All my I love you's (are left unsaid)

by SrtPotterSwanJackson

"Truth is, he's winging it and faking it and hoping he makes it. If there was anything he could do to take back everything that culminated in the most important person in his life feeling like he's not even on a "loved ones" list, he would, in a heartbeat. But they haven't exactly made a card for this particular level of fuck-up.

Their first time had been close to 10 years before, and one day Sam will stop to really analyze why it took so long for him to see (admit) that something was wrong. And then he'll probably scream until his voice gives out.

It started with a hunt because what thing in their fucking lives didn't?

An uptick in bloody deaths (and bloody everything, Christ, the already understaffed clinic nearly collapsed in the aftermath of the bloodbath) in Ely, Minnesota. A spiteful cheated-on witch with a chip on her shoulder going after big names in the area, forcing them to reveal their secrets. Long-buried arrangements that continued to fuck people over, violence committed and forced into forgetfulness by power and money that keep the small community together, enough affairs to fill several seasons of a soap opera, and suddenly people are turning against each other, fist-fights to the death or permanent injury, shotguns being raised against dear 'family friends', matronly grandmothers poisoning their husband's food. It's honestly a little below their league, but she's doing it with intent to maim and kill and succeeding, so Dean pumps her full of bullets. Not before being whammied, of course, because it's never that easy.

Sam takes a cursory look at the spell book, scowling at himself for the Irish-jig his heart is trying to emulate inside his chest, terrified to find anything unsavory that he might have to confront. It seems like a pretty standard truth spell, but he does take the time to appreciate the finesse of the tweaks: The victims are not only unable to say anything that they know or even think to be untrue while the magic runs its course, but also obligated to answer all questions they're asked, to the fullest extent of truth they know. It'll fade, he warns Dean, in two or three days, with no lasting damages.

They'll hole up at the Bunker after one last night in the motel to recharge after three nights of relentless research, and they'll just not hunt in the meantime, lest Dean gets them in trouble with his loosened tongue, then they'll be able to move on like usual. They pack up and chalk this one up to the win column.

Except he doesn't tell Dean about the tricky little footnote detailing the building compulsion to reveal one's secrets, even if unprompted, that'll surely start hearing its head soon, although he knows the ruse will be short-lived when the other man starts feeling it. He also doesn't tell him how he won't remember it afterwards, basically stuck in a highly-suggestionable, semi-dreamlike state while the magic lasts. It's at the very best hypocritical, but he doesn't feel like explaining why no, they'll not split up because Dean's scared of emotions and big talks, knows the only reason he hasn't bolted yet is because he thinks the flimsy excuse of "strictly business" will stop Sam from digging around too much and because the hex has made him a little loopy and compliant. He settles into the drivers seat (if we get pulled over while you're driving we're fucked, Dean ) and pushes the gas pedal maybe a little too hard for someone trying to avoid calling attention from the law enforcement of this shitty town.

Dean's as exhausted as Sam feels, clearly, because his only response to entering their room is a terse nod towards the bathroom, ceding first shower to Sam, and flopping down on the bed.

Sam tries to think of anything else while he strips himself off the grime from the hunt and the road, but the questions he has seem impossible to hold onto for any longer (to be fair, some he has been lugging around with their duffel bags in the Impala's trunk since he was old enough to ask, but others are only hours old, born of his traitorous brain's whisper that he can actually get some answers now).

He does hold off until Dean has also showered, but something about the defeated slope of his shoulders, the way his hair spikes up when it's wet and takes ten years off his face to offset the lifetime added by the sadness in his eyes, just breaks his resolve like a bullet through a glass panel.

"Why did you do it?" He asks, hoarse.

There's nothing else he could be talking about, and apparently even the spell the old croon cast knows it, because there's no deflective "Do what?", barely a pause before Dean starts talking, no intonation to the avalanche of words that would not have made it past his lips on any other day.

"Because I love you. Because you deserve better than dying young and martyred to offset some stupid debt you think you owe me. Because you promised you'd live, you told me you still had hope for the after and you deserve to live that after. Because I care about the world and want to save it but it all feels wrong when you're not there to save it with me, to save it for . Because we finally have a home together and I wanted time to make you happy in it before you left for good. Because I talked you down from a dangerous edge and promised there was nothing I would put in front of you. Because you're my baby brother and there isn't anything I have or would put in front of you. Because if you died then, I'd have talked you out of closing the gates for nothing, would have wasted your sacrifice and pain on a whim and you didn't deserve that, either. Because I tried praying and bargaining and modern fucking medicine and still had to watch as you slowly faded before my eyes. Because I was dumb and desperate and not thinking straight and wanted to believe that just this once, we both could be okay, and I let a psycho talk me into something that would hurt you and hurt people we care about because I saw no other way out."

Dean slumps, visibly spent from whatever struggle he put up internally against the confession, but apparently the hex hasn't completely overtaken his faculties, because he continues, words clearly chosen, if just as truthful as the prior hemorrhage.

"I'm more sorry about Kevin than I think I can ever say. I'm sorry for hurting you, lying to you, tricking you into something you didn't want. If I could go back, I'd take the trials myself the way it should have been, Sam, or I'd have found another way to save you. But what I'm not sorry about is the fact you're alive and healthy and able to have some sort of freaking future, even if that future no longer involves me."

Sam feels like the words have linked themselves into a chain and choked him somewhere around the first sentence because Christ, he can barely get air down his windpipe without activating his gag reflex. He'd expected something alongside the lines of "Dad told me to watch over you" or even "We're family", a blanket statement doing little to smother a grease fire. He hadn't expected to have ancient scars torn up and soothed before they had the chance to even bleed, hadn't expected the sheer love, the devotion in Dean's words. He hadn't felt like this, like something precious and cherished and loved, in so long that it now shakes him to his core to realize that, in his brother's eyes, he'd never stopped being just that.

It's too much, too intense, too all-encompassing, so he spins on his heels and walks off. He makes sure not to go far, just sitting on the hood of the Impala where it's parked in front of their door because he needs no truth spell to tell him about Dean's abandonment issues, but he needs the distance.

