AN: okay so you all twisted my arm. Almost all the reviews for this story asked for a second chapter with Dean confronting Sam about the letter - honestly, I thought it might be a bit lame, but then with recent episodes I've decided that it would actually be pretty cool.
Anyway. This is for all of you that wanted it! I've included the letter at the beginning for a reminder (it's been a while). Cheers!
(p.s. - this second chapter is set after 8x20, Pac-Man Fever)
Dean. First of all, I'm sorry. I honestly wanted to come out of this alive. But we both know better than anyone that you can't always get what you want.
I'm writing this in late February. I'm sick and I know that I'll either complete these trials and live, or complete them and die – that's why I'm writing you right now. I need to explain that I wasn't lying to you by hiding this. It's just that, if you knew, you'd call the whole thing off – the trials, the responsibility of me saving your ass for a change. And honestly, Dean, I don't want you to suffer through this.
I guess we're about even now – I mean, I broke the world once, and I jumped into the pit to solve it. But even then when I came back, I was this horrible person. Then I was a mess of hallucinations and buckets of crazy . . . It all just didn't seem fair on you. So, this is why I'm hiding this illness. I don't want to burden you like I did before. I'm dealing, this time – I really am. I promise. I'm making it up to you. I figured I'd about made up for my mistakes already, but maybe this extra sacrifice will just make sure I leave for good with an overall positive set of memories to leave behind. Good to cancel out the bad.
That's one more thing I want to talk to you about. Don't – as in, DO NOT – try and bring me back. I don't mind if you bury me, salt and burn me, whatever. Just make sure you don't do anything stupid, Dean. And bury me with Mom and Dad. I don't care if you think it's cursed ground, I think it's fitting. If you have my body, it should be with them. I know it's a pain in the ass to drive from Lebanon to Greenville, but I buried you in Illinois, so fair's fair.
I've made this decision, Dean. Don't blame yourself for what happened to me. As hunter's go, I'd like to think I did more good than bad. I've reached thirty, too, which is a pretty big goal for one of us. While I didn't always enjoy hunting, it was always tolerable. After all, I got to see things that no one else would ever get to – that no one else would even believe existed. And I've killed them all. So I don't mind that this is what killed me, not a heart attack or any other kind of 'normal person' death, because at least I got to spend this time with you. You're the best brother anyone could hope for. Even with your God-awful singing and your stupid pranks.
Don't come and visit me too often. I want you to have a career, now all the demons are (hopefully) locked away in Hell, not mope about some graveyard in east-Jesus nowhere.
I'm glad you'll get to read this, even though I'm not sure exactly what it is – whether it's a letter, or a will, or whatever. This is a pretty crappy will seeing as I don't really have anything to give to you: it's all yours, too, really. Just look after my books, and – of course, I don't need to say it, but take care of the Impala, too. Thank you, Dean.
Your brother,
Sammy
Dean didn't understand.
Sam wasn't, he didn't . . . Sam didn't hide things from him. Not anymore. Why the Hell would he write this? And why the Hell would he hide it? Was he allergic to trying to tell the truth?!
For the first time in his life, Dean regretted picking up a picture of his mom, smiling as it shone in the light of his bedroom, his safe, happy place – well, not so much anymore. He'd just found this, this – thing, catching his eye like a rat in a trap when he moved the photograph.
Dean. First of all, I'm sorry.
No, this wasn't – this was not acceptable. Typical Sam, over-dramatising what was basically a cough and a cold, maybe a bad case of mono or whatever-
He backed away out of his room, safely placing the photograph of his Mom back onto the frame where it sat (he didn't want her behind glass – he much preferred the picture easy to touch, to hold, to give him comfort at a second's notice), and turning to storm towards the war room.
He could feel his face burning with anger. Righteous anger, because how could Sam do this? How could Sam not have told him he wrote something like this?!
"Sammy," He growled as he walked in. He saw some open books on the old map-strewn table – his brother was around here somewhere. Sam had laid down his pen on his notebook – a clear sign that he'd gone off to go and find something in the library, a little further back into the bunker. He'd never chance a pen near the old books. Pencil only. Nerd.
