It had been a long night.
To say the least.
Sam was cold, exhausted. His hands jittered with weakness, adrenaline gone sour in his system, which made him glad that he wasn't driving as they headed back to the motel. Every time he moved, a low heat bloomed in his muscles. Overexertion. Damage. Somewhere along the line, between digging up a grave, slamming himself around inside a closet, and having a full-blown panic attack, he'd pulled just about every muscle in his body. He knew that he was going to wake up tomorrow morning feeling like he'd been in a car wreck.
He didn't want to think about what had happened back at the house. What he'd felt, what he'd seen. The control that had squirted out of his grip like a wet bar of soap. He definitely didn't want to think about what Dean must be thinking about him right now, after…everything. Despite the shaking, Sam was tense, just waiting for the questions.
Maybe it would have been better if there had been questions, something to focus on fending off. As it was, the drive back to the motel to talk to Victor and Art was completely silent, left Sam entirely alone with his own thoughts. He had to scrape up as much willpower as he could after it had deserted him in the closet, use it to keep the doors in his head barred. It felt every bit as weak as the rest of him, wire-thin.
That wire shivered and jumped with tension, and Sam let Dean handle most of the conversation with Art and Victor. He stared at nothing, hands stuffed into his pockets, as Dean explained burning the teddy bear, and Victor commented on how this had all wrapped up pretty fast, for a ghost hunt. As Victor said he'd reach out to Crowley tomorrow, and that they should turn in.
Sam was just beginning to unwind a little, as the conversation closed. To think that, maybe, he'd be okay to sleep. That maybe he wouldn't even have any nightmares he'd have to explain to Dean, what with their shared room and all.
That was until Dean, predictably, snapped the wire of Sam's self-control and let it all flood right back out again.
They were saying their goodnights, Sam mumbling something out with a tight smile, when Art glanced over at him and let out a low whistle.
"You are white as a sheet, son," he observed, despite the fact Sam was pretty sure they were close to the same age. "Lemme guess: ghost got a couple good licks in before you managed to torch the bear."
Dean very obviously swallowed a snort. "Yeah, sure. The ghost."
It wasn't as bad as some of the other non-believer look-at-me bullshit Dean had pulled on this case. Not even half as bad. But Sam felt like something had broken right behind his eyes. He didn't say anything, but he felt the hammer of his pulse in his temples, and the rage yanked his spine ramrod-straight and pushed his jaw out as his temples flared. His vision washed a yellow-red as blood literally roared in his ears.
He'd heard of seeing red, never had it actually happen to him before. He couldn't remember the last time he had been so recklessly, teeth-grindingly angry - which was odd for him, with his track record. He saw Victor and Art exchange a knowing look. What the hell did that mean? Were they on to them? Did they just figure Dean didn't get it because it looked like Sam had seen the ghost and he hadn't?
Sam couldn't ask without running the risk of blowing their cover. Which he actually cared about. Unlike Dean.
"Good work tonight," Art said seriously. "We'll see you two in the morning. Catch you up on what Crowley said."
So the conversation was over. Thank god for small mercies.
They had met and spoken outside, in the cold. It hadn't taken long. Sam led the way back to their room, stiff-legged. It felt like the anger was packed into him, filling up every available space, the cavities of his body and the hinges of his joints. He couldn't even unlock his knees.
The streetlights had shut down, either on a timer or malfunctioning. The only light came from the bar across the street, still open, still lively, a faint drift of music on the icy air and neon glittering where frost had begun to rime asphalt and concrete.
Inside the room, the baseboard heaters were rattling and humming. Sam sat on the foot of his bed, knowing he was filthy and not caring, spine still so stiff it hurt, watching as Dean shrugged out of his leather jacket. He folded it crisply, meticulously, and only after making sure there wasn't any dirt on it. More care than Sam would've expected him to show.
Being inside the room, doors and windows shut, had Sam itching along his spine, under his skin. He wanted to scream, wanted to vomit, wondered if either would make him feel better. The space was just so tiny.
Sam's gun was still in his shoulder holster, digging into his ribs. He pulled it out, ejected the clip, went methodically through the bullets. His fingers were still stiff enough with cold to make the activity more dangerous than it should have been.
"So hopefully Crowley," Dean began, then paused with another snort. God, Sam hated that sound. "Jesus. You believe that name? Anyway. Hopefully he'll trust us enough after this to give us a deeper look at the organization. Let us gather some intel."
Sam knew it was a mistake to let himself speak. He did so anyway, words like glass in his mouth, brittle and sharp. "You think?"
"Yeah. Y'know, since we got one 'hunt' under our belts and all."
"Yup." Sam's jaw worked as Dean threw air quotes up around the word "hunt." "No thanks to you."
Still preoccupied with his gun, Sam felt more than saw Dean turn towards him. "Excuse me?"