His stubbornness and pride, his deep seated wounds and grief all try to rear their heads, to sink claws and fangs into the anger he'd been holding onto like a child with a safety blanket. Because it is safer, if he keeps Dean at arms length. The depth and complexity of their love for each other is overwhelming, draining, incomprehensible and, honestly, dangerous.

But he cannot find the strength to fuel those feelings anymore, not when his brother's speech had lit him up from the inside, something sounding suspiciously like soulmates resonating through his very being as the pieces slotted into place. That love could be dangerous, yes, but it was also the safest embrace Sam had known, the most solid foundation upon which he could have built his sense of self, of belonging, of being. It's worth the risk and even the wounds, to bask in it, to have it to count on, to be able to share the crappiness and the awesomeness. He's not okay with what happened, necessarily, but he'd much rather deal with it by Dean's side than with a wall of ice standing between them.

Plus, the analytical, self-chastising side of him that's been kept quiet because of how hurt and betrayed he felt wakes up with a vengeance: Hadn't Dean forgiven him for much worse, repeatedly? Had he really called the man who gave up his childhood, his life, his very soul for him, selfish? Gone for every vulnerable, weak spot in his armor with blood-thirst making his aim lethal and agonizing?

Thinking of the night the angels fell, his chest tightens, remembering that he had, indeed, picked life, picked his brother, chosen to continue fighting the good fight and living beside him, only to lump that in with the trickery it took to get him to accept the only way to keep him breathing. He knows he needs to impress upon Dean just how much he does not want those measures taken ever again, explain and clarify that, even if he'll try his goddamn hardest not to be put in that position again, knowing what they know, he'd rather wait for his brother in heaven (because they share one, and they'll end up there if there's ever something he will trust an angel on) than be possessed by one of its guardians ever again, but there's time for that once the hex has lifted and Dean'll actually remember it.

For now, he lets the cold breeze accompany him back to the room where his brother is laying on the dark, not bothering to feign slumber, and into the bed furthest from the door, where he falls into a peaceful and, for the first time in months, dreamless sleep. It's not as cold when he wakes up, but he still puts on an extra layer before going out to procure some breakfast, feeling lighter than he has since… Who even knows.

He gets back with two cups of sugary coffee already having some sort of effect on his general mood, but can't help but figure that's not the only reason why Dean seems so sluggish and tired in comparison when he goes about his morning routine. Suddenly, he's got cold feet, standing frozen, the pastry bag hanging from his arm.

Luckily, Dean makes no comment, just stands up and snatches the smaller cup from his hands, turning away to drink it and ignoring the food Sam starts setting out on the table. Even without looking, he seems to sense it when Sam opens his mouth because he cuts him off:

"Can we hold off the interrogation until I have some caffeine in me?" A quiet plea mumbled into his cup, fragility exposed either because he's compelled to or is too exhausted to mask it. Sam nods even if it goes unseen, and tries not to stare too intensely at the cup Dean's taking his sweet time finishing.

"If you had to pick only one tape to take to a desert island with you, which one would you choose?" Sam asks as soon as he's done, his serious tone making Dean's eyes bulge a little before a genuine, loud laugh is startled out of him.

"Zep's Physical Graffiti , but you don't need a truth spell for me to tell you that" The you dork goes unsaid for now, but Sam hears it all the same and manages a smile.

They spend the rest of the day in a quite companionable mood, driving back home and stopping for lunch on some roadside dinner. It's not the perfect ease they once had, but it also doesn't feel as cold and lonely as it had been for the past weeks.

Sometimes, Dean'll give an unexpected answer to something and prompt a bit of prodding from Sam, like when the youngest finally can't hold back anymore and blurts out "Did you mean what you said in the voicemail you sent me before I released Lucifer?" when they're a couple of hours away from the Bunker.

"Huh, don't remember it word for word, but yeah, I meant it. Didn't think you had listened to it, actually." Dean's tone is confused but careful, and Sam feels sucker-punched by the words. They don't talk about these times and especially not the darker points in them, and bringing it up now feels like cheating somehow.

"Yeah, I did." Another pause, another awkward silence, and a few miles pass by before he finds his voice again "So, what changed your mind?"

Sam had kept waiting that entire week for Dean to pull out a gun and make good on his threat, or at least acknowledge it somehow, but after nothing happened, he'd dared chalk it up to high tensions and a change of heart. Now, however, he needs to know, he needs those unhealed wounds to be torn up and mended right, with no room for interpretations and misunderstandings.

He's not prepared for Dean's answer.

"What makes you think I did?"

"Well, considering that I'm, you know, still alive and you don't seem too keen to make me not be, and that you'd rather shove an angel down my throat than let me…" Some anger is starting to slip through his control and turn his words into accusations, so Sam's almost glad when Dean interrupts him, full of fiery indignation.

"I might not remember it down to the letter, but how the fuck did you get a death threat out of that?" Dean's fully turned towards him now, Sam knows without even looking, so he risks a glance, being met with eyes that all but sparkle with anger and bewilderment.

"Dean, you said that you'd been told to save me or kill me and that you were done trying to save me, that it was fair warning. You called me a vampire and a blood-sucking freak. And I'm not saying I didn't have it coming, but…Which part of that should I have interpreted differently?"

Dean pales so visibly Sam mentally checks whether there's a known hospital nearby, and it's a full minute before he seems able to speak again.

"Sam, I need you to listen to me very closely, ok? I have never called you a vampire or a blood-sucking freak and I have never, ever, said I was done saving you. I called to say that I was pissed, yes, but I also said that I was sorry for what I'd said, for pushing you away…" An idea strikes him as he scrambles for his phone, fiddling with the buttons until he finds what he's looking for. "Look, this is all saved to my outbox, just had to search the date. I have been saving everything for years, never thought… Just listen, ok?" He shoves the phone in Sam's face to show the date of the message, and presses play.

For the second or so before the audio begins playing, Sam feels cold all over. He's so sure the words are gonna be the same that have haunted him for so long, Dean's tone cold and inflexible as he told him in no uncertain terms where they stood.

But instead, Dean's shaky voice reaches him with a completely different message "Hey, it's me. Uh... Look, I'll just get right to it. I'm still pissed... and I owe you a serious beatdown. But... I shouldn't have said what I said. You know, I'm not Dad. We're brothers. You know, we're family. And, uh... no matter how bad it gets, that doesn't change. Sammy, I'm sorry."

