'Fuck.'

Something scratching.

'Dean. Oh, God.'

A light thump. He just wants to sleep, goddamn it.

'Dean. Dean. Dean. Wake up. Jesus Christ, Dean, wake up.'

Sam.

Dean jolts upright, heaving in breaths, hands already going to clutch at Sam's shirtfront.

'Yeah, buddy, s'me, come on,' Sam intonates, but his voice sounds different now, as if he's locked a part of himself away.

Sam tries to help Dean to his feet and staggers a little, so Dean gets up himself in time to catch Sam's arm. They're both wincing. Sam is drawn and pale and he doesn't even want to think about what he looks like.

'Sam,' he says when he's finally upright.

'Yeah,' says Sam. There's an awkwardly sized patch of carpet between them.

He takes a second to get his voice under control. His 'Where were you?' still comes out way more tremulous than he'd've liked, but there's no time to think about that because Sam's staring at the floor. 'Sam?' he raises his voice. 'Where the hell were you? Do you know how freaking worried I was?'

'I kinda figured,' said Sam, voice subdued. He hasn't looked up.

'And?'

'I'm here, aren't I?'

Sam walks painfully over to one of the beds and sits down.

Dean's raking his hands through his hair. He's trying not to get angry here. He really cannot get angry here. 'Uh, yeah, Sam. I'm just pretty freaking curious as to what's so damn important that it can't wait until your stitches heal.'

'Nothing, okay? Nothing.'

'Are you kidding me?'

Sam spreads his hands. 'Can't we just drop this?'

No, he's about to say, no, we can't fucking drop this, Sammy, but he stops himself just about in time. The effort it takes to restrain himself almost hurts.

Sam, looking at him, lets out a breath. His forehead wrinkes; he looks almost sympathetic.

'Sam,' says Dean, once he's sure he's not going to start shouting, 'I get why you- I get that you're going to have some reservations right now, but, man, I promise you, I'm not going to flip out again.'

'That's not what I'm worried about,' says Sam quietly.

'And once this is sorted out, once you're better, if you want to- y'know- head off, I'm not gonna stop you. Not after what happened.' Dean eyes Sam, but his face gives nothing away. 'And you gotta know how sorry I am, and you gotta know that I would give anything to go back and stay the fuck out of whatever box I was poking around in in the bunker, and you gotta know that I-'

Breaking off. It's not often that he's short on words, but there's no possible way to convey this sort of appalling regret. He slides his eyes to the floor, face suddenly burning. It's too fucking hot in this room.

A hand on his shoulder.

'Sit down,' says Sam, not ungently. 'Get something to eat. And get some sleep, okay? I'm fine. You're fine. It's okay.'

And it's not okay, not even close, but Dean lets himself be steered towards the bed even though he knows it should be him doing this for Sam. Lets Sam nudge food towards him. 'Only if you eat too,' he says, and Sam gives him a pale sort of grin. 'Don't really wanna be puking with all these stitches, Dean.'

That shuts him right up.

Sam gets into the next bed and turns over onto his side, facing away from Dean. He finishes the burger, turns the lamp off, and shuffles down in bed. He feels strange and heavy after eating late at night, and his mouth tastes weird but he's too tired to get up to clean his teeth.

Just when he's dozing off, Sam's voice comes softly through the dark.

'I don't blame you, you know,' he says. Dean's never sure, afterwards, whether he dreamt it or not.

Dean wakes at dawn. When he opens their room door, he's hit by the smell of rain. The sunrise is reflected in puddles that dot the parking lot.

Back in the room Sam's still asleep, brow furrowed, one hand half-covering his face. Dean gets their stuff into the car, packed up and ready to go, before letting Sam sleep in. It's probably the best thing for him right now.

By ten they're in the Impala on the way back to the Bunker. Sam's still digging the heels of his hands into his eyes and yawning. They haven't spoken beyond the cursory have you seen my green boxers? and take your antibiotics, dude, I shouldn't even be having to tell you. Sam dozes most of the way, and Dean turns his head to look at him every so often, stomach clenching guiltily.

'Dean, put a freaking sock in it,' says Sam without looking up.

Rigidly Dean fixes his eyes on the road. He can feel the tips of his ears going red.

It's late afternoon when they get to Lebanon. Dean brings in the bags while Sam collapses into a chair, and when everything's unpacked he pours a whiskey from them both. It's strange to be back here after his memory-slip. It seemed a much more clinical place when he'd lost his memories, but now the shine of lamplight on the polished tables is a reassurance.

He's got three bottles of whiskey hidden under his mattress. He's been kind of trying to lay off the drink lately, what with Sam getting sick and all, but they're in case of emergency and this definitely qualifies. His brain suddenly feels crammed and old and far too complex, and he needs to dull all that crackling to a gentle buzz, needs to find the space where he can be content even if he'll pay for it next morning.

