Chapter Twelve – Make My Day, Not!

Sam sat waiting on the bench by the front doors as Dean tried to explain to Shelly as best he could the circumstances of the night. Sam didn't know what Dean would tell her, and quite frankly, he didn't care; Dean always had a knack for making up a story that people believed. Whether it was his masterful ability to weave a yarn or simply their reluctance to consider the truth, they always bought into whatever he was selling. His verbal mastery combined with his killer grin seemed to be batting a thousand as Shelly leaned in and offered him a tender kiss before turning with a satisfied smile and leaving the theater.

Dean slowly walked over to where his brother sat waiting, his cocky grin disappearing as soon as Shelly turned to leave, replaced by lips set in a firm and determined grimace. His eyes cold and piercing as they registered every shift Sam offered under the intense scrutiny as Dean neared. When he was at last towering over his brother he calmly asked, his voice chilled by a total absence of emotion, "So, Sammy… what's the story?"

Sam looked up in shame, his eyes barely able to focus on his brother as he was shut out by the frigid distance between them. Softly he mumbled, "Dean, I'm sorry."

"For what?" Dean whispered, concern and confusion behind his soft, green eyes, the slightest indent between them as he furrowed his brows and studied his brother.

Sam looked straight into those eyes, deciding he needed to face the music, weather Dean's wrath, and just get it the hell over with. I screwed up, I deserve it. His voice trembled as he barely was able to form the words, his terror at almost losing his brother still nagging at his heart. "Dean, I didn't follow the plan… I thought I could reason with Jackson, convince him that Rosanna loved him and to just move on." As soon as the words were out Sam lowered his gaze and contemplated the worn carpeting of the theater, his eyes fixed on a recent stain, probably a coke spilled and left to soak in unattended. His mind frantically seeking out any excuse to avoid the look he was sure his brother would unleash on him, his heart bracing for the fury of Dean.

"Right." Dean stood transfixed, his brother's words slowly penetrating his hazy mind, filling in the gaps in his memories, giving him a more complete picture to connect to his mucked-up emotions. All the images melding together, the embarrassing acting scene in front of a theater full of gawking spectators, the real-life love story reunion followed by the nasty confrontation and tug-of-war over his body that played out in the lobby; and during the entire time the evil presence inside him was whispering of plans to keep his body and use it, taunting him that he wasn't worthy of such a fine body, that he was too damaged to function in this world and should simply release from it and surrender. The tempting words promising life would be easier if he just slunk away into that dark corner of his mind and never returned.

Time… the spirit had been given time enough to mess with his head, and for an instant, just a mere fraction of a second, he'd considered it, wondered what it would be like to completely let go.

That realization scared the shit out of him because he wasn't a quitter, and to think it sounded appealing, even for a millisecond, gave him more cause to wonder if he was strong enough for this job, if he could ultimately protect his family when it mattered most.

Sam froze, confused, and more worried than ever. He glanced up at his brother and was shocked to see him just standing there… thinking. His first coherent thought was how odd that was, more often than not used to knee-jerk retaliation from Dean, and then he mentally slapped himself for again being a little bitch. Dammit, Sam, you almost lost your brother and here you are being the bitch again. Dean does think…, and you know it! He's not stupid, at least not any more stupid than you were tonight.

Dean's fingers were drumming in constant beats against the sides of his jeans before clenching into tight fists as his liquid green eyes dulled by the weight and hurt of this ghostly encounter were suddenly lit on fire, flaring up and causing Sam to steel himself for the coming fury before the switch turned off and almost instantly simmered down to a slow burn as he studied his kid brother. Sam waited, the anticipation killing him as he braced for the coming explosion.

Tense moments seemed to hang heavy in the stagnant air, neither brother saying anything as the silence lingered. "Let's go," Dean finally uttered in a soft, almost tender, but strangely detached voice as he stepped away and headed toward the door.

Sam's gut clenched tight as he silently rose and followed his brother out the door and to the waiting Impala.

