Author's Notes: Chap 4 up. One more to go

I.

Sam thinks it's about Kentucky. Sam thinks that's where things went wrong.

Dean knows better. But he won't be enlightening Sam anytime soon.

You're the reason Dad's dead. You're the reason everything's gone wrong.

Nope, Dean thinks. There are some things Sammy should never know.

II.

Dean thought he was doing okay. Dean thought he had it under control.

He didn't feel like he was in control. He felt like he was free falling. Like someone had tossed him out of a plane and he was tailspinning round and round. Dean felt like the world was sliding in and out of a glaring focus. The crash was inevitable; he was only killing time until it happened.

The trick wasn't to stop the crash, or give him something soft to land on. The trick was to keep quiet, keep silent, so no one noticed.

Like Sam. Ever since Kentucky, Sam had been obnoxiously observant, hovering like a freaking mother hen to make sure Dean was okay. If you wanna talk, Sam had said. If you, y'know, need anything.

Yeah, Sammy, Dean had thought. I need to go back in fucking time. I need Dad to be alive. I need it to not all be a waste. All I fought for, all I killed for. All the horrible things I've done. I need it to not all be for nothing. I need for it to mean SOMETHING.

But Dean couldn't say this. So instead he laughed Sam off. And he thought he was doing okay. He thought Sam didn't know.

Then they were down on a hunt in Louisiana, and their poltergeist had got nasty damn quick, and Dean had been thrown across the room, into a wall. . .for the third time. This time his head cracked against a brick that was sticking out further than the others, and the world had lost color and everything slid sideways

(and he's down for the count, folks, the Winchester boy has gone DOWN, but the poltergeist ain't done yet, no, the poltergeist is coming to finish the job. . .)

and then Sam was there, standing in between Dean and the bad guy, only there was no weapon in his hand because there hadn't been time to get it. He was just standing there, almost passively, allowing the poltergeist to attack, giving Dean time to recover. Taking the punishment meant for Dean.

And Dean couldn't allow that, damn the world and it's refusal to stop spinning. Dean couldn't allow Sam to get hurt, not ever. So he lurched to his feet and managed to find the shotgun and blast the hell out of Casper even as Sam fell to his knees. And when Dean ran over to check on how Sam was doing, he ended up pummeling him to the ground instead.

"You idiot!" Dean yelled at him. "What the hell were you thinking? Don't you ever, don't you ever, do that to me again!"

He wasn't exactly sure what he expected from Sam, maybe a fight, maybe an apology, but Sam's exhausted, weak laughter sure as hell wasn't it. Sam deflected Dean's fists from bashing into the side of his head but put up no real fight, as if Dean's rage was somehow amusing. As if Sam being hurt was somehow funny.

A few minutes later, Sam's laughter died out due to the fact that Dean was still shaking him around like a rag doll. "Dude," he said, "I'm fine, or I will be. Once you stop trying to break me, that is."

The words were enough to get Dean to step back (you're hurting Sammy; you never ever hurt Sammy) but not enough to dam up whatever flood work had been set loose; Dean couldn't cover right now, couldn't say he was fine. Sammy could have been hurt. Sammy could have been killed.

Dean couldn't stop shaking as he glared at his brother.

"Not ever again," Dean managed to repeat. "You hear me? Not ever."

Sam's face changed then, some kind of unwelcome mixture of tenderness and pity written across his features. "Dean," he said softly, "what was I supposed to do? Let her finish you off? You're my brother, man."

Dean had backed off by then, trying to put space between them, and Sam moved forward, trying to shorten the gap. "We help each other," Sam said firmly. "We watch out for each other. We're supposed to be a team. I rescue your ass; you rescue mine. What part of that concept don't you get?"

Dean's voice sounded strangled in his own ears, like something was choking him from the inside out. "The part where you get hurt because of me. You can't get hurt because of me." Dean could see confusion spread across Sam's face, tying his forehead into one big burrowed knot.

"Dean," Sam said, but Dean interrupted him. "No," Dean said. "We're not discussing this." He turned away, intending to head back to the Impala, but there was a hand on his arm, spinning him around.

"Dean!" Sam said. "What the hell is going on with you? Are you actually pissed that I saved your life?" When Dean only tried to move away again, Sam grabbed his arm tighter. "Look!" Sam yelled. "I really don't care what kind of stupid super-brother mantra you've got constantly playing in your head. I will not, I can not leave you to die—"

"And I can't fucking get you killed!" Dean jerked his arm back, free from his brother's grasp, and glared at him again with eyes that were just a touch too bright. "Jesus Christ, Sam! I can't kill you too!"

And then there was silence. And God, was it long.

III.

"Look, Dean, I know it hurts."

"You don't know. You don't have a fucking clue."

Sammy's driving now, and Dean wishes he was driving instead because he never feels this trapped, this powerless behind the wheel. When Dean's in the driver's seat, he has all the say-so. He has all the answers, or at least can BS some pretty good ones. When Dean's the one driving, he gets to decide which road they'll take, but now he's sitting shotgun and has to follow Sam's lead.

And damn if Sam won't just stop making all the wrong turns. Sam is hell bent on going places Dean does not want to go.

