AN: So, I've typically avoided THOSE episodes, the really big, emotional, or dramatic ones. I don't feel like one chapter can address them, ya know? But I really wanted to do this one, season 10, episode 3, Soul Survivor. In fact, this was one of the very first chapters I wrote and I've been sitting on it all this time. I hope you like it, and enjoy the quotes from Aerosmith's Dream On and Alexander Pope's Essay on Man.
I was SO pleased to see more reviews! They bolster me and help me be a better writer.
Kathy: I feel like Dean would rather punch (or kill!) something than deal with sadness or regret, something he probably learned from John.
Shazza19: I haven't seen Almost Paradise. I'll definitely look it up! I'm so glad you're reading and enjoying it. I like the chapter talking about the movie too.
Stormysea-breaks: I don't see your last review twice, so thank you for taking the time to post it again when it didn't work! I think living with and taking responsibility for consequences is such a theme of the whole show. The main characters – Dean, Sam, and Cas especially, own the results of their actions, even when they had the best intentions. In fact, they take too much responsibility, too much guilt (IMO) when they've tried so hard to do the right thing. Anyhow, it sounds like you and I are very much on the same page about that!
CHAPTER 16:
Dean ate a double Whopper and large fries and drank a chocolate milk shake before dozing off over an order of onion rings. In a true role reversal, Sam bullied him into lying down, and Dean was asleep before he could really even process everything.
Despite his exhaustion, Dean was awake again in about four hours. He'd never been good at sleeping longer than that, anyway. Unfortunately, wakefulness brought clarity, and he remembered everything that had happened the last few days. He could hear his cold voice on the phone. "Is he dead?" He hadn't been worried that Sam might be dead, just annoyed. "You're the guy who's supposed to put a bullet in Sammy's brain. Did you miss?" Dean's hands began to shake. "My mother would still be alive if it wasn't for you…your very existence sucked the life out of my life…you never had a brother…" He saw himself stalking the halls, hunting his brother like an animal. Sam in a sling, face beaten and bruised, the haunted look on his face as Dean taunted him, knife to his throat, and the moment he made the decision to let Dean kill him rather than the other way around. If Cas hadn't been there, Sam would be dead at his hand. Dean was supposed to care for Sam; he had turned into his own perfect foil, the weapon best able to hurt and kill him.
Not able to get the images out of his head, not quite daring to go look at a certain hole in the wall, Dean wandered past Sam's room. He knew what Cas had said, but part of him couldn't help but wonder if this was the final crack that broke the brothers apart. And still, the Mark burned on his arm.
Dean rested his fist against the door and leaned his forehead against it. How do you start apologizing for trying to smash your brother's skull with a hammer? Or for leaving him to be tortured and possibly murdered? Or for the words he'd said? A full body shudder shook him and he squeezed his eyes shut.
Then, Dean's head came up as a sound drifted to his ears. Was that…singing?
Sing with me, sing for the years…
A small, reluctant smile fought its way onto Dean's face. That was a very drunk Sammy. The words were barely understandable, and the notes wobbly, but he still recognized Aerosmith, Sam's go-to for drunken karaoke. He followed the sound to the kitchen.
Sing for the laughter, sing for the tears….
Sam was sprawled in a kitchen chair, slouched way down with his legs stretched out in front of him and his head tipped back. He didn't look over when Dean walked in, but his eyes were so glazed Dean thought he might not even have noticed.
Sing with me, just for today. Maybe tomorrow the good Lord will take you away.
A thread of sadness wormed through Dean's amusement at the melancholy lyrics. Sam's song faded away and he scrubbed an unsteady hand over his eyes. "You are messed up, dude," muttered Dean, inspecting the only bottle that wasn't empty. "Absinthe? Where the hell did you find that?" An empty, tipped over bottle by Sam's feet and another on the table were tequila. "Are you trying to drink yourself to death? Because you're pretty well on your way!" He leaned close to Sam, wincing at the smell of his breath, and peered into his eyes. "Sammy? Can you even hear me?"
"You got to lose to know how to w-win," mumbled Sam, not quite singing, but still quoting the song. His eyes were open, but there was zero comprehension in them.