"Sam, get here now," He tried again, trying to keep his voice level, but unable to stop fury from seeping into his words like hot water boiling over the rim of a pan. They were talking about this shit. Right now.
His brother said nothing, though he could obviously hear him. Dean thought he heard his brother sigh from between one of the tall aisles of books, and some shuffling.
"Oh, you're not going to say anything? Well, fine. I found your little suicide note – which, by the way, is the only thing I can call it," He spat, "What the Hell happened to 'I see a light at the end of the tunnel', Sam?!" He yelled, frowning as he looked between the shelves.
He expected his brother to say something. But, clearly, he was in one of his silent and brooding moods. Which suited Dean just fine, because he was in a loud and angry mood.
"I go to look at my picture of Mom, and this I what I get? You're chatting crap about where you want to be buried? About how I'm not allowed to try and bring you back? – Oh, and while we're on it, that's a freaking stupid idea so I'm not going to listen to it," He added.
He sighed, and tried to gather his calm once more, looking in on another aisle.
"I just – I can't believe you wouldn't tell me about this. Late February? Sam, it's May – you've been hiding this for months . . . Sam?"
Still no sign of his brother. He approached the final aisle, glad he'd had this time to calm down – he was glad he hadn't been so hideously angry to his brother's face, or he might mistake it for him being disgusted in him. Truth was, he was just upset Sam hadn't told him about the letter – sure, if he'd given it to him as a 'just in case', he'd have probably been mad, too – but this was worse, somehow.
"Look, I know you've got a cold, or whatever. You're sleeping a bit more – that's fine. Hell, even looking not-so-hot right now is okay! You're still good to hunt, Sam – it's not as serious as you make out in here. I mean, it's a bit . . . Overdramatic, much?" Dean said with a smirk, looking down at the letter. It was ridiculous, really. It was . . .
". . . Sammy?" He asked in a small voice, as he rounded the corner.
He dropped the letter. Sam was on the floor, one arm thrown out and his head resting against it. The other one was folded up at his side, as was one of his legs; Dean's panic-addled mind helpfully supplied the fact that Sam had managed to manoeuvre himself into the recovery position before something had knocked him for six.
Dean thought of his brother several years ago, passed out in the panic room, maybe never to wake up. He thought of him writhing in pain as he suffered from withdrawal; drunk, and burying himself face-first into the pillows of a haunted mansion hotel; silently shedding shining tears in his sleep, lying on his side facing Dean, who knew he was having nightmares about Jessica burning on the ceiling.
But this wasn't because of demon blood or grief or any supernatural phenomenon. Not really.
This was Sam; this was Sam's body, betraying him.
All of these thoughts occurred in the half-second it took Dean to run to his little brother's side. He noted a trash can full of Sam's lunch (trust Sam not to get any on the floor of his precious library), and his brother's pale complexion, topped off with shadows under his eyes as steadfast and haunting as thick fog at night.
"Sam – Sammy?" He asked in an urgent voice, and pressed two insistent fingers against his brother's jugular vein, daring him not to have a pulse.
It was there.
"Atta boy," Dean said, not realising his face was streaming with tears. If he had noticed, he might have realised that they were the tears he'd been wanting to shed since he'd found and read Sam's letter; the ones he wouldn't allow himself, that he'd tried to replace with anger and a raised voice.
He bent down his head, and listened carefully for ten seconds . . . His brother was breathing, but each breath was a wheezing rattle, rather than the calm, relaxed breaths Sam took when he slept.
"Sammy – you gotta wake up now, kiddo," Dean half-begged his brother, who still didn't rouse. He shook his shoulders, patting them hard. He rubbed his knuckles against his brother's chest, and received a low whine of protest in response. Dean thought that he could have cried – and then realised he already was. He sniffed, and wiped his face with the back of his hand, slightly embarrassed.
"Dean?" Sam whispered, opening his bloodshot eyes and gazing up at his brother as he came back to reality. He looked ashamed of himself; Dean wondered if he, somehow, already knew about him finding the letter. He cradled his brother's head with one of his hands all the same; tilted his head so it was parallel with his brother, who was still lying on his side.
