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Crows in the Wheatfield

Chapter 26

Dean's sudden appearance managed to stop their fight as if someone had dumped a bucket full of ice-cold water right over their heads.

And still it took a while until it settled, until Sam grasped the implication of why Dean brushed past them without a word, ignoring Sam's pleas to stop.

Dean had heard…

And just like that all the fight left Sam.

"Shit," he breathed, suddenly trembling as the residual anger seeped out of his system, was replaced by shock of what he – what they had done.

He practically felt his own face crumble, and he didn't even care to look at his father to see if he at least had the decency to feel bad about letting it all get out of hand – again.

All Sam knew was that he hadn't wanted for Dean to find out like this.

He should have told him, Sam was painfully aware of that.

Delaying the inevitable had never done anybody any good – Sam knew that one from experience. It only served to make matters so much worse, in the end. And still he hadn't found it in him to confront Dean with his too soon departure right from the start, not after seeing him so…broken. Not after seeing the absolute, honest to the core relief and happiness in his brother's face when he'd entered the shabby, rundown safe-house, re-entered his brother's life without forewarning.

Sam hadn't managed to break his brother even further, shatter the obvious hope he'd seen in his eyes – the hope that Sam would stay, that things would return to normal again. What Dean didn't seem to understand, though, was the fact that their normal wasn't what would make Sam happy. It meant they were together again, sure, which was something Sam wanted too.

But it also meant that they would slip back into their old routine – Dad taking the lead and Dean following behind faithfully, blindly, giving up a piece of himself in order to accommodate both his brother's and his father's needs.

It meant going back to hunting, to hurting – to fighting both the supernatural and each other.

Sam didn't understand how Dean couldn't see it, how he could stay oblivious, even after all this time apart. Bus Sam was just so done fighting. He was done worrying for his family's safety as well as his own. He was done running.

Dejectedly, Sam watched his brother push past him as he tried to stop him, tried him to slow down at least - to look at him. Dean wouldn't be able to just shut him out if he would only look at him for a second, see in Sam's eyes how sorry he was, how he wanted to make it all better.

But Dean barely acknowledged Sam's tries to hold him back, mumbled something about needing to get some air while hauling his battered body forward and in the end Sam could only step back, give him space in order to keep him from hurting himself further.

Sam knew Dean needed a minute, maybe two to come back down, clear his head. Sam needed the exact same thing.

But there was no question whether or not Sam needed to follow his brother outside, to at least try and make Dean understand.

For a moment he just stood there, staring as the screen-door closed behind his brother's bowed back, aware of his father standing mere feet behind him, deadly still as well. They seemed to have stopped breathing, as if their fight had sucked all the air out of the room. Sam's head was still ringing from all that had been said, mind reeling and chest aching as he realized how close he'd once again come to lose himself in his own anger, forgetting everything else but his own need for justice.

He'd had the best intentions – back when John had come home and found Sam sleeping in Dean's bed next to his brother. When Sam had woken up, he'd caught John watching him, silently, and then they had started talking. It had all gone surprisingly well, too – all through John's terrifying narrative of how Dean had gone missing, how he had called John – how John had managed to find him. It had been a clear and frightening testimony to how fucking scared John had been, how shaken he still was by the whole incident when his voice had broken as he described Dean's injuries, albeit hesitantly, relaying their too early escape from the hospital in the barest details.

Sam had been thrown completely off track by his father's honesty. And still he knew that the details were still not the whole truth, were barely scratching the surface of what had really gone down. But he had stayed quiet – for his brother's sake, mostly – right up until Dad had come to the matter of the werewolf – the one that had turned out to be a skinwalker and that's were things had gotten a little…out of hand.

Because that, most definitely, wasn't something Sam could grasp, could understand. He couldn't believe his father's slightly incoherent ramblings – about Dean having dreams – or visions – about crows and John dying and Dean seeing it all in his dreams. There were just too many inconsistencies, first and foremost the case of John going out to hunt a freaking werewolf – alone – without first making sure he knew what he was up against, despite his son's warnings, his pleadings to stay. Despite leaving behind his badly injured son.

That was when Sam had snapped. And it had all gone south very quickly from there.

