Dean

"Dean, I'm sorry…"

Those three little words echoed around in his mind until he wanted to bang his head against the wall to make them stop.

There was no question that Dad had made the right decision back there. It had to be Sam. Dean's whole life had been about protecting his little brother – he knew it and his father knew it – and that was the way it should be.

Yet… yet when his father had looked him in the eye and said those three fateful words, something inside him had torn apart. Not because he was afraid to die. For most of his life, the threat of death had been a constant companion, and he had long ago accepted that. It was just… he shook his head, angry at his feelings, unwilling to accept his own selfishness. For Dad's decision to sacrifice him had hurt far worse than the physical pain he'd suffered. Those three little words had broken through the wall he had built up over the past twenty years, and he had met head-on the truth he had always known. Dad loved Sam best and always had.

All through his childhood Dean had been the good little soldier, following orders, looking after little Sammy, covering for Sammy when he blatantly defied their father. Yet while Dean had been the model son, it was Sam the rebel, Sam the son who constantly questioned the family's mission, who held John Winchester's heart. Even when he had committed the worst crime of all – leaving home to find a life of his own – Dad's thoughts had still revolved around him. The frequency with which their journeys took them near Stanford testified to this, as did the number of friends Dad asked to look out for him.

Dean's love for his brother had been the one thing that had made everything bearable while he'd buried the truth and the pain deep inside and built a wall around the hurt. It didn't matter that Dad loved Sam best, he'd told himself, because Dad loved him, too, in his own quiet way.

Cracks had appeared in the wall from time to time. Eight months ago, The Demon, speaking with his father's voice, had taunted him with the truth and punched a large hole in his fortress. He'd come close to death then. Weeks had passed while he recovered physically, but he'd managed to patch up the damage and go on.

Now, he could feel the wall beginning to crumble around him.

He turned the shower on full power and stepped under the steaming stream. The water beat down on him, needling his skin, stabbing pain into the cut on his chest and pounding viciously into the bruises that covered his back. Dean shoved away the hurt, ducking his head under the flow and welcoming the roar of water that blocked out his confused thoughts for a few blessed moments.

He stayed there until the water began to run cold. Then, reluctantly, he turned the shower off and reached for a towel. Pain sliced through his back and he bit back a groan at its intensity. Standing under the hot water, preoccupied with his thoughts, he had almost forgotten the physical hurt, but now it made itself felt, stabbing deeply from his left shoulder right down to his hip. He knew from past experience that he would probably be in agony tomorrow when the bruising came out; was, in fact, not far short of that now.

Mechanically, he toweled off and with some difficulty, pulled on a clean pair of boxers. He contemplated a T-shirt and then rejected it – he could barely raise his left arm more than a few inches. There was no way he was going to be able to pull a shirt on. Pouring some antiseptic wash over the cut on his chest, he hissed at the sting as liquid met raw flesh, and then stuck a dressing pad over the top. The bandage neatly hid the damage, but evidence remained in the bloodstained shirt balled up on the floor. The stains should fade with time. He wondered if the memory would.

Dean carefully sat down on the toilet seat, running a hand wearily over his face. He wasn't ready yet to go out there and face Sam. He knew his brother was worried. It would have been hard to miss the concerned glances shot his way through the drive down here. But he couldn't talk to Sam about this, not now. Pain at his father's choice mingled with shame and anger at himself. How could he feel hurt when that very choice had been made to save Sam? What kind of brother was he? And what would Sam think of him, if he knew the truth?

God, this was all too much to deal with. He felt tears welling behind his eyelids and blinked them back angrily. Dean Winchester didn't cry. Not in public, not alone and not with his family. Especially not with his family. The last time he'd cried in front of Sam he'd been seven. He'd fallen out of a tree and broken his arm and the pain had been so bad that he'd been unable to hold back the tears that started to fall. Seeing him cry had upset his brother so much that Sam had bawled until he was sick. Dean had felt bad about that. His job was to protect his brother, and part of that was playing the role of the strong big brother at all times, including now. But his body didn't seem to understand that as his eyes burned with unshed tears.

Dean stood up abruptly, angry at his weakness. No way was he going to give in to self-pity. He caught sight of himself in the mirror above the sink. The eyes that stared back at him were lost and hopeless. He couldn't bear the sight of his heart laid bare before him, and as anger and frustration welled up, he swung a fist at the offending image. The mirror fractured and pain flared through his hand. As shards of glass shattered loudly against the sink, he reflexively jumped back, knocking over a small cabinet with what seemed to him a deafening crash.

"Dean? Dean, are you okay?"

Sam's voice, urgent and dripping with concern. Dean rubbed the hip he'd caught on the corner of the cabinet and swore under his breath. "I'm fine." Blood dripped down his hand, mingling with glass fragments to form a mottled pattern against the stark white of the sink.

Silence. Then, "Dean?"

"I'm fine." The words came out as a snarl as he wrapped a towel around his bleeding hand. He carefully lowered himself back onto the toilet seat, critically surveying the mess he'd created. Breaking the mirror might have been a stupid, childish thing to do, but it had served its purpose. The threatening tears had subsided and now he felt only numb and empty.

Taking a shaky breath, he unwrapped the towel to study the damage to his hand. A couple of nasty cuts, but none too deep. He flexed his fingers, relieved that they moved freely. No bones broken. As he reached for the first-aid kit once again, he took a few more deep breaths to steady his breathing. It was going to be all right. Sam needn't know what he was really feeling. He could pretend everything was fine, until he could put the pieces back together again, build the wall back up. And he would do that. He couldn't afford not to.

Nothing had changed, after all. There were still people who needed his help and there was still a demon to catch. There was still Sammy to look out for.

Nothing had changed.