Damn, this is not good. Dean's like a volcano. He'll simmer for hours…, days even.., lulling you into a false sense of security before he blows… that is, if he blows. It's like he's used to pushing everything down and burying it under a ton of earth. Sometimes it never does fight its way back to the surface and I've always wondered how he does it? How he stands it? I mean, it's got to affect him, doesn't it? He seems so good at containing it, never letting it get to him. I've only seen Dean blow off steam a few times and always with plenty of cause. And I can tell you, when he does blow… it is devastating and deadly. The thing is, with Dean it's always on his timetable. In due time, and when you least expect it. Unless you're talking about some evil creature or stupid lowlife, then the flare-up is quick and fierce and brutal. Downright apocalyptic. If an evil beasty or rowdy local upsets Dean, there will be hell to pay, and it won't be pretty.

Sam paused in his rampant thoughts as he observed his brother. Dean was walking with a stiff gait, resembling a cowboy bucked off a bull and then trampled by it, still putting his sore body back together, broken and beaten down, defeated in both body and spirit. The silence was stifling, only disturbed when they reached the Impala and the creak of the heavy doors breached the deadly calm. Dean slid into his seat behind the steering wheel and waited for his brother to get situated in shotgun position. Sam studied his profile, his jaw sharp and firm, just the barest clench, with a slight twitch of his muscles the only indication of the pressure held back.

Maybe it's just family that gives Dean pause, gives him the will to hold back, to contain the fury he must be feeling. He certainly never shows any anger with Dad, no matter how much he deserves it. I wonder if that's why the others get total annihilation? Damn it, Dean… I deserve it, just let me have it. Please…

"Dean?"

"Sam, drop it. Quit thinking so much, you're making my head hurt." Dean started the car and let the engine rev for a few moments before pulling out of the parking lot.

The ride back to the motel was painfully tense with the stillness of the night heavy as the words unspoken moaned and whispered in the darkness, lurking just beyond reach, still silently demanding to be heard, waiting for their moment to come undone. Dean stared through the rain soaked windshield, his fingers tightly gripping the steering wheel while his body appeared ready to snap in two, soldier alert with his back pressed firm against the seat. Sam slouched in the passenger seat stealing quick glances at his brother from behind long bangs that shielded the direction of his searching eyes.

As soon as they were in the room and Dean had checked all the windows and double bolted the door, insuring the salt lines remained unbroken, he sloughed off his leather jacket along with his long-sleeved shirt and pulled his t-shirt over his head, throwing them on top of the chair by his duffle as he rifled through the bag dragging out fresh clothes.

"Dean, I'm sorry," Sam whispered; his voice a double-edged knife slicing through the quiet, disturbing the pretense of peace.

Dean didn't even look at him and that hurt more than any harsh words Sam was waiting to hear, that the kid brother heard echoing within his own troubled mind. That I deserve to hear.

"I know," Dean softly answered; his hands busy sorting his clothes.

"Dean, please, can't we talk about this?"

"Not now." Dean gathered his clothing and supplies and headed toward the bathroom. "I need a shower."

Sam's eyes were watering as he dejectedly stood there with his arms wrapped around himself, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Dean, please… "

"WHAT?" Dean cast his eyes to his brother in a fleeting glimpse of rage before quickly looking away, down to the ground, implicitly apologizing for the harsh tone. "Sam, I… "

"Dean, just yell at me for godssakes! I deserve it. Please, just get it over with."

Dean looked up with tender eyes, so much pain clinging there awash in moisture, and Sam wanted to die. He wanted to take back the evening and do his job the way he should have done it in the first place. Why can't I follow orders? Why do I always think I know better? Why? Why can't I be more like Dean… capable, strong, a good soldier? God, that's everything I've never wanted to be… but this time… I almost lost Dean because…

"No." Dean was breathing heavy, waiting before continuing, before finally looking up, his pale face blank and unreadable, only his dark eyes revealing his anguish. "Sam… the job's done. Jackson's gone. It's all good." He turned back towards the bathroom.

"Then why are you running away from me? Why can't you even LOOK at me?" Why didn't you call me Sammy?

Dean stopped and stood silent, his broad shoulders slightly hunched over, his head hung down. Slowly the head raised and the shoulders squared off, strong and fixed, and he finally turned around and sighed, deliberate as he locked eyes with his brother, a steely determination evident alongside the lingering pain. "Sam, I'm not running away… I don't run away… ever. I just need to wash this… " he hesitated, obviously struggling for the right words, never comfortable examining feelings and emotions and all those other girly thoughts the Winchesters so often left unsaid. His bottom lip quivered ever so slightly, and he pulled it into his mouth and bit into the flesh, gnawing it gently before releasing it, his eyes falling closed for just a second of blessed solitude before they blinked open and he spoke, his heart bleeding through the words. "I feel dirty… alright? I just need to feel clean again."

