Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Note: And… That's the end of this one. Not quite sure what's coming up next. Maybe finale tags, depending on how that goes. Or maybe one of the longer fics I've been planning. ;-)

Thanks to Cheryl for a lot of help!

And my gratitude to K Hanna Korossy, The Lilac Elf of Lothlorien, Yami Faerie, Sparkiebunny, T.L. Arens, SandyDee84, criminally charmed, TinTin11, cookjar, jensengirl4eva, Scribble2Much and BranchSuper for the reviews!

Chapter V: Ignorance Was Bliss

Dean knew the exact moment when Sam remembered what had happened.

At first Sam sat still, pliant and trustful. Dean poked his head and shone a light in his eyes and ran a hand over his chest to check for broken bones. The occasional grimace of pain crossed Sam's face, but he didn't move, not even when Dean's fingers ghosted over a cracked rib.

And then – Dean would never know what it was that had triggered the return of Sam's memory. A flash of light, maybe, or the sound of a passing car.

Whatever the cause, the effect was that Sam's eyes went wide, his breath hitched, and his body stiffened. Before Dean could react, he had relaxed again. It barely lasted a second. But now Sam wasn't quite meeting his eyes, seemed just a little uncomfortable with Dean's ministrations. He was hiding it well: if Dean hadn't been a big brother, or if he'd been dealing with anyone but Sam, he might not even have noticed.

He did notice, and he felt like an icy hand was squeezing his stomach.

Dean had been worried about whether the ghost's attack would kick off another Sam Winchester guilt trip, or, worse, poke at the drywall in his little brother's head, but that had been all he had been worried about. He hadn't even considered the possibility that Sam would think Dean had meant it.

After all, Sam never did. Sam had always been stronger that way. When something nasty made them yell abuse at each other, Sam could always shrug it off afterwards. It didn't bother him – or, if it did, it bothered him so little that he could hide it even from Dean. Dean was the one who tended to dwell on things, who would act like a jerk because he needed to hear Sam say the words: I didn't mean it. You're my big brother.

But Sam had thought Dean had meant it, hadn't he? That was why he'd hesitated. Dean had said he wished he'd never saved Sam, he'd been trying to strangle Sam, and Sam hadn't been sure whether or not Dean was possessed.

Sam thought it was possible that it was Dean talking.

The freaking idiot could have died because he freaking thought it was possible that his big brother wished he was dead. Moron.

Suddenly Dean couldn't sit there anymore. It was too hot. The room was stifling. He couldn't –

Dean got to his feet, not looking at Sam. Not many things could break Dean Winchester, but if he looked into his baby brother's eyes and saw dislike –

Dean fled.

He didn't get far. Just to the bushes outside the door, and then he had to stop and throw up.

Sam had almost died. And Sam had thought it was possible that Dean hadn't been possessed, which meant that somewhere in that planet-sized brain of his he thought Dean hated him.

Sam had almost died.

Sam had –

There was a shadow next to him, blotting out the light streaming through the motel room door. He felt a big hand rubbing his back, warm and gentle.

He managed to muster up the energy to glare in the general direction of the person next to him.

"Told you not to get up till I gave you the OK."

"I'm fine, Dean. It's just a cracked rib. I've had worse."

Dean would've liked to be able to say, "But not from me," but that wasn't true. Sam had had worse injuries from him.

Like the time with Veritas.

Dean heaved again. Cas hadn't told Sam about that, had he? He couldn't have – Sam hadn't given any sign that he knew that he'd asked for his big brother's help and his big brother's reaction had been to beat him into unconsciousness. But Sam was so bloody good at keeping secrets.

Or maybe he'd remembered that. Maybe the ghost had managed to bring back that memory.

Oh, God, did Sam know? Did he remember? Was that why –

"I'm sorry I hurt you," Dean said, because suddenly it seemed more important than anything else to get that out. "That time after I killed Veritas, when you told me… I was mad, but I shouldn't have done it. I'm sorry, kiddo."