Sam has to pull over, like the ghosts that have just been dredged up have suddenly taken up all the air in the confined space. He barely registers throwing the car into park and bowing over, forehead resting on the steering wheel.

"All this time, I thought… The angels must have messed with it, or Ruby, because that's not the message I heard."

"Clearly."

"Dean, I…" He has no idea where to even begin, a lump the size of a cooler full of blood sitting in his throat. He'd spent a year running around with a demon and betraying his brother at every turn, refusing to own up the monstrosity of his path, to come clean, to get back on track until it was apocalyptically too late. In their last confrontation, Sam still remembers with chilling terror looking into his brother's shattered face after putting it through a glass panel, and deciding to wrap his hands around Dean's throat and squeeze. Christ.

And Dean had called to apologize. Voice still wrecked from being fucking strangled by his little brother, he'd chosen to say they were family, that they could fix it, giving Sam one last olive branch to hold onto as he struggled not to drown in the darkness of his own actions. Sam had known even as he did it that it was unfair to pin his actions on Dean, needed the subterfuge to escape the horror that he felt at himself, but this makes him want to throw himself at him and weep in his arms like a little kid from love and gratitude. Or shake his brother and beg him to get as far away as he can because Sam doesn't deserve that insurmountable kindness and forgiveness and has no idea how to begin apologizing for any of it.

"I… I don't even know what to say." It's the truth, at least, inadequate as it feels.

Dean nods at him. It feels plastic and rehearsed, but the relief in his eyes is honest, and Sam kicks his feet up over the seat, hugging his knees to his chest, feeling very small all of a sudden.

"I know that's probably not what you need to hear, but hearing that, hearing you giving up on me… I knew what I was doing was wrong, even then, even when I would rather fight to the death than admit it, but it was like, like I had permission not to care about the damage I was doing from then on, cause I'd already done the worst I could, lost the one thing I…" Deep breaths, don't look at Dean's expression, heartbroken and sympathetic of shut-off and angry, he can hope but he doesn't want to know. "But that's bull. I should have fought to earn back that trust and not shattered it completely. And I can't change the past, but knowing that even then it wasn't all hopeless… Just. It's a weight off, you know? And I just want you to know I'm not giving up on you, either, ok? I don't care if Cain himself marked you or whatever. We're gonna figure this out. Together." With that, he starts driving again. Dean won't recall this part of the conversation and he doesn't think he'll remind him, but that's okay. They're on the same page about this and both know it, finally, and this is one issue he's okay with laying to rest with no more digging around.

Otherwise, they are both trying to hold off from further interrogation and emotional upheaval for the day. Sam does make several mental notes to up his research about the mark on Dean's arm because the admittance of how it hurts and is messing with his head is enough to leave a heavy twist in his guts.

It all goes downhill incredibly fast after their clothes come off.

They're in Sam's room, in the midst of a rather rare intense make out session, and Sam wants something different from Dean tonight. He's hovering over him, hands bracketing his face, basically pinning him to the bed to stop him from turning onto his stomach like usual. They haven't stopped doing this even when Sam was so angry he could barely look at Dean, so he's not necessarily aching for it, but he wants slow-and-gentle instead of the quick-and-rough they tend to have. He slowly pushes Dean's legs farther apart and settles between them, and feels a thrill at his own brilliance as he pretty much purrs "C'mon, wanna hear you, Dean. What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to get off me and stop touching me."

Sam freezes, erection flagging like he'd jumped into an ice bath, still hovering above Dean, their points of contact turning from searing hot pleasure spots into icy pinpricks.

"What? Why?" He manages to ask and has the good sense to lean back and away, breaking their connection. He knew he'd been a bit rough the past few weeks, but thought it was more healthy dose of angry sex and less you've permanently turned me off.

"I'm sorry, I didn- I don't-" Dean's clearly struggling to retract his statement but can't because he meant it, taking in lungfuls of air like it's running out of style, before being overpowered by the magic and blurting out "I hate having sex with you and I'm not even a little bit turned on right now."

Sam has no idea how long he stands there, gaping at his brother like a fish, trying to make sense of words that feel like a foreign language against his ears, until Dean squirms and sits up.

"I'm sorry, ok? Forget about it, we can keep going, I won't be a baby about it." He goes to tug Sam back, and Sam flinches away so violently that he falls off the bed, choosing to stand and back away until his hip hits his desk.

"Dean, what the fuck do you mean you hate having sex with me? And why'd you let me keep going if you don't want to?"

"I don't like bottoming, and even if I did, you are way too big to take with as little prep as you make me do. I haven't actually gotten off with you in years and stopped pretending a while ago. I hate that you see me as a fuck toy and treat me like one when we're doing this, but no matter how many times I tried to get you to stop or go easy you just did what you wanted or treated me like shit later, so I stopped fighting and learned to just take it."

Make me do? Fuck toy? Learned to take it? Sam feels like he's the one under a spell and trying to suck the oxygen out of a room that suddenly has none available. He detachedly recognizes he's having a panic attack but he can't bring himself to care because apparently, the most loving relationship he's had in his life is actually just him forcing himself on his brother.

Dean looks at him then, a small frown on his face like the idea that Sam would be perturbed by this is confusing him.

"C'mon man, is this really news to you?"

"You think I knew you didn't want to have sex with me and did it anyway?" He shouts, toppling over his chair in his uncoordinated fumbling, somehow managing to yank his boxers back on while feeling like he's watching the scene from above and not from his own body.

"Yes. I cried so much the first time we fucked, the pillow was wet! I kept saying 'no' and 'stop' and you told me to shut up and kept going. I can't remember the last time I even got hard for it, and I know you noticed because the few times you reached around you made all the 'whiskey dick' jokes in the book. I've tried telling you more than once how I feel about being hit or humiliated in bed and you just did it anyway the next day! And you've made me bleed at least twice the past month. I'm not saying I didn't have it coming but yeah, I didn't think it mattered that I wasn't the most willing participant."

Sam barely makes it to the trash can before his lunch makes a reappearance.

