Several hours after Sam's sudden outburst, Dean lay in bed craving a nice, big, bottle of whiskey. Too bad the admitting staff had checked him and Sam over so thoroughly that they hadn't even managed to sneak in so much as a vial of holy water. There was no way he was going to be able to sleep without some kind of alcohol in his system, so instead he put his hands behind his back, stared at the greyish-white ceiling, and thought about the events of earlier that evening.
After Sam had stormed out of the supply closet, leaving him with his lips and collar bone all bitten and bruised to Hell, he'd stayed in the closet for a long time rubbing his sore spots and trying to blank his thoughts before finally returning to his room. Sam didn't come to the room to meet him after an hour like they had agreed upon and it wasn't until about seven hours later at 8:00 P.M. that he had brusquely and unceremoniously burst in, looking resigned and angry. Dean had seen his face and immediately prepared himself for the coming heart-to-heart, but Sam had just turned heel and walked out, leaving him to follow.
Sam had been visibly angry and hadn't talked the whole night. They hadn't exactly needed to talk to each other though, either; they didn't need to discuss a plan to know what they had to do. Dean had stood guard outside one of the empty patient rooms while Sam ripped open the mattress and wrenched a bedspring free to use as a lock pick. They hadn't had much time to break into Ted's room to interview him about the monster before lights out at 9:00. But Sam had taken forever getting the bedspring and by the time he'd come out of the room the nurses were already making their evening rounds. Unfortunately, as they headed down the corridor to their witness's room they'd heard a scream. The monster had beaten them there. By the time Sam finished fumbling with the bedspring, Ted was already dead, hanging by a pipe with a bed sheet firmly wrapped around his neck. Sam grunted and angrily threw the bedspring to the floor. Dean took a step back from him. Sam had already had a few angry outbursts today and it was making him unpredictable. Dean picked up the bedspring, shoved it into his hospital robe and then stepped out of the room. Sam had followed, then looked down at the floor, clenched his jaw, and marched away from him. Dean had stared after him for a few seconds until he heard the sound of light footsteps coming towards him from down the hall and then he'd too taken off.
And now, minutes later as he lay in bed with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling and thinking about what just happened, not to mention Sam's sudden, uncharacteristic behavior, his mind wandered to their dad. Without wanting to, he pictured the way Dad would no doubt be scowling at him if he knew about what had been going on between his sons in the dark. Dean pictured the disapproval in his eyes and then felt a familiar pain in his chest, the one he always got when their dad looked at him that way. Never good enough, you'll never be good enough, it sang to him over and over again, as if it was some sort of personal mantra. No. He firmly shut his eyes and tried to change the picture in his head. He thought about the way the skin around Dad's eyes used to wrinkle whenever he smiled. In an instant, he was inside a memory from when he was eleven and his dad had come through the door while smiling ear-to-ear over a successful hunt, but his smile had faded the minute he'd seen the broken salt line behind the front door because his 'irresponsible son' had forgotten to re-salt it after he'd gone out to get him and Sam dinner. Overwhelming shame and feelings of worthlessness crashed over him anew as he remembered the yelling lecture he'd received that night. He forcibly shoved the memory away and once again changed the picture. He thought about the look of pride in Dad's eyes the first time Dean had changed out the Impala's rotors all by himself and the way his warm, reassuring hand felt on his back whenever he did especially well at target practice. Then he unwillingly thought of time Sam had come home late from school and Dad had been too busy yelling at him to watch him hit the bullseye with his crossbow and he'd just stood there holding the bow to his side and nearly wanting to cry for attention as the two of them ripped into each other. A few seconds later he'd had to put down the weapon and get between the two of them before they started throwing punches and then they'd gone inside, the unnoticed arrow still quivering in the target. As his mind went through this litany of scattered and painful memories, his father's voice, which despite years of separation had only gotten louder in his head over time, was barking out the same order in his head over and over again, just as he'd heard it thousands of times in the past, in at least a half dozen different ways; "Watch out for Sammy. Look out for your little brother, boy! Always be sure to keep Sammy safe. Take care of your brother while I'm gone. Don't let Sammy out of your sight, and that's an order!"
His most important job always had been, always would be to take care of Sammy and at the moment he was really sucking at it. He flinched as he remembered the hurt and insecurity in Sam's voice when he'd asked him why he wasn't enough for him. He was still a little stunned that that was what Sam thought the problem was. Did the kid ever look at himself in a mirror? Didn't he see how fuckable he was? Or did he really not notice how hard he made him all the time? Hell, when they hadn't had sex in a while, all Sam had to do was finger a fucking straw while they were out at a diner and Dean was ready to throw him into the backseat of the Impala and fuck him in front of dozens of shocked patrons. Didn't he see how much he loved it when he touched him, or how hard he almost always made him come? You shouldn't have fucked him in the first place, a voice in his head supplied. What, you want something and you just go and take it now? Are you really that selfish? He thought about Sam's words while they were in the closet; Dammit, you're supposed to be mine! Was he really supposed to be Sam's? Where were they supposed to go from here? It felt like he was left with a hundred options and every one of them was wrong. He continued to stare at the ceiling and think about it until the corners of his vision went black as exhaustion overcame him.