As soon as the words were out he could have bitten off his tongue. What the hell was he thinking, blurting stuff out without knowing whether or not Sam knew it? What the hell was he thinking saying anything about that missing year at all?

"Dean, it's OK," Sam soothed. "Calm down."

And Dean felt colder than ever. Sam hadn't said, "What the hell are you talking about?" or, "Who's Veritas?"

Damn it.

Sam knew. Or remembered. It didn't matter which. All that mattered was that Sam thought –

Damn it. Damn it damn it damn it. Worst big brother ever.

Then Dean was laughing because it was freaking hilarious, wasn't it? All his life he'd been a big brother before anything else. It had been the one thing he was even better at than hunting. He'd been proud of it, proud of how good he was at it, and the blind adoration he got from Sam had always meant more than any praise anyone else could give him.

And now it turned out he was a screw-up at that, too. Because, really, what kind of big brother was he if it was possible for Sam to believe, however briefly, that Dean hated him enough to actually want him dead?

Dean wasn't sure when the laughter had turned to sobs.

"Dean!" That was Sam's voice. He sounded terrified. Score another one for Dean Winchester: scare the hell out of an already injured little brother. "Dean, come on, man. What is it?"

Dean felt himself being pulled backwards. He knew Sam was going to hug him or do something else equally girly, but he couldn't bring himself to care. And, yeah, they were in the freaking parking lot, but so what? The world was already screwed eight ways to hell. How much worse could it freaking get?

Dean could feel his breath coming short and sharp, and he knew he was close to hyperventilating. He had to stop, he had to calm himself down. Sam couldn't do it. Sam was hurt. Besides, Sam thought Dean hated him.

Sam couldn't –

Dean was warm. The hand that had been on his back was now resting on his head. He could hear the comforting thumping of a heartbeat that he had known since he had first put his ear to his mother's rounded stomach to listen for his little brother. He could smell the antiseptic he'd been dabbing into Sam's scrapes.

Suddenly nothing seemed as bad. He was alive and Sam was alive, and whatever Sam thought, he clearly cared enough to practically cuddle Dean in the middle of the parking lot. (Sam loved chick-flick moments, but even he, girl though he was, didn't really like having them in public. Of course, at this hour there was probably nobody else there, but still. It was the principle of the thing.)

"It wasn't me," Dean said. "I don't – I've never regretted it, Sam."

"Dean, it's OK. You don't have to –"

"Sam." Dean tried to sound stern. He had to admit it was a little ridiculous to scold Sam and lean into the warmth of his chest at the same time, but he was a big brother, right? He could pull stuff like that if he wanted to. "I mean it. You're my little brother. I've never regretted anything I've done for you."

Sam didn't say anything, and Dean had a sinking feeling that his little brother didn't believe him.

Sitting on the curb with Dean having a meltdown in his arms, Sam had to confess himself at a loss.

Dean didn't have meltdowns. Dean got mad and threw punches and later when he felt bad about it he got Sam vanilla lattes with caramel and cinnamon sprinkles. That was what Dean did.

Dean didn't start sobbing in motel parking lots and he sure as hell didn't settle down when Sam hugged him and rubbed his head.

The world was spinning off its axis, and Sam had no idea what to do.

Dean was shaking again, choking out apologies and promises and pleas, unresponsive to anything Sam said. Sam really didn't get it… Well, he kind of did. He'd hesitated, unsure whether Dean had been possessed or just angry. Dean was pissed off because Sam had even considered the possibility that Dean, in full possession of his faculties, would try to do him actual permanent injury.

No, that wasn't right. Dean wasn't pissed off. That was the whole problem. Sam knew how to deal with Dean when he was pissed off.

Dean was broken.

And not because of having to leave Lisa and Ben or because of all the crap that went with being a hunter or even because of all the crap that went with being a Winchester. Dean was broken because he thought Sam didn't trust him anymore.

Right. First things first. They needed to be doing this somewhere other than the parking lot.

The one thing his soulless self had done right was to leave him with enough muscle for any three normal hunters. His big brother wasn't exactly a lightweight, but, even with a cracked rib, it was no problem to get Dean indoors and push him into a chair before he registered what was happening.

