Febuwhump Day Fifteen: Hidden Scars. Dean thinks Sam moved on with his life while he was gone, but Sam can't bring himself to tell his brother about what he really went through.

Title: Church on a Tuesday

If he knows, then it's over.

Sam slowly tied his shoes with his numb fingers as he sat on the edge of the itchy motel bed. Dean left for the day, not bothering to tell Sam where he was going and leaving with a few venomous jabs. Sam could feel the bags beneath his eyes, the headache forming beneath his temples, and the fatigue that plagued his every waking moment. He was accustomed to it now, but he still found himself questioning how much longer he could go on like this.

He locked the door behind him and walked to the car as he took a deep breath of crisp morning air before driving to the church.

Inside there were rows of metal fold-out chairs grouped together, all facing another chair at the front. Sam walked up to a plastic table decorated with donuts, recyclable cups, and cartons of coffee. He poured himself a cup, dropped in a splash of creamer, and settled in one of the seats in the back.

When most of the chairs were filled, the meeting began.

"Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference," the group chorused. Sam used to find it cultish, but he found it comforting now. He would repeat them to himself when he was alone and pining for anything to numb the unbearable harshness of reality.

He sipped his cheap coffee as the meeting passed by. A man at the front taught lessons and a woman Sam didn't recognize stood up and shared her story. After an hour passed, the group was released and they meandered about to the snack table or walked back to their cars. Sam wasn't yet ready to go home where he would end up alone, waiting for Dean to return and hurl more insults at him. When he was here, his head felt a little clearer and the weight on his shoulders was slightly lighter.

"Hi, Sam," someone dropped into the seat beside him.
Sam turned to meet the man. He had a freckled face and soft, blue eyes. It was his sponsor, Mike. Mike's eyebrows were pinched and behind his smile, Sam sensed concern. "How are you doing?"

"Hey, Mike. Okay, I guess."

"Really?" he pressed. Sam knew he must look like a mess if it were obvious from a glance that he was struggling.

Sam shrugged. "It's been hard with my brother back. He drinks a lot."

"Have you tried asking him not to around you?"

Sam spun the cup in his hands. "I can't."

"He doesn't know?"

"I'll tell him eventually, but he's got his own stuff going on right now."

"Your stuff is important too, Sam. You can't put addiction on the back-burner."

"I know," Sam said, but he had no idea how to broach the subject. Dean resented him enough as is, believing that he had moved on without much struggle, but Sam couldn't bear to imagine the hatred in Dean's eyes when he found out what path he had really gone down. Dean had already gone through this with the demon blood and Sam wasn't sure if he would storm out once and for all when he confessed.

Dean came home the following afternoon. Sam pulled into the lot at the same time, but Dean didn't so much as make eye contact. The atmosphere of the room was charged.

"You go on a hunt?" Sam finally broke the silence.

"Oh, so you noticed I was gone?"

Sam sighed, but didn't take the bait. He reminded himself that Dean had the right to be angry and the best he could do was wait it out and try to make up for his mistake. "I found something."

"What is it?"

"Vamps' nest a couple hours from here. I know you're pissed, but it's a two person job."

"Whatever. I'm ready whenever you are."

"Okay."

Sam changed into boots, grabbed a bottle of water and granola bar, and together they headed to the car. "Do you have to eat in Baby?" Dean complained.

"It's fine, Dean."

Dean grumbled, but dropped the subject.

The hunt wasn't complicated, which was precisely why Sam picked it. If they could get a win under their belts, reunited again, he might start to earn Dean's forgiveness. The whole hunt, the confession hovered on the tip of his tongue. He ached to apologize and blurt out the honest story, but he held back, still debating if he should ever let Dean find out. Dean would probably prefer a brother who didn't bother looking for him to a fucked-up addict. Dean would scorn him for being weak enough to fall back into the throes of addiction. He didn't want Dean to see him that way. He didn't want his brother to imagine him, strung out, lying on the ground in a bed of empty bags, bottles, and needles, drooling and pathetic.

They drove for two hours with Dean's dad-rock turned up to prevent any conversation and staked out the house. "Let's go," Dean said, not waiting for a reply, and they geared up and broke into the house.

Sam was out of practice, but Dean was far from it. He tore through the majority of the fangs without Sam's help. Sam killed two of the six and managed to get scraped up in the process. He held a hand over his bloody arm, cut open from being tossed across the room into a porcelain vase.

"Guess you're out of practice," Dean remarked. Sam said nothing as they returned to the car, but when he didn't go to the trunk to retrieve the first aid kit, Dean paused, reluctantly asking, "Aren't you going to patch that up?"

