Hey guys! After the extraordinary response to my little "Taking Sides" ficlet, what else could I do other than updating Insomnia right away?
Okay, that is not exactly true. It was my beta who made it possible with an excellent timing. Thanks, babe. This has been a hard chapter to pull out, and she's been working double hard on it in order to make it better. Really, you rock.
I know some of you may not agree with the boys'choices. I just hope you try to understand what they're going through in this story and put yourselves in their impossible positions. And after that…you still don't see their POV, take it on me! They're clean ;-)
BTW, about "Taking sides"? This incredible girl, Michèle, has taken the time to revise it and I love her for it. Haven't replied to her nice email yet, but hopefully I'll have time to do it this evening.
From here, thanks Michèle! I'll write to you later ;-)
Now, on with the story...
Chapter Ten.
Day 13. Part 3
Sam wouldn't remember most of the way back from the warehouse to the motel where he had left Dean. Even if he had wanted to remember those hours, they wouldn't have been more than a blur of disjointed images and sounds: the road, which could have been any road, and the dim light of the early hours of the morning, the roar of the Impala and the loud, erratic beating of his own heart. He couldn't think clearly, because all that made him Sam had been twisted, pulled and squeezed tight and now was lodged firmly in the pit of his stomach. All his cells were on hold, suspended in a state of numbness that enabled him to just keep driving, but nothing more.
At first, he wasn't even nervous, at least not until the sun rose, and he got closer to his destination. By then, his mind began to stir and dread crept its way through his system. The knot in his stomach tightened, and his heart started beating quicker and quicker. Suddenly, the whole plan seemed so weak. How could he have thought that it would work? So yeah, the part of dragging the hellhounds away from Dean had worked, but had he really believed that if the appointed day ended they would just…back off? Just like that? And why? Because of a lost legend that had turned into a children's story in which the devil could be fooled with a silly disguise?
What the fuck had he been thinking?
Sam gripped the wheel harder and swallowed. He could feel his control slipping and as desperation took hold of him it was increasingly harder to find a good reason to struggle for calm. When the motel finally came into view, Sam really thought his chest would explode.
Dean is dead. Dean is dead, and I wasn't with him. Dean is dead, and what the hell am I still doing here?
The first signs of panic overtook him when he finally parked in front of the room and, for a moment, Sam almost –almost- gave in to the temptation to drive away and end it. A traffic light, a tree…anything would do. But he had promised Dean, had promised that if he couldn't save him, at least he would find a way to free his soul. And Sam needed to be alive to do that. He turned off the engine with a hand that shook too much and then had to grab the seat because suddenly everything was shaking too much. Digging his fingers in the fabric, Sam willed the world to stop spinning.
Then the motel door opened, and his heart did a somersault.
It was Bobby, most probably alerted by the rumble of the Impala. After spending a great deal of his life with cars as his only company, the man was able to recognize the sound of any engine almost as if they were human voices.
Sam and Bobby locked eyes, but the latter's gave nothing away and the former's vision started to go gray at the edges. Somehow, Sam managed to get out of the car, and half-walked, half-stumbled to the older man, who waited for him at the door, and kept his expression collected until Sam reached him.
"He's inside," Bobby said. Sam just ceased to exist. "Still asleep."
Sam breathed out, and all the blood that had frozen inside his veins started to rush back with a loud roar. The graying world became too bright all at once, and Sam had to close his eyes. His breathed hitched, and he thought he let out a soft cry.
Must have, because surely Bobby would never make such a sound.
The only think he knew was that he wasn't getting enough oxygen, that somehow his back had found the closed door, and that his legs were about to give out under him. His heart was beating so hard it hurt, as it hurt to take in every gulp of air he struggled for. He choked on a tearless sob and then another, although more than sobs, they sounded like strangled, gasping sounds.
Dean is alive.
A hand was placed on his shoulder, and Sam opened his eyes to Bobby's anxious face peering intensely at him.
"Did he make it? Is he alright?"
Sam blinked at the hunter's piercing eyes and couldn't answer. Reading the truth in the young hunter's silence, Bobby grimaced and let go of him to throw a punch against the wall.
"Dammit, Sam!" he yelled. "Goddamit!"
With Bobby giving him his back, Sam stood by pulling himself up with the door. He really needed to sit down, but adrenaline was just starting to wear off, and the after rush had left him feeling shaky and on edge.
"It worked," he mumbled. "It… It's eight…"
Bobby swirled around and gave him a somber look. Sam felt bile rising. Dean was alive and how dare Bobby think about anything else?
"Kid, what have you done?" Bobby whispered.
There was sorrow in Bobby's voice, sadness and also a hint of…horror. At the realization, something icy gripped the remains of Sam's composure and shattered it.
"Don't look at me like that," he hissed.
"Look at you like what?"
"You don't get to judge me, Bobby," Sam growled, straightening up to his full height. "He wasn't just gonna die. We were talking about Hell, goddammit! And if you really thought I would accept that, then you don't know shit about me or Dean."
Bobby glared at Sam and didn't look impressed by the younger man's attitude. On the contrary, he stepped forward and came face to face with Sam. Almost nose to nose.
"Don't give me that crap, Sam. I've known you since you were nothing but a couple of squirts. I'm here now, ain't I? After everything we've been through, how dare you…?"
"You would have let him die." Sam cut him off, voice tinged with rage.
Bobby's eyes widened in bewilderment. Then they lit up, and he grabbed Sam by the collar of his shirt.
"Don't you repeat that, boy."
Sam slapped Bobby's hand away and pushed him backwards with fisted hands. The cold, warning tone of the seasoned hunter didn't stop him. Not anymore.
"You would have let him die!" Sam screamed.
Bobby tried to regain his balance, but Sam pushed him again, and the older hunter's back crashed against a veranda column. He stared at the panting Winchester in shock. After a few seconds, Sam regained his senses, but his eyes remained dark, like two pits of smoldering ashes. He looked down, then up at the sky and let out a long breath. He wanted to apologize, but was too tired to try. He wanted to make Bobby understand, but he never would. No one would. Funny that for Sam it was so easy to see. Finally, finally, he was a Winchester like the rest. Because both his father and Dean had condemned their souls for their family and he, well, he had done exactly the same thing.