"What did you think mattered to me, then?" He whispers when it feels like his stomach isn't trying to climb out of his throat, terrified of the answer but needing to know.

"Getting off?" Dean shrugs "I mean, I'm a quick, easy lay just down the hall or on the next bed over, you don't have to worry about wooing me or getting me off like you would with some chick at a bar, and I know how to make it real good for you. It ain't rocket science, man. I wouldn't be whining about it if it wasn't for the stupid curse, it's no big deal."

And it isn't, in Dean's eyes, it isn't a big deal that he thought Sam repeatedly, knowingly hurt him for "a quick, easy lay", that Sam'd could have spent years forcing himself on him and then proceed to emotionally disown him for violating his autonomy to save his life. He falls onto the floor, hugging his knees and resting his head on them, tears running down his nose and tickling a path down his calves.

He hears Dean sigh and leave the room and cries harder. He has no idea how to even begin fixing this, where to start, or how things got to this point.

He remembers their first night together, and up until now, it was a treasured memory. He'd been drinking, perhaps a little more than he could adequately manage, trying to borrow his sorrows about missing Jess, about the fire, about being stupidly, madly in love with his older brother. That last point had been too much to bear that particular night, and he'd grabbed Dean's face and kissed him furiously, lips mashed together and teeth almost chipping from their brutal encounter. To his surprise, Dean had kissed back.

They'd lost their clothes pretty quickly then too, and every time he'd remembered that night until now, he'd have thought they'd had intense, passionate, consensual sex. He hadn't forgotten that Dean had tried to put a stop to it, but he'd dismissed the words at the time as a minor freakout due to the incestuous (or gay) aspect of what they were doing and had considered that not enough of a reason to listen when his partner was actively saying no. He'd kept going and Dean had stopped talking (been told to, as he now recalls), and Dean would have made him stop if he'd really meant it, right? A little anxiety wasn't enough for Sam to stop them himself from getting something they both he wanted so badly for so long. And Dean kept coming back (didn't think he had a choice on the matter), so it was all good, right?

Christ, he has to fight to keep the bile down as memory after memory floods in.

They had never really talked about it, they were never exclusive (and shouldn't that have been a clue, the most loyal person Sam knows not wanting to commit to someone?) or even a defined relationship, but they kept doing it. And it had been so easy, so uncomplicated, to believe everything was alright. So what if his adventurous, loud and bossy brother turned meek and pliant in bed, and never made a sound? So what if all the easy affection between them had all but evaporated? So what if Dean, who Sam often joked was a borderline nymphomaniac, never started things? He had what he wanted and there was no reason to change things up.

Dean comes back, dressed in his sleeping clothes and holding a water bottle. He doesn't say anything, just holds out a hand to get Sam off the floor. He wants to yell at Dean not to touch him. He wants to grab him and hold him close and erase the memory of violence and pain from his skin. He settles for being shepherded onto the bed.

The pillows still smell like his brother's shampoo, and where the smell usually makes him feel comforted, now it turns his stomach, almost as much as the sound of the water being settled on his nightstand.

"Stay?" Dean shakes him out of his musings with an unsteady note of hope in his voice "Or, well, if you need to clear out your head and go for a walk, leave a note or something? I just… I don't want you to go."

Sam would do anything Dean asked of him at this moment, including grabbing his sharpest knife from the weapons duffel and burrowing it in his own stomach, so he nods, stiffly.

He's asleep before Dean has clicked the lights off and walked out, emotionally drained, any semblance of peaceful slumber from the past day removed from him.

The next day, Dean's sitting at the library table like everything is normal, sipping his coffee while a mugful waits for Sam by his side. It's just a stark reminder that, while Sam's worldview has just been completely shattered, nothing's different for his brother aside from the hex he's under. He barely contains the urge to throw the mug against the wall.

"Dean?"

"Mhmm?" His brother pauses his reading but doesn't look up.

"How can you stand to do this? Take care of me, save me, protect me… You said you loved me, that I deserved better, even though I…" He can't bring himself to name what he did to his brother, he can't. He swallows and forces himself to continue "And… You always push me at women who show interest, even knowing that's how I treat my… Partners" It's something that has been poking at the edges of his conscience since yesterday. Dean would never set off… An assaulter, on unsuspecting bystanders, even if it meant a night of respite from the assault for himself. And yet he constantly incentivized Sam to pursue bar flies that bought him drinks or waitresses that slipped their numbers in his pocket, and he had even suggested they stay with Sarah for a while, and had given Sam the option of returning to Amelia even if it clearly was the last thing he wanted.

"Of course, you deserve better! You're good and you're kind and so freaking smart, and you've literally sacrificed your life for the world, man. It's not like you'd ever get that rough with a random innocent girl or someone you loved, Sam, c'mon. It's just me, it doesn't make you a perp or anything, I can take it."

someone you loved someone you loved someone you loved it's not like you'd ever get that rough with someone you loved

Sam's pretty sure his brain short circuits.

"You don't think I love you?" He wheezes out, allowing himself to stumble into the chair directly facing Dean, who seems startled by the question. It's probably the most unfair thing, to be baffled Dean would have unkind thoughts about someone who had... Done what Sam did, but this he'd never thought would be bought into question.

"You don't. Or, I mean, I guess you would have said you loved me as a brother before this mess but you'd not treat me like you do if you loved me, even if you weren't fucking me." He shrugs and looks down, hurt seeping through his features even if the magic still seems to be keeping him sort of dazed, his eyes having trouble refocusing as he scans the book before sighing and setting it down.

Sam has to remind himself that his brother won't remember anything he says right now before forcing himself to not stop and comfort him, promise he loves him more than anything and the sex is a tiny, almost insignificant aspect of it. He needs to know everything so he can fix it, he has to get all the information out before Dean's out from under the hexes influence and will never talk about it again. He barrels through.

"Why do you say that? How do I treat you that makes you think I don't love you even as a brother?"