"Nothing." Sam shrugged, not looking up. "Just doesn't seem like you're all that invested in getting a 'deeper look at the organization' or 'gathering intel.'" He used his own air quotes. "Or even…" He sucked in a deep breath. "Not blowing our cover."
"Jesus Christ, Ridgway, this again?" Dean exhaled, annoyed. "You'd better not be saying what I think you're saying."
"And…what's that?" Sam asked, glancing up at Dean and raising his eyebrows.
Dean glowered back down at him. "It sounds like you're saying I don't know how to do my goddamn job. Despite oh, I don't know, twice your field experience and the fact I'm lead agent on this thing?"
"Maybe I am saying you don't know how to do your goddamn job." Sam rose to his feet, and used the height he had on Dean to his full advantage, glaring down at him. "Not like you've given me a ton of evidence to the contrary."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean demanded.
"Oh, jeez, where do I even start?" Sam shot back, answering with a relish Dean could no doubt hear. Not that he cared. "Let's see, there's a-all the - the snarky little jokes. The half-assing it, the phoning it in, and then when I dare to say something about it, you pull that 'lead agent' bullshit out and rub it in my face."
"You - " Dean started, angry. Sam cut him off.
"It's not funny, Dean, and it's not cute, even though you obviously think it is. So I really hope you're having fun."
Sam liked fighting, always had. It fed an ugly little fire in him that had burned low a few times during his life, but never completely gone out. Right now, it was warming him up all the way down to the core of his bones.
It felt especially good after what had happened back at the house. To be seen, acknowledged, noticed, engaged with, even in anger. Even as he still felt like a thing flayed alive and left raw and bleeding under an empty, freezing sky.
"Well, you might not've noticed from all the way up there on your high fucking horse, but I haven't blown our cover," Dean pointed out.
"Yet," Sam snapped back. "Maybe. Not yet. And if you haven't, it's a fucking miracle." He let out a high little laugh that sounded, even to him, desperate and unhinged. "We were told specifically how insular this community is. How suspicious. A-and it's like you're playing a game, seeing how far you can push the envelope before you get to flash your badge and drag this whole operation down on top of us."
They'd gotten loud. The walls were thin. Sam wondered if Art and Victor were close enough to them to hear their conversation, but right now? He couldn't have cared less.
"Oh, is that what you think?" Dean asked, taking a step closer to Sam, into his space.
"Yeah, Rose, that's what I fucking think." Sam sucked in a breath. It hurt. "I know you don't wanna be here, not with me. But I have worked with you before. I've read your file, I've talked to people about you, and - last time we met, you had a stick so far up your ass I could see it when you talked. You were so straight-laced you were practically bending over backwards for the Bureau. So what I cannot for the life of me understand is why it feels to me like you're going out of your way to sabotage this case!" He bent, so he was right in Dean's face. "What is it, huh? PTSD? Pension coming due? World's slowest, stupidest suicide?"
Dean's smile was tight, fake enough to be plastic. "Oh, that's nice," he said, tone overly pleasant. "Real rich, coming from you."
That struck Sam like a slap to the face. He was gritting his teeth so hard they creaked in his gums.
"D'you wanna be pulled out?" he demanded. "Is that your game here? 'Cause I can definitely try and arrange that the next time we report in."
Something flashed in the back of Dean's eyes, hot and bitter. Like the spray of sparks coming off a freshly-severed power line.
"All right. I get it." Dean pushed back. They were about a hair's breadth from having their noses touching. Sam could smell him. "I know what this is about."
"Oh, yeah?" This ought to be good.
"You like being a special little snowflake." Stepping back, Dean spread his hands. "The boy king of the Bureau. You do what you want, and to hell with everybody else. Your picture goes in the paper and nobody ever stops talking about you, and you fucking love it, and now - " Dean laughed. "Oh, now you just can't stand that somebody else is horning in on your whole wild-card schtick. That maybe you're not gonna be the center of attention anymore."
Heat swept up Sam's back, prickling under his hair. "Excuse me?"
"Is that what happened at the BAU?" Dean's eyebrows rose. "They got sick of your loose-cannon act? Somebody newer, and younger, and smarter and wilder came in, and they put you out with last week's garbage?"
Sam wanted to punch Dean. He felt like he might not be able to keep himself from doing it in the next minute or two, a reaction as uncontrollable as throwing up or passing out. He wanted to throw a knee between his legs, under his sternum. Wanted to drive a heel into the side of his knee, feel the joint snap the wrong way.
Instead, he visualized those thoughts as insects, squeezed both hands until he could imagine their carapaces popping in his palms, and took in a deep breath. Unconsciously, he found himself counting the way Dean had shown him in the closet. He rolled his head slowly around on his neck, and eventually told Dean, who looked like he was waiting for something, "Well." A smile twitched across Sam's face. "If you're gonna try and out-wild me, I better defend my status, huh?"