"Do you need me to do anything?" Bobby asked gruffly. Sam blinked and focused back on his father's friend, whose voice seemed to come from miles away. "Clean any trace…anything."
Sam understood what Bobby meant and appreciated the offer, but he could also see that the man wanted to leave. He was uncomfortable and Sam guessed that if he were in Bobby's shoes, he would find it hard to stand his own presence too. Sam couldn't blame him.
"No, I took care of it," he replied, all animosity gone from his voice
Bobby nodded and scrubbed his beard, hesitant.
"Sam…" he started, but trailed off, unable to find anything to say.
Sam didn't expect him to find the right words, simply because there weren't any, so he just forced a sad smile that tasted bitterly of goodbye.
"His name was Matthew," he whispered.
It wasn't fair to put that on him, he knew, but he had needed to say it, at least once. When Bobby flinched -visibly flinched- though, Sam also knew that would be the last time he would ever say the name out loud.
"Dean should wake up soon," Bobby mustered, nodding his head towards the door. "You should get inside and be there when he does."
Sam nodded and they met each other's gaze for a few, awkward seconds longer, before Bobby headed to his truck and Sam went into the room.
oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo
I killed her
I struggled for a second, unable to catch up with my brother's words. My brother, who was shaking in my arms like a leaf in the wind. Out of pure instinct, I pulled him closer to me and shook my head against the top of his.
"I don't understand," I muttered.
"I killed her, Sammy."
"What are you talking about?"
"God, I forgot. How could I forget?"
"Forget what?" I pressed, desperate. "Dean, you didn't kill her!"
Dean seemed to shrink within himself even more. Within himself and away from me.
"I was heading out of town," he spoke, brokenly. "I had…I wanted to drive for a while before stopping at a motel to crash, and I had the music on. I…I think I closed my eyes for a second, but it was just for a couple of chords. I swear I didn't miss a single note. I…" He trailed off and buried his head in his hands. "I don't remember seeing her…just…I hit something, and I startled and the car swerved a little, but I didn't see anything, and I thought I had dreamt it. I thought I had dreamt it."
I swallowed the bile that was rising in my throat. My mind was a blur and my comprehension had become sluggish. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I think I still refused to. It didn't make any sense.
My brother hadn't fallen asleep at the wheel and run over a girl.
"Dean, no," I heard myself saying. "It's gotta be the mara. She's making you see these things…"
"No."
"But how can you so sure all of a sudden?!"
"I just know. I remember now."
I shook my head again, knowing that I was in denial but not giving a fuck about it. There must be some kind of mistake; it had to be some sort of joke.
"It wasn't you. It couldn't be you."
I glanced at the car in breathless disbelief. Clumsily, I disentangled myself from my brother and scrambled my way to the Impala. I think I practically crawled over there, because I didn't trust my legs or my sense of balance at that point.
They found her in the ditch over there... Seeing the tire marks, if he hit her it had to be with this side…
I clenched my teeth when I got to the side of Dean's car and touched it with trembling hands. My stomach tightened when I found that the front part of the right side was dented, and for a moment my vision swam. With a mental shake of my head I forced myself to remember that Dean had had this encounter with a metal fence a month ago, when a nasty werewolf rammed against him during a hunt. He had told me about it and the damage to the car. But I had thought he had it fixed already. And yet, maybe he hadn't. Just maybe, right?
It's on my side of the car. The passenger side. My side, and I haven't been here to take a closer look. I just never thought….
When I got to the fender, it gave a little under my hands and I gasped when my fingers came back tainted in dry flakes of dark brown. Gasped, because I knew those flakes weren't mud.
I wasn't here to stop it.
I shut my eyes tightly and pulled in a strangled intake of air. For a moment, I had the weird, detached feeling that I wasn't myself anymore, that I was somewhere outside my own body, watching the scene from above. It only lasted a few seconds before it all crashed back on me, and I rubbed my fingers clean on the leg of my jeans before turning towards Dean.
He chose to look up then, to meet my eyes. My heart skipped a beat at the raw emotion contained in his expression, the guilt, the pain, the fear. I could hear his silent plea; I could feel him reaching out, if only a little.
Sammy…
It was my fault that I didn't know how to react in time. My fault entirely that he mistook my shock for disappointment and pulled away before I could stop him.
"Dean…"
He stood up and wavered, but he shoved me away when I tried to steady him.
"Dean, please."
"Please what, Sam?"
"Don't…don't do this to yourself."
"To myself?" Dean turned around and glared at me. "I killed that little girl!"
"Even if you did, it was an accident." I gulped around the bitter taste of acceptance of those words, but it was still true.
It had been an accident, and my brother had to keep that in mind.
"That's no excuse," Dean denied.
"You had gone 72 hours without sleeping, man. You had saved a man's life, and who knows how many others would have died if you hadn't…"
"So one life for the other, is that what you're saying? You think since I saved Mark it doesn't matter that I killed Lilian and then ran off?"
"I'm saying that it was an accident. And you didn't run, Dean! You just said you didn't see her!"
"But I did see her!!" Dean screamed. "I must have. How could I have been dreaming about her if I hadn't?"
His voice broke, and my composure followed. I struggled to pull in a breath, and I barely managed. Averting my eyes, I stepped back, ran my hands through my hair, and tried to focus. In front of me, Dean wasn't doing much better.
"God, Sam, the light around her, it was my headlights. My headlights! How could I just forget?"
I didn't know how to respond to that, I really didn't, and hell if that didn't make me feel like shit. Suddenly, the only thing I could think of were Sandra's, the psychiatrist's, words.
"I think something's happened to him. Something that's got him terrified to go to sleep, to the point that he physically can't."
"He would have told me. If something had happened, he would have told me."
"I don't think he knows."
Could that be possible? I had read enough about PTSD to know how far a person's subconscious could go to protect itself, and how bad it could all end when the blocked events slipped through the cracks. I imagined my brother, driving along a desert road at night with the radio on and the engine rumbling, alone and beyond exhausted. I imagined him closing his eyes for a second.