And here he was now, once again, trying to figure out how to explain to Dean that he was leaving – had to be leaving and that he hadn't told Dean because he had feared his reaction, had feared he'd been asked to stay. Because he hadn't been sure he'd been able to ignore that plea – still wasn't sure how he could, if Dean actually came out and asked him. Despite everything his brother and father might think of him, Sam wasn't the cold-hearted bastard that he was pegged so easily to be.

Because he did care – more than he'd ever be able to tell.

He would do anything for his brother.

"I'll go talk to him," Sam finally mumbled, found his voice trembling slightly.

He turned his head, appraised his father – daring him to hold him back, to tell him not to go, to tell him to get the hell out and leave them alone… But all John did was hold Sam's gaze for a moment before giving a gentle nod, sending him off with as much of a wordless encouragement as he could muster.

Sam stopped at the screen-door leading out onto the porch, taking a steadying breath. He could see Dean standing out there, unmoving, staring over the vast expanse of the backyard and the woods beyond. Sam knew that it was the worst sign – Dean standing absolutely still, even though he assumed that part of it was due to his physical inability to move much at all without going down still. But Dean was motion, was bristling energy. And Sam would take Dean yelling and throwing punches over this stoic silence anytime.

The door opened with an almost ominous creak and Sam momentarily squeezed his eyes shut at the unexpected noise, cursing himself for being so clumsy.

He approached his brother carefully, as he would a wild animal, expecting him to pounce on him if he got too close too fast, burying his teeth into Sam's flesh in his panic.

But Dean didn't acknowledge his approach in the slightest, instead stayed where he was at the edge of the porch, a mere step away from the stairs that led into the yard. He had his back to Sam, stood quiet and unmoving yet listing slightly forward and to the right as he leaned most of his weight onto his right leg and the right crutch, favoring his entire left side. But he was standing, wasn't outwardly trembling or threatening to fall, which was more than Sam would have thought possible, considering the way he'd looked just this morning.

Sam let the screen-door slip shut behind his back, quickly checking that Dad wasn't following him outside. But John remained where Sam had left him and while he could still see him standing there, looking a little lost and alone, he was sure that he wouldn't be able to hear what was spoken between the brothers.

Because Sam needed some time alone with his brother, and that John had never dared to interfere with. One could say whatever he wanted about John Winchester, but he had always given them their privacy, had always known when to back off, when they needed only each other.

"Dean," Sam started, toning his voice low and placating, hoping to get his brother to not shut him out before he could get through to him.

He knew he was walking a fine line here. It didn't take much to have Dean shut down, to have him retreat back inside himself and not let Sam in, not let anyone in anymore. No matter how much Dean was hurting, how personal his pain was, Sam knew that Dean could push all that aside, bury it deep and not let it see the light of day for a long, long time to come.

Knowing his brother's ways of dealing with pain of both the emotional as well as the physical kind had taught Sam early on that he had to weigh his words very carefully, had to weigh his actions, too. If he so much as breathed the wrong way, stepped into his brother's personal space too early or too late it would all be over as quickly as he could blink.

"Dean, hey," Sam took a careful step closer, staying to the side and little ways behind his brother, waiting for Dean to acknowledged his presence.

For the longest time, Dean didn't move. He just stood there, staring out over the backyard with that slightly faraway look in his eyes.

It reminded Sam a lot of some 19 months back, when he'd confronted his father with his decision to go to college, all consequences be damned. He'd planned on telling his brother but of course had been too much of a coward to pull it off. Instead, he'd ended up yelling it into his father's face and Dean, once again, had been caught in the middle.

They had ended up trying to figure out how to handle all the things that had remained unspoken between them in the silence that had ensued the fight Sam had with their Dad, giving them mere minutes before Sam left his family for good.

Back then Sam had done most of the talking with Dean standing there, silently hearing him out.

Sam knew that, once Dean got like this, he could maintain his silence for quite a while. But he was painfully aware that they didn't have that kind of time now.

"Come on dude, don't do this," Sam pleaded, prepared to resume his plea for his brother to not shut him out when Dean suddenly sagged a little, his shoulders rolling forward, chin dropping towards his chest.

Sam took a quick step forward, reaching out to catch his brother as Dean's eyes closed, but before he could make contact, close his hand around his big brother's biceps Dean shook his head once, curtly. Sam reacted immediately, clenching the helping hand into a fist and dropping it to his side, halting his step in mid-motion.

