Chapter 67.

Dean felt unsettled. He trusted Sam to say the right thing to both ladies, but he had always hated knowing that people were talking about him. Well, that wasn't entirely true. The kind of talk that ran along the lines of, "Dean's a badass. He can take out a big nest of vamps and not take a scratch!" was fine and he could tolerate a lot of the kind that said, "Best night I ever had!" but the kind that talked about how he was handling his decaying mental health or how he was handling anything that was an actual struggle made him edgy and apprehensive.

He both wanted to hear what was being said and hoped they would keep it to themselves. It seemed stupid to worry like a little kid over what Sam was saying to Mom, especially as that had never been an issue when they were kids. Sam had never had a chance to talk to her. At least now, he was getting that chance.

All his fears about the others seemed stupid when he put them under the microscope. The fear that the angel who had repeatedly died for them would plot against him? Dumb. The thought that Sam the diplomat miht accidentally make things worse for him? Idiotic. The nagging feeling that he should not trust a docile, powered-down nephilim who considered him family? Insane.

His fears about himself made a lot more sense. He was weak. Check. He was cruel. Check. He lashed out without thinking. Check. He had not been strong enough to drive out a possessing archangel when they were supposed to leave as soon as consent was withdrawn.

Maybe he hadn't withdrawn it. Maybe he was so terrified of being alone that carrying around a psychotic parasite seemed preferable. Maybe he had sold out his own people, the whole of humanity, in fact, because deep inside him that useless, scared, fractured little brat was still scared to be alone in the dark.

In that case, why hadn't he ditched Michael and returned to the angel he could trust with his life? He couldn't be that screwed up. In fact, if he had been that screwed up, how did he still know that was screwed up? Or was it merely that he couldn't admit the need, to himself or to Michael or to Castiel? Was he so afraid of talking of need and love to the angel who had seen his soul that he would rather tolerate an archangel he hated? Now that was seriously messed up.

But the Destiel thing. The Hell thing. The Purgatory thing. All could be neatly summed up as the Dean Thing and he could hardly blame Michael for that. When it had been just the three of them, alone against the world, long before he knew angels were a thing, seven years old, he had wanted to tell his exhausted, grief-destroyed father that he loved him, but he had failed. The words could not be spoken. It had felt like a demand ... a cry for attention. It had felt needy and stupid and selfish. So he had poured his father a glass of whisky, handed him a roughly-made sandwich and said, "It's okay, Dad." and his father had gently gripped his shoulder for a second and said, "You're a good kid." which had felt like "I love you." to a child so hungry to hear it that way.

These days, he knew that was precisely how it had been intended. Same with the last minute offer of an extra clip of ammo before they went hunting together, or the extra blanket for the boys on cold nights in imperfect lodgings, or the syrup on the oatmeal or the pat on the back. It wasn't that John had been lacking in love for his sons, he just had no vocabulary of affection and a fear of showing or encouraging weakness.

Did that make his son so desperate for any interaction that his subconscious had battled against his conscious mind withdrawing consent. Sam and Cas both said it was not his fault, but they would say that. He would have said the same to them, true or not, because the thought that he had invited ... that he had been so weak and so desperate ... that he had chosen Michael because he couldn't ask Cas to reopen the mental link ...

It all made a terrible kind of sense.

Dean had always prided himself on being rational and even if it took a few years, he would think things through until he made sense of them. If all this were his fault ... more his fault, that is, than he already knew it to be ... he should just accept it and work out how to deal with that. That was the rational, mature, intelligent thing to do.

And he almost believed that. But there was an old lady, thirty minutes away, who would argue against that very forcefully. He acknowledged that what seemed rational to him might be another symptom of his hellscape headspace.

She answered his call at once. "Dean! How are you?"

He realised that he had no idea what he wanted to say. He chose not to go with the usual, automatic lie that he was fine. "Sam's doing a great job." he said.

"According to him, so are you." she said.

"Because of him. Having him around is making it a lot easier to be around Cas."