"You leave me, all the time. You have been running away since you were a kid and I get that our lives were crap but I was trying my goddamn level best and you, you always lumped me in with the crap you wanted to leave behind. I never wanted you to not go to college, fuck, Sam, I drove you to the bus stop! I handed you a stack of cash, do you think I had just been saving that much for no reason? I was so proud, and I just wanted to keep my brother even if you were physically away, but you cut me off, soon as you could, stopped calling, and started declining my calls until I got the hint. I thought this time, after the trials, I knew you'd leave again, you made sure I knew you would, but I thought I'd get a chance at doing this right, you know? Be at least the phone calls and Christmas cards typpa brothers. But of course, I fucked up any chance of that." Dean shakes his head like a dog shaking water out of his fur, and continues "I got sick, real sick, about a year 'fore I came to Stanford. Brain cancer, chemo was barely touching it, too unstable for surgery until it was almost too late for it. They were telling me to make arrangements and get my affairs in order, and the nurses started pitying me so bad I couldn't stand it, would have full fake phone calls because I couldn't bear everyone seeing I was so pathetic that my own family wouldn't pick up the phone when I was dying" He smiles so sadly, but his eyes are bone-dry, and that's all the more terrifying "Y'know, when I wasn't doped up on pain pills or having seizures, all I could think about was that I must really be worth jack shit if you and the old man were agreeing on something."

"…Dean" He chokes out, but he doubts Dean even hears him, years of hurt tumbling out of his mouth, a broken dam drowning an entire world in pain.

"Then I came to see you one last time. I was done, man, so I was gonna leave you the car keys and a note, mail dad's files to Bobby, and get real up close and personal with my 45. I wasn't gonna bother you, but then I saw you. And I just wanted one last hurrah. One last hunt and I'd be off, y'know? And we all know how that ended. Jess died and your life went up in flames because I was too damn selfish."

Sam thinks he blacks out for a moment, knife-edge terror at how close he came to never seeing his brother again, too stunned to even try to protest the idea that Jess's death was in any way Dean's fault.

"… I dragged you down with me, and when you started this thing between us, I thought maybe you felt something for me, that this was as important to you as… But that was stupid. I knew I owed you for messing up your life, man, but I just… I wish I could pretend, you know? That you'd kiss me without being in the middle of it or at least act like I was something more than a pair of holes you can fuck whenever."

Dean takes a deep breath.

"Remember when we went to heaven? I remember that when Ash pretty much said we're soulmates, it made me mad…Coz how come I could mess up that badly? Enough that my soulmate's heaven was leaving me? I couldn't put your amulet back on after that, couldn't pretend to myself I still had any right to the love of the little kid that gave that to me when I clearly didn't have yours anymore. Why hold on to something that symbolized me being there for you when that wasn't even what you wanted anymore?" His hand twitches like he wants to rest it where the pendant used to sit on his chest, but moves on.

"You still blame me for the shit dad did to us, and you never stopped to think for a freaking second that I was just a kid who had another kid to protect, and I know you're smart enough to, empathetic enough to, so for you to not even try... You see me siding with him as me betraying you instead of trying to keep some sort of peace for both of us. You don't see all the beatings I took so you wouldn't, all the times I fought with him so you could stay longer in a place to finish the school year or an assignment or the freaking football season, or the fact I dropped out of school so he wouldn't keep pulling you out of class to help with hunts, the fact I didn't go to college despite being able to get in because I knew he'd make you miserable if I was away. You just see the fact I wouldn't get in his face and yell and risk making everything worse whenever you were fighting."

"You treat me like I'm stupid, all the goddamn time, and I know I'm not as smart as you but, still, it stings. I mean, I helped you learn to read, you know? But God forbid I quote a book. You can question everything from my literacy levels to my ability to judge someone's character, but the second I do the same, it's because I don't trust you, don't respect you and think you're a kid. You don't want me to see you as a partner because I already do, you want me to obey you like I did dad."

"You chose a demon over me, hell, I hadn't been back from hell for a day before you were lying to my face about it, you trusted her even when she had you killing people and chugging down blood, you strangled me to get back to her side, and then told me I might as well have run you into her arms even when I had begged you to change your mind at every turn, I came back to you and you still thought vengeance and blood mattered more and even after the blood, you thought I was too weak, too pathetic, you still thought the problem was that you couldn't browbeat me into agreeing and not that you almost went full Darkside."

"You ditched me over a kitsune that had killed four people we knew of, then berated me for not killing my own kid, who hadn't hurt anybody, after you shot her in front of me. Then you left me to rot in Purgatory the second you didn't feel obligated to look for me anymore, and I wish I hadn't come back to mess up your life another time, but I was back and you kept acting like I had no right to be hurt, like I had to move on because you told me to, like you didn't want me to ever have shown up. Fuck, Sam, I never once wanted you to make a deal for me, or waste you life looking, but the fact you didn't even bother to figure out where I could have gone when I was missing before moving on...Hell, the only time I thought you might have missed me was when you were snarling in my ear how much of a better fuck I was than your vet. You told me I was okay when I couldn't even stand to sleep in a bed, said maybe I was better off back there, alone. Can you imagine me saying something like that to you about the cage? You broke your lifelong mentality of giving good monsters a chance because of the one that brought me back, and set off a psycho hunter on him and his granddaughter after you knocked me out and left me chained to a radiator. And you can't compare him to Amy, man, you knew her for one day when you were kids and then only met up again because she was leaving a trail of dead bodies and we went to investigate them. He spent a year fighting by my side and proving himself, and I'd let monsters go before on your judgment, but you couldn't trust mine. Then I had to listen to you tell me how I chose him over you when I killed him to save your life. Everything you told me after Gadreel? Wasn't news, it was just a confirmation of everything I tried so hard to deny and lie to myself about. So yeah, you might enjoy fucking me, you might need me sometimes, and you might try to save me when I trade my life for out of guilt or decency or whatever, but you don't love me."

Dean's staring at the table now, blank eyes and a faraway expression.

"I'm just so tired, Sam. I can never be good enough for you but you keep me around anyhow and I'm usually okay with that but I'm just… Not strong enough to take this much longer. I don't think I have anything left to give." With that, he slumps forward, and Sam thinks for a terrifying moment of dying of a broken heart before he realizes the hex must have run its course, burned through earlier with the enormity of the confessions shared.

He takes a moment to wipe away the tears from his brother's face before picking him up so delicately it'd sure earn him a bitching from Dean if he was awake. He gently deposits him on his memory foam mattress and restrains himself from running a hand through his hair. He's got work to do.