Only for a second…
Dozing for a minute and then startled awake when Lilian had jumped in the way. The car had headed right into her. He hadn't even tried to slow down or avoid her. He really hadn't seen her. Not until it was too late.
Both the actual hit and the girl's face had not registered consciously, only the swerve that he had had to correct. But both remained somewhere deep in his mind, mingled in the cobwebs of sleep, like the dream people sometimes have just a split second before waking up, the one that is never remembered afterwards. The kind of dreamy memory that's ready to pound at you as soon as you let your guard down. And he wouldn't even know.
I closed my eyes and swallowed bitterly. The EMF detector was still on the dashboard. Quiet like it had been all along.
It was no hunt. It was never supernatural.
Yeah, I was sure there were lots of rational, psychological explanations to use in answering my brother's broken question, but looking at him now, a devastated mess with his hand fisted at his sides and desperation written all over his face, I knew he wouldn't want any of those. I looked around, swallowing convulsively, and the emotion that tightened my stomach when my attention again zeroed in on the tire marks had nothing to do with the sad compassion that I had felt just a minute ago.
This time, fear overrode anything else. Fear that Dean would be taken from me because of one mistake.
"Go back to the car, Dean," I said gravely.
"W-What?" he mumbled.
"We gotta pack up what we left at the motel, and then we're leaving."
"Sam?"
Jesus, don't look at me like that.
"Dean, move."
"No!" he shook his head, looking hurt.
"No?"
"No. I'm not running," he said firmly. "Not again."
The fear intensified, and I felt its icy grip effectively cutting off my air supply.
"What do you mean, you're not running? What do you want to do?"
"I have to tell the truth to her parents. I don't know…talk to the cops."
"Are you out of your mind?" I exclaimed, fear already seeping into my voice. "You think they'll just let you walk away from this? They'll lock you up, Dean!"
He looked away, jaw-clenched. There were tears in his eyes, although he wouldn't allow them to fall and he looked just so…shattered. I didn't envy his inner struggle, because unfortunately, I was familiar with it myself.
No, don't go there.
No, I didn't envy that pain, but I would take it from him without a second thought if he'd let me.
"Dean, c'mon."
"I can't, Sam," He said, shaking his head.
"Yes, you can! Of course you can!" I yelled, losing my temper to the fear inside me. "We do it all the time! People die, Dean! We try to stop it, but sometimes it happens, and since we can't explain it, we get as far away as possible!"
"This wasn't a hunt, Sam!" he yelled back. "And it didn't just happen. I did it! It was me, and just me. I killed a person, and no one was possessed, and no one was fighting anything!"
By the time he finished yelling, he was panting and I was a minute away from crying. His pain was too intense, and I couldn't fix it. He was right, and he was wrong, and he wouldn't be the person I loved if he just agreed to leave, but, at the same time, I wouldn't be worthy of him if I let that tragedy matter between us or if I let him pay for it, after all the good he had done. I felt sorry for Lilian and her family, I really did. But I didn't know them and, regardless, they would never come before Dean.
"Dean," I tried, "what difference is it gonna make if you confess? It won't bring Lilian back. And think about all the other people that could die if you're not out there saving them. This has been a tragedy, a horrible accident, but you've got to let it go."
He stared at me in a way that almost made me flinch.
"You can't seriously believe that," Dean whispered in disgust.
All of a sudden I couldn't stand the weight of his gaze, and something inside me started to shake. My heart began pounding hard inside my chest, and it got harder to get my lungs to work.
Please…Please, Dean, don't look at me like that.
"Yes. Yes I do," I countered, defiantly.
"You think I can just forget I've killed a person and move on?" Dean shot out in disbelief. "What kind of monster do you think I am? I'm not like…"
"Me? Is that what you're trying to say? You're not a monster like me?" I cried.
The words were out before I could exercise any control over them, and they were more a reflex than anything else. And yet, it would have been a lie if I said that I didn't know where they had come from. They expressed my worst terror verbalized: that my better half would finally discover that while he was the only part of my life that made sense, I was what tainted his.
I saw Dean's expression waver and a little frown crease his forehead as he looked at me in a way hard to define. I thought it was guilt there in his face, and that reinforced my point. In that moment, something broke loose inside me, a blinding pain twisted my gut, and I stopped breathing. Literally. I could feel my eyes tearing, and I was unable to stop it. But once the words were out in the open, there was no taking them back. Honestly, I didn't want to take them back. The truth was, that until I had snapped I hadn't realized how close to the surface those words had been.
"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean grunted.
Any other time, I'd have let it go. I should have let it go that time around, if I had known better or if I had been in my right mind. I didn't, though. I wasn't. Days of stress, weeks of loneliness and months of guilt, they all crashed down on me at Dean's insinuation. And next came rage, as hot and uncontrolled as it had been when I used to stand up to my father's attacks or when I had lashed out at Bobby all that time ago.
If only they could understand, instead of judge.
Please…please Dean, don't hate me.
"You know what I'm talking about," I hissed.
"Sam, I've told you plenty of times, Madison wasn't…"
"I'm not talking about Madison!" I yelled. "And before you try, I'm not talking about Steve Wendell either!"
How could I yell with such fury when I wanted nothing but to cry my heart out on his shoulder?
Dean stopped, stared at me in bewilderment for a few seconds. And then his eyes widened fractionally, and he stepped back.
He stepped back from me.
"Don't."
I wanted to die.
"Do I disgust you that much?"
"Sam, don't."
"That's why you pushed me away? Because you couldn't stand to be near me anymore?"
"Shut the fuck up, Sam!" Dean roared. "This is different!"
"Yes, it is! Because unlike you I did it knowingly, and I'd fucking do it again!"
That was it, the plain truth. I had known it for a long time, but this was the first time I dared to say it out loud. I had killed, maybe not with my own hands, but completely in my right mind. I had done everything I could to prevent it, but I knew there was a good chance that I'd fail, and I had overrode my conscious. And the worst part was that I wouldn't hesitate to do the same thing once more if necessity called for it, because it had saved Dean.
