path.
"Is it the angels?" From the look on his brother's face as Castiel took his hand in both his own (like a doctor telling a terminally ill patient he was dying, honestly), and called him 'the boy with the demon blood,' Dean knew Sam's faith had taken a serious hit. Not to mention Uriel…
Oh, shit.
The angels hadn't wasted any time with the ass-kicking, after all.
"Sam, was Uriel here? Did he…" Dean isn't sure what Uriel would do exactly. His brother is still alive, obviously.
"Yeah, he was here," Sam informs the windowsill.
"What did he tell you?"
He kind of expects that bit of silence. Dean takes a breath.
"Sam, I understand that you're…disappointed in how they are, but -"
"No, you don't!"
All of a sudden it's like a switch has been turned on, and Sam is angry.
"How could you ever understand, Dean? You never believed in anything! You -"
He stops, as if checking himself.
"Sam -"
"I just…" Sam closes his eyes, steadying his emotions. "I just wanted to do something right for once."
"And saving people isn't right to you?" Dean whispers. Sam bites his lip.
"Apparently not to them."
Dean doesn't really understand but he feels he needs to clear something up before he loses Sam to his shield again, so…
"Sam, I don't blame you for what you did. I know Samhain knocked the knife out of your hand. You only did what you had to do to keep yourself alive, I can't blame you for that."
"What I had to do," Sam repeats, turning slowly to face Dean. "And was that enough? Did that make it right?"
Dean looks into his eyes for the first time and, all at once, sees a flash of yellow.
He could have imagined it back in Rock Ridge, but here and now it is all too real. It's enough to make him flinch back from his brother.
And of course, Sam sees.
"That's what I thought," he tells the mirror by the door. Sam pushes past him angrily.
"Sam," Dean says, desperate, "I'm just glad you're -"
The motel door slams shut before he can finish.
" – alright," he finishes lamely.
Fuck, what had that dickhead said to him?
Present…
"I serve Heaven, I don't serve man. And I certainly don't serve you."
The angel's words should have come as a greater blow, but Dean is ice right now, cold and hard and…absolutely alone. The curiosity he still feels, the questions that have been piling up, are a niggling sensation in the back of his mind. Castiel, Anna…none of them have given him any answers tonight.
But Sam, for once, has.
After Pamela's death, he told his brother he was tired. Tired of everything, but especially of losing friends. And Dean remembers his brother's words: Well, get angry. As if anger could solve anything, especially considering what he found out from Alistair later that day.
No, he still isn't angry. But the ice is giving him strength enough, strength and an objective and a purpose. After months of frustration, fear, and a complete lack of direction, Dean can finally do something. He finally feels needed…and not just by the world, or the angels, but by Sam. He can fix this, he can save his brother.
His brother, whose lips are stained with another's blood.
Castiel's abandonment has set his heart beating again, pumping life and that sense of purpose through his veins like a cold fire. Is this what it feels like for Sam, with the taint of Azazel beneath his skin?
For the first time in a long time, he barks out orders. Sends Sam with Amelia and her traumatized daughter to find another car. Send them home…they're safe.
For now. But hopefully, for longer.
He makes short work of the dead vessels with salt, gasoline and his trusty matches, grimacing at the grisly sight of the woman who became Sam's victim. Victim…it sounds so wrong…Sam's always been the victim, the one who needs to be protected.
Protected.
All at once, Dean knows what he has to do. It's the only way. With his newfound resolution, he finds his phone and redials.
"Hello?"
"Bobby, it's me," he says, the fires around him burning slowly down to ash. He pauses, but now there's no more waiting, no more hesitation. "It's demon blood. Sam's addicted to demon blood."
A few hours earlier…
"You were right," Jimmy says quietly, regretfully. His wife and daughter are asleep in the car, safe, for now.
"Sorry we were," Dean replies, meaning it. It's taking some getting used to, treating the person who's been an aloof, self-righteous angel for as long as he's known him, as a human being. There's something in his eyes, though, and his voice – a fear, perhaps? He has reason to be scared. But Castiel was never scared, so it's a bit unnerving.