Too early…

"When did you plan on telling me?" Dean asked and his voice cut through his former silence like a knife, had Sam sucking his lips against his teeth to stop the automated indignant comeback to Dean's question to spill from his mouth. It was almost like an inbred reaction to any accusation voiced against him – to defend himself, even when knowing that said accusation wasn't all that unfounded.

It took him a moment to realize that Dean's voice didn't sound challenging, didn't sound accusatory even. It just sounded…tired – resigned. It managed to pull Sam down again quickly.

"I…I didn't want to…I didn't know how…" Sam flailed helplessly.

He saw Dean opening his eyes again, his chin still down, head turned towards him but his eyes remained shadowed by long lashes above, dark grayish circles below. His profile was a fuzzy dark outline against the rapidly reddening evening sky.

"I'm no idiot, Sam. I knew you weren't going to stay," he said.

Somehow Sam doubted that statement, though.

"I just didn't want to what little time we had together to be…spoiled by this – by you knowing. It would have ruined everything," Sam admitted calmly, hoping to make Dean see that he himself hadn't wanted to face his own departure, not so soon after finally finding his family – his brother again. It was bad enough that he felt like a bastard for leaving Dean in the first place, feeling like even more of one for leaving Dean now, in his condition, after seeing what his absence had done to his brother.

"Yeah, because it would have been so much better just waking up and finding you gone again," Dean mused, bitterness seeping into his words, even though he clearly lacked the strength to deliver the remark with all the sarcasm he wanted to.

"I wouldn't have just left," Sam parried, hurt that his brother would think something like this, remembering too late that it had happened once before, that his last goodbye hadn't given Dean much time to prepare, either.

"Yeah, whatever," Dean sighed, turning away.

Once again he swayed a little on his foot, his balance totally shot to hell. Sam could see that he'd pretty much shifted all of his weight onto his right crutch now, fingers of his left hand only lightly curled around the plastic handle, unable to strain the injured limb any further.

His shoulder couldn't be ready to bear his weight, not after what it had looked like mere hours before. Involuntarily, Sam winced at the memory of raw and swollen flesh, of inflamed stitches and bruises on top of even more bruises.

"Dean, why don't you sit down," Sam started but he was rewarded with yet another curt shake of his brother's head which under other circumstances would have probably managed to shut him up as it had before.

But this time the small but decisive movement of Dean's head was enough to make his balance falter completely. He swayed more heavily, like a leaf ready to be ripped off the tree with a gust of heavy wind and the crutch slipped out of his left hand and clattered to the ground a moment later.

Dean reached out and Sam thought he tried to grasp onto the porch railing, the wall – anything, realizing after a second only that his brother actually reached out for him.

Without second thought Sam took one big step forward, reaching his brother's side and sliding one arm across his back while placing the other flat against Dean's chest, sparing his injured left limb while trying to steady him as best as he could. He tried his best to ignore the raw grunt of pain spilling from Dean's lips, the harsh breaths – the near whimper of defeat as their ungraceful descent strained his injured body without mercy.

He remained mindful of Dean's injuries, kept his hands as far away from the deepest bruising and the still tender gashes but knew that, no matter how careful he was, he would cause his brother further pain.

The only thing left to do was keep the damage to a minimum.

Sam saw Dean set his jaw in frustration as his body betrayed him so terribly. He almost growled as Sam pulled him back from the porch's edge with gentle force, shuffled their tangling limbs and helped him sit down on the cracked wooden floor, back against the porch railing, legs splayed out in front of him. Sam would have felt much more comfortable getting Dean inside, onto the sofa or the bed even, but he knew Dean wouldn't go for it – and maybe Sam himself wasn't ready to re-enter the confines of the house just yet.

Sam helped his brother sit, quietly arranging his broken leg while waiting for Dean to ease the rest of his body into a position he could tolerate without relinquishing too much of the picture of control he wanted to convey. Once Dean was settled, his breathing back down to a somewhat normal level and his jaw not creaking with the pressure he put on it, Sam rocked back onto his heels. With one last, reluctant squeeze of his brothers thigh he broke the contact and sat back against the wall of the house.

They sat facing each other and Sam shifting his shoulders against the peeling paint of the house's wall so he would be able to keep eye-contact with his brother, mirroring Dean's posture as they sat opposite each other, their legs touching in the middle of the narrow expanse of the porch.