Sam gasped from the sincerity and raw depth of emotions his brother was allowing him to witness, knowing Dean would never be this open with Dad and he felt strangely privileged, like maybe he trusted him not to judge him. Sam felt more tears forming as his heart reacted to the pain in his brother's eyes, and for the first time in his life he saw Dean as truly vulnerable in a small way and it was all so unexpected. The rush of emotions and realizations was robbing his breath and he shuddered, finally managing to compose himself enough to squeak out, "Alright, Dean… alright."

Dean nodded in relief that Sam would for once back away instead of doggedly pursuing a confrontation like he was most apt to do. His relief was short-lived as he saw the wheels turning in his mind and he knew the direction Sam was headed, somewhere he never wanted his brother to tread, and he suddenly felt exposed, his mask slipping precariously away and revealing too much. Quickly he shifted and adjusted, his habit of protecting his tender heart moving to shield him from further scrutiny. His familiar smirk again commanded his face as he quipped, "Dude, it's not the end of the world. I got Whoopied… " He paused and arched his brows, but his eyes were still dim and he couldn't quite muster the confident look he desired, his expression a mere shadow of the shining face he usually presented when his heart was truly filled with glee. It was a valiant effort, but it collapsed in on him and he fell into a more somber mood. Still he tried to ease his brother's concerns. "It's just creepy…, y' know? A little soap and some tender lovin' from Shelly later on once she settles down, and it's all good. You did good, bro. Job's over, the big-bad's gone, forget about it." Dean flashed a more confident grin, lop-sided with a hint of dimples, and closed the bathroom door behind him.

Sam lay down on the bed placing his arm over his eyes as he tried to forget the entire hunt and the visions of how it could have ended, how Dean might have been forever lost. He tried to bury his thoughts, but they were just as obstinate as everything else concerning the Winchesters. Fat chance! Slowly he forced himself to decompress from the adrenaline that had been coursing through his body since he first encountered Jackson in the persona of his brother. I hope you're alright, Dean. I am sorry… I should have known better.

Dean closed the door and leaned hard against it. His eyes stared at his image in the mirror over the sink and he hated what he saw. Terror, shame, uncertainty… Damn it all! He'd lost control. He'd been dependant on someone else to save him, and he'd been vulnerable. Man, that just sucks. Big time! He pressed back against the firmness of the door, needing the solid block of wood to support him as his heart raced and his chest constricted in a delayed reaction to the abject terror that still haunted him. All of his emotions erupting up to the surface in a frightful explosion that consumed him and he trembled from the force. He grunted and raked his shaking hands over his face, digging at his eyes with the heels of his palms and feeling the moisture of his tears. Red eyes gazed back from his image in the mirror and he closed his eyes to the sight, again tunneling deep to find that rock buried within.

After a few minutes to still the aftershocks that rippled through him and reconnect with who he needed to be, he turned on the water in the shower until it was scorching hot, barely tolerable. He sloughed off his jeans and boxers and stepped in. As hot as the water was, he still shook from the cold that descended on him, the chill of this possession holding firm, twisting his perception of himself and making him doubt his abilities all over again. How the hell could I not know that thing was inside me? Why couldn't I fight it? What if Sammy hadn't stepped in? What if… ?

Slowly he started washing his worn body, scrubbing until it was red; the feel of the rough washcloth asserting he still held some control. If he wanted to wear his body down to the bone, he could. He could control at least that much. He could feel his body tingle beneath his firm strokes and he knew he was finally back in control, at least in as much control as he had ever been. Jackson was permanently gone and it was over. His mind knew it, now he only needed to convince his trembling soul. He let the hot water cascade over him, massaging at the aches and pains of his body, and washing away the last remnants of his fears.

As the water lost heat and started to run cold, he released the last of his guilt and shame. His gut slowly unclenched and he again told himself to relax, to stand down. He smiled as he considered how Sam had completed the mission. He hadn't followed orders and that was disturbing; in fact, his first reaction was to pummel the kid before his protective instincts kicked in and overrode his blind fury. The bottom line was he got the job done. As much as he objected to their lives fighting evil, Sam could do the job. He'd proven it. The kid could think on his feet. Dad will be so proud. He'd see to it.