He stuffed his gun, still in his hand, back into his shoulder holster, and stalked to the door. His hand was on the knob before Dean demanded, "Where the hell're you going?"
"Bar across the street," Sam replied glibly. "Pretty sure there's still an hour or two 'til last call."
Apparently, the good agent in Dean had finally woken up, because he said, voice heated, "Are you crazy? You can't fucking drink while you're on the job."
"I'm 'gathering intel.'" Sam opened the door and stepped out into the cold. "Since one of us has to."
Dean came after him. As Sam sauntered across the parking lot, he heard him stop at the doorway, yelling after him, "You're gonna wind up getting yourself killed!"
"With you as a partner?" Sam glanced over his shoulder and, for good measure, flashed a middle finger. It was middle-school as all hell, but he wasn't feeling particularly mature tonight. "Bet on it."
He kept walking. There was a second's silence. Then, about the time he reached the road, the door slammed, slapped closed with enough force to rattle just about every window in the motel.
Sam hadn't realized until that happened that some part of him had been expecting Dean to come after him. He set his jaw and, angrily, wondered why. But he didn't have an answer for himself.
Thankfully, he was in the bar soon after, and he could stop thinking.
The place was surprisingly crowded for after midnight, choked with an even mix of seasoned barflies and people who looked like stock background Midwesterners. The decor was pretty much exactly what popped into Sam's head when he thought "bar:" neon beer signs, pool tables, shelves of bottles empty and full. There was a jukebox in the corner, though it looked more decorative than functional. Sam made a beeline for the bar, didn't look at or talk to anybody, and sat down. Despite how crowded the place was, the bartender - a brunette somewhere near forty, with an imposing air of competence - was with him in seconds. Her nametag read "Pamela."
"What can I get you?" she asked.
"A beer."
She eyed him up and down, looking skeptical, then said, "No offense, but you look like you could use something stronger. How 'bout a whiskey?"
Sam thought about it. He probably could use it. But some tiny part of him still in possession of a grain of self-control recognized that a high ABV was probably just about the worst thing he could bring to the current situation.
"Maybe later," he said, folding his arms on the bar and hunching his shoulders. To her credit, the bartender didn't try to upsell him again, just nodded.
"What're you in the mood for? Got a decent selection."
"Just…" Sam was a craft brew guy, something he wore without any particular pride. Somehow, he doubted they'd have Red Bear on tap here. "Whatever the house beer is."
"House beer." Pamela snorted. "One Miller, coming up." She left, shaking her head and muttering something about out-of-towners.
She was fast. By the time Dean showed up, Sam had his beer, and was more than halfway through it. It wasn't terrible by any stretch of the imagination, even though he was probably going to need a few before he started feeling human again.
The dragon in his belly had quieted, though. Surrounded by strangers and with just the barest touch of alcohol in his veins, he felt more tired than anything. And young. Terrifyingly so, even though he hadn't even been carded.
Dean hitched himself up onto the stool next to Sam. Neither of them looked at each other. When Pamela the bartender showed up again, he told her, "Whiskey. Whatever's strongest."
She nodded in clear approval, bustled off. Once they were alone, Sam murmured, "Still trying to one-up me, huh?"
"You wanna make up stories about me," Dean replied, "go right ahead."
Sam examined Dean out of the corner of one eye, the beer held close to his mouth, but not quite at his lips. Him being here had the feeling of a peace offering, if not an apology. Sam should take it. They'd sit here and drink in silence. Then they'd go back to the room. They'd sleep. If their cover was still intact, they'd probably wind up with a new hunt in the morning. Either things would get better, or they wouldn't. But they'd continue no matter what.
Sam had never been all that particularly good at going along to get along. He imagined those exact words had been typed into at least one of his psych evals. He told Dean, "I don't need to make up stories. I know all of them already."
"Oh, yeah?" Dean's whiskey was poured. He grunted a thank you. "All of them?"
"Everything that's in your file, at least." Dean was looking at him. Again, Sam got the feeling he was waiting for something. So he continued, though he'd been planning to do so no matter what. "You're…practically textbook, you know that? Like somebody laid you out and popped an explanation for just about everything you do into your past. I-it's kinda impressive, honestly."
"Stop," Dean deadpanned, lifting his glass by his fingertips and swirling the whiskey around inside. "You're gonna make me blush."
Sam took a deep breath, and jumped in. "You lost your mother when you were young. Pre-K young. It broke your dad. He became an alcoholic, from what I saw. A drifter. Took odd jobs. You were left on your own a lot, had to take care of yourself. Had to make a lot of hard decisions. And you hated that." Dean was looking at him, he could feel it. "Which is why you joined the military, as soon as they would let you. Why you joined the Bureau as soon as you got out. You wanted - you needed - somebody else to call the shots for once." Sam took a swig of his beer. "And it's why you don't like me. I'm not…cohesive. I'm not a good moving part. I put everybody else in danger, don't I?"