He ventures out into the city, mind carefully blank, and ends up at a coffee shop with pies Dean could go on about for hours. He can't decide on a flavor so ends up ordering a slice of each. He refuses to think of abusers picking up gifts for their victims to smooth things over. He's never gonna allow Dean to feel anything but loved ever again, this isn't something he can go on without acknowledging and changing at the very root. They need actual groceries, so he swings by and picks up some of those, too, and refrains from yelling at anyone, which feels like an accomplishment.

There's a wild moment when he passes a police station and has the split-second image of walking in and turning himself over. It's not like his rap sheet is small, but this might just take the freaking cake because not only has he actually committed the crime, but he would readily condemn anyone else in his shoes. Disappearing would only serve to drive Dean nuts, thinking he bolted, so he pushes more firmly against the accelerator and heads to the Bunker.

It's way past noon when Dean comes to, stumbling into the kitchen in search of caffeine, to find Sam preparing lunch. The puzzled and slightly alarmed expression on his face would have been comical any other day.

"Hey man, made spaghetti. Promise it's not burnt." Sam forces himself to be casual as he slides a bowl over to his brother.

Truth is, he's winging it and faking it and hoping he makes it. If there was anything he could do to take back everything that culminated in the most important person in his life feeling like he's not even on a "loved ones" list, he would, in a heartbeat. But they haven't exactly made a card that read "Sorry I repeatedly left you and betrayed you and mistreated you, I do totally love you tho". Distantly, Sam wonders if he's the only human being on the planet to have fucked up this badly this way before, and sincerely hopes so.

"Ah, thanks, man." He takes a forkful and nods, not able to hold back a flicker of surprise. Sam's an okay cook when he has the patience for it, which happens fewer times than he tries to make something, resulting in a less-than-stellar culinary portfolio. "'S good. Uh, mind telling me what happened? Last thing I remember we were researching in a motel room. In Minnesota."

Sam gears up for the explanation.

"Yeah, we went there. Found out it was a witch, took care of her but she got the drop on us, hit you with a spell. The last couple of days are probably a blank for you, right?"

"Feel like I'm Guy Pearce over here. But everything really one and done over there?"

"Yeah, we took care of it."

They eat the rest of the meal, Dean clearly wanting to ask more but still too wary of breaking the tentative peace. The fact Sam was, only a few days ago, angry enough to make Dean act tentative makes him want to bang his head against the wall, but he manages to hold off the emotional conversation until the dishes are in the dishwasher, if for no other reason than Dean having not eaten nearly enough in the last couple days.

Then, he turns and hugs Dean, folding himself up so his chin rests on his shoulder and he's pretty much enveloping him with his arms and torso. It might be the last hug he's allowed after today, and he savors it, but also tries to transmit all the love that runs deep in his blood through the gesture.

They have a lifetime of an unspoken but steady "hug and let hug" policy that not even soulless Sam would dare break, so Dean's arms immediately sneak back around him, even if Sam can pretty much feel the confusion radiating from his brother. He decides to address the most recent elephant in the room before moving on to older ones.

"Dean, look, I… I'm still angry. Honestly, I think a part of me is always going to be angry. The fact you tricked me into getting possessed of all things… I don't ever want to go through that again, if there's ever a situation like that, I'd like… I'd like for you to let me go, rather than be used as a meat puppet for something else yet another time. But… I get it, ok? And with everything… I'm, I'm glad that I have someone who's willing to fight for me like you are. I guess with all the anger and G-Gadreel fucking with my memories, I forgot I'd gotten into this in the first place because I also wanted the both of us to be alive and ok on the other side of it, that you didn't trick me into not closing the gates and I chose that myself, that in the end, I chose to fight when you were talking to me in my head, even if that's not the way I'd have chosen to do it. And of course, you're my brother, there's nothing that could change that for me, I just knew that'd be the thing that would dig the deepest and I wanted to lash out and hurt." He realizes he's rambling, but the look of understanding and relief that overcomes Dean's features is worth it. That's out of the way, so he gears up for the next, much tougher, conversation.

"The hell did that witch whammy me with?" Dean asks, half joking but an edge of tension to his tone.

Sam chooses to ignore the question for now, stepping back and becoming Dean to follow him back to the table.

"You remember that cluster migraine I had, just after Lucifer got out of the cage?"

"Sure. You were in bed for like, a week." Dean supplies immediately, thrown for a loop with the non-sequitur.

"Yeah and when I was hurting you'd hold ice packs to my temples and massage my neck, and I remember you keeping the motel phone disconnected so the ringing wouldn't disturb me. And when it was over I thought you'd be distant and cold and I could tell you wanted to be, but you still ran your fingers through my hair and said "welcome back to the land of the living, Sammy". And when you came back from Purgatory and you were so hurt and I thought I'd blown it, but you still switched the radio to soft rock so I could sleep in the car whenever you wanted to keep driving." He swallows, partially blinded by unshed tears but still able to make out his brother's confused face. "You love me, and I've always known this, but these moments made me realize you made a point of showing that you did, even when you were mad or hurt or disappointed. And I-I thought I'd managed to do the same, you know? Thought that, by continuing our… relationship, I'd proved nothing had changed." He blows out an angry breath. "Turns out, sex with me hasn't been a show of love in a long, long time, if it ever was, right?"

"You thought it was?" Dean asks, so out of his element Sam might as well have tried to make him breathe straight nitrogen. The fact the hex is burned out and Dean still asks, thinks it's a done deal that Sam would use him to get off, knowing and not caring about his pain, makes a near sob escape the younger Winchester's throat.

"Yes! Yes, Dean, I really did. Because I do. Love you, I mean. So much so that sometimes I have no idea what to do with myself. I remember that first time I kissed you, and I thought you were going to beat the crap out of me but instead you kissed back and I was in heaven. And there's no excuse for not stopping when you told me to, absolutely none, but I didn't keep going because I didn't care or because I thought you owed me anything. I thought you were freaking out because of the incest thing or the gay thing, and that should have been reason enough for me to back off, but I just wanted to show you how good it could be, how much I wanted you. I put my desire over your comfort, and then I kept doing it and not even realizing, and I can't say how sorry I am for that."