Something makes him look at Sam then. Sam looks all knotted up right now, pale and pained, hair limp, slumped over in the chair. Dean reaches for the guilt and finds nothing. He seems to have pretty much reached full capacity on self-blame, at least for the moment. And for the first time in a long time, he lets himself wonder how Sam would feel if he knew about the whiskey under the mattress. What he'd say. Whether he'd say anything, or just give Dean that awful sympathetic nothing you do surprises me anymore look. Sam had never mentioned Dean's drinking in the past, not really. But it had bothered him. The closest they'd ever come to hashing it out was Sam's timid intimation one night that coping with drink was what Dad had done.

'And your point is?' Dean had said, being an asshole and knowing it. Sam had looked away, going red.

He's never really felt bad about his drinking habits. Whatever you gotta do to get through the day, right? After some of the shit he's seen he's probably entitled to it. So he's not sure where the sudden discomfort stems from.

In the chair, Sam rests his chin on his elbow, eyes slipping closed.

Perhaps, perhaps- in the Pit, it's not as if alcohol was really a thing. Not to drink, anyway. But he'll never forget the first sick joyful rush as he got off that rack and gazed down at the first soul, fresh and glassy-eyed, that he'd ever slice into. And he'd never been able to top that feeling, not with sex or drugs or alcohol- not with ten years in the Pit. Not until he had Sam tied to a chair and bleeding.

Maybe he won't get drunk tonight. Maybe he won't get drunk for a while.

*
They're quiet that night, not even trying to acknowledge all they've left unspoken, parting with a cursory ''Night'. The next morning Dean wakes at seven and gets to the kitchen to find the coffee maker still warm; he's surprised. Sam usually sleeps in these days.

It only takes half an hour for him to go and look for him.

He has an inkling, and it's right: Sam's in the room where he himself woke up memory-less. His back's to the door and, like a good hunter, he jumps when Dean shoves open the door.

'What you up to?' he says, trying for lightness. He's not sure if suspicion enters his voice anyway, because Sam sits back on his heels and exhales.

'Just looking through this stuff. Thought I might be able to shed some light, y'know? If I found what took your memories.'

'Careful,' he says. He goes to kneel beside him. Sam's hands are folded like doves in his lap. 'I don't want you to get hurt.'

Sam looks at him, then. 'That's nice of you.'

He digs through a cardboard box to come up with something wrapped in yellowing newspaper. They unpeel it to find a solid golden apple. Dean whistles, weighing it in his palm; it's shockingly heavy. 'Dude. We could make a killing.'

Sam grabs for it. 'Dean, don't touch it. You have no idea what is or isn't cursed in here.'

'Relax, it's still in the paper.'

Dean helps Sam hunt through esoterica for nearly an hour, getting boxes off shelves for him and helping unpack them. They don't talk, mostly because he doesn't know what to say, and he's not sure why he's doing this. Maybe just because Sam's got no-one else. Maybe being this close to him with guilt chewing up his insides is some weird subliminal penance thing. By the time Sam yawns, they've only gone through a fraction of the relics.

Sam tucks hair behind his ears, hands shaky. 'What time is it?'

'Eight. Wanna call it a day?'

For a moment Sam looks like he's going to say no, but then his shoulders slump. 'Yeah, okay.'

They get to their feet, leaving the stuff all jumbled up on the floor. It feels strange for Dean to just turn his back and leave it in a mess. He's done nothing but clean up after himself his whole life, from making the motel beds military-style to watching his brother jump into Hell.

'Weird, isn't it,' says Sam quietly. 'That all this is- ours. I'm still kinda waiting for someone to come along and take it from us.'

'Not happening,' says Dean. 'What I have, I hold.'

And Sam gives him another one of those looks, something just between wonder and betrayal. Suddenly Dean's itching to get away from him. Fingers twitch with the sense-memory of Sam's skin translated by the edge of a knife. He has these odd moments sometimes, ever since getting back from Hell, where Sam just repulses him for no particular reason, when he feels like just turning on him and yelling every untrue hurtful thing he's ever thought.

It's not fair. It doesn't even make him feel better. It's one of the things that he feels like shit over without actually blaming himself for; even he's able to realise that he's having these feelings completely against his will.

'Hey, Dean,' says Sam.

He looks up. Sam's gone all doe-eyed. He cringes inwardly, knowing what's coming.

'I think we should talk about this,' says Sam, and there it is, there's that sweet gentle all-forgiving bullshit that seems to be Sam's M.O more and more often these days and sometimes he just wants to grab him by the shoulders and fucking shake him, shake some sense into his head and-

Okay. No. No no no no no.

