If Life Were Fair by Bird2K
Chapter Two
You come-to gradually and take stock of your injuries. Everything still seems to be attached in the right places, which is always a bonus. The wildebeest are gone only to be replaced by a troop of tap dancing gazelle who appear to have set up stage in your skull. The beat of their hooves is in tempo to the throbbing of your ribs and shoulder. But still, you suppose that this is an improvement and decide to try opening your eyes. Sam is lying in the next bed but you can tell by the sound of his breathing he is not asleep and you debate your next move. Simply returning to sleep is an option, and quite a tempting one at that, but you could do with more pain killers and besides, you really need to pee. You wonder idly how long you've been out and decide it can't have been too long or Sam, worried about your head injury, would have tried waking you before now. You shift slightly and a low groan escapes your lips before you can bite it back. Sam is immediately up and at your side.
"Hey, Dean. How ya doing?"
"'M fine." You croak, before clearing your throat and trying again. "'M fine, Sammy. How are you?"
"I'm okay. You want some more painkillers?"
You nod but then realise that seems to upset the gazelle so stop and grunt out an affirmative instead. Sam flicks on a bedside light as he makes his way to the bathroom to get a glass of water. You try and sit up but quite a lot of your muscles seem to object so you slump back down and wait for Sam. He returns a minute later with a drink and 2 tablets and helps you upright with a slight hiss and a groan on your part. You dutifully swallow the tablets and the water before taking a good look at your little brother.
And suddenly you are filled with an icy rage as you see the harsh bruising to Sam's neck and the cuts and scrapes to his face. How could you have missed all of that? What the hell kind of a brother are you? Self recrimination fuels your anger and, with nowhere else to direct it, you aim the only way you can.
"Sammy, what the hell … You said you were ok!"
Sam makes a non-committal noise of his own and then grabs the elbow of your uninjured arm to stop you tipping over as you suddenly launch to your feet. Your muscles really object to that and the gazelle take off, obviously spooked by the sudden change in altitude. You give yourself a couple of seconds to be sure you can remain upright unaided, before breaking free of Sam's hold and grabbing his chin to gently move it from side to side and take in the damage. Sam allows this manhandling without comment and only winces slightly as you gently probe the bruising.
"It's not as bad as it looks." He says hoarsely, and why the hell didn't you notice how his voice was rasping before? He finally grows tired of your probing and takes a step away. You stumble forward slightly and he grabs your good arm to steady you and tries to lower you back to the bed. You resist as you finally remember your full bladder and awkwardly side step your not-so-little brother and hobble to the bathroom.
A few minutes and some fumbling later you return and gingerly lower yourself back onto your bed. Sam is sitting up on his own bed, one leg on the floor and the other bent underneath it. He runs a tired hand through his hair and looks at you thoughtfully.
"Sam, why didn't you tell me you were hurt?" You ask, even as you think he should never have to tell you, you should just know. You guess the big brother radar has been a bit off recently. That's the trouble with hiding behind all these damn walls – nothing gets out, but maybe they are stopping some things getting in too.
"I told you, it looks worse than it is. Besides, you were in much worse shape than me."
Well, that's a matter of opinion but you suppose you must have been fairly off your game to not even notice Sam's injuries. Still, that's no excuse, Winchester, and you know it. You mentally shake yourself off – not physically, that would not be fun – and decide that better late than never…
"Well I'm ok now, so let me take a proper look at you."
Sam raises a sceptical eyebrow at this, which is joined by a wry twist of his lips as you struggle to your feet, grab the first aid kit from the chest of drawers and carefully sit down next to him on his bed. You start to rummage through your meagre medical supplies not entirely sure what you're looking for. As if reading your mind, Sam takes the bag away from you and says,
"Dude, how many times? I'm fine, it's just superficial cuts and bruises I cleaned them up already and there's nothing else you can do for them. Given the size of that guy, I was lucky – we both were!"