For the longest time, Dean just kept his eyes closed, his head tipped back against the wooden railing. His Adam's apple bobbed occasionally and Sam could see a fine sheen of sweat had started to cover the stubbly skin on his brother's face and neck, but his breathing remained steady, calm. When Dean finally opened his eyes again, Sam cringed at the rawness he detected in them, if only for a moment before Dean had his walls up and firmly in place once more

"So, tomorrow," Dean started, giving Sam the opening he'd been waiting for, the sign to go on and get this out of the way so they could spent their last hours together in whatever pretense of peace they could establish.

"Yeah," Sam ran the palms of his hands over his denim-clad thigh, trying to wipe off the nervous perspiration that made his hands slick, betraying his otherwise composed posture. "The car I borrowed - my neighbor's got to have it back by Monday morning. If I leave tomorrow morning and not stop for the night, I should just about make it…"

"You drove all this way just to be here for one day?" Dean questioned, unbelieving, maybe a little awed.

Sam looked at his brother, hard, hoping he would see the sincerity in his next statement.

"I would have done it for less than that."

Dean just looked at him.

"You know I would have come if you'd have told me you were hurt," Sam defended himself with more vigor, hurt that his brother would doubt the truth of his words.

"I know you would have," Dean placated, but Sam couldn't help but feel that familiar pang of injustice, the feeling that his family thought he didn't love them as unconditionally as they loved him.

Dean didn't hold the fucking monopoly of devoting himself for those he loved, goddamn it, he wasn't the only one who'd ever sacrificed anything in the name of family…

"I know, Sam," Dean repeated more gently this time and it wasn't until Sam unclenched his fingers, unlocked his jaw that he realized that he'd actually tensed up, that his anger must have shown in his face as it so easily did. Sometimes he just wished to be as in control of his expression as his brother was, even though he himself had cursed Dean for just that ability more than once.

Trust Dean, of course, to see the indignation Sam was trying to hard to battle down and once again beat him to it and make amends, to step back and alleviate the tension, pushing his own feelings aside.

"I wish…I could have stayed longer," Sam hedged, carefully weighing his words, to get them out just right.

Dean pulled himself up a little straighter, cradling his left arm in his lap with his right hand, unconsciously massaging his biceps right above the elbow to stop a stubbornly trembling muscle from shaking. His focus was slightly off center, trained on a point just below Sam's chin so he could avoid direct eye-contact.

"Yeah, well…better than nothing," Dean mumbled, and Sam knew he didn't mean really mean it, that Dean was aching for more time just like Sam was but that he'd equally never admit to it.

For both of them it was a matter of their damn pride to just get out in the open how much they'd missed each other. But for Sam it somehow was even more important to keep his game-face on because if he showed one shred of weakness, one tiny opening in his resolve, he had no doubt Dad and Dean would jump on it, would use it to once again draw Sam back into their lives.

And he'd sworn he was done with hunting. Which didn't mean that he couldn't also miss his brother, goddamnit. He had every goddamn right to be homesick for his brother, crave the only home he'd ever known. And still he could stay gone, didn't need to crawl back with his tail between his legs like a beaten puppy. People did it all the time. They left. And still they could love the people they left behind and come back home during school-breaks and for the holidays.

But both John and Dean would definitely see it differently.

"I just wish…I'd have known from the start, is all," Dean finally said, ripping Sam out of his reverie.

"What would have changed if you'd known?" Sam asked, honestly wanting to know Dean's answer even though eh was pretty sure he knew his brother's intentions.

Dean shrugged, tilting his head to the side and appraising Sam from underneath lowered lashes.

"I would have…" he started but bit off the sentence before finishing it.

"…you would have pushed yourself harder, wouldn't have gone to sleep but stayed awake as long as possible, risking your health, abusing your body just so you didn't miss one minute," Sam finished for him.

Again Dean only half shrugged, half nodded.

Sam huffed a mirthless laugh.

"I herewith rest my case," he deadpanned and shot Dean a challenging look.

Dean's eyes sparked in defiance, which was about a hundred times better than the flat defeat of before.

For a minute or two they stared at each other, Dean's eyes finally drifting off and to the side, toward the side of the house where the back of the carport pushed against the wooden banister of the porch, staring at it as if he was looking for answers in the worn and chipped wood.