He blinks.

'I think we both know you're not okay,' Sam's saying. 'And I'm not okay either. What happened messed us both up, but I think you know we were both pretty fucking messed up long before that. And that's never gonna change.'

It's a conscious effort but he forces himself to see past all that bareness, all Sam's painful vulnerability, and here's the thing- what he's saying makes sense. Of course it does; Sam's a genius. But- still.

'Hey,' Sam says, putting a hand on his wrist. 'We on the same page?'

He nods.

'Good. You need to stay that way. Come on.'

Sam's hand closes round his wrist and begins to tug, and before he knows what's happening Sam's leading him down the corridor, up the stairs (wincing on each one and Dean's heart contracts), back all the way up to the library, where he pushes him down into a chair and then sits down himself.

'I wanna lay it all out for you,' says Sam. He gives a moment for that to sink in.

'What happened wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fault that you went to Hell- don't look at me like that, it wasn't- and it sure as shit wasn't your fault that you started torturing.'

'Oh, I am not drunk enough for this.' He makes to get up. Sam stops him. 'You're sober, huh?'

'Yeah.'

'Then you're drunk enough. Listen to me. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fault that you found whatever stupid curse you found in the storeroom because being dumb isn't the same as being evil. Because maybe you should have expected but you could never have known. Because you might be reckless but you have never been evil.'

'Sam,' says Dean. His voice comes out hoarse. 'Sam, don't.'

'No,' and Sam's eyes have the same look in them as when he stood up to Dean whilst being tortured, the same feirceness, and how could he have ever thought Sam was weak? 'No, Dean, we're going there. We should have had this conversation a long time ago. I'm sorry it took this to bring us to it, but that's just how it goes.

'We're both the victims here, and that's shitty. It's shitty that someone in our distant past fucked us over and now I'm lowkey nuts and you kind of like beating stuff up. It's shitty that our life is one massive low-rent slasher flick. What's not shitty is what we've managed to manage to salvage from that.'

'What do you mean,' says Dean, because he's not sure he can say anything else.

Sam looks at him in wonder. He reaches across the table and takes Dean's hand, and after a moment Dean lets him. 'Look around you. Look at me. Look at you. Look at what you went through and you're still good. Yes-' when Dean snorts- 'you are, okay? And the same goes for me. It's not about what's done to you, okay, it's about your choices. You're the one who taught me that.'

Dean finds his voice. 'Well, that's beautiful, Sam, but you're overlooking the part where I have consistently picked the wrong choice.'

'Only when you couldn't help it,' says Sam staunchly. His grip tightens around Dean's fingers. 'And that means it wasn't a choice at all.'

'No,' he says. He pulls his hand back, and Sam flinches. 'No, Sam, that's bullshit. Maybe I couldn't help it in Hell, okay, I'll give myself that one. But with hurting you? Are you fucking kidding me?'

Sam's silent.

'I had a choice there,' he said. 'Or, you know what? It was obvious what any normal person would do. And it doesn't include torture. That came out of the blue, Sam, out of my brain, and I chose it without even thinking. That is not a good man. That's a guy who falls off the wagon at the first goddamn opportunity. That's a guy who some part of him misses being a sadistic prick under Alastair's thumb. That's a guy who's never felt more alive than when he's got a toasting fork buried in someone's spleen, okay, and that is not alright. That's a matter of me choosing to do the thing that I know is wrong, Sam, and you can say that's not my fault but do you even believe that yourself? Because you sounded pretty mad at me before.'

Sam scrubs a hand over his face. 'I'd just woken up, Dean. First thing I saw was the guy who'd made me pass out. I was pretty disoriented, okay? And, I dunno, I kind of expected you to just pick up the knife and get back to slicing, y'know? It took me a while to get my thoughts in order.'

'Yeah, well, whatever,' he says. He gets to his feet. There's tears in Sam's eyes, and something's tugging at him but he doesn't know what.

'Ain't rocket science, Sam,' he says. God, he's tired. 'There's a victim and a perpetrator here, okay? For once. And I picked my role over and over and over.'

Unable to look at Sam's face, he starts to walk, heading for his own room. He forces himself to go slower than he wants to because he can just imagine how Sam's eyes would look if he started running to get away from him, and he's halfway down the corridor when he hears Sam's voice again.

'I was hotwiring a car.'

He freezes. Turns. 'What?'

And there's no reply.

Dean walks back down to the kitchen. Sam's eyes are on the table. He's toying with a strand of his hair.

He says, very slowly, 'When were you hotwiring a car, Sam?'

'Yesterday.' Voice low. 'You went for supplies. I sat around for a bit. Couldn't make my mind up. And I just felt like everything in me wanted to get out, to just escape, y'know, so I- I found this car and I got it open and I hotwired it.'