Dean, who was by far a better person than I was and refused to let go of a death that might have been his doing but which was far from being his fault to the same extent than I was responsible for my own crime. Dean, who was looking at me with hurt, betrayed eyes.
I was so sorry. His guilt over something he didn't even know he had done until now had been close to destroying him, and it still might. Despite everything he refused to run and, for a minute, that pissed me off so much that I felt like dropping all the darkness I should have kept protecting him from onto his shoulders. I so sucked at being his protector. The only thing I wanted was to bundle him in the car and leave. Just leave.
"Dean…" I muttered.
All the rage had gone from my voice, and only sorrow was left in its wake as I reached out for him.
"Don't touch me, Sam," he growled.
My knees faltered, and I felt nauseous. My brother was looking at me as if he didn't know me, and it was hard to imagine anything worse.
"Please," I said in a thin voice.
Dean swallowed hard.
"Leave. Me. Alone."
I didn't stop him when he stomped out of my reach without looking back. And I didn't follow him either. Couldn't have, even if I thought I should. I was paralyzed. And when I finally turned around, stricken by a sudden stomach-clenching panic that I may never see him again, he had already disappeared down the road.
"Fuck," I muttered and scrubbed my eyes hard, forcing the moisture back with a deep growl.
I knew I shouldn't have fought with Dean, especially given how bad the situation had been. But the speed at which he had been ready to hand himself over had really scared me, and I had lashed out. But what did he want from me? That I was just ready and willing to see him arrested and charged with a hit and run? And I swear that pissed me off, especially because when the thing with Madison had come down –and not only then, but also after he had seen me killing off Steve Wendell on camera, even before he had known I was possessed- he had been the first to put himself into action and make sure there was no evidence against me. More than that, he had made sure I wouldn't be anywhere near the crime scene by the time the cops came.
His double standard was frustrating on the best of days. I couldn't help it; it annoyed me to no end. Even if I knew it wasn't my brother's intention, Dean's attitude made me feel like a terrible, selfish person. Just like he still made me feel guilty about Stanford every time I looked into his eyes. And every time I tried to make it right for him for a change, he didn't let me!
I thought maybe I should call Bobby, because if he intervened, he might convince Dean to let it go. My brother trusted him, and I knew Bobby wouldn't let Dean down. But, I wasn't sure how close they were at the moment, especially after the way I had broken Dean's deal. During the last few months, Dean had mentioned Bobby a couple of times, but as far as I knew they had been talking only on the phone, and they hadn't seemed to have seen each other in all that time. I really hated thinking I was responsible for ruining their relationship. Then again, Dean had a sixth sense that let him know when something was wrong between me and anyone else, and he automatically felt wary about that person too. It was a natural reaction for him.
Besides, Dean had called me, not Bobby. When he had felt vulnerable, even under the haze of drugs, his fingers had instinctively found my number
Dammit Dean!, I thought, as I got into the car.
And I was the one who would stick with him, no matter what.
oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo
Dean didn't begin to stir until an hour later. Sam had been sitting on the chair next to the desk all that time, practically immobile, with his eyes fixed on the rise and fall of his brother's chest.
There was some food in the room, a bag of chips, a loaf of bread and half a liter of Coke. Sam guessed it was Bobby's and picked at it distractedly while he thought about the older hunter. He wondered if he had managed to screw it up with Bobby, just like he had with his father. Well, just like John himself had done with Bobby all those years ago.
Judging by the look on Bobby's face before he had left, he bet the answer was yes.
Then he wondered if Dean would be hungry when he woke up, and the thought guided his attention back to his brother's breathing.
When Dean started to give signs that he was waking up, Sam tensed expectantly. The drug Sam had given him wasn't supposed to have any real after effects; at most Dean would be a little hung over, but nothing more. Sam wondered if he would realize that a whole day had passed since they were having a beer on the hood of the Impala, or if he would know what had happened right away, know what Sam had done by taking a single look into his eyes.
It was then that Sam started to panic again, and the symptoms of nervous nausea returned to his stomach. It was fear, pure and unadulterated, that Bobby's look of recrimination would be the one he would find in Dean's eyes. The same disgust, the disappointment. Sam had been ready to have Dean hate him; it had been just one more sacrifice -along with Bobby's respect and friendship- to add to the list of what he was willing to give. But, all of a sudden, he realized that he wouldn't be able to take it. Not that and not so soon.
"Sam..."
His brother's voice made Sam jump. Dean's eyes were still half-mast, pupils blown, and his voice sounded raspy, slurred at the edges. Part of Sam wanted to go to him, hold on to him and help him focus. The other part screamed at him to run before that awful look and the emotion it symbolized overtook Dean's expression.
"S-Sammy?" Dean tried again, becoming more alert as seconds passed.
His eyes finally zeroed in on Sam, and the latter, gradually losing his battle for control, avoided his brother's gaze. His stomach rebelled and before he knew it, he was running to the bathroom and falling to his knees to empty his stomach in the porcelain bowl.
"Sam?"
Dean was calling him; he could hear him over the heaves that racked his body. But Sam couldn't answer, because his mind and body were breaking into too many pieces at the same time. Dean kept calling him, and eventually- it could have been seconds or hours or days- he started pounding on a door that Sam didn't recall closing.
"SAM! Open the door!"' Dean yelled. "Open the damn door!"
Sam didn't move; he was too spent to try. He just buried his face in his arms. His cheeks were wet, he was shaking harder than he ever had and while he wasn't heaving anymore, strangled, broken sobs kept pouring out from a place deep inside him. It was as if someone was plunging a knife into his gut over and over again.
Dean knows.
Suddenly the infuriated pounding stopped, and there was a crash and steps and muffled curses. Sam didn't raise his head, not even when a pair of warm, familiar arms came around his shoulders.
"Shit, Sam! What happened?" Dean demanded. "Man, what's wrong?" He shook his younger brother's shoulders urgently, growing more and more agitated. "Dammit, talk to me! What did you do? What the fuck did you do?!"
