A/N: Alright, next chapter of How to Fix a Winchester. Another prompt based story, set season eight, after Southern Comfort, before the trials. The boys needed to clear the air.

So, this story is based off of the prompt I received from Chillywinterbreeze, who wanted to see Dean have a breakdown and Sam take care of him. So, here's some vulnerable Dean for you!

As Always,

EverReader

Disclaimer: Not my sandbox

How To Fix A Winchester – Chapter Eight

The Unfortunate Thing About Baseball

It was such a stupid thing. It was just a baseball that had rolled to far edge of the Impala's trunk, hidden away, lost from sight for years.

Just a ball, larger than an orange and smaller than a grapefruit, and white and red, with smudged, dirty fingerprints circling it's circumference.

An absolutely ordinary baseball that had once belonged to a little boy who had once belonged to Dean Winchester for a little over a year.

It wasn't just a baseball.

It was Ben's baseball.

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"Dean!" Sam called as he entered the Bunker's kitchen from the garage, a bag of groceries in his arms.

He'd tried calling Dean's cell from the store, about something stupid that he couldn't even remember now, but that wasn't the point.

The point was, Dean hadn't answered.

They always answered their phones, at least for each other. There was simply no other way to survive their kind of lifestyle.

You couldn't risk being off your game at a crucial moment because you were worried over your brother not answering his mobile.

Therefore, unanswered phone = brother in trouble, come immediately.

"DEAN!" Sam called again, worry mounting.

He dropped the bag carelessly on the table and moved quickly down the hall, checking Dean's room, the showers and the hunting range.

Dean wasn't in the garage, Sam would have known when he returned home. He wasn't in the kitchen, the pantry, the main foyer or the two storage rooms they used most frequently. He wasn't in the gym, or the room that counted as the main living area either, and by the time Sam finally located him in the darkened library, Sam was nearly frantic.

"Jesus, Dean, why didn't you answer?" Sam said as he squinted to see his brother more clearly in the dim room.

Dean was sitting on the floor between two shelves, back against the wall and as Sam got closer he could smell the strong scent of even stronger whiskey.

Oh.

Okay, that explained...well, not really anything, but now at least Sam had a basic idea of what he was doing.

Dean drinking alone in the dark meant he was seriously upset, like when John had died, or when the nightmares after Sam had been killed at Cold Oak got a little too frisky.

He had some distant memories of Dean doing this a few times after he'd rejoined Sam, but his soulless self had taken little note of his brother's emotional needs, and re-souled Sam had usually had Lucifer singing in his ear, which probably hadn't been much better, as far as Dean getting what he'd needed from Sam emotionally.

"Hey." He said softly, remaining silent after that as he settled cross legged beside his brother.

He steadfastly ignored the tear tracks on his brother's face, knowing if he pushed the wrong way, Dean would clamp down emotionally tighter than Fort Knox. Whatever had triggered this, it was bad, because Sam's tough as nails older brother didn't just break down for the hell of it.

No.

If Dean was breaking down over something, than Sam had no doubt it was worth crying over.

So he sat silently, for the better part of an hour, as Dean took large swigs out of the bottle and silent tears streamed down his cheeks.

Sam ignored his aching back, ignored the groceries spoiling on the kitchen table, ignored his feet as they tingled and then went numb.

He sat there through it all and waited.

Occasionally, Dean would offer Sam the bottle, and Sam would drink obediently, careful to take much smaller swallows than his brother, but nonetheless, he drank it when it was offered.

It was part of the ritual, as Dean acclimated to Sam's presence, resigned himself to the idea of letting the words beating against his lips spill forth, to lance the wound and let the poison out.

Another hour passed and the brothers simply sat in the dark, and neither spoke.

Finally though, Dean held out his hand mutely and Sam obediently took the round object from him.

It was, of all things, a baseball, and Sam's quicksilver mind starting sorting through all the potential meanings this particular ball could have, because with Dean, nothing was straight forward, no.

This ball meant something.

His mind stilled when he suddenly recalled seeing a picture, years ago, in Dean and Lisa's house, of a smiling boy in a baseball uniform.