"Good." she said. She wasn't making any guesses as to why he had called and she seemed disinclined to ask a lot of questions.

"Now he's not here. I think he's talking to Mom. Which is okay. I'm fine with that. But I'm on my own and I'm thinking."

"What are you thinking?" she said.

"Stuff I really don't want to think." he said, "But maybe there are truths I need to face. Maybe ... "

"Maybe ... ?" she said.

He swallowed hard. When the words were said, they would feel real. They were real. Just holding them in his head had convinced him they were cold, hard facts. When he said them to her, she would see the truth of them at once and would know he had been weaker than she ever suspected. "I ... " he said. He wondered if she already knew. Maybe she was only waiting for him to understand his complicity. Maybe even that could be soothed away by her understanding and compassion for those who did weak and stupid things in fear.

"I think you need to be around Sam for now." she said.

"You already know, don't you?"

"Only that something is causing you a lot of distress. Solitary thought can go one of two ways, empowering and enlightening or self-accusatory and imprisoning. Which are you dealing with today?"

"Maybe both." he said, "I've been wondering how Michael overcame the need for consent."

"I assumed it was the same way he began to do things that were allegedly forbidden to angels, like usurping the authority of God." she said, "Listen to Castiel sometime, reciting all the things angels can't do, most of which he has done."

"What if I ... Sarah, what if he didn't need to, because I didn't fully withdraw consent?"

"Dean, dear, I have tried asking you to do things you don't want to and believe me, when you don't consent to something, you are not messing around."

"No, but what if ... "

"What if some well-hidden part of you liked being free of responsibility?"

"Yes."

"Or what if you wore a provocative outfit to a bar because secretly ... "

"Don't." he said.

"Victim-blaming is monstrous, Dean and it doesn't become less so if the victim blames himself. Even if you were desperate for domination or powerlessness or just for your head not to feel so lonely for a while, I know that you would have resisted Michael with every bit of strength you had. You would never give in to him."

"But what if I did?"

"Sam says it was you that fought Lucifer, not Michael."

"How could he even know that?"

"He knows. Even I know and I wasn't there. You held onto control in the middle of a battle for the lives of Sam and Jack. That's strength. Afterwards, you were tired and weak and he took advantage to seize control, but you still fought him. You still refused to surrender."

"I want to believe that, but since I was a kid ... "

"You had a miserable childhood and it's true, you still have unmet needs from that time that seriously impact your life now. There may even be some of those unmet needs that Michael, in entirely the wrong way and for entirely the wrong reasons, seemed to meet for a while."

"Exactly."

"I know you don't trust yourself, but do you trust me?" she said.

"I don't know why, but I always have."

"You were stronger as a child than most people are as adults. There are combat veterans who are not as hard and strong as that little boy you were. Yes, you have deep wounds and they sometimes affect your judgement."

"Yes, they do."

"Know what they never do? They never, ever corrupt you and you would still sacrifice everything you want ... everything you have, for this world or any other. Because that little boy had one thing to cling to, his sense of service to others. No matter what personal needs you felt, you would never allow him to stay when you knew it would cost innocent lives."

"You're sure of that?"

"Yes, Dean, as is everyone else who knows you."

Tears blurred his vision before he blinked them back. "Thanks, Sarah. I'm glad I called you. My head was full of ... well, it wasn't good."

"You know, calling me instead of wallowing in self-loathing is a huge step for you. Give yourself a cookie later."

"Will do."

"I think you should call Sam and tell him you need to have him around. Don't worry that you're being a burden. He told me being needed by you is a great feeling. He finally gets to repay all those years of support you gave him."

"The kid's memory is shot to Hell."

"The kid is no longer a kid. I think his memory is fine. Call him, keep him close. Give yourself a break."

"I love you, Sarah." he said, glad that it was easier to say to her than to his father.

"I love you too." she said, "I'm so proud of you. And give that little kid you're so tough on a big hug from me."

"I think he just had one." he said.