Sam cringed, as if Dean's words had fire in them, and tried to pull away and hide somewhere dark and isolated where being a monster didn't hurt everyone around him. However, his attempt at disappearing did nothing but increase his brother's sense of fatality.
"No..." Dean muttered under his breath. "No, no, no, no, no."
Dean didn't let go of Sam. On the contrary, he pulled him closer against his chest and held onto him for dear life. Enveloped in his brother's warmth, Sam's nerves soothed enough to realize that Dean was shaking just as badly as he was. At first, Sam wasn't able to get past his confusion and didn't understand his brother's distress.
"Sam, no. No, no, no. Please, no. Please, no, Sammy, no..."
After a beat, he realized that Dean didn't sound angry, but terrified out of his mind. More than that, his brother was hanging on to him in a hard and desperate way, as if Sam was going to vanish at any second.
It hit him then, what Dean feared for real.
He thinks I've remade the deal. He thinks I'm the goner now.
Sam almost laughed, only he lacked the spirit for it.
"I'm alright," Sam mumbled shakily, his voice muffled against Dean's shoulder.
Dean's breath caught, but he didn't say anything or move, only held Sam tighter as if he didn't dare believe his little brother's words.
"We both are," Sam assured.
And finally, as fresh tears rolled down his cheeks, Sam allowed himself to give into Dean's embrace and said, "It's over. Over. I promise."
The strength in Dean's arms as he hugged him could very well have crushed bones. But Sam couldn't bring himself to care about anything beyond the fact that the deal, the nightmare, was over for them both.
Just because, in that moment, Dean didn't give a damn about the rest either.
oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo
"Get in the car, Dean," I pleaded for the fourth time.
I had found him a couple of miles down the road on his way back to town, and I had spent the last five minutes trying to coax him into the Impala. But Dean didn't stop walking and didn't look at me at all, even though I was driving right beside him and slowly enough to match his pace.
"Man, c'mon," I said, calling through the window.
I sighed and pulled my lower lip between my teeth. Dean's eyes were fixed ahead, shoulders set and stride intent. But his apparent determination couldn't fool me; he could barely walk a straight line. I could tell he was still shaking, and one of the reasons he wouldn't meet my eyes was that there were tears shining in his.
"Dean, please," I whispered.
Despite the low tone I was using, I knew he could hear me. Even from where I was sitting I was able to see him swallow and clench his fists. So, yes, he heard me. He just didn't want to listen to me. And I guess that was no surprise, since he had told me to leave him alone just twenty minutes ago.
"Please, I'm sorry."
That got his attention in so far as he looked down and ignored me, but this time with a wounded frown that reflected his inner struggle. The rebuff hurt, because he shouldn't hesitate or doubt me. Yet I had the feeling I had been the one to make him believe that he couldn't count on me in this. And that wasn't true, so I kept going, because I was terrified that he might not know how I felt if I didn't tell him now.
"I'm so sorry, man, I was an asshole. I just…I don't know what got into me."
Dean took a deep breath and pursed his lips, but his steps faltered. I slowed down, so that I didn't leave him behind, but I resisted the urge to stop the car and try to physically drag him into the Impala. I needed him to come back to me so bad it hurt, but I couldn't force him to, even if he was determined to walk the five miles back to town on legs that were about to fold under him. Even if I could see that he could barely keep his head up, and his eyes focused anymore.
"Dean," I sighed, "whatever you did, whatever happened, we'll do what you want, alright? Just…Just, please, let me go with you."
Dean stopped then, although it took me a moment to realize he wasn't moving, and at first I feared the way he wavered meant he was going to collapse.
And, God help me, part of me wished he would, and I could just get him into the car and drive as far away as possible.
I stopped the car and put it into reverse. I drove backward a few feet until I could see him through the passenger's side window. He kept his eyes glued to the ground, though, and I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood from the long moments he took to, finally, glance at me with a guarded, worn-out expression. I held his gaze as steadily as I managed, despite the burning sensation in the back of my eyes and the choking lump in my throat. After an agonic couple of seconds, Dean's lips trembled imperceptibly and he moved towards the car's door. I held my own breath while he opened the door and climbed into the passenger's seat. My heart was pounding like mad, and it was almost as loud as the sound of the door slamming closed.
Only then, as silence enveloped us, could I force the air back into my lungs and let it out with a relieved sigh.
"Thanks," I muttered.
My brother refused to look at me or do anything other than dig his fingers into the edge of the leather seat and remain otherwise deadly still. At a complete loss for words, I wet my lips and looked at my hands which tightly gripped the steering wheel. It took me some time before I was able to find anything to say.
"Where to?" I eventually croaked.
"To Lillian's," he whispered back, rough and empty.
I closed my eyes for an instant and exhaled heavily to force down the frustration, the anger and the renewed wave of fear that took me over. I nodded, slowly, and started the car again with a tingly sensation in the pit of my stomach. My hands shook on the wheel and all my instincts were screaming to knock Dean out and get him away from harm. Because it was killing me to know that I was driving him back into something that could very well destroy him.
Only, it would kill him, if I didn't.
The drive was silent, tense. After our fight at the side of the road, Dean was probably still mad at me. He had agreed to get in the car, but it might have been because he didn't really have any other way to get into town, not because he forgave me. The way he had looked at me… It still burned. However, I needed to put that aside for the time being and keep a level head.
Because this wasn't about me.
As minutes passed, I started to think more clearly. It didn't help ease the fear at the enormity of the situation, but I kind of started to look at it from my brother's point of view. What he was going through… I couldn't even begin to imagine it. The sense of responsibility and guilt, unfortunately we were familiar with those. It wasn't the first time someone had died on our watch. Hell, Lilian wasn't even the first life we had ever taken. It always sucked, but there had always been a reason—any kind of reason—that made it easier to process, accept and move on.
Lilian's death had no reason. No purpose. It was just so damn absurd that handing himself over was the only way my brother had to make some sense of it. To make it as fair as it could get.