Sam kept looking at his brother, checking Dean's torso. Right underneath the white t-shirt his brother was wearing now Sam could make out the thick patches of gauze he himself had taped to the bite-wounds in Dean's shoulder this morning. With a worried frown he noticed a little darker spot on Dean's upper shoulder, realizing that his brother had probably overdone it a little with walking on the crutches, straining the stitches, maybe even pulling or busting one. He was just about to say something when Dean's voice pulled his attention away from his brother's injuries and back to his face, though.

"So, you and dad…" Dean started still staring off to the side.

Again Sam swallowed, rubbing his hands against his thighs in an almost compulsive gesture.

"He told me, Dean. Everything. About what happened to you, the black dog and the werewolf and your…dreams,"

As Sam mentioned the dreams Dean's head snapped over to him, eyes flashing dark momentarily, his chin dipping low as his head jerked back. And there it was again, that muscle in Dean's jaw jumping once, twice - straining the too pale skin on his sunken cheeks.

"'t was nothing, Sam. Just some damn dreams. You used to have those all the time. Nothing to get all excited about." He pressed out in a clipped voice.

"Yeah, I can see that. That's what dad said, too. Funny thing is, for those dreams meaning nothing, it seems to me they do have an impressive tendency to come true, don't they?" Sam challenged.

"Again, Sam – it was nothing. Just a damn coincident is all. Maybe some awesome gut-feeling on my part."

"What are you scared of, Dean? That you have the third eye, the shining or whatever? You think you are a freak for seeing things that might be beyond our comprehension? With everything we've seen you should know better than to dismiss this so vigorously. All those questions about crows…you got me thinking. We could look into this…"

"Sam, I'm not a freaking psychic," Dean insisted and Sam could see his brother tensing up, muscles in his right arm bulging as he clenched his fingers into iron-fists.

"Would it be so terrible if you were? I mean…you saved Dad's life…" Sam faltered, not knowing how to go on, to make his point without forcing Dean to retreat further.

He didn't know why it was so damn important to him that Dean accepted this…whatever this was – or had been, be it a new addition to their lives or just something temporary. But Sam used to be the one having weird dreams all his life, nightmares that Dean easily enough explained away for him, pulled him out of.

Sam had only recently come to realize how much of the pressure of those dreams Dean had taken away from him by simply being there with him, holding his hand or even letting him sleep in his bed when they'd still been younger and sharing a bed hadn't been socially awkward. And still there was a part of him that always asked himself if those dreams – maybe – were more than just dreams. There had been times in the recent past when Sam could have sworn…

"I didn't save Dad's life, Sam. At least not because of any damn vision I had," Dean lowly stated.

"What…Dean – he could have shot that damn wolf full of silver till it was constipated till kingdom come and still it would have ripped him to shreds if you hadn't showed up, hadn't put two and two together," Sam intervened.

Dean always tended to sell himself short, but surely he couldn't miss the importance of this…

"Yeah so…still doesn't make me hero of the day," Dean parried, eyes once again hidden, only flicking them up at Sam through the thick curtain of his lashes, effectively shielding himself from closer inspection.

Automatically Sam ducked his own head, hoping to breach his brother's barrier.

"If this doesn't, then what does, Dean?"

Dean didn't answer, rolled his bottom lip between his teeth and looked away. For a moment Sam thought it was because his brother really considered his words. He should have known better, though.

"Well, I guess we're even, then – me and Dad - seeing how he saved my life when finding me in that field after I thought it would be smart to go solo hunting a black dog,"

"Dean, that wasn't…"

"Wasn't my fault? How was that not my fault, huh? How can you not blame me for doing something so incredibly stupid like hunting solo, but you are willing to lay all the blame on Dad when he does the exact same thing?" Dean challenged, green eyes flashing with hurt and anger – at himself more than at anybody else, Sam knew.

"Dad went even though you told him not to, Dean. He went unprepared…"

"And I went even though I knew that hunting a black dog wasn't a job for one man alone. I went because I was pissed at Dad, because we had a fucking argument about god knew what. Because it seems like now that you're gone he can't even look me in the eyes anymore, thinking harder about when he can bail out on me again than staying and hunting with me instead. I might not have acted against a direct order, but I acted against my better judgment, Sam, against everything I believe in. Tell me - how does that make any difference at all? How does it make my mistake any less stupid than Dad's?"

