The Illusionist Part II
Chapter 12 : Freedom
Dean took in a deep breath and rolled over, tugging the covers up around his shoulder and burying himself in them. He closed his eyes, but he already knew that no matter how warm or almost comfortable he got, he wasn't going to be able to sleep.
I'm sorry...
For what?
Marshall Hall, the swimmer, he, uh, he died at 4:17.
Wait, hold on a minute... He died...to save me?
Dean-
You never should've brought me here, Sam!
I was just trying to save your life. I didn't know...
Yeah, but now some guy's dead because of me...
The words echoed through his head, and no matter what he did, he just couldn't let it go. Another person died so that he could live.
He was right.
He was right. When did that ever happen?
He was right about it being a reaper too.
Dean couldn't help but wonder if this was just some sort of fluke. He'd been healed; he could hear again; and he was suddenly right about every damned thing. If only his father could see him now. Hell, the man wouldn't know what to think.
The night's events flashed through his mind, and he rolled over again, clenching the covers tighter in his hands.
At least, they had saved someone, but at what cost?
Roy had been in the middle of healing someone, had almost done it too, and even though Dean had managed to stop it, it didn't hurt any less. He and Sam had saved one person, but more than likely, the person that Roy was going to heal was going to die.
Guilt gnawed at his gut, and finally, he gave up and surrendered to the fact that his mind wasn't going to get a pass to the courtyard of dreams tonight. He threw the covers off of him, the chilly air easily seeping through his sweatpants that had seen better days, and the thready long-sleeved t-shirt that had covered his thin frame.
He glanced over at Sam who was somehow managing to sleep (or becoming too damned good at pretending), and pulled on his socks and sneakers.
If he couldn't sleep, he figured he might as well do the next best thing.
Train.
He was a bit rusty anyway, and some cool night air just might do him some good.
Dean pulled on his hoodie (Sam's old hoodie), and grabbed the motel key off the stand. He glanced back at Sam one last time before he pulled the hood over his head and quietly snuck out of the motel room, silently closing the door behind him.
The sky was pitch black, dotted with stars that twinkled as the old lullaby his mother used to sing to him had claimed. The air was freezing, but he didn't care. It was just more motivation for him to keep moving. He started off slow, jogging at an easy pace before he started to push himself to go faster and faster.
His feet pounded on the pavement of side streets until he finally made it to the outskirts of town. The blacktop soon transformed into dirt and gravel and he kept going, further and further away from the motel—from everything.
His heart beat pounded in his ears as he ran faster and faster, as though he were being chased by the demons of his past. Though the earth was mostly silent, there were still tiny noises here and there that didn't go unnoticed. A train whistle blew in the not too far distance, and it wasn't long before it was followed with the sound of its wheels chugging across the tracks.
Sweat rolled down his brow, soaked his chest and back. Puffs of air rolled from between his lips, visible in the late night chill. His legs were aching, but he couldn't help be happy at the thought. God, he missed this. For the first time in a long while, he didn't feel so trapped, so enclosed.
He felt free—for a little while anyway.
It wasn't long though, before the guilt that he had become so familiar with began to rear its ugly head once more.
A blond-headed woman's face flashed before his eyes—it was the woman that Roy was going to heal that night, and it was his fault that it wasn't going to happen.
No, it was Sue Anne's. Not yours, there's nothing that could've been done.
He felt his jaw clench automatically at the lie he was telling himself. That poor girl was going to die, and it was his fault. They could've saved her somehow.
There was always a somehow.
Always.
He sped up, feeling the rocks and pebbles and gravel kick up under his feet. His lungs were thirsting for air, but he'd stopped listening to them half a mile ago.
They may have caught Roy's wife, but that didn't change anything.
Seven people were dead, and numerous more filled with false hope.
Bang up job you did there, boy. Really know how to save people. After all these years, and you're still letting 'em die.
A noise escaped Dean's throat that he wasn't quite sure he had ever heard before, even when he was younger. The closest thing that he could've probably compared it to was that of a wounded animal about to be put down, but hell, no sound like that would ever come out of Dean Winchester's throat.