And you don't know why he looks so pointedly at you, then. You issue grunt number 73 in your repertoire and let your gaze wonder around the room. As tired as you are and as much as you hate all that touchy feely crap, you just know you're gonna have to talk about what happened tonight: Sam shot someone, and doesn't seem to care. There's that feeling, the pit in your stomach, like after you woke up from your coma 'cos dad had made his deal for you. The deep, down feeling of 'wrongness' you now know better than to ignore. And you can't shake the demons words; is what you bought back 100 your Sammy?
So you need to talk, which will probably turn into the chick-flick moment from hell, but you're willing to do it for Sam. Hey, you sold your soul for him, is a little heart to heart really too much to ask? Trouble is you can't decide where to begin. Sam's getting pretty sick of you asking if he's alright (Ha! Now he knows how you feel!) and it's not like you really expect him to reply with, 'Well actually Dean, I'm feeling a bit off. Gonna go sacrifice a couple of virgins, see if that cheers me up a bit.' And if you step back from the panic and worry and objectively look at him, how much has he really changed? So he's gotten a little more trigger happy, given everything he's been through maybe it's just made him a little more 'shoot first …' Plus, the number of demons unleashed, on top of the overwhelming evil already present in the world, it makes sense that you would both have upped your kill quota. Still …
As your gaze finally settles back on baby bro, you realise he has been watching you the entire time with a quizzical expression and a slight glint of mirth in his hazel depths.
"What?" you ask, somewhat tetchily. Maybe not the best opening gambit, but you've got to start somewhere.
"Nuthin'. Just wondering where the concussion was taking you. You were looking pretty spacey there, dude."
You huff a reply and look down at your hand – the one that isn't attached to the aching shoulder and braced against your sore ribs, but distractedly fiddling with a hole in your jeans. Ahh well, here goes …
"It's just … I was thinking, y'know, you've been a little quick on the draw recently and I was wondering if there was any particular reason and if, er, you were feelin' ok. 'Cos, you've always been all, like, 'look at the bigger picture, Dean. They can't help being monsters. It's not all black and white.' But now you're more, 'another one bites the dust,' y'know? And I just … I guess I just wanted to know why."
You finally look up into Sam's eyes and are surprised at what you see. You expected anger, denial maybe a bit of guilt (well, this is Sam after all.) What you didn't expect was the look of utter incredulity which had spread right across his face, from dimple to dimple and all the way up to his bangs. His mouth slightly open and a big crease separating his eyebrows lend themselves to the whole feel of puzzled bewilderment he was emanating.
"You want to know why I've been killing evil, Dean? Why I've been shooting monsters that were attacking people - attacking us?" His tone is measured and even, which conversely, you don't think is a good sign.
"Well, yeah."
"You want to know why I've been killing things that are attacking us?" He reiterates with exaggerated patience, which is definitely not a good sign.
"Yeeeaaah…" And suddenly you're not so sure you phrased the question right.
"You really did smack your head, didn't ya? Maybe we should get you x-rayed, check for a skull fracture or something."
Possible brain injuries aside, you are alert enough to recognise a classic piece of Sammy misdirection when you hear it.
"You know what I mean, Sam. You've only ever used force when you had to before, and now …" You trail off, not really sure where you want to go with that one and Sam's looking at you kinda funny.
"Before what?" He asks, deceptively quiet and you notice how still he has become.
Ahh, crap, in at the deep end then. And if it all goes pear shaped, blame it on the head injury….
"Before I bought you back." Bull by the horns, look him straight in the eye and let's see where this baby takes us. "Ever since you … came back," you still can't use the word 'died', "you've been different. You're colder, more ruthless on the hunt. Quicker to kill without asking questions. Sammy, you've always asked questions, man. Hell, it was one of the biggest reasons you and dad fought so much. But now, we find the bad thing and we kill it. No agonising about right or wrong. No moral ping pong. Just work out how and waste it." You pause to try and read how he's taking all this, but you can't really fathom the multitude of emotions flitting across his face so you plunge on regardless.
"I just … I think I just want to know why. What's bought about the big change in attitude, Sam?"