"But I'm telling you – I don't know anything," the former vessel continues, the pain visible on his features.
"I don't think they're inclined to believe you," Dean sighs. He's not really sure what to say to this man, whose burning handprint is still visible on his shoulder. He has questions, too…for instance, why would anyone pray for this? Is this what you really wanted, instead of a normal life?
He's finding it hard to focus, but Sam (as usual, nowadays) isn't.
"And even if they did, you're a vessel," his brother interjects. "They're still gonna want to know what makes you…tick."
"Which means vivisection. If they're feeling generous."
"I'm gonna tell you once again – you're putting your family in danger. You have to come with us," Sam says firmly, his gaze dark and strong upon Jimmy's features. But Jimmy doesn't look back at him; his eyes are on Amelia and Claire, peacefully asleep.
For now.
"How long?" he asks tentatively. "And…don't give me that cross that bridge when we get to it crap - "
"Don't you get it? Forever!" Sam's been on edge for hours, ever since he accidentally let him escape, and now the anger explodes out of him. Jimmy actually appears to shrink back, another disconcerting move that Castiel would never make. "Demons'll never stop. You can never be with your family. So you either get as far away from them as possible, or you put a bullet in your head! And that's how you keep your family safe."
He's not looking at Dean, but there are stories behind Sam's words and he's not sure he knows all of them…memories…of a drunken night in an old haunted inn, of open honesty, of pleading and refusals and my head feels like it's on fire, okay?
"But there's no getting out," Sam finishes harshly, "and there's no going home."
Dean can't help but stare.
"Well, don't sugar coat it, Sam." Who is this cold, bitter man living in his little brother's skin?
"I'm just telling the truth, Dean," Sam snaps. There is something…wild, unrestrained about him in that moment. "Someone has to."
They coax Jimmy's family into a car of their own (Sam's unusually good at hotwiring them these days, which raises even more questions), and take off driving again. Jimmy is silent, staring straight ahead, and Sam mirrors him in the passenger seat. Something's…not quite right, though. He's sat beside his brother on these long drives practically ever day for the past few years, but never has Sam looked so…dare he say it…strung out? His fingers drum in quick rhythm against the leather, one knee bounces up and down. His eyes blink rapidly every few seconds. He gnaws on his lower lip occasionally.
His brother has every right to be nervous, or scared – hell, after what happened back at the house with Sam's powers, he wouldn't be surprised – but this is the new Sam. The new Sam is like a friggin' robot, he doesn't seem to feel anything except the occasional angry outburst.
"Sam, you okay there?"
Sam looks at him, his eyes surprised, then his head whips back to face forwards.
"Yeah – yeah. I'm fine – fine."
He continues drumming, bouncing, blinking, and gnawing.
Huh.
Then, all at once, it's as if a curtain has parted in his brain, at least halfway. For the first time in months, the lights go on, and Dean realizes that maybe, just maybe, he might have figured out part of that something that was going on with Sam. He isn't sure how, exactly, or what…but at the same time, an absolute certainty is stealing over him. He does know Sam, after all.
He needs to call Bobby. Dean glances at the dashboard and sees the fuel gauge at almost empty, just as he sees the road sign for a gas station up ahead. It seems with his inner burst of clarity things are finally lining up for him properly.
"We need to stop for a minute up here," he says to both his passengers, who give identical, noncommittal grunts.
Dean fills her up, goes inside to pay. Another stroke of luck; the line-up is unusually long for this time of night. Glancing at his brother, who isn't looking at him but still contemplating the window in front of him (drumming, bouncing, blinking, gnawing away), he dials the familiar number.
"This better be friggin' good, boy."
"Hey, Bobby."
"Dean, do you know what time it is?"
"Yeah, you betcha. But…I think we've got a major problem here."
"Jesus, what now?"
"It's Sam. I think he's…" he's reluctant to say it at all, because that would make it real. Because his baby brother… "Bobby, I think he's doing drugs or something."