"All right," Sam says tightly, sounding more frustrated by the second. Dean would feel more sorry for the kid if he wasn't the one being interrogated. "Why don't you tell me? Tell me exactly how much I don't know."

Dean almost wants to, and that impulse scares him a little. He wants to tell Sam what's wrong and what's happened and how he's feeling. He wants to stop telling lies; he wants to stop keeping secrets. He wants to be naive enough to believe that they could share everything.

But he isn't that naive, and he knows that telling Sam is a bad idea. Bad enough to be catastrophic, bad enough to be fucking apocalyptic. If Dean told Sam . . .if Sam found out. . .No, Dean thinks again. There are some things Sam should never know.

So instead, Dean pretty much tells Sam to shut up and back the fuck off. "I'm fine, Sam," Dean says. "Leave it alone."

And Sam stays quiet long enough to where Dean thinks he actually might. But then he starts up again, like a fucking broken record. You gotta talk to me; you gotta tell me what's going through your head. "Tell me the truth."

"You can't handle the truth."

And if only that truth about the truth wasn't true. Dean smirks at how freaking retarded that sounded.

Sam, of course, catches the smirk out of the corner of his eye, and immediately precedes to get even bitchier than he already was. "Would you stop fucking around for one damn second?" And Deans wants to roll his eyes because, for once, he's really not fucking around. "You can't keep doing this to yourself."

Jesus, Sammy, you're like the Melodrama King. "Doing what?" Dean asks, hoping to sound as obnoxious as he possibly can. Because if Sam's determined to piss him off, Dean wants to get some licks in too. Besides, what's he doing that's so different from what he always does?

"You can't keep shutting me out, Dean! You have got to talk about this. Dad was—"

But Dean doesn't want to hear it. "Dad's dead, Sam," Dean snaps. "It's time to move on." So shut up already. Please? Just shut UP.

Sam makes a sound that's somewhere between a sigh and a scream. "You can't just make yourself move on, Dean," Sam says, sounding exasperated. "You can't just snap your fingers and make everything okay."

Why not? Dean doesn't ask. I've been doing it for years. But Sam wouldn't appreciate the thought, so Dean doesn't say anything at all. Sam allows the silence to grow for a whole five seconds before he breaks it again to continue his relentless interrogation.

"Dammit, Dean. Talk to me."

I can't, dammit. "Nothing to say, Sammy."

"That's bullshit and you know it. Look, what happened in Kentucky—"

"Nothing happened in Kentucky, Sam. It was just a regular hunt and just another monster. End of fucking story."God, he wishes, but they both know different, so Dean can't really be angry by the outraged exasperation in Sam's voice.

"Just another hunt? Are you fucking kidding me? Do you actually expect me to buy that shit?" No, not really, but what else am I supposed to say? "This was not just another hunt, Dean—"

"Yes, it was. It was a shifter trying to fuck with our heads. It wasn't Dad. Okay? Do you fucking get that?"

"Yeah, I get it, Dean. Do you?"

Dean sighs. He's obviously not going about this the right way because Sam still hasn't backed off and it's starting to seriously wear on Dean's nerves. "Look, I know you're worried about me. I get that, okay? And I'm not saying that Kentucky was a big bowel of fuzzy peaches because it wasn't." Good God, it fucking wasn't. But that's not even the issue. If it was. . if that's all it was. . .but it's not. And you can't know.

"There was a shifter. It looked like Dad. I killed it. It sucked. But it's over, okay, and I'm sick of fucking talking about it."

"But you haven't said anything, Dean. All you do is go on about how you're fine, and I know you're not fine. Why won't you just admit it?"

Dean rolls his eyes. Really, what else can he do? "Jesus, Sam. You're like a freaking broken record. What do you want me to do, cry?"

"Yes!" Sam yells, and it disturbs Dean how ecstatic Sam sounds by the notion. "Cry, scream, flip out! Do anything but sit there and tell me that you're fine!"

"I am fine," Dean tries to say, and----

"You're not fucking FINE! You haven't been fine since Dad died! You keep saying that you are; you keep saying that you're dealing—"

"I am dealing—"

"Don't lie to me!" Sam's glaring at Dean hard enough that Dean actually wants to wince. He doesn't, of course, but he wants to, and that says something about being on the opposite end of a Winchester's anger. "You are not dealing with Dad's death, and I'm sick of hearing you lie about it! Just for one in your life, I want you to be fucking honest with me!"

"What the hell for?" And Dean knows this is dangerous territory now because before Dean was just irritated, and now he's fucking pissed. You don't want to know! Don't you get that? You don't want to know and all I want to do is tell you! "What is all this sharing and caring really going to accomplish, Sammy? You want me to cry on your shoulder? You think that'll somehow make everything better? It's never going to be better, Sammy. We're never going to be normal."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Dean! I'm not worried about being normal! This isn't about me!"

"Then what the hell is it about?"

"It's about you, you asshole! It's about you falling apart! It's about you trying to pick up the pieces as if I wouldn't notice! I need you, godammit. I need you to be okay, and you're not okay, Dean. This is going to kill you if you let it—"

"I don't care, Sammy!" Dean screams suddenly. "I don't care if it does!"

And Dean knows, too late, that it's the wrong thing to say.

TBC

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