Never in a million years.
He was stronger than that. He needed to be stronger than that anyway.
And no, those were not tears; it was sweat. Just a little sweat burning his eyes. Nothing more. Because real men didn't cry did they? Of course not. No, they didn't.
Not according to John...
His father was in his face again, shouting and screaming, and Dean just stared at his mouth, trying to differentiate his words, but he just couldn't make them out. The only thing he knew was that his father was pissed, and his already black and blue skin was about to get a hell of a lot blacker and bluer.
He could feel the man's breath, hot and reeking of whiskey, on his skin and Dean knew that alcohol mixed with his father's already volatile behavior was a horrible combination. He swallowed back the saliva that was gathering in his mouth, and tried to take a step back, only to have John step forward, face reddening all the more.
Dean continued at his attempt to understand what his father was saying, but John's lips were moving too fast—too quick. The next thing he knew, his father's hands were on him, grabbing him by his shoulders and slamming him up against the wall. He felt the air leave his lungs instantly and pain travel up and down his spine. Little pieces of plaster fell on his hands, and he cringed as he felt more rain down upon his skin as John slammed him again and again.
The last time, his head hit the wall, and he felt his father's fingers squeeze tighter at his bones and clothing. John didn't exactly have nails, but what little he did have—Dean could feel them curving crescents into his flesh.
He knew the words, "I'm sorry, sir," were forming on his lips, but he honestly wasn't sure if they were making it out of his throat at the moment. But really, it didn't matter.
His father didn't care how sorry he was, or what he could do to rectify the situation—the man only wanted to cause pain.
And that he did.
It wasn't long before he felt the four knuckles of his father's right hand slam into his stomach, and he couldn't help but try to double over, though the action was fruitless; John was holding him up firmly against the wall with his other hand, mouth still moving a mile a minute.
The next hit was to his ribs, and the pain that followed was immediate. Dean was no doctor, but he'd had enough cracked and broken ribs in his time to know at least one of his bones was probably damaged. John wasn't the biggest of men, but he wasn't small either. He had at least forty pounds of muscle more on him than his son, and Dean could feel the strength behind each new blow that came at him.
One to his jaw, and hitting the bone was especially easy now since there was hardly anything aside from skin separating it from John's fist. Another hit to his nose. The blow to his temple would've knocked him to his knees, but his father's hand was still clamped around his shoulder, digging into his collarbone as he continued to hold him upright. Dean sagged and his body went limp for a moment, stars and a bright white light flashed underneath his eyelids.
It was then that he could feel his father shaking him, grip now solely on his collar, and Dean tried to open his eyes, but he was just so damned tired now...
A hit to his chest snatched him from his reverie, and his eyes snapped open. He saw John's fist coming towards him once more, and prepared for the hit, but it never came. He clenched his jaw and swallowed, the taste of blood fresh on his tongue. It took a moment, but he finally allowed himself to look up and into his father's eyes, and what he found there scared him.
John was just staring at him, face red, brows narrowed, chest heaving, and raised hand shaking in the air where it was frozen—but for a split second, he looked horrified. Absolutely horrified, and all Dean could wonder was what he had done now.
"Go clean yourself up."
Dean could just barely make out the words, but he had and was thankful when his father finally released his iron grip on him.
John abruptly turned away and stumbled over to one of the beds. Dean watched him sit down, and put his head in his hands. He stood there for a moment, the urge to listen to his father and go straight to the bathroom only make the fact that his legs were slowly finding their footing worse, and before he knew it, he was standing in front of John. Wincing and unable to hear the low hiss that escaped his lips, he leaned over and put his hand on the other man's shoulder.
"Dad?" he pushed the word out between his bruised and broken lips.
He honestly didn't know why he felt the need to see if the man was okay, because his father wasn't okay and hadn't been for a long time. But he still cared about him. He was his father, after all.
A voice in the back of his told him he shouldn't, but he didn't listen to it.
He never did.