In no world would Sam lift his sleeves in front of Dean and let him see the scars and track marks forged there over the past twelve months. He didn't mind bleeding through his shirt and although it was deep enough for the blood loss to make him dizzy, it wasn't nearly enough to kill him. He would fix it up in secret, without Dean's prying eyes discovering his shameful secrets. "It's fine," he deflected. Strangely, Dean looked uncertain and opened his mouth to say something more, but stopped himself. They spent the ride home in customary silence.

The following Tuesday, Dean stayed in the motel room. Each hour that he didn't leave, Sam filled with more dread. He didn't have an excuse as to why he would have to leave at five or where he would be going. With any luck, Dean would happily ignore him, but when the time came and Sam laced up his shoes on the edge of the motel bed, Dean scowled at him. "Where are you going?"

Sam paused, studying his scuffed shoes.

"Well?" Dean snapped.

"Out," he had all day to think of an answer, but when it was show-time, he couldn't force out another lie to his brother. He was already covering up so much.

Dean scoffed and turned away. "Like I give a shit."

Sam swallowed. "Church. I'm going to church."

Dean let out a disbelieving laugh. "Are you joking?"

"Nope."

"Christ. Well, it's good to know you care about something."

It wasn't the coldest thing Dean had said to Sam since he returned, but it was the final straw. Sam finally broke. "Why do you even bother with me if you hate me so much?"

"Honestly, Sam, I don't know. I guess you're my brother and that meant something to me, but I'm realizing now that it doesn't matter. You're not my brother anymore," the words were a punch in the gut, almost knocking the wind out of Sam.

"How can you say that?"

"Don't act all hurt. You're the one who left me for dead. I was in purgatory for a year. A year! You had three hundred and sixty-five days to give up on me, and you chose Day One."

Tears misted Sam's eyes. I wanted to kill myself. I lost my mind. I couldn't survive without you. He wanted to scream at Dean, but he swallowed the words that burned in the back of his throat like acid. "I'm still your brother," he said softly. It was the one thing he could still cling to. No matter how far gone he was, Dean never gave up on him. His big brother was always there, telling him that family was the one thing that was really important.

"I don't know why I even stick around. You don't need me and I don't need you," Dean spat and began to stomp around the room, aggressively throwing open dresser drawers and tossing his clothes and weapons in his bag.

He didn't look back at Sam when he flung open the door and stepped outside.

"I do need you," Sam said softly, but he knew that Dean couldn't hear him and even if he did, the words made no difference. It was too late to mend the scars Sam had cut in their relationship.

He collapsed into a chair and buried his face in his hands, allowing the tears to flow down his cheeks, no longer caring to hold back. He had no right to cry in front of Dean, not after he failed him so badly. Even though Dean didn't know what Sam really went through, he was right: Sam hadn't found him. He hadn't saved Dean like Dean had saved him so many times before. How could he be forgiven for that?

He couldn't stand it anymore. Screw AA and screw sobriety. It was pointless. He should text his sponsor, he should go to sleep, he should do anything else, but instead he pulled out his phone and shot a text to a number that was burned into his brain despite deleting it from his contacts months ago. "Can I buy?"

The response was almost immediate. "How much?"

Dean struggled with his anger his whole life. It had torn apart many of his relationships and followed him like a sickness, but he never learned how to shake it. After he went to purgatory, Dean knew that there was no fixing himself. He was damaged beyond repair and he took it out on the person closest to him. Every time he lashed out at Sam, hurling brutal, unrestrained taunts, he hated himself a little more. Deep down, he wanted to make up with Sam. He hadn't done anything unforgivable and Dean was aware that it was twisted to wish his brother had been miserable without him.

When Dean heard Sam's distressed voice say, "I do need you," as he walked out the door, he knew he couldn't stay away long. He would take a breather, grab a beer, and come back. At least then Sam would know he wasn't going anywhere, that he was still in it for the long haul, like he would always be.

It was almost midnight when Dean knocked on the motel door, but no answer came. He was fishing his key out of his pocket when he heard a thud in the room, followed by silence. Panic gripped him and he shoved the key in the lock, bursting through the door. "Sam?" he called. The room stunk of whiskey and puke. No silhouettes were visible in the dark so Dean flicked on the light switch. His eyes grew wide when he saw Sam laying sprawled out on his back with his chin and shirt covered in chunky, brown vomit. Dean sprinted to him and slid onto his knees beside his little brother. Sam was pale and his jaw was slack. "No, no, no," Dean muttered and his hand jumped to his throat to search for a pulse, unconcerned with the vomit coating his fingers. He released a deep sigh when he felt the faint beat there. "Sammy," Dean shifted and something crunched beneath his shoe. He looked down and saw a needle. His forehead crinkled as realization began to set in. Sam was wearing a T-shirt despite the fact that Dean had only seen him in long-sleeve flannels since he got back and he could now see why: the insides of Sam's arms were covered in dark track marks, but that wasn't all. Red, vertical scars lined his forearms. "Sammy, no," Dean whispered. He ran his thumb across the cuts and tears leaked from his eyes. How could this have happened? He was supposed to take care of his little brother, but this was the utmost failure. He spent the past few weeks doing nothing but berating Sam and the whole time, he had been dealing with this. He should have been there for him. He must have been clean up to this point which meant that it was their fight that triggered him. It was Dean's fault this happened. Sam was in so much pain that he sliced himself open just to ease the burden, but Dean was too focused on himself to notice.