Oh.

Shit.

"I'm sorry." He murmured quietly, as he wondered, for the millionth time if he could ever make up for all the damage he had done his brother when he came back into his life.

"It's not your fault." Dean said in a rough voice.

"You had a life, Dean. You were happy, you were out, and I dragged you back." Sam said in remorse, a bone deep shame that he carried with him all the time.

Dean shook his head. "It's more than that, Sam. I got over Lisa and Ben, mostly, years ago. I'm a hunter, always have been. I felt like an actor playing a part when I was with them."

"Then what?" Sam asked, genuinely curious.

"It's just...everything. Every minute of that was wonderful, but it hurt, too, Sam. It hurt so goddamn much. Because they should have been enough, but they weren't. They was this screaming hole where you should have been, and you weren't because I let you jump. It was my job to protect you, and I let you jump into Hell." Dean gasped the words, like he couldn't get in a deep breath.

"Hey, hey, Dean, it's okay, I'm out, it's okay." Sam soothed.

Dean laughed bitterly. "Okay? It's not okay. I know the truth, Sam. You saved the world, you did it, and you did it for me. You did it to save me, and I never even believed in you. You believed in me, but I didn't believe in you. And Ben and Lisa, they believed in me, but there was this part of me that was always waiting, always just waiting for something. A part of me never believed my life with them was real. Then you came back, and I don't even know why you wanted me with you, cause you sure as hell didn't care."

Sam swallowed, pushing down his emotions as he chose his words with care. "I came back for you for because things were better with you."

"How'd you figure?" Dean muttered.

Sam shifted. He didn't like talking about his soulless self, avoided it vehemently, in fact, but he supposed he had no choice.

"I didn't really have any...guidance when I returned. I hunted because that was what I was good at, and the hunt appealed to me. But I knew right away that something in me was wrong, was...broken. I remembered things from before, remembered feeling certain ways, but I couldn't feel anything anymore, so that's all they were, memories. I remembered wanting, I mean, really wanting you to have a good life with Lisa and Ben. I couldn't understand why I had wanted it, but I knew it had, so I left you there. It felt off, though. Hunting on my own. Like something was missing. That's why I joined Samuel's group. He was family, and I reasoned that if hunting with you was right because you were family, then the same logic applied. You told me family was good, was important, and even though I couldn't feel it anymore, I remembered you saying it. I remembered trusting you. But hunting with them wasn't right, even I could tell that. I couldn't understand it, but I could recognize it. That's why I asked you to come back. You were always right, about everything. I figured you would see what I couldn't." Sam finished quietly, uncomfortable with the intense stare Dean was leveling at him.

"Jesus, Sammy." Dean whispered brokenly. "And then I found out and I beat the living hell out of you."

Sam shrugged again. "I deserved it."

Dean shook his head. "No. No, you didn't. You were asking for help in your own way, I just couldn't see it. You couldn't feel fear, couldn't feel pain. You had no reason to let me back in, but you did and I rejected you, because a part of you was missing."

Sam shook his head. "I was a monster, Dean. I'm lucky you or Bobby didn't shoot me."

"Shoot you?" Dean's eyes widened. "Try you were lucky I'd let you out of the room without me. Every moment I thought you were dead, every moment you were trapped in hell, a part of me felt like killing myself just so I could be closer."

Sam closed his eyes, incredibly thankful for the woman and boy who had cared for his brother when he hadn't been able to.

"We all paid a price, Dean. But it's over now." He said softly.

"It's stupid, right?" Dean said, taking another drink. "Crying in the dark like a girl over a baseball?"

"You're not crying over a ball. You're crying because they mattered, Lisa and Ben mattered, and I mattered, and in one way or another, you lost all of us, and that matters. You're crying because when things matter, they're worth crying over." Sam said.

"Jesus, you're such a chick." Dean muttered, and Sam laughed. Dean passed him the bottle, and this time Sam took a larger drink.

If they were going to get hammered in honor of things that mattered, he might as well do it right.

"Bitch." Dean muttered.

Sam laughed again.

"Jerk."