Instead, he watched with sadness in his eyes as his father took hold of the wrist that Dean had placed ever so gently on his shoulder and squeezed it. He could only presume that his father had started yelling again, especially when he started pointing towards the bathroom, but Dean was still focused on his eyes and the fact that he was pretty damned sure they were watery.
When he didn't obey, his father shoved him away, and Dean tried to retain his balance but it just wasn't possible. He fell to the dirty, carpeted floor below, landing hard on his side. He grimaced, a new wave of pain shooting through his hip bone as it connected with the hard surface. His body was starting to shake, exhaustion falling over him as he pushed himself back up onto his feet. He dared not look at his father as he walked passed him, grabbed his clothes, and went into the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind him.
The mirror mocked him from the wall as soon as he flipped the light switch on. He tried to ignore it as he pulled off his green button-up shirt, and the black t-shirt underneath. Forced his eyes to the floor as he pulled off his boots and socks. He stumbled then, dizziness causing him to sway and almost lose his balance. He held onto the sink, clenching the white porcelain so hard, his hands looked as if they were about to break. He took in a deep breath, and steadied himself, blinking as his vision returned to normal.
That's when he noticed the blood that was dripping into the sink, the red substance dark and contrasting greatly with the pure white surface it fell on. Confusion wracked his brain until he let his gaze be entranced by the mirror.
His nose was bleeding, a small trickle still oozing down his philtrum, lips, and chin. But the blood didn't scare him. Hadn't in a long time. It wasn't as though it was anything new. However, the fact that the white part of his left eye was nothing but red did. His best guess was that it was a result of the blow to the temple, and he reasoned, maybe that was why his father had stopped.
Maybe.
He had been running, hell, running his ass off, but now, he was frozen where he stood, eyes wide and searching. Dean wasn't sure when he'd stopped, but all he knew is that the ground was suddenly vibrating violently.
And then, he realized where he was.
His head jerked in the direction of the train that was heading straight for him, horn blaring repeatedly in his ears.
He saw the smoke pouring from the front car, billowing up into the cold, dark night. Sweat dripped from his thin frame onto the black tracks below, but it went unnoticed.
His breath was caught in his throat, no sound emanating from his mouth. He was frozen, in shock, unable to do anything but stand there and stare, wide-eyed at the monster coming for him.
Move.
The tracks trembled harder as the locomotive came ever closer, so close he could almost see the conductor, and Dean was sure the person was horrified. Hell, he would've been too if he was steering a twenty-car train and there was some lunatic standing put on the tracks, immobile like a deer caught in headlights.
Move!
Thirty feet...twenty feet...and yet, he was still standing there, sneakers glued to the metal below.
"Dammit, I said move!" And at that moment, Dean realized two things : One, the voice that he thought he'd been imagining was real; and two, getting hit by a train didn't hurt nearly as bad as he thought it would.
S*P*N*S*P*N
Sam sat bolt upright in the bed, sweat soaking his sleep clothes through. His gaze immediately traveled to Dean's bed only to find it empty. "Dammit, Dean," he cursed, running a shaking hand through his brown mane. It was then that he felt something warm running down his face. At first, he thought it was more sweat, running its course down the planes of his face, but as he wiped it away, he saw that the substance wasn't clear. He hurriedly switched on the light, and found that the unknown liquid was indeed blood, streaming from his nose.
He hadn't noticed how badly his head was hurting him either until he tried to stand and almost fell back down to the bed. His vision blurred as he tried once again to get to his feet, but he ignored it, and managed to stumble into the bathroom.
He grabbed the bleached white towel from its rung and held it to his nose as he took in his appearance. His hair was disheveled, his nose was still obviously bleeding, and, much to his horror, he saw that the blood vessels in his left eye had popped, leaving the sclera a nice shade of crimson.
The dream—the vision—flashed vividly before his eyes, and Sam just wanted it all to stop.
He hated that his brother had to go through that—especially while it was happening, he was off at college, pretending (for the most part) that Dean didn't exist.
The bleeding halted after a few minutes, but he couldn't stop staring at his eye.
Every blow, every punch—he felt them all, and didn't want to imagine that Dean probably had to feel them everyday.
Every single damned day.