He had to get Sam to a hospital. This impending breakdown could wait till later. He slid one arm beneath Sam's knees and the other around his back, carefully lifting him and walking as fast he could to the car. "Hang in there. You're gonna be okay," Dean murmured. He laid Sam down gently in the back seat and paused to brush away the hair that had fallen on his sweaty face, then leapt into the front seat and sped faster than he ever had before.

Dean didn't sleep. He couldn't focus long enough to look at his phone, only able to stare unseeingly at the black screen. He resisted throwing it at the wall, anything to release this pent-up energy, and resigned to watching the steady rise and fall of Sam's chest. He was barely aware of the nurses that walked in and out, trying to communicate with him, but eventually giving up when they realized he would not reply. Sam was the only thing that existed in this moment.

Dean wasn't sure how many hours passed when a small groan escaped Sam's lips. Dean shot up from his chair and rushed to the bedside, clasping Sam's hand in his own. "Sam."

"Hmmm," Sam mumbled, slowly lifting his heavy eyelids.

"Sammy, I'm right here. We're in the hospital."

Sam squinted and looked around the room, but his eyes were unfocused and Dean could tell things were still fuzzy in his mind.

"Hospital?" Sam repeated.

"Yeah."
Sam turned to look at Dean's hand, clutching his own and his eyebrows furrowed. "What happened?" his words were slurred.

"You- You were doing heroin," the words didn't feel like they had really come out of his mouth.

"No. Not anymore," Sam muttered.

"You were. You scared the shit out of me. You could have died. What were you thinking?"

Sam frowned and Dean could see him trying to think through the fog, awareness slowly drifting back to him as the exhaustion wore off. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"Sam, you're cutting yourself. What's happening? I don't understand."

Sam wouldn't meet Dean's eyes. He watched the far wall without looking up at his brother, but when he spoke, Dean felt a squeeze on his hand. "I didn't want you to know. I know you hate me for not being there for you - and you should," he added, "but this was worse. I thought if you knew this, you'd never forgive me, but I shouldn't have lied."

"Sam…"

"I was going to tell you eventually. The thing is, after you disappeared, I was all alone. You were gone, Cas was gone, Bobby was dead. I didn't even know where to start looking. You were right. I gave up. I failed."

Dean could have screamed. Listening to Sam's confession physically hurt his heart. He should stop him, tell him it was okay, but if he did, he would burst into uncontrollable tears.

"It started out small, but it got worse and worse. I almost died a couple times. Eventually, someone found me on the street and I ended up in rehab. That was two months ago," he paused, "I'm sorry," Sam said again and the gravity in his tone weighed down Dean.

"I could never hate you. You're my little brother. I wish I was there for you. I didn't think about what you went through. I get so angry sometimes I can't think straight, but that's not fair to you. I'm sorry I made things worse. It's not your fault. Not any of it."

Sam smiled sadly. "It is. I could've fought harder. If I didn't let all this happen, I might have found you. I get it if you're done with me."

"Listen to me. There's nothing you can do to make me leave," Dean didn't what he could do to make this right, not after he'd royally fucked up, but the least he could do was stay with Sam, "We went through it before, we can get through it again."

"It's different, Dean. Even when I was on demon blood, I didn't," he struggled with the words, "I didn't want to kill myself. I wasn't doing it 'cause I felt like this. I keep thinking maybe it's not worth it."
"What's not worth it?"

"Anything. I'm tired of feeling like this."

"Please don't say that."

Sam finally looked at Dean. "It's alright. I'm not gonna let you down again."

"You didn't let me down and I know you won't. I believe in you. I know you're in a dark place, but I'm here now. Whatever happens, we'll figure it out, just like we always do, right?"

Sam nodded slowly. "Right."

"But this - don't do this again. You're killing me."

"I know. I won't," Sam promised.

"There. See, that's the first step. Nothing we can't manage. I've got you," he tightened his grip on Sam's hand.

"Thank you, Dean."