He blinked at the blurriness in his eyes and when the fog cleared, the inky, navy blue night sky was in front of him. Below that, the dashed white lines of a road shimmered before him as the flecks of reflective white paint shone underneath the Impala's bright headlights. He looked over to his left and saw the dark silhouette of dozens of evergreen trees standing out against the bluish night sky. To his right, Sam was sitting in the passenger's seat and smiling serenely at the road in front of them. He remembered this; this was exactly how everything looked on the night they drove to the hardware store to get supplies to build the curse box for that psycho, choke-happy ghost nearly two months ago. Shit, he must have fallen asleep. The sound of crashing waves filled his ears as his heart began to beat ferociously against his ribcage. He'd had this dream before. And he knew what was coming. His hands gripped the wheel with extra might as he tried to turn it to the left and turn the car around but it was no use; no matter how hard he jerked at the wheel, gripping so hard that he twisted the skin on his hands until they were three shades of red and white, the wheel stayed firmly in place and the car didn't even do so much as swerve. He took his hands off the wheel and car began to drive itself, the brake pedal being pressed down without his help as the vehicle steered itself around a corner and headed for the center of town. Dean shivered from fear.
"Sammy!" He snapped his fingers in front of his brother, who continued to look forward as if he couldn't see or hear him. "Hey, Sam! Come on man!" He shook him by the shoulders. "Listen to me! When this car parks itself, do not go outside, do you hear me? Stay in the car!"
Sam turned his head towards him, still wearing that same smile, and put his hand on Dean's knee, rubbing his forefinger over a worn spot on his jeans, and Dean sunk back miserably in his seat. He looked down at his knee and watched Sam's fingers slide over the denim. He used to enjoy this memory of Sam shyly touching him in the car on the first night they had agreed to be together but now several large, silent tears began to fall from his eyes, staining his face, and he pounded the wheel in frustration as every second of Sam's caresses brought them closer to their destination. Sure enough, in no time the car was slowing down in front of a small hardware store on the main street of Montrose, Colorado. The car parked itself and shut off its engine, the keys turning without Dean even touching them. Sam opened the passenger's side door.
"No, Sam! Stay inside!"
Dean lunged for him, but it was no use. His hands found no purchase, his fingers merely touching air as Sam stood up and slammed his car door behind him and then, right on cue, his own door slowly swung itself open as if beckoning him outside. This wasn't the hardware store they had gone to that night, but he'd already known that it wouldn't be. He still recognized the building but Sam obviously didn't as he headed towards the front door, laughing and quietly shoving at an invisible person beside him. Dean launched himself from the car and ran after Sam as fast as he could.
"Sam, please! Whatever you do, don't go inside!"
It was too late; Sam's tall, broad-shouldered frame was already disappearing through the doorway and Dean's legs, disobedient to his own commands, began to follow him. He tried willing his feet to stay firmly planted on the ground but his feet merely tripped over themselves as he continued to move forward and then his unwilling hand reached out, grabbed the door, and pulled it open and he and his still resisting feet tripped themselves inside.
The store was laid out in front of him just as he remembered it from Carthage, Missouri, complete with Jo bleeding on the floor with two useless legs stretched out in front of her. Unlike that time though, she and Ellen were tied together with thick ropes and bomb wires. Sam was standing behind them, dressed in a white suit and wearing a look of superiority as his eyes leveled on Dean. The wires circling the two women ended with the little homemade doorbell detonator. Sam was proudly holding it up to him with his right hand, caressing the button with his thumb as if it was a long-lost lover. Dean clenched his fists and his face contorted in rage.
"Get out of him, you evil son of a bitch!"
Sam's meat-suit laughed. "I don't think so, Dean; your brother said 'yes.' He's mine, now."
From down on the floor, Ellen looked at him with pleading eyes. "Kick it in the ass, Dean; don't miss."
The tears began to once again pour down Dean's face, not just one or two, but dozens of them, silently streaking down his face and staining it with their salty moisture. "I'm so sorry, Ellen," he rasped, his voice breaking on her name.
"Oh Dean." From inside of Sam, Lucifer pulled the puppet strings to make his brother shake his head in mock sympathy and Dean looked up at him with a start. He'd never spoken to him after Ellen in his dream before. "I know this is hard, but have you considered that maybe," he shrugged, "you just suck at everything?"