It was the only honorable thing to do. I should know that. Hell, I had felt bad for years because of the stupid credit card scams! It was just that honor fell a little down on my list of priorities when my brother's sanity and freedom was on the line. Dean had guessed that much too. And he had been disgusted by the man I had become…
Don't. Don't make it about you.
I shook my head imperceptibly, and felt my brother's eyes on me for a fleeting second before he fixed his gaze onto his lap all over again.
We made the last turn and drove onto the street where Lilian's house was. There, I pulled over at the corner and killed the engine. The Lambert's house was 60 feet down the street, on our right. Dean's side. We both observed the façade without saying a word and, for the longest time, neither of us moved. Then I finally looked at Dean, who stared at the building completely transfixed. The profound anxiety reflected in his eyes made me snap out of my own state of foreboding. Without being able to stop myself, I reached out and squeezed his knee.
He tore his attention from the building, and I felt him studying me in silence. I didn't pull my hand back, just left it there over his jean-clad knee. I did, however, avoid his gaze and looked ahead instead of meeting his eyes. I was so ashamed of myself, but I wasn't really sure why exactly. I wanted to make him feel better, to be there for him…
To keep him there with me.
"Sammy," he muttered softly. I felt his hand brushing my sleeve. It seemed like he would rest it on my arm, but at the last minute he hesitated and pulled back. "I need you to understand."
Such simple words, and they were enough to constrict my throat all over again, right when I had thought I was more or less in control. I breathed in, squeezed his knee again and then rested both hands on the wheel.
"I understand, Dean," I replied, sincerely. "But you can't ask me to like it."
"You'd do the same thing," he stated, without a shadow of a doubt in his voice, "if you were in my place."
I offered a half-smile, without looking at him. Would I do the same thing? In those same circumstances, most probably, yeah. At least I'd try. But that wasn't the funny part.
"And if you were in my place, you wouldn't let me." I retorted.
It was his turn to avert his eyes. We both knew I was right about that, although it wouldn't help now. Dean scrubbed his forehead and pressed hard on his temples with his thumbs. I recognized the motion as an effort to focus so that he could try to think and reason. I couldn't even imagine how hard it was for him to fight the haziness of two sleepless weeks and the terrible burden of Lilian's death at the same time.
"I… I gotta tell them. They have a right to know who took her from them…" he mumbled with a shake of his head.
He sounded so overwhelmed that just listening to his voice hurt. How was I going to let him hand himself over when he sounded like that?!
"What for, Dean? So they can have their revenge?"
"No, so that there can be justice, Sam."
I released a breath. Justice. Of course. Dean believed in justice with a fierceness that was belied by his cocky, irreverent attitude towards all kind of rules and morals. It was something that I had always known, despite the fact that I liked to call him on his flippancy and he liked to pretend I was the self-righteous one. It was comfortable and safe for both of us. But deep inside me, I had always believed that his principles were stronger than mine.
Revenge was what had driven my father and me after the yellow eyed demon came into our lives. It was a dark, lethal and self-destructive emotion. My brother's passion in the quest was purer, born from a desire to protect others instead of punishing them. I admired him for that, always had. And I had spent my whole life trying to emulate him.
"Justice," I repeated roughly, swallowing thickly around the word. "So, what are you going to do? Confess and let them get you arrested and charged with a hit and run?"
I shook my head and gazed at the Lambert's house distractedly. From the moment we had learned the truth behind Lilian's death on the side of the road, and even as my mind struggled to cope with such terrible facts, the lawyer in me had gone on autopilot and had run through the options Dean had. A hit and run in Colorado was a Class 2 misdemeanor, which meant a thousand dollars fine and up to twelve months in jail, unless a judge considered it a felony, which would make things worse. Then again, a psychiatric evaluation —maybe Sandra could provide it, if she got past the fact that we have lied to her from the beginning— could very well prove that Dean hadn't really run, just like that, but had been suffering from severe PTSD that had kept him from confessing earlier. Strictly speaking, with the appropriate approach we could win at court if we had luck. Justice would be served, and maybe my brother would find some peace.
However, he was overlooking a very important detail.
"But what if they dig around a little deeper, Dean? Once you get into the system, someone may know someone and find something and suddenly St. Louis, Milwaukee and Monument, and all the other shit Hendricksen thought he had on us comes up again. We erased our records, alright, but it was a superficial fix, and it won't stand up to serious investigation. All together? We would be talking life, man. Even death. And, tell me, how would that be any kind of justice?
Dean's expression faltered, and he looked at me with profound anguish in his eyes that made my insides curl.
"They'll charge you too," he whispered.
"W-what?" I stammered, caught off-guard.
"If I blow our cover, they'll hunt you again and try to charge you too for all that, right?" he said, almost to himself.
"No, Dean," I ground out, heart pounding. "Don't do that."
Damn him and his obsession with me! God, I really didn't mean that, but I swear that at that particular moment, I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs. The thought of what consequences his confession would have for me hadn't even crossed my mind, and I couldn't be what forced him to go against his instincts.
Not again.
As much as I was ready to use any card to keep him safe, I would not use my own good as a bargaining chip this time. Maybe, in a way, it was a selfish thing to do, because I just didn't want to risk him resenting me in the future. Besides, that I would drop my current life if he was arrested was so out of the question, regardless of whether I was charged too or not. As a matter of fact, I'd definitely prefer being charged, because I wasn't going to let my brother go to prison without someone having his back. Over my dead body.
Not to mention that I believed I would deserve prison much more than he did.
"This is not about me, man. I'm just saying that after all the good you have done, all the good you can still do, you do not deserve to be punished for life."
"She was a little girl, Sam," Dean murmured.
"And how many little girls have you saved, Dean?! How many times have you risked your life to protect them?" I cried out, letting frustration get the better of me. "That's gotta fucking count for something in the big scheme, or karma or whatever the hell you want to call it!"
Dean's jaw flexed but other than that, he remained silent at my outburst and I could only avert my eyes and wipe angrily at a rebel tear what had been about to roll down my right cheek.
"It does for me," I finished shakily.
I hit the wheel with my right hand and rubbed my chin with the other, as I stared intently through my window to avoid my brother's gaze, at least until I could get my exploding emotions under control.