He looked over at Dean. Dean didn't say anything. So Sam continued.
"You're a protector," he told him. Half of what he was saying now had been explicitly written in Dean's file. The rest was pretty easy extrapolation. "A guardian. A servant, at your core. You want to help people. You saw a lot of crime when you were younger, a lot of kids who didn't come out as lucky as you did. You had to lie to survive, be a lot of different people. That's why you volunteered to be a UC. You were good at it. Good enough they partnered you with Agent LaFitte."
Dean looked at him again, a warning in his eyes. Sam waited, but nothing happened. Dean just wound up looking away, shaking his head and muttering, "Gotta be a HIPAA violation."
Truth be told, Sam had wondered that himself, but been assured they were covered. He waited. When Dean didn't say anything else, he took a deep breath, and plunged back in. In for a penny.
"You were close," Sam said quietly. He did not mention the rumors he'd heard, that they'd more or less both been living at Dean's apartment before Benny died. That they'd more or less both been sleeping in his bed. "Really close. Worked together for years. Your last assignment together was a cult. Sorry, 'fringe religious sect.' The BAU was feeding you information, since they had experience with extremist groups, had studied them, and…things went wrong." He swallowed. "I couldn't find the details. Whether or not your cover was blown, or if the group was just decompensating faster than you could be extracted. Whatever happened, Agent LaFitte died."
Dean took a slug of whiskey.
"He was beheaded." Sam squeezed his bottle, almost empty, with both hands. "Right in front of you. And you feel responsible."
If Dean was going to say anything, if he was going to knock Sam off his stool or throw a punch at him, it'd happen now. Sam waited, but it didn't come. He just finished his whiskey, and ordered another, and they sat in silence for as long as it took Sam to organize the rest of his thoughts.
"Oh, sure," he went on quietly. He didn't know whether or not Dean could even hear him over the roar and clatter of the bar. "You blame the BAU. You probably even blame me, right? Never mind I wasn't in the unit anymore by the time you infiltrated. Lemme guess, damn shrinks have no idea what it's like to be in the field, they gave you bad info, they set you up to fail. That's what you say. That's what you tell yourself. But deep down, you don't think it's their fault. You think it's yours."
Pamela put another bottle in front of Sam without being asked, took his empty. He nodded his thanks. He couldn't look at Dean.
"You think you should have pulled the plug," he said to his fresh bottle. "It was your job to protect Benny. You should've blown the entire thing if it meant he lived. But you didn't, and it almost broke you. And Quantico knew that. They gave you as much leave as they could, mandated hours of counseling, ran you through every single debriefing and assessment and eval they could throw at you. You know they were hoping you'd just - retire. Fuck off and go be somebody else's problem." There was involuntary admiration on Sam's tongue as he added, "But you wouldn't leave. And Singer wouldn't let you go."
The song changed. The radio or CD or whatever kept swinging back and forth from country to rock, and now it was Zeppelin. Dean's fingers drummed on the bar in no particular rhythm.
"Now, whether you realize it or not…" Sam cleared his throat, and took a long pull from his beer. "You're doing everything you can to avoid a repeat. Without making your sabotage too obvious. If you get us pulled out, you've got control of when and how the wheels come off. 'Cause that's the rub, isn't it? You're not the same agent you were before you lost Benny, and you know it. You don't wanna be in control, can't stand it, but when things are out of your hands, people die, and you hate that even more. You don't wanna get me killed, no matter how much you hate me."
Sam had paused, almost unconsciously, for Dean to tell him he didn't hate him. It didn't come, and that little stab of unexpected pain pushed him on. "You don't wanna fuck things up by accident further down the line, when there's more at stake." He dropped his bottle back to the bar, a solid thud of glass. "And on some level, I think you do want to die. W-which is very much in conflict with all the rest of those goals. You can't push too hard, so you're just playing fast and loose. Being reckless. Increasing the odds of one or the other, you dying or you blowing the operation before we're in too deep, and whichever wins…wins."
Sam was done. He looked at Dean, and he waited. Again. For the anger, the wisecracking…maybe for him to just get up and leave. Sam had laid out everything, peeled him open to the wounded heart of him, or at least what he thought it was based on what was in Dean's file and the time he'd spent with him.
Dean nursed his whiskey. His eyes were unfocused, blank. And bone-crushingly tired, an exhaustion so great Sam suspected he was only feeling a fraction of it himself. All Dean said, quietly and with a ghost of mirth, was, "Cute. Now do you."
"Oh, I'm even easier," Sam replied. "I was kidnapped."
Dean snorted. "Sure you were." He took another sip of his whiskey, paused, and then turned to eye Sam. After a second, he stated, "You're not joking."