Anger churned in Sam's gut, and even though his body was still shaking, he assured himself that it couldn't have been from anything other than anger.
Tears burned in his eyes, and he fought back the urge to punch the mirror into a million tiny pieces. He continued to contemplate the action the more he thought about what their father had done to Dean.
And even through it all—after being beaten and bloodied—his brother still had to check on their father, just to make sure the bastard was alright.
Sam could hold back no longer.
His fist connected with the glass in front of him, shattering his image and breaking it apart. The rage that he felt numbed the pain momentarily, because he could see the blood, pouring from his now broken skin, but he didn't care.
He punched the mirror again and again until the majority of it was laying in the sink, and the flesh of his knuckles was split six ways to hell. Even through that, he still felt the need to destroy more—hell, anything. He wanted to scream and shout until his voice was all but lost, but he didn't. Not exactly anyway.
He did scream, not giving a rat's ass if it woke up the people in the room next to him or not. He honestly didn't give a fuck. But he couldn't keep it in anymore. If Dean wasn't going to do it, then he would.
He found himself pushing their belongings off the counter of the sink—and guilt immediately struck him as a bottle of Dean's shampoo fell to the white linoleum, the cap breaking apart and the contents splattering to the floor.
"Shit!" he cursed, reaching down to clean up the mess when suddenly, another vision flashed before his eyes.
It was dark, and there was Dean, standing in the middle of nowhere on a set of train tracks. Trees surrounded the area, their trunks highlighted by the headlights of the oncoming locomotive.
It was then that Sam could feel the ground shaking and hear the train's horn blaring, so loud it was hurting his ears. And that's when he realized just how close it was coming to Dean.
But Dean wasn't moving.
He was frozen, standing stock still on the tracks, feet planted firmly on the ground. Sam could see the expression on his face from where he was, fear, shock, and wonderment gracing his visage.
Closer and closer the train rambled on, and yet his brother continued to stand there, unmoving, frozen like a statue.
Thirty feet...
Twenty feet...
Ten feet...
Sam gasped as he was pulled from the harrowing vision, breath momentarily taken from him. He left the shampoo where it was, forcing himself up and to his feet. His head continued to throb, pain pulsing down his temples and the back of his neck as he raced out of the bathroom, and in search of Dean's keys.
He grabbed them from their resting place on the nightstand, and pulled on his shoes and jacket and hurried out the door.
He was in the Impala before he knew it, engine roaring as he pulled out of the parking lot and out onto the street.
Think, Sam. Railroad tracks...railroad tracks...railroad tracks...
They'd come across them on their way into town—he remembered now. He immediately felt deflated though, because Dean could have been anywhere on them.
Thinkthinkthink
He clenched his jaw, and allowed himself to let the vision come back and invade his mind, searching for anything—any type of damned clue—that would give him an answer.
There was Dean again, standing there, surrounded by trees, train heading straight for him. There was a gravel road nearby, raising up as it reached the tracks.
Street sign, there was a street sign! What was it? What was it?!
It was there, right before the gravel road met the tracks...
Castle Lane! That's it! We passed it on the way to Roy's!
Sam knew he didn't have much time—hell, he wasn't even sure if it already hadn't happened yet—no, he wouldn't allow himself to think that. He was going to make it.
He was.
He sped up, sending the Impala roaring through the darkness, and hopefully, venturing towards his brother.
His vision blurred for a moment, but he didn't let it stop him. He retraced the route back to Roy's and through the twists and turns of the road he was on, he caught a glimpse of the tracks and felt his heart speed up because he knew he was close now.
Then he heard it—the train's horn.
His heard pounded in his chest as he finally came to the crossroads, and standing before him was Dean, staring straight ahead at the black metallic monster that was barreling towards him.
Sam jerked the car to a stop, and threw open the door. "Dean!" he called out his brother's name, but to no avail. Dean's eyes looked glazed—lost—as though he was in a trance.
"Dean, move!" he screamed, running as fast as he could towards his brother, and yet nothing still. "Move!" he repeated, feet pounding against the gravel. "Dammit, I said move!" and before Sam knew it, he had crashed into his brother, propelling them both off the tracks just before the train stormed by where Dean had just been standing.