"Cas?" called Dean, giving up on communicating with the extraordinarily drunk man in front of him. He jumped a little as his friend appeared right in front of him, standing too close as usual.
"Are you in distress, Dean?" Cas' eyes were piercing.
"What? No, not me. But Sam probably half killed his liver. Where'd he even get this stuff? I've never heard of these brands." Dean inspected a small, empty bottle that read Talisker.
"Sam apparently came across a hidden stash of alcohol while searching the bunker." Cas slid aside a shelving unit and opened the door behind it, revealing rows of shelves filled neatly with glass bottles of various shapes and colors. Only a few were missing. Dean's eyes widened.
"He found the true mother lode of this place," he said with some awe. He expression cleared. "And then apparently decided to drink himself into a coma. You didn't feel like maybe you should keep an eye on this?" The latter was asked blandly, but really, he didn't blame the angel. Dean had never seen Sam this drunk in his life, not even after he had to kill Madison. Dean had noticed that after his stint in hell, Sam had developed a taste for liquor, and after his time in Purgatory, Sam was suddenly able to pull a Bobby and drink whiskey without so much as a wince. Still, he didn't often drink enough to be impaired, much less sloppy.
Cas looked concerned as Sam tried and failed to sit up. "I did not expect….I moved to a different room when he began to sing, though I did check on him when he began to sing about, uh, poison whiskey. He assured me the alcohol wasn't actually poisoned. He seemed to believe he deserved to get drunk."
"That he did," Dean's eyes grew sad. "And I'm just messing with you. If Sam wants to drink, Sam's gonna drink. Just…he's going to be really sick pretty soon if we leave him like this. Is there any way you could, I don't know, take some of the alcohol out of him?"
"Of course. I can also ensure that he sleeps the rest of the night, if you like."
Dean sighed in relief. Powered up Cas was handy. "Yeah. Let's just get him to bed first – " He hadn't even finished speaking and they were in Sam's room, with Sam sitting on the edge of the bed. Before he could tip over, Cas casually pushed him back onto his back and touched his forehead. Sam sighed and his eyes slid shut. Dean lifted his brother's legs up onto the bed, pulled off his boots, and shoved a pillow under his head. It was such a small thing, but caring for Sam made Dean feel more like Dean again.
"Thanks, Cas. He doesn't need the mother of all hangovers." He waved at Sam's sling. "Could you heal that too?"
"He asked me not to," admitted the angel. "I do not know if he felt I was too weak, or if he believed it would be better if it healed naturally, but unless he asks, I need to honor his wishes." He turned that intense gaze on Dean again. "I could help you sleep as well."
"Nah, I'm good. I'll lie down again soon." Dean looked down at his brother for a long time. "Thanks…thanks for all of it. I think I'll stay here for a bit."
Cas still looked concerned. "You should not stay up too long. Your body needs to recuperate."
"Alright, Mom, I won't."
"Good night, Dean." And Cas was gone.
Dean sat and stared at nothing and remembered a thousand other nights. He remembered the faith that Sam had always had in him. The faith that made him cling to Dean's hand when he was learning to climb stairs. The faith that Dean would watch over him when Dad was gone. The faith that Dean wouldn't let any monsters get through when they fought back to back. The faith that Dean would say no to Michael when they went to save Adam from Zachariah.
Dean's eyes fell on a piece of paper on Sam's nightstand. It was like a thousand other scribblings that he'd leave around when studying or thinking. In Sam's spidery handwriting it said Alexander Pope. Then, written but crossed out almost violently, it said, Know then, thyself presume not God to scan/the proper study of mankind is man. Under that was a phrase written and traced over, then circled several times. It said, hope springs eternal in the human breast. The word "eternal" was underlined.
Dean's eyes filled with tears at this reminder of Sam's faith. It must have been in short supply, but Sam had found some. Faith that he could get Dean back. Faith that things would work out. Maybe it was time to have faith in Sam's ability to forgive, in the power of their connection. So softly it was barely audible, Dean began to sing: Dream until your dreams come true. Dream on, dream on, dream on.