Sam shrugged, and looked away again. At the bottles behind the bar. He could see dozens of reflections of himself and Dean in those whose labels had been torn off or weren't facing him, tiny and upside down and shivering with the beat of the too-loud music.
"I was eight," he said, as matter-of-factly as he could manage. Which was pretty matter-of-fact. He'd trotted this story out more times than he could count, enough for it to feel like he was delivering a profile on somebody else. "It was a stranger kidnapping…I'm sure I don't have to tell you how rare those are. My best friend, Barry, and I were on our way home from school, and the guy stopped us. Told us our mom had been in an accident, and she'd sent him to pick us up. We looked pretty similar, so I guess he must've thought we were brothers. We found out later he'd tried that line on a few different kids in the area, but I guess we were dumber than most of them, because even though it didn't make any sense, we got in his car."
Almost unconsciously, Sam braced himself for the usual platitudes. That they hadn't been dumb. That they were children and couldn't be blamed. That it wasn't their fault. But Dean, eyes on him, didn't say anything. Sam couldn't help being grateful as he continued.
"He had us for a little over a week," he said, between sips of beer. "He never even touched me. Barry was the one he liked, the one he wanted. I guess I was just - packaging. Or maybe he would've gone after me next, was using us one by one. If that was it, he never got the chance." A third beer for him, another whiskey for Dean. He made a mental note to tip Pamela. "I was in a closet the whole time. There was a gap under the door. He rolled water bottles under it, shoved in candy bars. He never talked to me." He tilted the bottle up, killing half of it in one long swallow. "It was tiny. Really tiny, and dark. I was a small kid, and I couldn't lay down fully."
Sam continued quickly, didn't want to even give Dean the chance to comment on that. "The FBI found us. That looked great on my application to the Academy, lemme tell you." He forced himself to huff out a laugh, the same as he always did. "Barry was dead. The guy shot himself when he saw the agents outside. It was only me, and I had to keep my hands over my face when they brought me out, because the light hurt my eyes so bad."
"Remember seeing that," Dean said quietly. "On the news, when I was young. Your name must not've stuck with me, though. So many missing-kid cases."
It was just a statement, neutral. Nothing that needed to be replied to. Sam shook his head.
"I went home to my parents," he told Dean. "They sent me to counseling for a few months, and then they stopped. The therapist said I seemed fine. People would come up to us in grocery stores, tell my parents how brave I was. Then that stopped eventually, too. That was a relief to them. They never wanted to talk about it, what happened to me. Or what happened to Barry." He spun his bottle, sighing. "I think they were afraid. We were middle-class, pretty well off. Dad owned a garage, Mom was a substitute teacher. I told them he never touched me, that nothing happened, but they could tell I was different. I was afraid of the dark. I wet the bed, I was claustrophobic. My room was pretty big, actually, but if I woke up and the door was closed, I'd have a meltdown."
It was practically a memorized speech by this point. Rote, meaningless. "They got overprotective, even though we pretty much never talked about why. Everything was controlled, I never went anywhere alone, they even pulled me out of school for a while…" Sam almost smirked. "'Til my mom couldn't handle me anymore. Actually, that was the only time they acknowledged something was wrong - when I'd pissed them off enough to, y'know, crack the shell." He made a gesture with one hand, like he was swinging a hammer. "So I started acting out. And I never really stopped." Now, he gestured to himself. "Th-the hair, the backtalk, all that shit you hate. That's why. And I know that, but…"
"You know it too well," Dean said, matter-of-factly. "You've told yourself that story, had other people tell it to you, so many times it ain't real anymore. Ain't you. Just another profile, right? Which means you don't actually have to do anything about it, whether it's pulling your strings or not."
Sam eyed Dean warily, but there was no judgment in his tone. Honestly, if there was anything at all there, it might have been understanding, sympathy. Something in that family. So Sam just folded his arms on the bar and hunched over them. "Yep."
They were both quiet for a while. Dean savored a slow mouthful of whiskey, then snorted quietly. "You hated being told what to do and having your every step watched, so you went into federal law enforcement. Real smart there, Sam."
"Trust me." Sam rolled his eyes. "I know."
Dean finished his whiskey. It didn't seem to be affecting him much. Sam wondered if the bar watered their booze down, but if they had, he got the feeling Dean would have said something about it. He gave off the air of a guy who knew his alcohol.
"Didn't finish your story," Dean said, exhaling loudly as he thumped the glass back down to the bar.
"What are you talking about?" Sam asked without any edge. Dean turned on his stool, so that he was facing him fully, one elbow on the bar.
"Why'd the BAU turf you?" he asked, so matter-of-fact it was almost more statement than question.
Sam swallowed. He should have braced himself for that question, but he hadn't. He stared down at the wood of the bar, more scar and scuff than polish.