Sam is quiet for the longest time and you imagine you can see the conflicting thoughts and feelings actually duking it out on his face. He stands, turns his back on you and runs his hand through his hair. Then the pacing starts. Finally he says,
"Let me get this straight: You think I've changed since Jake killed me and you – my big brother and last remaining family, the number one most important person in my life - sold your soul to bring me back, leaving you with just a year to live before Hell Hounds come and drag you off to eternal damnation?"
You nod mutely, even though the gazelle really don't like sudden movements, you don't think you can trust yourself to speak. Sam's tone is still low and controlled but there is such a wealth of emotion in his eyes, you can't begin to pinpoint any individual one which might be vying for dominance. And you really don't think your head could handle a Sammy explosion right now so you sit and watch and wait. And, hang on, 'number one most important person in his life?' that's kinda nice to hear, not that you've got much competition, you suppose. What with Ole Yellow Eyes offing pretty much everyone else. Still …
"You don't get it do you? You don't get what you've done? And after dad did it to you, too. I've got less than a year to save you, man, or you're going to Hell. Forever! Not just dying and leaving me on my own - which would be bad enough - but actually going TO. HELL. FOR. EVER! Leaving me on my own, knowing you are suffering eternal torment, because of me. FOREVER!"
His controlled tone finally gives way to shouting and you flinch slightly at the impact this has on the tap dancing gazelle. The pacing has ceased and he is now stood in front of you, clenching and unclenching his fists. It seems he's worked up a head of steam now and you know from experience that there's no stopping a steamed up Sammy…
"Of course I'm going to be a bit more ruthless, man; we don't have time to waste. I don't have time to waste. Every second debating whether this thing could be handled a different way, or that demon exorcised to possibly save it's host, is time I could be using trying to find a way out for you. If I've changed then it's because my priorities have changed. If you won't help yourself, then I guess it's all on me. Because, Dean, there's no way I'm sitting back idly watching you do your whole kamikaze routine, wondering if you'll even make the full year before getting yourself killed. I thought we'd discussed this after Gordon, I thought you understood. I need my brother. Not a human shield or body guard or freakin' attack dog. My brother. I need you Dean. And not just for the next few months, but always. I've spent too long letting you do the tough stuff, trying to keep my conscience clear, worrying about the wrong things. But I get it now. I see what's important. I can't get as worked up about saving other people if I can't even save you. And I can't see the point in saving a world that, in a few months, won't have you in it anymore."
He finally pauses for breath, panting as he stares at you, willing you to understand, before continuing.
"So, yeah, I guess I've changed, Dean. I've grown up. I think I've finally realised what you've known all along: we were never meant to get everything we want, so we should just be thankful for everything we have. And I am, and I intend to keep it."
You hold his gaze for as long as you can; you're instinctual need to lighten the moment with a bit of well aimed snark being quelled by the depth of feeling in Sam's eyes. You wonder how differently things might have turned out if Sam had had this little epiphany 10 years ago. It certainly would have made his teenage years a whole lot easier to deal with. And if he'd never gone to Stanford, never left you the first time, moved on and been happy when you were so miserable. If he hadn't already proved that he really didn't need you as much as you did him, then maybe he'd have a convincing argument now. But he had left, in fact, he leaves quite a lot, and, if you don't count the time he got possessed, and that other time when Gordon tried to shoot him and then blow him up, he always seems to get on fine without you. In fact, the possessed thing was sort of your fault anyway, as the demon was actually out for revenge on you. And it's not like Gordo's a threat anymore, either; another little job efficiently undertaken by the suddenly ruthless Sam, although you can't blame him on that one.
Well, all this thinking isn't getting the chick flick torture over with any quicker. Briefly, you wonder if this is what your personal Hell will be like; an emotionally charged conversation spanning eternity and an involuntary shudder runs down your spine, jarring your ribs and shoulder and inspiring the gazelle into a little Irish jig. So, how to make your point, make Sam realise big brother always knows best and then shut the whole thing down without having to feign passing out.