Dad doesn't have to know the specifics; all he need know is Sammy saved me and vanquished the spirit. Dean never lied to his dad; he just didn't always tell him everything, especially when it came to Sam. There was already too much tension and bad blood between them, and he grew weary of refereeing their tiffs… their all-out, fractious wars on occasion. This is good. Dad will be proud… and rightly so. It's over… it's really over. Sam did it. Sammy did good.

Dean took his time wiping dry and adjusting his game face. Whatever anxiety remained was relegated to a dark place deep within where he'd buried all his previous hurts and terrors. The last few days had dredged up tons of uncertainty, but his life was based in the unknown, firmly entrenched in the haphazard, random chaos of evil, and he'd learned long ago to focus on what he could control… the hunt. The pain of the last few days had been deepened when he thought he'd lost his edge, when he'd lost his ability to excel in the hunt, at doing the job. Maybe this hunt was ultimately completed by his brother, but together they'd finished it. Together… damn, that sounds good. I can live with that.

Sam was still stewing in his regrets and guilt, anxiously awaiting the emergence of big brother when the bathroom door opened and steam rolled out as Dean confidently strolled into the room wearing a fresh Led Zeppelin t-shirt and a pair of black boxers. He tossed his old jeans and boxers on the stack of clothes by his duffle and smirked at the concerned gaze of his brother.

"Geez, Sammy, no one died… " Dean laughed, " …unless you want to count Jackson and Rosanna." He playfully slapped at the legs of his brother scrunched up on the bed with his arms wrapped around them, and sat down next to him, scooching him over to make room. "And they were, you know, like… already dead. Chill out, dude."

With a huff and a quizzical look Sam responded, "But Dean, I screwed up. You coulda… "

"Yeah, but I didn't. Sam, you saved me. End of story."

"But… "

Dean ran his hand down his face before punching his brother in the arm in mock disgust. "Sam, let it go." He then paused as a comical expression flickered across his face, eyebrows raised in crinkled arches and lips curled up into a Cheshire cat grin. Opportunity knocks! "Well, Sammy… you're right. You did screw up by not following the plan, so I guess this means you'll never, ever disobey Dad or my orders again. Right?" He wiggled his brows and quirked his mouth into a playful smirk, his eyes finally gleaming with delight.

He called me Sammy!

Sam smiled. Dean's easy attitude helping to settle him down just a little, but not enough to make him forget who he was. "That seems a bit extreme, don'tcha think?" he countered, regaining that teenage combative tone he loved to tweak his family with.

"Hey, I thought you were looking for a little penance. What? Now you wanna dictate your punishment?"

Sam smiled deeper and his dimples seemed like pits in his face as the joy that emanated from his brother again found him, the weight on his chest releasing and freeing him to again enjoy the camaraderie and bantering of big brother, thankful he had forgiven him as he always did. "Follow orders? Listen to Dad? I don't know, Dean, pretty harsh punishment, don'tcha think?"

"Yeah?" Dean grinned his cocky, brash smirk. "Well, Sammy, that's the price you pay when you mess with the supernatural." He tousled his brother's hair and leaned back against the headboard. "So what's on the boob tube… and it better be good, with some kick-butt action, and there sure as hell better not be any sinking ships… or freakin' icebergs… or stupid last lines from dying fools.

Sam laughed as he handed the remote to his brother. Dean flicked through the channels pausing on Dirty Harry as ol' Clint asked the scumbag to make his day.

"Dirty Harry, again? How many times you gonna watch it? Don't you know it by heart?" Sam protested.

Dean quirked his head to the side and smiled, never one to pass up a good movie even if he had seen it a dozen times… a good movie, capice? He hit the channel button on the remote and began surfing for another choice, a better choice. Sorry, Mom, not tonight… maybe not ever again! He hit the button one more time and came across Ghostbusters II. Fantastically unrealistic, but then again, I could use some good escapist fare after what went down tonight. And who doesn't love the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man? A grin broke out on his face and his eyes danced with pure joy as he nudged his brother, giving him a quick eyebrow waggle.

"Alrighty, Sammy, this is more like it! We got any cocoa?"

TBC