"Does it matter?" he asked.
"You know everything about me," Dean pointed out. "Feels like the favor oughta be returned." He was still facing Sam fully, every ounce of his attention resting on him. "Are we having a heart-to-heart here or not?"
"Not really," Sam pointed out. "I-I'm just…regurgitating stuff we've both heard about a million times before from Bureau shrinks." But he sighed, and decided to go ahead and tread that unsteady ground. "I've always been a little too close to all this shit. The job. Figured that was what made me a good agent. A-and, y'know, up 'til recently, my CO agreed." He sat back, arms folded across his chest, back hunched and one hand out to gesture as he talked. "Then Jessica died."
"Agent Moore," Dean summarized. "Junior agent, right?" He spun his empty whiskey glass slowly in his hand, kneading the bottom against the bar. "BAU used her as bait, some serial killer bullshit, and then you didn't get there in time."
"She volunteered." The anger from earlier in the night lit in Sam's gut, like coals flaring at a gust of wind. "It wasn't my idea." Then, turning to face Dean, with more heat: "It wasn't."
"I didn't say it was," Dean snapped back. "And you…wouldn't have done that. Would you?"
Sam didn't even see his hand moving, until it landed on his thigh. It was heavy, warm. Felt good. He would have liked for it to stay there, but when he looked down, Dean pulled it back, and cleared his throat.
"Son of a bitch, Sam, doesn't even matter whose idea it was, your CO should've shut that shit down."
"Yeah, that's what they said in the hearings," Sam muttered, and resisted the urge to reach out, grab Dean's hand, and put it back. "When they nailed his ass to the wall, forced him into early retirement."
Dean said nothing, but Sam could see it in his eyes, when he looked at him. That he knew Sam felt like it was his fault, that he understood why. Just because it hadn't been his idea didn't mean he wasn't responsible. That he hadn't seen what was coming. That he shouldn't have spoken up.
Sam wanted all over again to touch him, or be touched by him, or both, but pushed it down and just kept talking.
"New CO came in, interviewed us one by one, said she was gonna clean house, a-and then - miraculously - I'm somehow the only one on mandatory leave, and the rest of the unit's shunted off to a series of consulting jobs." Sam didn't tell Dean that the first of those had been the militant Christian cult that murdered Special Agent Benjamin "Benny" LaFitte. He was sure he knew. "They put me through almost as much counseling as they did you, and I'm pretty sure if my close rate had been half a percentage point lower, they would have kicked me out. Made me somebody else's problem. They said I was more focused on 'revenge' than 'justice.'" Sam's teeth ground at the memory alone. "But, instead…they reassigned me to your unit. Said I might do better in a more 'preventative' role."
"Bet that stung," Dean commented. "What with you being the exception to every rule and all."
Sam smirked, but didn't respond. There hadn't been any venom in it.
"Yeah, well," he said, huffing out a soft chuckle. "Turns out I'm not special. Just crazy."
"No, you're not," Dean said immediately, with the unshakeable confidence of somebody stating a fact. "Not any more than I am, at least. Crazy's when there's no reason. Shouldn't you know that, what with your fancy degree and all?"
Pamela swept by, bottle in hand. Dean didn't object to her refilling his glass, drained it again just as quickly. Sam couldn't help feeling like he would have left this conversation in the dust half an hour ago, if it wasn't for the liquor in his veins.
"So." Dean smacked his lips, grimaced. "God, this shit's terrible. But, so. All that's really true?"
"It's in my file," Sam replied, clearing his throat. He'd shook his head at the offer of another beer, starting to feel unpleasantly bloated, and asked for a glass of what Dean was having. Might as well, at this point. Once they were alone, he continued, "You oughta read it. Make us even."
"How'd you even get your hands on mine in the first place?" Dean shook his head. "Bribe somebody in Records? I swear to God, if Charlie - "
"Singer gave it to me," Sam answered, and the shocked hurt that flashed in Dean's eyes was only matched by the anger that came hot on its heels. Sam continued, calm as he could manage. "He gave it to me in his office, once I'd finished telling him what I thought about being your partner. Had me sit right across from him and read the whole thing then and there. So he could watch my reactions." He picked up his glass, gave the contents an experimental taste. Dean was right: it was terrible. "I think…he wanted to make sure he could trust me with you."
Dean's face didn't change, but Sam could feel the disdain coming off him. "I don't need to be taken care of."
"Don't you?" Sam challenged, lifting his head to make eye contact, pinning Dean in place with his gaze. "Bobby wasn't the only person who talked to me about you, Dean. OPR called me in before we ever even went to talk to Cas. They want me to report on you, your conduct, your behavior, my professional assessment of your emotional state. I don't want to, I'm not a rat, but I will if I feel like I have to. And right now…" Sam put a hand on the bar, and it folded into a fist that only trembled a little. "That report isn't gonna be a good one. There are a lot of people who think that you don't belong in the field, and all you've been doing so far is proving them right. Is that really what you want?" He swallowed, and took a big swing. "Is that what Agent LaFitte would want for you?"