Dean's frozen in his chair, and Sam makes the bold move of gently framing his face with his hands.

"You make me feel safe and protected and like I can really let go, you know? And I genuinely thought I did the same for you." He smiles sadly at his brother, rubbing his thumb back and forth on his cheek "I enjoy being on the receiving end of pretty much everything I do to you in bed and I did get giddy at the prospect of doing it all to you, not because I wanted to hurt or humiliate you, not because I think any less of you, but because it made me happy that I could give you that sense of safety and trust, that you "allowed" me to take charge. So I told myself that when you said you didn't like something, it was posturing or defensiveness, I lied to myself that you were enjoying everything as much as I was, and that's inexcusable. And I held back, a lot, from being affectionate and gentle and actually treating you like you deserve, from acting on my love instead of my desire, because I felt like that would make me weak, too exposed, showing too clearly how far freaking gone I am for you, and I swung the pendulum too far to the point where I wasn't showing it at all. Shitty, inconsiderate partner is the kindest thing you can call me for not realizing, not bothering to, Dean, but… You were under a truth spell, that's what the witch hit you with. And what you called me was kind and good and empathetic and a bunch of stuff I really don't deserve, but you apparently believe. So can you believe me when I say I'd never have done anything if I'd taken my head out of my ass and realized I was hurting you, or that you just weren't into it? That I was stupid and arrogant and self-absorbed, but not malicious? Can you believe that I'm so fucking sorry, Dean, that I made the person I love the most in the world feel like anything less than that?"

He lets his hands fall by his side and allows himself a minute before opening eyes he hadn't realized he'd shut tight, willing all his love and affection to shine through as he stares into Dean's open-mouthed mask of shock.

"Sam, I don't… I don't know what I told you under that spell, but look, you don't have to apologize or feel bad or anything, ok? It's cool, I…"

"It's not, Dean, it's really not. And I do need to apologize for a lot of things, or at least explain. Can I?" He waits for Dean's nod, and breathes deeply.

"Leaving was never about you, or not in the way you think. Flagstaff… I'd just realized that I was even more of a freak because I was in love with my big brother, and I wanted the freedom and the peace and quiet. I'm sorry it took us dying for me to even consider how that would impact you. And Stanford was about getting away from dad, from the fighting, and from my feelings for you, and about building a new life away from hunting, and I think you know this, but I also get that with everything, it's easy to think otherwise. I agonized over whether or not to ask you to come with me, but I was too much a coward to risk the rejection. I should never have cut ties with you, but I was afraid that if I didn't, I'd break down and tell you everything and risk loosing you, or beg you to come pick me up and throw away all of my effort in the trash. The idea of you dying didn't even cross my mind, Dean. You're my goddamn hero, it was just not a thing that I could imagine back then. In my mind you'd always be there, and you would forgive me when I did come back, and I almost missed that chance, didn't I? I'm so fucking sorry I left you when you needed me, that you had to go through cancer alone. But not picking up the phone was about me being a cowardly, entitled dumbass who took you for granted one too many times, not in any way about not loving you or thinking you weren't worth my time."

"Uh, told you about that one, did I?" Dean asks, uncomfortable.

"Yeah, you did. And later, if you're up for it, I'd like to hear more about it, okay? But I need to tell you all of this, and I think you need to hear it."

Dean nods at him to continue, something akin to hope brightening his expression. Sam remembers how Dean's speech about why he allowed Gadreel to possess him had been healing, and that gives him strength to power through.

"Jess's death is not on you, man. It's on Azazel. But if you wanna blame either of us, blame me for knowing what was out there and not telling her, or for ignoring my dreams when it could have saved her, or for leaving her unprotected and alone. You didn't mess up my life, you actually saved it by being there to rescue me from the fire, but if you had? I'd still be glad, because it meant I never had to find a suicide note on my table and mourn my big brother knowing I wasted the last years we could have had together by pushing him away."

Dean huffs but doesn't interrupt, squeamish that another secret he'd clearly intended on taking to the grave was revealed. Sam summons up more of his bravery reserves, reaching a hand into his pocket.

" I thought you'd thrown this away because you gave up on me, but if I'd known you felt for a second you didn't deserve it anymore, I'd have given it back the very same day" He watches Dean's expression go soft at the sight of the amulet, and can't help but cheer a little internally. This, if anything, is concrete proof of what he's saying, having picked it up and held onto it for so long showing what he feels like words will never be enough to describe. "You don't have to put it back on, but the option's on the table, ok? I don't know why my heaven was like that, Dean. If the angels wanted to drive us apart or if my happiest memories of us were too incestuous for the angels compared to yours or if I just don't get to have the heaven I actually want. But if I could pick? I'll always pick you by my side." He leaves the pendant on the table and watches as Dean reverently traces it with one finger, trying to shut back his disappointment that he doesn't pick it up. Dean's lead, he reminds himself, trying to remember the next thing he'd meant to tell him.

"I've been a dick to you about dad and I don't have a lot of excuses for that, but man, you gotta know that the biggest part of the reason I got so angry with him so often is because of you! Because of what he did to you, what he made you do, how much he put on your shoulders. I wanted you to stand up for me but for yourself, too. And I hate I never realized that keeping the peace cost you, that I never said how much I appreciate everything you gave up for me, how much effort you put into giving me the best childhood you could despite being a kid yourself. So, thank you, Dean. I wish you hadn't been put in that position in the first place, but I'm so fucking grateful I had you." He reaches out and squeezes Dean's hand, feeling heartened by the squeeze he receives back. Dean seems to think he's done, and opens his mouth to speak, but Sam shakes his head. He still has more he needs to get through, and he needs to keep the momentum going or he'll not get the words out.

"I never thought you were stupid, Dean. Never, not once. I meant what I said in that barn before killing the hellhound: You're a genius. The things you do with the Impala, the things you can build, how fast you think and solve problems… Never fails to amaze me. If anything, I harped on so much because I felt insecure. I needed to be the smart one, because I always felt you were the better hunter, and this way, we could be an actual team, ya know? I guess I just basked in the glory of you praising me for being smart and sociable and what-not, and I watched you let people underestimate you so often that I fell for it myself. I always want you to treat me like an equal, but I see now that I've been dragging you down instead of leveling up to meet you. I hope I'll have the chance to correct that." He doesn't leave room for Dean to question the last part of what he says, forges on.