"Why, Sammy?" He knew this was a dream Sam and not the real thing, but he couldn't help himself because there really existed a scenario where Sam would let Lucifer wear him like the tacky suit he had on and, dammit, he wanted some fucking answers. "Why did you say 'yes'?"
Lucifer cocked his head to the side as if listening to something that no one else could hear and then grinned and nodded his head. "I'm not wasting my time by giving you Sam's answer on that; you already know."
With that, he pushed the doorbell and he, Ellen, and Jo all disappeared in a fireball before him.
"Sam!"
Dean shot up in bed, panting heavily and covered in sweat. He looked around at the bare walls of his room and then closed his eyes, slumped his shoulders, and took several deep breaths. Once he'd calmed down a bit, he scrubbed a hand over his face. Although he hated to admit it, Dream-Lucifer was right about a couple of things. First, he did suck at everything. He failed at everything, let people down, and got them killed. He'd gotten Sam killed at least once and was responsible for their dad's and Ellen and Jo's deaths by their dying in his place. He'd broken the first seal, hadn't been able to stop Sam from breaking the last seal, shot Lucifer but couldn't gank him, and now he was pushing Sam towards saying 'yes' to the devil. He swung his legs off the bed and sat up. He could only remember a handful of times before tonight when Sam had been so openly hostile towards him and he knew that the angry tension between them was all his fault. Sam had to be acting this way because of that Wendy chick. Well, okay, so it wasn't just her; it was her, and Jo, and probably every girl he'd flirted with or checked out since they'd first gotten together. The Wendy chick was probably just the last straw. And in reality he supposed that he couldn't really blame him because, although he'd never openly admit it, he knew that he would be insanely jealous too if Sam ever picked up some waitress's phone number while he was sitting right in front of him. On the outside of course he'd be patting Sam on the shoulder for proving to someone that he was a man and then tease him about calling her later, but on the inside he'd be fuming. But Sam was being forced to deal with even more from him than just flirting with other people; he was even taking it a few steps further by kissing them and that one night he was even willing to have sex with Jo. And why? To prove his manhood, to make a dead man, who had never given him attention, proud of him. He'd agreed to be only with Sam and by not sticking to it he was only hurting them both. Maybe nothing he did could stop Sam from becoming Lucifer's new prom dress, but he knew what he could do if he at least wanted to try. He and Sam couldn't keep going making the same mistakes over and over again. He needed to change things, tonight.
He got up and headed for the door. Using Sam's discarded bedspring it took him a few minutes to pick the lock so he could leave his room, but soon enough he was standing outside of Sam's room and using the make-shift lock pick to get inside. When he opened the door, Sam was lying on his back in bed. He was acting like he was asleep, but he could tell that he was also watching the door from out of the corner of his eye. The moment he stepped into the room, Sam swung his legs off the bed and he sat up, wide-eyed.
"Dean? What are you doing here?"
He shut the door behind him and took a couple of steps towards his brother. "I, ah…" Great start. He should have rehearsed; talking about relationships was never in his skill set. He gestured vaguely between them. "We…you know."
Sam's eyes lit up in recognition for a split second before he looked broodily down at the floor and sighed. "Oh."
Well, this was going well. Alright, screw this; he wasn't good at talking, but there was one thing he always knew how to do right. In a few quick strides he crossed the room, knelt down in front of Sam, and took his lips in an open-mouthed kiss. He felt Sam's body shudder in surprise and then he was closing his eyes, wrapping his arms around him, and kissing back. He took Sam's lower lip into his mouth and sucked and then Sam's lips stopped moving and he pushed on his chest.
"Dean, I can't keep going back and forth with you like this."
"I know. And I'm sorry, Sam. No more going back and forth, I promise. I'm yours."
He looked at Sam with pleading eyes. He meant it wholeheartedly; whatever this thing was between them, he was onboard for it for however long it was going to last. He knew he would never stop hearing the words of self-deprecation in his head, or stop feeling like he was letting down their dad by giving in to his need to be with Sam or by indulging in his own homosexual desires. He knew that one day Sam would get tired of him and leave, just like Dad, or the small number of women he'd been with and cared about, or Sam would die on him in some horrible fashion and leave him that way, just like Mom, Ellen, Jo, and countless others, but until then, he belonged to Sam. He wouldn't keep hurting his brother this way; he wouldn't make him go to the Devil by continuing to push him away. With all he'd done recently, he knew it would probably be a hard story to swallow but as Sam stared at him in a moment of silent communication, something in his eyes changed and he knew that Sam knew he meant it. And he believed him. Sam nodded and then swung his legs back onto the bed and held out two long arms, which Dean quickly crawled between. Sam laid down and Dean curled up beside him, lying in Sam's arms with his head to his brother's chest, listening to the beating of his racing heart, and then closed his eyes.
You're disgusting, a voice inside his head said.
Shut-up, he mentally shot back, I'm not listening.