This felt like about the hundredth time in the conversation that Sam had braced himself for Dean to come at him. Once again, Dean didn't. Maybe he knew that, even if it sounded like naked manipulation, Sam hadn't meant it that way.
As Dean looked at him, steady, tired, Sam went on. "You're a good agent. I know you are. I know you don't really wanna sabotage this case, you don't want these assholes to get away with everything they've done, and you don't wanna be pulled out of the field. I know that." Sam took a deep breath. "Look, you might not wanna be here, and you definitely don't wanna be here with me. But there is nobody I'd rather be partnered with on this case than you. Or at least the agent that you were the last time we worked together."
Dean heaved a sigh, settling into his stool as he raised his whiskey to his mouth. He looked down into it. "Hate to break it to you, Sammy, but I'm pretty sure that agent doesn't exist anymore. You said it yourself, didn't you?"
"I don't believe that," Sam responded stubbornly, even as the casual nickname sent something unexpected zipping up the back of his neck. "Or at least I don't believe that you've got no choice but to be this bad at your job." Another mouthful of whiskey. "Look, Dean…whatever you need. T-to - to function, to stay here, with me, I will give it to you. I am more than willing to meet you halfway. But you have to get your shit together, man."
Dean leaned back, whiskey in hand, eyes on Sam. The crowd in the bar had slowly begun to thin out, noise dying down, leaving them more and more alone as the minutes marched past. Sam tensed, seeing something in Dean's eyes he didn't recognize. It took him a second to realize that that was because it was something he'd never seen from him before: respect.
"You're committed to this," Dean stated.
"Just like every case," Sam responded, slightly annoyed. Dean slowly shook his head, eyes not leaving Sam's.
"Not like this." He set his glass down. "Fine. You got my word, I'm all in. You're right: I owe you that. And everybody else."
Sam nodded, feeling relief flood him. A coil of taut wire loosening, untwisting. "Thank you."
Dean nodded back. His eyes were unfocused as his fingers tapped on the bar. Sam could just about see him thinking, past the drift and burn of whiskey. Finally, he sucked in a deep breath.
"I want you to know," he said seriously, "that my gripes about you as an agent, the job you've done on cases before…they got nothing to do with what happened to you. You're not crazy. And I'm never gonna tell you that you are."
Sam eyed Dean warily. He didn't see any hint of humor in him, though. Just a slight embarrassment brought on by what looked like near-painful honesty. Slowly, he nodded again, and repeated, "Thank you."
"Don't mention it." Dean cleared his throat, knocked back the dregs of his whiskey. "Let's get these assholes, huh?" He smiled a little. "Hopefully it'll all be 'ghost hunting.'"
Ice water cascaded through the small of Sam's pack, spiking like a cramp. Something of it must have showed on Dean's face, because he glanced at him, then sighed and set his whiskey glass down again.
"Shit, I'm sorry," he started. "I promise, I'm taking it seriously, I just…" He trailed off, studying Sam, then hunched in a little, as if to hear him better. "What's the matter?"
"I-it's nothing." Sam lifted his whiskey, almost gone, to his mouth, close enough to feel the alcohol fumes in his sinuses, but didn't drink. Dean kept looking at him. He could feel his eyes, but it wasn't an unpleasant pressure. He took a deep breath. "It's just…back at the house. The way the door closed…"
"That wasn't a ghost," Dean said, with unshakeable confidence.
"Then who pushed you down the stairs?" Sam asked him.
"I tripped."
"Did you?"
Dean eyed him for a long second, then exhaled through his nose, explosive. "Look. Dude. We were the only people on the stairs. Yeah, somebody was down in the kitchen, but he didn't push me, and you definitely didn't. Right?"
"Right." Sam drank. "But what about the door?"
"How much d'you know about the Amityville Horror?" Dean asked, unexpectedly. When Sam just blinked at him, confused, he continued. "The family that lived there…bunch of fuckin' conmen. But they said the windows would raise and lower all by themselves. Contractor or something came in, looked around, figured out the windows were weighted wrong, so if you stepped on a certain spot on the floor, they'd go up and down without anybody touching 'em." He shrugged. "Sure something like that was going on with the door. Then, once it was closed, it got jammed. Old house, settling for the night…stuff like that's gonna happen."
"Okay…" That didn't feel right to Sam. The entire experience was a throbbing blur, terror dragging everything together on top of itself in one jumbled oil-slick memory, but he didn't think that either of them had been moving when the door closed. "But - " He cleared his throat, powering forward before he could talk himself out of telling Dean this next part. "In there. In the dark. I…saw something. A face, a kid's. Screaming. H-he looked…exactly like the photo in the newspaper. Exactly."