Sam, suppressing a groan, lowered himself to a crouch to check Dean for injuries.

Dean chose that moment to snap out of whatever corner of his mind he'd been in. Sam felt the hand on his shoulder a moment before he heard his brother's annoyed, "Dude, what the hell? I just patched you up! Who gave you permission to wreck my handiwork?"

But there was something off, something wrong, something in his tone that belied the lightness of his words. Sam knew they weren't OK.

And that was it.

Sam felt the fight go out of him. He'd told himself Dean hadn't meant it. Dean couldn't have meant it. It had just been the ghost talking, right?

Except that he couldn't be sure, because it was true. He had screwed up Dean's life. If Sam had never been born, if Azazel had never come for him, if their mother had never died over his crib… Dean could have had normal. Dean had had normal until Sam had come along. If Dean really did hate him… Well, Sam couldn't blame him for it.

It was only when he felt a hand running through his hair that he realized he'd dropped his head onto his brother's knee.

"Dean?"

"What happened back there?" Dean asked quietly. "Who were you shooting at?"

"Abbie – she was there. I thought – I was afraid she was going to attack you and…" Sam shook his head. "She didn't, though. I think she tried to get into my head. She must have figured out that going for the possessed people wasn't working."

"Tried, huh?"

Sam laughed mirthlessly. "Maybe the wall put her off."

"I guess we owe her." Dean's hand stilled for a moment before the movement began again. "If she hadn't shown up, I would've killed you."

"Dean, it wasn't –"

"And about that, Sam. What were you thinking?"

"I didn't –"

"Did you really think it could possibly be me?"

"I wasn't sure," Sam mumbled. "I couldn't – I wouldn't blame you if you did hate me, after everything, and –"

"Sam. Shut up."

"But –"

"I mean it," Dean hissed. He sounded furious, but the fingers rubbing Sam's scalp were gentle. "I can't believe you'd be that stupid! That's what you really think, that I wish you'd stayed in the Cage?"

"If I'd never been born –"

"If you'd never been born, I would still have had a miserable life. Mom made that deal ten years before you were born, Sam. Azazel was always going to come that night. He might've tried to feed me his blood."

"You wouldn't have let him."

"Yeah, Sam, blame yourself for being just six months old when he showed up. That's something we've not tried yet."

Dean's hand disappeared and his leg jerked away from under Sam's head. Before Sam could do more than wonder what Dean was upset about now, his big brother was back, sitting on the ground next to him, just close enough for his presence to reassure Sam without stifling him.

"We both know it wasn't just about what the ghost said," Dean said quietly. "You'd already been thinking it, or it would never have been able to get to you the way it did. I should've remembered. I've had an extra year and a half to process the crap that happened before –" Dean broke off, ran a weary hand over his face, and resumed. "I'm sorry, kiddo. I just… Look, I know that for you it's just been – what? A few weeks? – since… Well, since all the crap. I know you need to talk about things, but we can't. It's too big a risk. We don't know what might make holes in the wall."

"But –"

"Come on, Sam," Dean implored, and it was the pleading in his voice that made Sam swallow his protest. Dean never begged. "You know how much I – how important you – damn it, do we have to have another chick-flick moment now?"

Dean was begging, actually begging, and the sound of it made Sam want to comfort and reassure him as he would a toddler. But that wasn't what Dean needed. The only thing Dean needed to be reassured of was that he was still a big brother, and the only way to do that was to…

"I'm scared to go to sleep," Sam said softly. "The wall doesn't work as well when I'm asleep."

He'd never admitted that before. There had been times when he'd wanted to, when he'd wanted to pour out his troubles and let his big brother make everything better. But he'd tried to be strong, not wanting to burden Dean with his problems when Dean had enough of his own to deal with.

As he was drawn into a hug, enfolded in arms that smelt of gunpowder and drugstore cologne, as he sank into the warmth of Dean and home, Sam wished he'd said something sooner.

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And… Here's hoping we get a nice finale with plenty of hurt Sam and big brother Dean!