'What made you change your mind?' His voice is shaky.

Sam shrugs. 'My stitches. How much you'd blame yourself if I left.'

'Oh, is that all?' Where the hell is the sarcasm coming from? He's never felt less of a smartass in his life.

Finally Sam looks him square in the face. ' I'd miss you.'

Dean doesn't say anything.

'Dean,' Sam says, all earnestness, 'I'm not saying that what you did wasn't wrong or anything and I'm not saying we haven't both made mistakes. I'm not saying it's okay that you tied me to a chair and cut me up. We have both done some- deplorable things. But I know one thing for certain and if you'd been in your right mind at that moment, if you'd had all your peices, you'd have gone to Hell a thousand times before you laid a hand on me.'

'But I did lay a hand on you,' he says. 'Kinda more than a hand. And, Sam, that's not the sort of stuff you just forgive, you know?'

Sam shakes his head. 'That wasn't you. You were missing something. You let me off the hook for the crap I pulled while I was soulless, right? How is this any different?'

'Uh, because I had a freaking soul?'

'But it wasn't you! You weren't all there! We're not just our basic components, Dean, okay? We're the sum of what's happened to us. You can't blame yourself for that.'

'Yeah? Watch me.'

Sam stands up, pushing the chair back. He's pinching the skin between his eyes. 'Dean, you are- the most frustrating person to argue with. Why can't you just accept what I'm trying to say to you for once in your life?'

And because Dean can give as good as he gets he stands up too. 'Because I hurt you. And you know why? Because I wanted to! Because the second I had the tiniest excuse I started picking out knives! Because I freaking molested you and because if all that shit's what makes up my basic components then, fuck it, maybe I don't want all those components!'

Sam's eyes narrowing. Dean realises he's made a mistake; Sam's doing that thing where he seems to zoom in on you. 'Molested?' he pronounces. 'So that's what this is about?'

'No!' Dean puts his face in his hands. 'No, it's not. I just meant-'

'Dude, you realise I'm a consenting adult, right? And that I'm not totally weak yet? I could have told you to shove the fuck off, you know.'

'Yeah. I know. But-'

'And, Dean? Maybe that is what makes up your basic components. I can't see inside your head.'

'Sam-'

'You can't help what you are. You can help what you do. And you would never normally have made the choice to hurt me. We both know that, so cut the crap. If you're blaming yourself for an innate bloodthirst or whatever this is then, hell, maybe I should start blaming myself for having demon blood.'

'Sam. C'mon.'

'No? I thought not.'

Sam sits down again. He lays his hands flat on the table, palms up. There's something imploring about the shape of his fingers.

'Let's just put this behind us, Dean,' he says. 'Please.'

Dean looks at Sam for a long time. He feels like he's on the edge of something, like he might have been there for a long time, unknowingly. But there's still something that just refuses to break, to submit, to let whatever this is just ride. He spilled blood and he must pay, and that's not something that changes according to the assignation of blame.

'No, Sammy, I can't, and I'm sorry.'

His voice is gentle and Sam's eyes well up.

'I don't get it,' he says. 'If our roles were reversed here I bet this conversation would be exactly the same. Why can't we give ourselves any damn quarter here, Dean? It's over. Why can't we just let ourselves rest for a change? Why is it one mission after another after another til we find the one that kills us?'

'You know why,' is all Dean can say. 'Sam, you know why.'

Sam nods, brushing furiously at his eyes, turning his head to the side. Dean gets a strange sense of glimpsing a past Sam through the gesture, a Sam who drank blood from demons' necks and screamed at him in a way this Sam never would.

'Sam,' he says, needing to placate, to convince, 'if you could see what I think about sometimes, if you could see the stuff in my dreams-'

'I wouldn't care,' says Sam, half-crying. 'Dean, I wouldn't care. I love you and I wouldn't care. I just want you to be happy. Please just let yourself be happy.'

'If you could see,' he says, a lump crawling up his throat. 'You'd never get it out of your mind. You'd never think about me the same way. If you just had one look-'

'Don't need to,' and Sam's eyes are wet and shining. 'I've never needed too. It's in my head too. I went to Hell too. We're the only people on earth who get what the other's been through, Dean, don't you get it? That's why I didn't get into that fucking car and drive the fuck away. That's why we come back to each other again and again and again.'

'But,' says Dean, no longer knowing what he's going to say in reply. He's pretty sure there's tears on his cheeks. But he doesn't need to think of anything because then Sam's coming round the edge of the table and putting his hands on Dean's face and pressing their mouths together and he doesn't even think this is a kiss, all he thinks is that Sam's wet eyelashes are the softest thing in the world and that suddenly everything tastes like tears and how that should feel so so much worse than it does.