For a second Sam was rendered speechless by his brother's explanation, was struck by the way Dean relayed the events – with such self-loathing when it came to his own mistake while at the same time being willing to write John's mistake off as a mere formality. And he was thrown off track a little by his brother's view of the events. For the first time he realized that John hadn't with one word mentioned the fight that had led to Dean taking off to hunt the black dog by himself, hadn't put one word of blame on his eldest for it, either.

"Dad doesn't blame you for that, Dean," Sam ventured, carefully.

There it was again, that inexplicable surge of helplessness at how fucked up their family was, how they could accept blame, but praise and forgiveness seemed like unconquerable obstacles.

"Yeah, right – he doesn't. Just like you don't blame him for going after the wolf by himself either, right? Was that why the two of you were going at it again, tearing at each others throats like pit bulls? Because we're such a forgiving, caring family?" Dean mused with a smile that didn't quite manage to reach his eyes.

"Yeah, I do blame Dad, Dean. I do blame him for not listening to you, for not giving second thought to your input,"

Dean snorted a bitter laugh.

"The two of you are just priceless, you know? You blame Dad for not patting my head and telling me everything's going to be alright when I fucked up so royally, I almost got myself killed? I mean, look at me, do I look like I made the goddamn right choices back then?"

Sam shook his head, searching his brother's reasoning for a loophole, searching his own brain for a good enough explanation, to make Dean see…

"And you of all people, Sam…I mean, come on. You want to teach me about forgiveness while you and him can't even be in the same room for more than a couple of minutes at a time without wanting to kill each other?"

The accusation made Sam cringe with barely concealed indignation, had him flex his hands and set his jaw with the effort to not leash out, shoot back at his brother – to accept the blame that wasn't quite as unfounded as he wanted it to be.

"Dad and I…we just talked…" Sam started meekly, knowing full well how lame he sounded. And he did feel guilty for not even being able to hold on to whatever tiny window of peace they'd established, had let his temper get the better of him once again and done exactly what Dad had expected of him. He'd lashed out, his worry for Dean together with all that pent up resentment toward their father making him react in bouts of childish temper instead of holding himself in check.

"Yeah, I heard you talking alright," Dean huffed without humor, shifting and looking away and Sam almost missed the flash of hurt dulling Dean's intense gaze – almost. It took him a moment to realize that this time Dean's pain had less to do with the wounds marking his body but rather from something much deeper, much more painful even.

Dean always had been hurting most when Sam and John had fought. The only time Sam had ever seen his brother really, truly hurting – on the outside – was during or after one of Sam's more serious arguments with their Dad.

"I just wish…" Dean started, biting off the sentence with a frown that showed Sam that he hadn't spoken without thinking it through first.

"You just wish what?" Sam prompted, gently as he leaned forward, closing the distance between his brother and himself, hoping to be able to draw Dean's attention back to him.

All his life he'd been so used to having his brother's eyes on him, looking out for him. He felt exposed and open to attack whenever Dean's gaze swayed from him for any longer period of time.

"You wish what, Dean?" he tried again when Dean didn't immediately react to his question.

Dean bit his lip, the frown between his brows deepening as he fought with himself if to reveal his needs or not.

"I just wish you'd stop," he said, voice so low Sam wasn't sure he'd heard.

Sam leaned forward some more, abandoning the support of the wall behind his back in favor of getting within merely an arm-length of brother.

"Stop what?" he asked carefully, even though he thought he knew.

"Just for tonight, Sam…it's not like we have an awful lot of time left, you know? I wish you and Dad could stop fighting, treat each other with the respect you both deserve,"

He still wasn't looking at Sam directly, and suddenly Sam was thankful for the space his brother gave him, because Dean's plea hit him like a punch in the guts.

The respect they both deserved.

Usually, Sam would have raved at that, would have gone on about Dad not treating him with respect, treating him like a soldier rather than a son, cutting him out of his mercy the second he dared to rebel, not following his orders blindly anymore. He would have said all that, wanted to say all that – because it still was true.

But – and that was just as true as his resentments were – Dean's appeal struck a chord, tickling that tiny piece of conscience in Sam's head that had always felt that, maybe, he didn't quite do his father justice, either. John Winchester wasn't a bad man, lived his life the way he did because of a reason. And maybe, just maybe, Sam wasn't the most…objective person when it came to their father as well.

Maybe it was that realization that hit Sam, or maybe it was the rawness of his brother's plea for peace, but it did break something inside of him. After all, if he couldn't even grant his brother this tiny little wish…

Dean had never asked a lot of him.