They landed hard on the other side, rolling and tumbling until finally coming to a stop on more gravel and dirt.
Dean was the first to sit up. "Sammy?" he asked, blinking owlishly as he tried to make sense of what just happened.
Sam groaned and sat up. It felt like someone was driving nails into his skull, it hurt so badly, but he still managed to get to his feet before his brother. The worry that had consumed him earlier had now transformed into anger, and he couldn't stop himself from pulling Dean up by the collar.
"What the hell is wrong with you, Dean? You almost got yourself killed!" he found himself shouting, letting the words escape his lips before he knew what he was saying.
All Dean could do was stare at him, eyes wide and questioning. "Sammy?" he asked, concern in his voice.
"Don't Sa—Ah!" Sam grunted, his grip on Dean loosening a bit as the pain in his head throbbed like a merciless drum beat. "Don't 'Sammy' me, Dean," he forced himself to speak through grit teeth, regaining some of his composure.
"Sammy..." and Dean's voice trailed off, worried eyes looking up and into his little brother's. "Your eye...and you're—you're bleeding." The slight hint of fear that had been glimmering in his gaze was gone, replaced now with defiance and concern. "Sammy, what's wrong with you?" he asked, cords pulling in his neck. Then, "How did you know I was here?"
The brunette stared at him, anger still running rampant across his features, though he kept his mouth shut.
"Talk to me, Sam," Dean ordered, but the command was weak. "How did you know I was here?" he repeated, eyes wide and searching.
Before he could answer, the pain in his head got the better of him. Sam fell to his knees, Dean coming down with him.
"Sammy, what's wrong?" Dean inquired worriedly, hands instantly clasping Sam's face.
"My head—it's...it hurts," the brunette ground out, the feeling of something warm sliding down his lip returning.
"Sam!"
And then there was darkness.
S*P*N*S*P*N
The minute Sam opened his eyes, Dean's voice invaded his ears. "How you feelin', little brother?" Gradually, Sam blinked away the slightly blurred vision and managed to focus on Dean. There were bags underneath his eyes, and dark circles there too. "Sam?" He'd changed out of his training clothes, and was dressed in his usual layered attire; baggy jeans and a light gray henley underneath a blue, long-sleeved button up.
"Head still hurts a bit, but other than that, I think I'm okay," Sam finally answered, sitting up. Dean handed him a bottle of juice which he took gratefully. His throat was dry; his tongue felt like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth.
"You good enough to talk? 'Cause we really need to," Dean stated, big brother mode initiated and operating at full capacity.
"Yeah, I think so," Sam answered, letting his gaze drift to the flowery comforter he was laying on top of. Man, his hand really hurt.
"Sammy, how in the hell did you know where I was at?" The question wasn't spoken in an angry tone, just curious and gentle one; and for some reason that scared Sam.
"I-I just did," came the quick response. He immediately started to fidget with the label on the juice bottle, his gaze falling on just about everything but his brother.
"You and I both know that's a bullshit answer. C'mon, Sammy, don't lie to me," and God, if his voice didn't sound cracked and worn and sad. Sam really hated him sometimes, but not in a bad way, of course. Just in the how-do-you-always-get-me-to-tell-the-truth-but-I-can-never-get-it-out-of-you way.
Sam sighed and continued to pick at the bottle's label. He felt ten years old again. "I-uh-I saw it," was the only answer he gave. He glanced at Dean, then back down at the comforter. They'd stayed in some ugly hotels rooms before, but this had to be one of the worst, Sam thought.
Dean leaned forward from his perch on the adjacent bed, an incredulous expression on his face. "You saw it. Um, care to elaborate there, Sam?" he asked, brow narrowing in confusion.
Sam quirked his lips to one side, contemplating the best answer to Dean's question. He was going to sound crazy regardless of what he said, he figured, so the truth was the best option. "I-I had a vision, if you want to call it that. You were standing there on the train tracks, and...let's just say the outcome of it was much different..."