"You know, I could understand on an intellectual level why you were so upset about Ruby, but it still made me want to scream sometimes. Especially when you said I chose her over you. Couldn't you see I'd done all of it for you?" He chuckles humorlessly "Of course not. From your perspective, coupled with all those things you told me about… I did choose her and pretty much everything over you, over us. But Dean… I only ever started drinking the blood because she convinced me it was the only way to get you out of hell, and I'd have done anything for that. Not because I felt guilty" He has to bite back some bitterness at that, all his love and despair reduced to guilt making him want to break something "Even though I did. But because I was desperate. And then you did come back and I have no fucking idea how that didn't make Heaven's top 3 memodex spot but it sure should have. But by then I was in too deep, too twisted, too power-drunk to see reason. I felt dirty and unworthy, so unworthy of all the suffering you went through just to keep me alive, and I felt like if I had my way, if I got rid of enough demons, I'd earn back my spot besides you, and if I got revenge on Lilith for taking you away in the first place... Maybe I could feel less freaking powerless. And I let that push us so far away we almost didn't bounce back. I didn't think you were weak, Dean. I thought I was. And it was so much easier to shoulder off that blame than to carry it with me."

"I'm sorry about Emma, Dean. I didn't realize you really thought of her as your kid, and now I can see how cruel that was." Sam tries not to grimace at how it's a clear pattern of him imposing his own views upon his brother's desires despite clearly being told otherwise "And I will admit that I was feeling vindictive, after Amy. But mostly I was terrified. You were holding on by a thread and I wasn't any better, and I thought you were going to let her kill you just to be done with it, and that pissed me off in ways I can't even describe. I made you promise to deal with it in whatever way didn't get you killed, remember? And then you got sent to Purgatory and… Dean, don't you dare ever think I didn't want you back, even for a second. When you were gone, it was like my brain shut down. I couldn't think about you, or hunting, or fighting for anything, not even getting you back or helping Kevin. So I told myself "He's dead and in heaven and this is it" and I forced myself to block out anything else, to cling to that non-promise promise we made because it was the only thing I felt like I could cling to. I know you'd never have given up on me like that… Haven't given up on me like that" Sam corrects, rather forcefully, remembering with a renewed pang of guilt how Dean's immediate response to meeting his soulless self after the cage was to tell him how he'd not quit looking. "But I was paralyzed with grief, man. I wasn't joyfully freed from the burden of trying to get you back, I was hiding away to lick my wounds and using Amelia and the dog like a life-jacket. And then I drove up to Whitefish after things hadn't worked out with her." Not for the first time, Sam wants to bring up Dom, how he and Amelia were broken pieces trying to fit together to weather the storm, how he started to resent her for beginning to heal when he knew he never could, and how he drove away without a second thought when Dom came back, not out of defeat but anger at the universe that she got a gift he thought was so far out of his reach "And, the miracle of freaking miracles, I find you back, alive and mostly intact, and it was the single best thing that happened to me in those shitty couple of years. But the only thing I could think of was " please tell me I didn't do that, I didn't abandon him to Monster Hell. " I was terrified I'd lose you again because I knew I wouldn't survive it, I couldn't face the fact I'd left you, I couldn't deal with any of it, so I just… Didn't. And I acted like an ass. I acted annoyed with everything you did, I pretended you were okay because the alternative hurt too much, reminded me too accurately of how I'd abandoned you, and kinda because I… Wanted you to fight me on it, to open up and share and let me comfort you and make up for it. It was the world's stupidest, most ass-backward olive branch, but it still annoyed me that you couldn't see it for what it was and take it. I kept threatening to leave because I wanted you to tell me not to. Dean, I'd had a year to look for colleges, why would I only start one now that you were back? I missed you every day, I wanted you back more than I ever wanted anything in my life, and I'm not talking about sex."

"And Benny…" He takes a deep breath, trying to find the words to explain. "I was worried, man. Worried that he'd be your Ruby, that you were blinded to it like I was with her. I panicked. I over-corrected because I was freaked out that he had somehow convinced you of all people to give a vamp a chance without me to mediate, and pissed at the whole situation, and so fucking jealous of this fucker, because the thought you being his next meal kept me up at night, because I made the mistake of choosing a monster over you and I didn't want you to do the same, you know? Yeah, he was the monster that bought you back, and I'll always be grateful for it, but he was also the one that came the closest to taking you away for good, and I couldn't stand that."

Dean's fully crying now. It's not loud or even too perceptible, but his eyes are swollen and there are clear tracks on his face, some disappearing into reddened plush lips and some tracing the sharp angle of his jawline to soak the collar of his flannel. Sam wants to kiss the moisture off his skin, has to look away to re-calibrate.

"I want to one day retire, but I want to do it with you, by your side. I want us to be old in freaking matching swing chairs or whatever. I'm too damn tired of running away from the one thing I want, specially when it hurts you, because that's the last damn thing I want to do. I'm not leaving." Deep breath, and perhaps the hardest thing he has to say "Unless, of course, you want me to. I know I dropped some pretty heavy bombs on you today and I get if you want some space, for now or... Permanently. And I get if the other part of our relationship is over, too, if you don't want me to touch you ever again. But you're always going to be my brother and I'm always going to love you. And from what you told me, you do want me to stay, and I think you're a little crazy for that, but it's a goddamn miracle and I'm sick and tired of wasting my miracles."

Dean's tears have stopped, and he's facing Sam with such open affection he wants to hide his face, but resists. Eventually, Dean nods.

"I don't want you to leave. And I'm also tired of wasting all those second chances. I... I don't know where to go from here, man, I think it's gonna take me a while to wrap my head around all of this. I do think we'll do okay if go together though, huh?" He swipes the amulet off the table and puts it in his pocket. It's not quite back at it's rightful place, but neither are they, frankly. It's still progress, like Dean's smile at his own cheesy line or Sam's responding chuckle. "And I hope that that bag from Roxanne's means there's pie waiting for me."