And it was only one night – one night and Sam would be gone again, back to the life he'd chosen. It really wasn't too much to ask…

Sam didn't know where it came from, how it would dawn on him now of all times, but suddenly the impending farewell hit him with all its cruel force. He hadn't really thought about what it would do to him to actually have to leave Dean – again. As if the first time hadn't been hard enough.

His stomach curled into the tightest knot imaginable, almost bending him forward with force as it twisted his insides, settled like a anvil in the bottom of his belly. His mouth suddenly felt dry, his head light. As if this was a goodbye forever – which it wasn't - never would be.

Through slightly blurry eyes Sam saw that Dean was still looking at him, his brows furrowing gradually as he became aware of his little brother's distress, his right hand letting go of his left elbow, bracing the palm against the floor next to him as if he was about to push himself to his feet.

As if he needed to worry about Sam now…

"Dad brought dinner," Sam blurted out, not knowing how else to stop Dean from slipping into his role big brother again, trying to comfort Sam when he himself was hurting so fiercely.

Dean blinked at him in surprise at the change in subject, hand still flat on the ground, upper body leaning forward a little still. Still ready to come to his aid, even though he so clearly was the one needing all the help he could get.

Sam squirmed underneath his brother's gaze, hoping his diversion would work, hoping at the same time that Dean would recognize his effort for what it had been. Those familiar green eyes, albeit a little dulled by weeks of pain and exhaustion, looked at him steadily, looked into his very soul apparently, because after a few moments of close scrutiny the surprise vanished from Dean's gaze and his features softened, the tension in his body lessening.

"Dinner, huh?" he asked softly, never taking his eyes off Sam as he once again leaned back against the wooden support of the porch's banister, right hand curling laxly in his lap.

"Yeah, I think he actually…might have cooked something," Sam offered around a shaky smile, trying to slip into one of his brother's most cherished habits of easing the tension with humor – deflecting. To Dean, Sam knew, it would be the best sign that Sam was indeed sorry, that he understood what Dean needed and was willing to jump over his own shadow here.

Sam watched as Dean's eyebrows bounced up at his statement.

"Dad cooked?" he asked, face a mixture of surprise and shock.

"Yeah, well…looks like. Don't really know, but I originally woke up to him swearing over some kind of pan he tried to fit into the oven…"

It wasn't quite true, considering that Sam had woken to John staring at him from the doorway to the den. But when they'd gone into the kitchen the place had been a mess of dirty pans and ripped open packages, the whole house smelling of burnt cheese and god knew what else.

"Oh god, that can't be good," Dean groaned, the look of terror on his face almost comical.

"Yeah, I know,"

"If that's him trying to make up for the hundreds of times he forgot to bring home something edible when running errands…" Dean started, letting the sentence trail off with an exaggerated shudder of breath.

"Well, he always brought us fruit-loops," Sam pointed out helpfully, felt the knot in his chest if not disappear then at least loosen at their light banter.

"True – and that one time in Philadelphia when he got us about four dozen cups of microwavable soup – only that we didn't have a microwave in the room we were staying in," Dean added with an upwards quirk of his lips.

Sam barked a laugh at the memory, vividly remembered Dean sweet-talking the lady from the gas-station next door to heat up the cups for them because at the age of ten or eleven he'd been too small to reach the microwave on the top counter. The woman had gotten kind of suspicious after the third day in a row when a clearly underage kid had come carrying four cups of soup, but Dean had spun her a tale of his daddy being in bed, sick like a dog, depending on his youngest to keep him alive. She had melted into a hopeless puddle at that one.

Dean had always had a way with the ladies…

For a moment or two they were both lost in the memory and Sam watched in fascination as Dean's face softened even further, his eyes loosing that terrible edge that had been there ever since Sam had followed him out onto the porch.

"So, you're up for…whatever he managed to cook up, then?" Sam asked. "I don't want to get you too excited, but I think it might be his infamous mac 'n cheese…" he added with a mock shudder of his own, watched Dean mirror his expression.

"I guess I could eat, though," Dean finally relented after a couple of seconds.

As if on cue, his stomach gave a low, gravelly rumble and Dean almost blushed guiltily as Sam's smile widened.

"Like there was ever a time when you couldn't eat," Sam teased gently, still mindful of the thin ice they were walking on.

