Thanks for reading. A short chapter, but I liked ending it where I did so I hope it's not disappointing.
Chapter Twenty Five
Sam stood stunned by what Dean admitted, the words churning over and over inside his head. Although he couldn't find it within himself to feel anything other than relief that the coach was dead, his mind reeled over how the act of taking a life would and could change his brother's life. It made sense now why he'd distanced himself from Sam when he arrived at the cottage. It also explained the drinking, drugs, and constant fights with their father.
He had to be terrified that someone would link Driscoll's death to him, and must've felt as alone in his overwhelming fears as Sam did. Or at least he'd been alone in his fears until today. "Is that where Dad went?" Sam asked, legs wobbling as a tremor of fear for his brother surged through him. "You told him what happened and now he's gone…did someone find out, Dean? Are you gonna end up in prison because of me?"
"No, Sam." Looking decidedly ill, he shook his head emphatically. "No, I made sure no one would ever…that's not gonna happen. Dad just wants to make sure I didn't miss anything."
Sam's knees buckled, and he dropped down onto the couch. His vision blurred as he imagined all sorts of scenarios that ended in Driscoll's death, each one worst than the last. "How'd it happen?" he asked, rubbing away the moisture gathering in his eyes. He didn't want to know, didn't want to think about any situation that would end in his brother taking another person's life, but not knowing would only serve to make him dwell on it more and more until he snapped. "I need to know, Dean."
"It's over and done with." Drawing in a staggering breath, Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "I killed him, and if I had to do it all over again, I wouldn't change a thing. That's all you need to know, Sammy."
"No, don't do that. Don't shut me out." Sam's hands balled into trembling fists. "I told you everything that happened with Driscoll. I didn't –"
"Don't compare what I did with what happened to you," Dean cut in, turning his back on Sam. "It's not relatively close to being the same thing. You're innocent of any wrongdoing, and I killed a man. Sharing the details won't make you feel any better, and it'll only serve to make me feel worse. So let it go."
"Dean, I –"
"I said to let it go, Sam."
As Sam opened his mouth to try to convince him that nothing he could say would make him think any less of him, Dean strode out of the living room in long determined strides. At the sound of Dean's bedroom door slamming shut, Sam flinched. It didn't take a genius to figure out that the next he saw his brother he'd be drunk. A painful scream of frustration lodged firmly in Sam's throat; the tight knot thick and aching with the need to burst free. This is my fault. I did this to him. If I'd kept my mouth shut Dean wouldn't have gone after Driscoll.
Now instead of steering clear of anything pertaining to his murder, their father was getting involved in covering up the coach's death. If he's worried that Dean missed something, Dean must've somehow left those doubts in his mind. What if the police find something and Dean ends up going to prison?
There would be a trial and everything would come out. Even if Dean did try to keep what Driscoll had done to Sam from being a part of his defense, Sam would share every painful, humiliating, shameful detail if it helped keep his brother out of prison. Stomach churning, he pushed up from his seat, and walked to Dean's bedroom door on shaky legs. He tried the doorknob, but found the door locked. Knocking on the door and getting no response, he pivoted around and slid down to sit on the floor with his back resting against the wooden door.
"I'm afraid for you, Dean," he uttered, pressing his eyes shut and clearing his throat. "You're in trouble, and you think you can handle it on your own…you don't have to. Our family's a mess – it always has been and always will be, but at least we've always been able to count on each other. That's the one thing we've done right, and it's the one thing that'll get us through any problem we face." He paused to draw in a breath, hoping Dean's voice would fill the void left by his silence. When he remained silent, Sam continued, "I was terrified when that guy threatened you…I'm still afraid." Folding his legs, he rested his forearms on his knees. "I'm tired of being afraid, Dean. I'm so damn tired of seeing Driscoll's face every time I close my eyes, and now I'm afraid that you see him, too, and it's haunting you like it haunts me. Dad taught us how to deal with ghosts, but not ones of our own making, and those are the ones that'll hurt us the most if we don't stick together to fight them with everything we've got in us."
"It's not the same, Sammy," Dean said after a lengthy pause, and without having to see him, Sam knew he was sitting with his back against the door as well. "I wanted him dead. I wanted him to suffer and I wanted him to die…I'd never felt that way before about anyone. Not ever. I only ever wanted to save people. Then you told me what he did…."
His voice trailed off, and Sam pictured him drowning his pain and guilt in a long swallow of whiskey. "I wanted him dead, too, Dean," Sam whispered brokenly, fearing there would never be a time when the coach wasn't ruining their lives in one way or another. He was with them every moment of the day, influencing every decision they made and building walls to keep them afraid, alone, and utterly at odds with each other. "He wasn't going to stop…I wasn't the only one, and I certainly wouldn't have been the last – I'm glad he's dead. Maybe that makes me a terrible person, but I'm glad he's isn't alive to ruin any more people's lives. I just wish…if it had to be one of us who killed him, I wish –"
"Don't wish for that, Sammy," Dean interrupted, voice thick with emotion. With the door between them and a bottle of liquid courage in his hand, he told Sam everything. There were stops and starts, and although Sam could have filled in the blanks for him, he stayed silent and let Dean get it all out. After hearing everything his brother had to say, there was no doubt whatsoever in Sam's mind that Dean acted in self-defense and saved someone from being raped and possibly murdered by the coach. "Why is it eating away at me like this?" he uttered hoarsely followed by the dull thud of something banging up against the door. "I had to do it, Sam." Another thud rattled the door, and Sam realized it was his brother's head connecting with the wood. "I shouldn't feel guilty for killing a man who hurt so many kids. They were just kids – you're just a kid and he thought nothing of harming you. I should feel relieved that he can't hurt anyone anymore…why don't I feel that way?"
"Because you're not like him," Sam said, staring at his empty palms and recalling how heavy and useless they felt when he tried to fight his way free of Driscoll's hold on him. Tears blurred his vision, and rolled down his cheeks unchecked. "You're a good person, Dean. Someone like Driscoll would never feel guilty for his actions…you saved that boy's life – you saved everyone who would have come after him." The memory of Dean's bruised and battered face flashed through Sam's mind, and he shuddered at the thought of how easily his brother could have died by Driscoll's hand instead of the other way around. "If you weren't there that night – if you hadn't stopped him you would be dead right now and so would Jacob. You fought for your life and you fought for him, and it terrifies me to think of what would have happened to you if you'd stopped fighting. If you had died that night…maybe no one other than me will ever know it, but you're a hero, Dean. You fight for people who can't fight for themselves, and even if you get sick and tired of hearing it, I'm gonna keep on saying it long after the guilt fades away and you realize you had no other choice in the matter."