"You've grown up so well, Sammy."
I turned around and found my brother looking at me with an indecipherable expression. I frowned and smile a little, unsure. What did he mean? Since I was born or during the last few months? Because I was pretty sure I had stopped growing up a few years ago.
"Dude…"
My retort died inside my throat when he raised his hand and brushed the side of my face with extreme gentleness.
I froze.
"Dean?"
He let his hand fall, although his eyes remained locked onto mine. Then he smiled.
"Go, Sam."
My head started to shake even before I could process his words and find my voice to deny them.
"No."
"Go back to the motel, I mean it."
"I'm not…" I stammered. "What the fuck, Dean? I'm not going anywhere!"
"Yes, you are," he said firmly. Absolutely in control.
I shook my head more vigorously. I couldn't believe my ears.
"Dean…" I protested.
I wanted to be firm, unyielding. But then my breath hitched, and I just broke completely. He was pushing me away. Again. And it hurt so much I thought I wouldn't be able to breathe ever again.
"Look, I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry. I told you we'd do what you want! You want to confess, alright, we'll go there and confess! I never said I wouldn't, I just…"
"I heard you, Sammy," he said, reassuringly.
"But then…"
"I still need you to leave."
"Why, Dean?" I cried. "Why?"
"Because…" He frowned and closed his eyes tiredly. "Just 'cause."
I felt my throat closing up and blinked back the urge to break into tears. I didn't think I had much more to offer. He just didn't want me with him, and why would he? Defeated, I swallowed and looked down.
"Dean, you don't have to," I tried. One last time.
He smiled again. It was a warm smile, despite everything, like the look in his eyes.
"I know. Thanks for driving me, man."
I knew he meant it. Still, it didn't anything to ease the cold inside my veins.
oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo
I came back to the room alone, not really knowing what else to do. I had never felt so helpless and alienated in my life. I couldn't believe that I had listened to my brother and left him on his own, but Dean barely asked for anything for himself and he had pleaded me to go. I wanted to hope that he would be all right, but I couldn't fool myself. Of course he wasn't all right. He was probably going to Lilian's parents, ready to confess. My stomach lurched at the idea; my brother was going to confess, and I wasn't by his side.
I paced the room, with my hands laced behind my head. It was like being a kid again, stuck in the Impala while my father and Dean might be hurt out there. Or like being in Stanford, and fearing that any day the call would come to tell me that my family had died. Or waiting on my brother to wake up from his coma. Staying the fuck up until dawn in my apartment in Philly, running through all kind of gruesome scenarios in my mind, until Dean checked in after a hunt.
I hated waiting so much and somehow it seemed that I always ended up at this most powerless end of my family's pain. It made me anxious and then I got irritated and lost all measure of control. Considering that I had no idea of my brother's whereabouts now —for all I knew, he could have been arrested and on his way to prison— I could safely say that I was gnashing my teeth. At Dean. At the world. Especially at myself.
It wasn't until a couple of hours later, just when my frustration was reaching its limits, that I heard shuffling behind the motel door. My heart started to beat faster, and I swallowed a couple of times, trying to control the fear that threatened to come out as an explosive fit of anger. Standing slowly, my fists clenched of their own accord as the door opened and, despite my efforts, I was ready to yell at Dean the second I set eyes on him.
That was until I actually saw him, and then all the anger faded. He came in quietly and closed the door behind him, without meeting my eyes at all. He was soaked, his clothes were plastered against his body, and his hair was sprinkled with drops of rain that trickled down his face as he moved. The first thought that came to my mind was that I hadn't even realized it was raining outside. And the second, that if I had thought I felt guilty before, I really should revise what I thought I knew about that particular emotion.
I gulped and bit my lip, waiting for him to acknowledge me as I assessed his condition with a trained eye. He looked ragged in so many ways I couldn't start counting them; the cold had made him paler, which made the other signs of his exhaustion even more noticeable. His eyes were dull, spent, as if there were nothing left of him there. And he was so sad. More than that, he was…crushed. It was even worse than the days before the deal came due, when he had managed to summon some measure of peace about his fate; back then it had been acceptance but never renouncement.
I couldn't stand seeing him so defeated and do nothing. I ached to go to him but hesitated when he didn't advance. He remained next to the door, with his back against the wall and his eyes glued to the floor. I made one tentative step towards him, and he glanced up, if only for a split second before immediately averting his eyes. My heart clenched, missing the eye contact as if was the air I breathed. I decided to take the first step.
"What happened?"
Dean pursed his lips, but other than that showed no reaction.
"Dean," I called him, with a clear edge of nervousness in my tone. I needed to know if I had to prepare myself to say goodbye. "Tell me what happened."
"I didn't do it." Dean spoke, his voice barely a whisper. I shut my mouth at once, and I wasn't able to do anything but stare at him wide-eyed. "Tell them," he clarified. "I didn't do it. I couldn't."
I released a breath and took another slow, controlled one. The guilty relief at his words was debilitating, but I didn't give in to it, because I wasn't sure where Dean was going with this and I knew he wasn't done talking. It was something I could read in his body language; his muscles were tense, his hands nervous, and he kept his eyes downcast, vaguely fixed on some point on the floor in order to avoid meeting my gaze. Just like all the other times he had allowed himself to show his feelings to me. I guess it was easier for him to talk without looking at me, and in some ways it was easier for me too.
"Why didn't you?" I prompted him softly.
He flashed me another brief glance, too quick for me to have time to give him an encouraging smile in return. However, that I was still there and ready to listen was all the encouragement he needed.
"I went to the house, Lilian's. Her little sister was in the garden, playing with their dad. She had your…horse doll and they were playing cowboys and indians. She was an Indian princess," he commented with a weak smile. I smiled too. "Her mother was at the door, looking at them. She looked sad, tired. But, I dunno, she was lighter somehow. She was…smiling, Sammy," he said reverently. His voice trembled a little, and he looked at me for a second. I tilted my head, focused entirely on him. I couldn't be sure of the expression I was wearing at the time, and I could only hope it was supportive enough for him to continue. "And I couldn't do it. I couldn't…go there and put them through all that shit again. You should have seen them. They were…maybe not happy, but they…" He shook his head and shut his eyes tight.