"What?! That doesn't sound like Sam…"
"I know, man, but you should see him, he's restless, and erratic…like he's itching for another hit or something. And he's havin' these weird…mood swings, or whatever, I don't even know, but it's like friggin' roid rage or somethin'…"
"You sure he's not hittin' the bottle again?"
"Yeah, I mean, drinking's not exactly a secret between us. But it's affecting his powers too, now, I mean he couldn't even take on a possessed Joe the Plumber right now. Normally he's like…Chuck Norris the exorcist."
"You think it could have somethin' to do with Ruby?"
"I dunno, maybe?" Dean runs a hand through his cropped hair. Now that he thought of it… "Something's up with her too, Bobby, I haven't seen hide nor hair of her in weeks. Sam may think I'm just stupid, but I know when he's been out."
"And now he's actin' like he's jonesing for another fix?"
"Yeah, but I dunno what. I mean, it explains everything…the lying…"
"So what're you gonna do? Bring him over here, stage some kind of…intervention?"
Dean swallows hard. What if he's wrong?
But I'm not. Not this time. I may not know everything, but I know my brother like no one else.
"Not right now. I'll call you back. I gotta talk to him, Bobby."
"You gotta be careful, is what you gotta do. You better make damn sure you're right before you go accusin' him of anything. From what I can see, you two are rocky enough as it is."
He sighs.
"I dunno, Bobby. Sam's not stupid, he won't tell me anything he doesn't want me to know."
"I hate to say it since it's Sam, but if you're right…Dean, addicts are pretty much stupid by definition. Sooner or later he's gonna make a mistake."
Dean is at the front of the line.
"I'll call you later, Bobby."
He pays for gas, walks back to the car. Jimmy is still staring straight ahead. Sam is staring at one of his one shaking hands, as if fascinated. Or maybe disturbed. Dean isn't sure. He opens the door; Sam immediately puts his hands together in his lap, twisting them as if to quell the trembling. The action seems vaguely familiar to him, part of the recent past…
They drive.
Jimmy eventually falls asleep, to Dean's relief (did Castiel ever let the poor guy sleep? No wonder he always looked sort of world-weary…), because it allows him to talk to his brother alone. There are so many words perched on the tip of his tongue, begging to be heard, begging for reaction, but in the end he makes do with something he knows. Something that Sam knows he saw.
"What the hell happened back there?" Dean asks, trying to keep his emotions at bay. The question sounds appropriately nonchalant.
"What?"
"You practically fainted, trying to gank a demon," he reminds him, trying to keep his tone light, a hint of teasing in his words.
Even though Sam doesn't respond to jokes anymore. Was it a – refreshing – Coke?
"Okay, I didn't faint. I got a little dizzy." Sam's embarrassment is in his voice, but it doesn't mask the edginess from before.
"Okay, you can call it whatever you want, point is, you used to be strong enough to kill Alistair. Now you can't even kill stunt demon three?"
"What do you want me to say about it, Dean?"
Tell me what's wrong, Sam. Tell me what you're doing to yourself. I won't even be mad, I swear.
"Well, for starts, what's going on with your mojo? I mean, it's yo-yoing all over the place!" When Sam's annoyance seems to move past annoyance, he backtracks. "Look, I'm not trying to pick a fight here, but you're scaring me, man."
There it is, the full, emotional truth. And it's not the first time he's noticed the role-reversal, either. Time was, Sam would be begging him to open up; now that he has (so many friggin' times this year), it's Sam that won't let him in. And he would laugh at the hypocrisy if it weren't so damn frustrating.
Maybe it's his own fault, even. The last time Sam truly let him know how he was feeling, he had crushed his brother's desperate hopes with his own harsh words: If I didn't know you, I would want to hunt you.
He should have known then how Sam's mind works. Dean's been wishing for a while now that he could take those words back, but they've built their own fucking Berlin Wall or something between him and Sam. It takes two of them to bring it down, and Sam's side has vacated the premises.
Dean's one small comfort (and it sounds ridiculous, even to him) is actually the secrets; they prove that, deep down, Sam still cares what his big brother thinks. That maybe…he's ashamed of what he's doing with Ruby (What is it, Sam? Please just tell me…), and that means that he's still human. He's still Sam.