Why couldn't you have just kept your mouth shut to begin with? Damn concussion!
"No, but Sammy, that was me, not you. I learnt to be happy with what I got because I knew I wouldn't get anything more. I didn't really need anything outside of you, dad and the job, anyway. But you, you can have more. You're smarter than I am, you're stronger and you know how to connect with people. You can get away from all of this and actually do something with your life."
"I thought we were doing something! What happened to 'saving people, hunting things, the family business,' Dean? And where do you come up with all this crap about me being stronger? Why do you think I'll cope better without you then you would without me?"
"Because you did!"
Your words are quietly delivered but seem to have hit a nerve. Sam looks at you and you see the muscle in his clenched jaw jump. You pre-warn the gazelle – incoming! - in the hopes they might remove their tap shoes before fleeing across your skull this time. But the expected explosion never comes. Sam suddenly deflates and sits back down on the bed next to you with a sigh, and you have an immediate image of a balloon with his face on it, whizzing haphazardly around the room as the air escapes from its un-knotted end. Ok, maybe a skull x-ray wouldn't be such a bad idea, 'cos that's just not right…
Sam is giving you one of those looks: one of those deeply charged, 'there's so much I want to say but there's no way you'd let me say it' looks. The ones which always make your heart clench with something - you assume it's fear - in case he actually voices the unthinkable or, even worse, hugs you. But, as always, reading your discomfort, he settles for patting you on the knee and says,
"I'm sorry I left, man, but you do know that it's never been about getting away from you, right? Sometimes I needed space from all this," he gestures around himself with his huge hands, "but I always knew, if I needed you, I could call you and you'd come. That's why I seemed ok without you: it was because I never really thought of myself as being without you. You were always still there, Dean, even when you weren't actually there."
He looks at you, hard, trying to make sure the full impact of his words is hitting home. You return his gaze, mutely but are saved from having to make an immediate response as he continues.
"You being gone, actually, totally, permanently gone, I can't even imagine that. Don't want to. You think I hurt you when I left; well you keep trying to die on me Dean, how do you think that feels? But each time I've known that there wasn't anything I wouldn't do to save you. This time's no different, except I have a definite deadline to work to and the added incentive of keeping you out of Hell. You have got to understand that I can't let you go anymore than you could me and, if you won't help me to save you, for whatever reason, then please, at least don't try and stop me. And give me the full year, stop being so reckless. Because, worse case scenario, if I can't undo the deal in time, I'm marching straight into Hell behind you and dragging your ass back out!"
And you have to smirk at that, he sounds so much like you. Maybe you should cut the kid some slack. You know if the roles were reversed you would never give up on Sam, and as you raised him, if he is stubborn and pig headed you've got no-one to blame but yourself. And maybe those Winchester genes… Still, you've never been able to deny Sam anything, and what he seems to want right now, maybe what you both need right now, is just a little hope.
"Okay, Sammy, I'll rein it in. I can't actively help you break the deal, it's too risky to you, but I'll stop being so reckless. I'll give you all the time that I can."
Sam searches your eyes, looking for confirmation that you're not just fobbing him off and you allow your walls to lower enough he can see you're being genuine. He nods and pats your knee again before standing and offering you a hand up.
"Okay then, Captain Concussion, I think we've pushed our luck enough for one night. Why don't you get some rest, you look like crap."
You grimace and bite back a groan as you haul to your feet and manage a graceless stagger-stumble to your own bed. You just lie where you landed and close your eyes, waiting for the marshmallow clouds to reappear and float you away for a few blissful hours.
And as you start to drift, you think, if life were fair, Mom wouldn't have been killed, Dad would be happily fixing cars for a living and Sam would be at Law School, engaged to Jessica and with his whole, untainted future ahead of him. No responsibilities towards big bro beyond buying you a couple of beers on a Saturday night. You'd do anything to be able to give Sam that. But life isn't fair, so you can't. But you can give him hope, so you do.
And in the absence of fair, hope will have to be enough.
The End