"Well, of course you did," Dean said matter-of-factly. Sam couldn't help staring at him, until he sighed and continued. "You had a panic attack. You knew what'd happened in that house, Art and Victor have been hyping it up since we got here. Your brain does all kindsa freaky shit to you when you're spinning out, and it's no wonder that's what it latched onto."
"Okay." Sam nodded, and tossed back the rest of his whiskey. "So I'm just crazy."
"No." Dean reached out, gripped Sam's shoulder firmly. He turned him to face him, staring at him with a fierce intensity. For the first time, Sam realized that Dean was drunk, or getting there. "You're not. Don't…fuckin' do that to yourself, okay? I told you. You're good at what you do. You're really good. You deserve to be here, probably more than I do, and don't ever let anybody fucking tell you that you don't because of what happened to you. Or that you're not allowed to have baggage, or let it show. Okay?"
Sam stared at Dean, blinking a couple of times. He could feel his shock painted all over his face. The silence ticked out, until Dean gave Sam a little shake, not particularly aggressive, but firm. "Say it."
Sam wasn't actually sure what Dean wanted him to say so, slowly, he took a stab. "I'm…not crazy."
That must have been it, because Dean gave a nod of approval, squeezed Sam's shoulder, and then once again let go. Once again, Sam wanted the touch back as soon as it was gone. He settled for leaning just a little closer.
"So that, uh…breathing thing. That you had me do." Sam coughed. "I've noticed. You do it all the time, don't you?"
Dean grunted. "Only good thing that came outta all those shrinks the Bureau made me see." He glanced at Sam. "I'm not into all that woo-woo bullshit, but…it helps. It, y'know, grounds you. Brings you back."
"It helped me," Sam said honestly.
"Good. I'm glad."
They sat there at the bar, with their empty glasses, so close that Sam felt like his shoulder would brush Dean's if he took a deep enough breath. Alcohol had filmed the world over, made the neon gauzy, the music quiet. He felt like, maybe, he could've sat there forever. With Dean. But Pamela came up, tapped the wood in front of them, and said, "Last call, boys."
Sam straightened, looking around. Somehow, without him noticing, the bar had emptied out. They were two of only a handful of people left.
He fumbled for his wallet, but Dean silently stopped him, tossing bills down on the bar. When he stood, he was surprisingly steady. Sam got to his feet; movement hammered home how much he'd actually had to drink, booze having caught and lit in his sore muscles and empty stomach.
"Not a big drinker, huh?" Dean observed.
"That obvious?" Sam chuckled softly. "I try not to be."
Outside, the night had gotten colder, and the clouds had cleared off. The flat coin of the moon glowed down, eclipsing most of the stars. The bar shut off most of its lights behind them, and they walked through the darkness, back to the motel.
Sam was halfway to his bed when he heard a thump and a rattle, and turned to see Dean chocking the door open a crack. He was wedging a big rock, kicked up from the parking lot, underneath. The gap was wide enough to stick a hand through.
"Oh, you - you don't need to do that." Sam shook his head.
"You gotta get some sleep." Dean stepped back, heading for his bed.
"But it's freezing out. It's gotta be in the twenties." The baseboards rattled, but there was no way they'd be able to keep up, with cold air coming in through the doorway. "You're drunk, you're gonna freeze to death."
"You're drunk, too." Dean began to strip, letting out a jaw-cracking yawn. Sam rolled his eyes.
"We're gonna wind up huddled in one bed to stay warm."
He'd meant it as a joke, but Dean looked at him, shrugged, and flipped the rumpled covers back on his bed.
"Okay," he said. "C'mere." When Sam didn't move, just looking at him with his hands in his pockets, he raised his eyebrows. Sam couldn't see anything but the motion of his face. "Well, we can do yours, but mine's further from the door."
Sam swallowed.
"Ain't a big deal," Dean said, with more of a twang than usual in his voice, "'less you make it one."
He was from Kansas, Sam remembered. Or one of the Dakotas, or something. His accent must come out when he was drunk.
Sam crossed the room in a few steps, somehow managing to lose most of his clothes along the way. He crawled in beneath the sheets, thinking in the back of his mind that he probably should have showered before doing this but not caring, and laid down. His eyes fell closed.
Dean climbed in behind him, pulling the covers up. Sam had laid down in the middle of the bed, figuring he'd give Dean a choice of where he wanted to be, but Dean put himself between him and the door like he hadn't even had to think about it. There was something instinctual about it. Protective.
An arm loosely laid itself over Sam's waist, and kneecaps ghosted against his thighs. Warmth radiated off Dean's chest from behind him. Dean breathed against Sam's back, a steady rhythm.
One, two, three, four…