"They were moving on," I provided. "They were moving on, just like you told them to."
Dean opened his eyes and fixed a troubled gaze onto mine, pupils bright and full of regret.
"But they deserve to know the truth," he murmured. "I wanted them to know the truth!"
"No, Dean," I shook my head, gravely. "You wanted them to forgive you."
His breath halted, and he swallowed, eyes tearing up. My throat closed when he looked down again, ashamed. I hated myself but at the same time I had the feeling he needed to have this conversation or neither of us would get past the tragedy.
"But they won't, Dean." I shook my head again. "They can't."
He pursed his lips and shrank into himself even more. God, he thought I was accusing him. He thought I thought he was a coward.
"But that doesn't make it less of an accident." I tried to make him understand. "It just makes them a family."
Dean huffed out a breath as he tilted his head back and against the wall. I knew I was losing him, but at that point I didn't really have anything more to offer. As much as I wanted to, I couldn't erase what had happened. Besides, I did believe what I had said. It had been an accident. Alright, maybe my brother had miscalculated how tired he was. Probably he shouldn't have been driving. Then again, Dean would never have put other people's lives at risk on purpose. So, yeah, it had been a mistake, but being wrong didn't make him a cruel murderer.
The problem was that as long as Dean didn't believe in himself, I didn't know if I would be able to help him. I would have done anything to erase the devastation on this face, if only he'd tell me what he needed. Looking at him standing there, shivering next to the door, vulnerable and raw was heartbreaking. He looked so lost, so… lonely. On his own against a kind of pain that couldn't be mended by denial or joke.
Only he wasn't alone. I was right there. And even though I couldn't get into his head and deal with him, I could try to get as close as possible and deal by his side. The only problem was that I didn't know how to do that; I was frozen in my safe spot, half-way between reaching out for him and waiting him out, and neither option seemed like a good idea.
"Dean…"
Please, just give me a sign.
"I don't know what to do, Sammy," he whispered, "I- I don't know what I'm supposed to do. It's like…I don't know anything anymore."
He sounded so confused. With all the insanity of the last few hours, I had practically forgotten that he hadn't been able to rest properly in the last two weeks. And he was only human, after all; even if he kept insisting on ignoring that little detail I should have kept it in mind at all costs. Learning the truth about Lilian's death had hit him at his weakest, when he had no chance to pull himself together by his own means. On top of that I had broken under the stress of the moment, and as a result I had dropped my own burden about Matthew on his shoulders too. No wonder he felt lost, disoriented, like he couldn't turn to anyone for help or support.
I had the feeling that it was my entire fault. For not being stronger, for not catching up before. For not being where I should have been all along.
"You asked me to trust you, when I doubted myself. Now you trust me, alright?" I whispered back, trying to summon all the confidence I had in him. It was the only thing easy to do, since the whole mess had started. "You're the best person I know, Dean. Trust me. And let it go."
My soul for his, as many times as I have to. Absolutely, always. At last, no buts.
Dean swallowed thickly and met my eyes with a pained gaze.
"She was thirteen..." he murmured, voice thick with tears. "God, kiddo, I remember you at thirteen."
Automatically dragged along by the need his expression reflected, I went to him. Honestly, I didn't know what I'd do when I got to him; he had never wanted to be hugged when he felt exposed. I feared I would end up just awkwardly standing next to him, helplessly at a loss for words like so many other times. Dean beat me to making any decisive moves, though, by lowering his eyes and unexpectedly advancing towards me. I stopped warily, the knot in my stomach sending a gawking sensation of alarm into my system. But then my whole nervous system shut down when he leaned into me and just…stilled.
My lips moved silently, in search of words that wouldn't make their way through my closed throat. My pulse quickened, then slowed down to match the beating of his heart that I felt against my chest. He wasn't hugging me, not really, and he wasn't asking to be hugged either. Dean was just...well, simply leaning against me, nothing more and nothing less. His hands curled in the fabric of my shirt without gripping it, and he pressed his forehead against my shoulder. In a way, he was still hiding, but it wasn't from me. It was within me.
He was only asking to be supported, and it seemed all so simple all of a sudden. It was easy to wrap my arms around his back loosely and pull him only that fraction of an inch closer to show that I got it. That I got him. A soft sigh escaped me, and I let my eyes slip closed, trusting the rest of my senses to take stock of the condition of the wounded hero that took refuge in my arms.
"God, Dean, you're freezing," I muttered absently, giving in to the urge to rub his back a little.
Dean shook his head, or I thought he did, since it was an almost imperceptible movement against my shoulder.
"Forgive me."
I blinked my eyes open, unsure that I had heard him right.
"What? Dean, I don't…" I started, and pulled away trying to catch his eyes.
Dean tensed and pressed himself closer against me, as if he feared that I was going to let go. It wasn't a tight grip; if I had wanted to pull away I could have. But there was nothing farther from my intention. Instead, I squeezed his back reassuringly.
"I don't blame you, Dean. I've never blamed you."
"But do you forgive me?"
I let out a soft laugh. It was a mystery how Dean managed to simply tune out anything that went against the low opinion he had of himself. But if forgiveness was what he needed, he'd have it. At least from me.
"Yeah, I forgive you. Of course I forgive you."
Dean let out a breath and leaned further into me; his weight was warm and solid against my chest despite his soaked clothes and I held him close, not really knowing whether I was supporting or hugging him anymore. I guess it didn't matter. He was trembling softly, but I didn't know if he was crying or just cold. I also couldn't tell if it was rain or tears that seeped into the fabric of my shirt. It didn't matter either.
Maybe someday I would forgive myself for knowing that a great part of my brother's choice had consisted on protecting me, but the least I could do was not calling him on it. He was back with me, and that was the only thing that mattered for real. So I closed my eyes and just accepted the gift.
Just one more chapter, the Epilogue, to go. What did you think?
xx