Dean gave him a crooked smile in response, eyes still tired with pain and worry still hidden in those bright green depth. But at the same time a tiny mischievous glint sneaked its way into them, making him seem at least a tiny bit like his old self again.

"You say that now. But growing up you were the one eating like a damn vacuum, practically devouring everything even remotely edible within your reach. I had to learn to eat however much whenever I could in order to keep you from inhaling it right off my plate, dude."

Sam snorted a laugh, his shoulders rolling forward as, for the first time since coming here, he allowed his own defenses to lower.

"Yeah, but I managed to actually grow up, Dean. Maybe you should have tried it, too…"

"Oh yeah, that's very original, Sammy. Just because you are a freaking giant doesn't mean I am the short one, though…" he wriggled his eyebrows suggestively and even though the sarcasm was heavily dampened by fatigue and the remnants of pain clinging to him like a shadow, it was the best thing Sam had seen all day – and for one hell of a long time before that.

Sam laughed – really laughed at his brother's comeback.

Leaned his head back and barked a sharp, out-loud laugh that vibrated through his chest and strained his cheeks as squeezed his eyes shut, enjoying the feeling of actually laughing because of his brother – with his brother. There had been good times too, Sam remembered all of a sudden, the years of hunting with his family not all bad. They'd had fun, him and Dean, and sometimes even John, too, even though shared laughter with their father had been scarce to the point where Sam thought them nonexistent later.

When finally the bubbling laughter died down in Sam's chest he lifted a hand to his face, ran his fingers over his eyes to get rid of the first actual tears of joy he'd felt in a long time. In the corner of his range of vision Sam saw Dean watching him, still smiling yet somehow sobered, composed all of a sudden.

Before Sam could get himself under control again, could clear his vision enough to be absolutely sure Dean wasn't laughing along with him, Dean's smile was firmly in place once more, not giving Sam a clue if he'd seen correctly or not.

"So, if you'll leave tomorrow, we can't let you leave on an empty stomach, I guess," Dean broke his silence, mouth still smiling while his eyes were once again carefully veiled, not letting too much to the surface, shielding him from prying eyes, maybe even from himself.

"No, I guess," Sam agreed, the knot in his chest tightening a little again, growing once more.

He'd missed seeing Dean smile, hearing him laugh. Simply seeing and hearing him, period. Dean's smile had always been infectious, his laugh a constant companion when Sam had grown up. One day and one night simply wasn't long enough to stock up on that smile, that laugh again…

"Ok, so – you better finish up what Dad made for us, then – every last forkful. See if we can get the rest of you to grow to match height, right?" Dean teased gently.

This time, Sam didn't laugh, but he manage to roll his eyes in mock exasperation.

Pulling himself to his feet Sam used the second or two that he had his face averted from his brother's view to take a breath, to rid his features from the expression that twisted his facial muscles into a mask of pain. He couldn't let Dean see… Viciously he scrubbed a hand over his face, reaching out to pull open the screen-door when suddenly a voice at his back had him turn around again.

"Uhm, you know…I could probably use a little help here…"

Dean still sat on the ground, good arm outstretched and while Sam was sure that it ate at his brother, having to not only accept help but actually having to ask for it, Dean met Sam's gaze squarely. And maybe, in his own, twisted way, with this simply gesture Dean told Sam that he accepted his help, needed it. It was Dean's way of showing that, even though he didn't like it one tiny bit, he forgave Sam for having to leave again – at least for the moment.

Sam couldn't help but wonder how long that sentiment would hold true.

OoOoOoO

AN:

So, here I was, not being nervous about this chapter all week - until today. Once I did the final check, I once again went crazy with nerves. I wonder if that will ever change at all, or if I'm just not cut out for this...

I want to thank all those taking the time to read this, all those that leave a review to help and settle my nerves somewhat every week. Also, thanks to those who review anonymously, since I don't get to answer back to them in person, and another thanks to those favoriting this story - or even me as an author. It never fails to amaze the hell out of me.

The next chapter is pretty much done - as done as I will ever be, that is. So, if you liked this chapter - and you're up for the next one I might just actually post it ;-)

Thanks for giving me some of your time - and please remember that reviews are like candy...and since I didn't have real candy all week, I could do with a little 'unreal' one. I heard it's a lot better for the figure as well ;-)

hope to see you soon. take care!