"Who else is this handsome, huh?" Dean replied with a quick smile; but it faded when his brother told him:
"M'sorry," He rasped, his voice hoarse from emptying his stomach earlier.
"What for?"
". . . You found it, didn't you?" Sam asked, his expression miserable. He opened his eyes, but they stared off into space.
"How did you-" Dean asked, frowning. How could Sam have possibly known that, if he'd passed out before Dean was in here?
"I heard you – you said you found it, and I panicked, and I – uh, the trash-can-"
"I saw, Sammy. We'll get a new one,"
"And then my head – was pounding, I tried to answer, but I just sort of . . ." He trailed off, looking down. He tried to sit up, but his vision zoned out and became unfocussed for a moment, causing Dean to say:
"Whoa – easy, tiger," Sam just sighed, taking his weakness as another failure.
"I'm sor-"
"Enough of the sorrys, Sam," Dean interrupted, maybe a little too harshly, because Sam actually did shut up for once. Dean sighed, and sat up, leaning his back against the bookshelf in Sam's line of vision. His little brother managed to prop himself up on one elbow, as he listened to Dean:
"I'm . . . I'm not mad you wrote it," He began, causing Sam to first raise his eyebrows, then lower them in confusion, "I just . . . I don't understand why you didn't give it to me right away,"
"I didn't want you to read it," Sam replied, hissing as he sat up, slumped against the bookshelf opposite his brother. "And . . . I didn't want you to think I'd given up already. Oh, and – I . . . I remember how you felt last time I tried to – to have the 'in case we don't make it' speech with you,"
Dean actually smirked. The one fond memory he had of the day before he went to Hell was him and Sam, riding along in the Impala, wailing along to Bon Jovi. It was a pure, good memory; it was the result of Dean stopping Sam from saying his last goodbyes in full. His smirk turned to a grimace.
"Well . . . Yeah. You're right. I did think that, a little bit. Look, I get it, there's nothing wrong with wanting some insurance in case these trials . . ." He looked his brother's shaking, uncoordinated body up and down, ". . . In case they don't go so well for you. But there's a lot of crap in this letter that isn't right, Sam. A lot of stuff that isn't fair.
"For one, the whole demon blood thing-"
"Dean-"
"No, Sammy. You paid your debt for that, a hundred freaking times over. You went to the deepest, worst circle of Hell for it. Then, you were soulless – then, you had Satan as your god-damned co-pilot! Which part of this is not enough? And then you go and volunteer yourself for these trials! I mean, when're you gonna say Uncle, Sam?! You don't have to accept this. You're not repaying any debt, and you don't have to taking this lying down,"
Sam was staring at the floor, but looked up at Dean at that last statement.
". . . Screw destiny," He said shakily, with a small smile, "Right in the face,"
A smile tugged at the sides of Dean's lips, until it became uncontrollable, and he had to let it take over. Sam remembered.
"We do this our own way," Dean finished the words he's said years ago, when all had last seemed lost.
"Just like the Apocalypse," Sam confirmed, smiling and looking down as he remembered how freaking crazy their lives were, for the millionth time.
"Yeah – man, they were the days, eh Sammy?" Dean asked in a mock-reminiscent tone.
Sam genuinely laughed, for the first time in a couple of months.
"C'mon," Dean said, standing and stretching out his muscles, before offering his hand to Sam. His brother took it, and pulled himself up with a stifled hiss. Despite that, he still managed to stand tall – taller than his brother, even on shaking, weakened legs. His smile still shone brightly, even if it was a little watered down; pale and wan. He pretended not to notice Dean kick the discarded letter under one of the bookshelves – out of easy reach, but not totally inaccessible.
Out of sight didn't necessarily mean out of mind, but it didn't matter. Because -
"We've got work to do,"
Just FYI, if you find someone passed out and alone, this is a pretty good estimation of what to do! (First look round for any signs of danger, then test their response to speech/pain, then their airways, breathing, and circulation - that's the ideal procedure)