His brother's words are quiet, reflective, and so surprising that Dean does a double take to make sure he didn't imagine them.
"I'm scaring myself."
It's the most honest thing he's said in months. And now Sam won't meet his eyes at all, and Dean wants to grab his biggest pair of pliers from the trunk and yank out his little brother's thoughts, one by one, to see if he can make sense of them. He needs the truth, he needs the answers; he can't save his brother if he doesn't know what he's fighting.
Dean is more scared, he believes, than Sam will ever be.
Then, of course, Sam's phone rings, and it all goes to shit.
Present…
Dean takes Bobby's advice and decides to tread carefully. He doesn't want Sam to suspect, because he knows that his brother will run off to Ruby the minute it looks as if his brother has turned on him. He has to somehow convince Sam that he is still on his side (his family's side), no matter how much he wants to kick his brother's ass right now.
No, that's not right. He is cold, hard, and purposeful; the ice is part of him. He will have to act, but without emotion, or he will succumb once more to everything that has haunted him since September. It doesn't matter if it's demon blood, it's still an addiction. Something very human. And he's going to get Sam through it, even if it means they miss the friggin' Apocalypse.
Detachment is hard for him to keep up, and he knows Sam is watching him, expecting the explosion from way back when he first found out about the exorcisms. And Sam will be ready this time, as well, with all the defences his mind has come up with. But Dean is done with that…game.
"Alright, let's hear it." Sam must be impatient.
"What?" He asks innocently.
"Drop the bomb, man! You saw what I did." Even Sam can't pronounce it aloud. "Come on – stop the car, take a swing."
Have they gone so far that this is what Sam expects of him?
"I'm not gonna take a swing," Dean replies quietly.
"Then scream. Chew me out."
It's disturbing to him that Sam doesn't just expect a reaction; he wants one, too. He has changed so much from the boy who used to cower when his father yelled, who walked out the door rather than face his family any longer.
"I'm not mad, Sam," Dean says, his eyes on the road. And he isn't, not really; the emotion has gone, left the building, so to speak. He knows this has caught Sam off guard.
"Come on! You're not mad." Sam twists the words, makes them sound ludicrous.
"No," he replies simply.
"Right." His brother is determined to carry on anyways. "Look, at least let me explain myself -"
"Don't. I don't care." Once again, it's true. He has a purpose; he has a goal, no room for petty arguments. He has one answer, doesn't need the reasons behind it.
"You don't care?" Now Sam sounds genuinely surprised. Because, of course, Dean has always cared. He cared enough to spy on Sam at Stanford, to pretend Dad had been there at that Christmas long ago (like some Santa Claus), to find him and save him so many times.
To sell his soul.
"What do you want me to say, that I'm disappointed?" The truth is like a calm, cool rain from above, and he wonders why it was so hard before to speak it. "Yeah, I am. But mostly I'm just tired, man. I'm done. I am just – done."
Sam's phone rings for the second time that night, but this time Dean knows who is calling them. He carefully schools his features.
"Hey, Bobby," Sam says, picking up. He listens carefully; his brother's brow wrinkles in thought, but his eyes are empty of suspicion. "What's going on?"
Bobby's reply must have been snarky in some way; the corner of Sam's mouth twitches, as if in amusement. He hangs up.
"What'd he say?" Dean asks, concentrating on detachment.
"Wants us to come over to his place," Sam says, confusion evident on his face. "Something to do with the Apocalypse."
"Demon problem, maybe?"
"Yeah, maybe."
They drive.
After a while, Dean switches on Motorhead, even though it doesn't fit his current state of mind. Sam relaxes a bit, as if in relief at some return to "normal," but Dean can see the jitters starting up again in his hands. It's only been a few hours since his brother's last hit, and already he needs more.
The junkyard is dark and empty, but the lights are on in Bobby's house, so he must still be awake. Dean parks the Impala and the two of them get out; Bobby opens the door before they reach the porch. He's impressed by Bobby's performance; the older man looks somewhat agitated, but no more than he would be in any kind of situation to do with the Apocalypse. Sam smiles slightly in greeting, suspecting nothing.
"Come on downstairs," Bobby says, checking outside to make sure they weren't followed. "You boys okay?" They murmur their assent. It's a reflex.
They let Sam lead the way, and Dean tries not to equate it with a man on death row walking blindfolded to the noose. It's a trap, yes, but it's for his brother's own good.
Right?
Now isn't the time to back down. He follows close behind Bobby, tense as a coiled spring and prepared in case Sam bolts.
"Thanks for shaking a tail," Bobby continues conversationally, as if they're off to a bloody picnic in the panic room.
Sam reaches the door first, twists the handle and pulls it open,
"Now, go on inside, I wanna show you something," their old friend says, walking forwards to encourage Sam to do the same.
"Alright." His brother is so trusting of them, it hurts. Even after everything.
His brother walks to the middle of the panic room, unaware that they aren't following him. There's a cot set up in the middle of the room (Dean hopes to God it's long enough), and a pitcher of water set on a table.
"So, uh, what's the big demon problem?"
Sam turns around, looking so innocent standing there in the semi-darkness, so different from the creature with blood dripping from its jaws. Dean feels his throat close up, the ice leave his veins. He can't say it, he can't do it…
But Bobby is strong enough.
"You are," he says firmly. "This is for your own good."
Before Sam can move a muscle, before he can even comprehend what the hell just happened, Dean's hands are on the heavy metal door along with Bobby's and they're pushing it shut.
The bolts slide sideways.
Sam walks slowly, uncertainly up to the door. Dean can see his eyes through the window slot, not yellow but hazel, and full of the sudden panic of betrayal.
"Guys?"
Bobby closes the window. Only his brother's voice remains.
"Guys! This isn't funny!" Sam's voice echoes around the iron room, permeates the door. "Guys! Hey! Guys!"
Bobby motions to him, and Dean follows him back up the stairs. He wonders how long he'll have to listen to Sam, but not see him.
"Dean! Let me out!"
The use of his name makes him pause. Bobby gives him a look, Don't make me drag you, boy, but Dean is transfixed. Sam knows he isn't cold enough to do this. Sam knows he's Dean's weak spot, and Dean has heard him demand so many things in his life…
"Let me out!"
Dean, I want Lucky Charms.
"I'm serious, Dean!"
Tell me the truth about Dad. I need to know.
"Let me out right now!"
I'm gonna die, Sam, and you can't stop it.
Watch me.
"I'm sorry, okay? Just open the door!"
Take some responsibility for yourself, Dean! You had no right to keep this from me!
"Open the door, Dean, or I swear to God…"
I don't care what you say, you can't be okay with this.
"LET ME OUT!"
I'm not letting you go to Hell, Dean!
"Come on," says Bobby gruffly, pushing him lightly up the stairs. "You can come back down and talk to him when he's calmed down some."
One month earlier…
Castiel leaves him alone in the hospital room after a while, for which he is grateful. He needs to be alone, he needs to be blessedly ignorant again, he needs to be forty years younger…but mostly, Dean needs to sleep. A dreamless sleep…or if he has to dream, he wants to dream about something strictly tied to Earth.
For the first time in a while, Dean dreams about his mother.
Angels are watching over you.
They never came to save her, but they came for him, even when he'd turned his back on them. It should have been the greatest blessing; it should have meant a new beginning. But, as it turns out, they hadn't come for him soon enough…or he hadn't waited long enough. You could see it either way; at the moment, Dean can only concentrate on the latter.
He wonders if he could have held out longer. Just like Dad.
But no, Dean is like his mother. Weak.
The bile rises in his throat. No, not weak…but pretty damn close. Selfish, yes, because for Winchesters selfishness means sacrifice. He sacrificed his soul. And she sacrificed…Sam, it seems.
It's so fucking hard not to blame her. Sam would blame her, probably does blame her, but he never knew her. Dean understands that sometimes you just have to do what it takes, you have to blur the lines of right and wrong despite self-interest, or hypocrisy or whatever else Sam called it last year. Right and wrong are only perspectives, when it comes to saving the person you love. Supposed morals are made up by people who live in cozy rooms with dusty old books and write down rules about things they have never experienced.
Dean doesn't regret making the deal. He regrets not being able to keep his end of it, which was giving himself up so Sam could be safe. Now, he is back where he started, with no way of knowing if Sam can be safe. Not with the Apocalypse right around the corner, and both of them at the center of it.
But yes…he returns to his original thought. He is like his mother. Neither of them wanted this life for Sam, even though her decision had such terrible repercussions. While Dean was in hell he had a lifetime of memories, a lifetime of dreams to distract from the pain…and most of them were about Sam. Hoping…hoping it was the one thing he hadn't managed to screw up.
He can't say for certain if he was wrong or right. Hope wasn't enough down there, may not be enough up here on firm ground. Faith sure as h – definitely isn't enough.
There is movement in his peripherals and he sees Sam in the doorway, with Bobby behind him. Kid looks awful, pale and sweaty, dark circles under his eyes. He returns to his chair at Dean's bedside and Dean can't recall when or why he vacated it in the first place. Can't even bring himself to care.
"You look like crap, Sam," he says hoarsely.
"Yeah, well, right back at ya."
Haven't they had this conversation before, a lifetime ago? It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. He questions Sam with his eyes, but his brother says nothing about where he has been, what he's been up to. And now, for the first time, Dean isn't curious. He himself is causing the end of the world, how could anything Sam is doing possibly be worse? It will probably be better for both of them, in the end, if they just…you know…don't ask, don't tell.
Even though they don't swing that way.
Oh, screw it. Sam is staring at him now, wondering why his big brother is crying. Again.
Dean's told him about being tortured in Hell for thirty years. He's told him about doing the torturing himself for ten. He's even told him about…enjoying it. Embracing his dark side, just like today, before the angels screwed up. And in the end, just as Dean had predicted, he wasn't the same when he came out of that room, and not just because of the 'beaten to a pulp' part.
He may as well add the damn cherry to the sundae. But he won't look at his brother, not directly. Dean's not entirely sure what he's more afraid of seeing, a flash of yellow or the horrified disappointment his next words are bound to cause.
"I broke the first seal, Sam," he whispers. "In Hell, when I broke. It was me."
His brother is still visible in his peripherals, and he sees Sam nod slightly, taking in the information as if it is nothing at all. As if it is merely a confirmation of what he already knows.
"They had you where they wanted you," Sam murmurs back.
There is an empty silence in which neither of them dares look at the other, and Dean doesn't dare to breathe, either. Then…
"I forgive you," Sam says quietly, but not so quietly that the words can be mistaken for anything else.
In another time, another place, it might have meant something. In fact, Dean tucks the words into a small place in the back of his mind, just in case he needs them someday. But right now, it's more than Sam's forgiveness he needs, it's…his own? The world's? He isn't sure.
So he refrains from telling Sam he doesn't give a shit. Instead, Dean rolls onto his side with his back to his brother, closes his eyes and pretends to sleep.
Maybe he does sleep, for a few minutes at least, but when he wakes up Sam is talking again. Maybe even to him. He keeps his eyes closed.
"I killed him. I killed Alistair. With my…you know. And my eyes…"
Dean tries not to tense up, or give any sign that he is listening.
"I wasn't going to tell you, but…fuck, I don't even think you can hear me, so whatever. Maybe your angel told you anyway. It's just…it's really hard for me to…"
A brief pause. The chair creaks. The machines beep. Dean remains motionless.
"I think I get it now, Dean, why you didn't want to tell me about Hell. Because there are some things that just…you know? I think I get it. And the things I'm doing with Ruby…"
There is a wet-sounding intake of breath. Is Sam crying? He doesn't believe it. Doesn't turn around to see.
Sam's voice drops, so that he can barely hear anything at all.
"I forgive you, Dean, because…because, someday, I hope that you can forgive me."
There, hope that was a good ending for the second part…I'll leave the rest for part three, not sure when it will be posted but hopefully before the end of the summer. I have another fic to write first. Thanks for reading and reviewing!