Dean stood up, and folded his arms across his chest, mind racing a mile a minute. Sam could always tell when his brother was figuring something out. His eyes moved back and forth rapidly for all of four or five seconds, and his lips moved silently; barely noticeable to anyone but the youngest Winchester, of course.
"So when you passed out a few weeks back—you'd had a vision then?" the inquiry came swiftly and curiously, and Sam could suddenly feel heat on his cheeks.
He nodded, and continued to toy with the label. It was the best distraction he could come up with at the moment, because he really didn't want to to see what was more than likely a hurt look on his brother's face.
"And?" Dean prodded, turning back around to face his little brother. When Sam didn't reply, he continued on. "So basically, every time you've complained about having a headache, you've been having these visions." He was quiet for a moment, swallowing thickly before going on. "Were they all about me?"
"Dean-"
"Don't lie to me, Sammy. I can already hear the bullshit you're getting ready to spout, so why don't you just tell me the truth. It's the least you could do." And then he was silent, his voice hovering on the edge of breaking.
Sam clenched his jaw and couldn't help but roll his eyes, still feeling like he was a child being interrogated on whether or not he had stuck his hand in the cookie jar. Anger teased his tongue. "Yes, Dean. Every single damned time—they were about you," he spat, sitting straight up on the bed now.
"Sa-"
The youngest Winchester kept going, fully knowing that he was about to make an ass of himself. "They started about two months ago, not too long after we started our little 'road trip'. The first time it happened, I prayed that it had just been a really bad dream or that I was just imagining things, but as we all know, the Winchester clan just isn't that lucky. And they've continued to grow worse. In fact," Sam started, a dangerous gleam in his eyes as he finally locked gazes with Dean (and damn him if his brother's eyes weren't two big glimmering pools of green), "The majority of them are about what Dad's done to you." He swung his feet over the bed, and stood, glare cast across his visage. "One of the last one's I had—I saw how he beat you to the floor and yet you still asked him—him—if he was okay." His chest was heaving up and down now, and his hands transforming into fists at his side. All the while Dean was just standing there, looking up at him with fear, embarrassment, and tears in his eyes.
"Well, I'm sorry you had to go through that," and Sam just wanted to put his hands over his ears and never hear how sincerely hurt, sad, and sorry his brother actually sounded.
"Stop apologizing!" the taller of the two shouted, voice making Dean stop dead in his tracks as he was attempting to walk away. Sam didn't miss the way his shoulders tensed and his entire body shook at his raised voice. God, he really hated himself sometimes. "Don't you see how wrong all of that was, Dean?" and before Sam knew it, he had spun his brother around. "He hurt you! Almost killed you half a dozen times, and yet, you don't even seem the least bit angry about it! How can you not be? How?" Sam demanded, spittle flying from his lips as he yelled.
"Shut up," Dean murmured, gaze dropping to the floor. He was biting his bottom lip, and Sam presumed, trying his damnedest not actually be a human and let his emotions show.
"No, I'm not going to shut up or be quiet about this! You can't hide it from me anymore, Dean! You can't keep brushing it off! He abused you!" And Dean flinched at the mere mention of the word abuse.
"He had to keep me in line," Dean argued, though his voice sounded so far away and lost, nothing near the fighting tone Sam had been hoping for.
"Keep you in line? Keep you in line?" he repeated, brow narrowing further, tone growing angrier. "When didn't you stay in line with that man? You listened to every single damned thing he said, taking it all for gospel rather than thinking for yourself! He beat you, Dean! And parents aren't supposed to beat their children!"
Suddenly, Dean's bottom lip was teetering on the edge of quivering, and Sam could see the hot, angry tears in his eyes. "You don't know what you're talking about!" Dean tried to shout back, but there was no strength in his voice. It was shaking, and badly at that. "He did the best he could, okay?"
"The best he could?" Sam scoffed back. "My, God, Dean, do you even realize what you're saying half the time? The man beat you into a bloody pulp, and didn't even bat an eyelash over it! And you call that the best he could?"
"What was he supposed to do? Huh?" Dean asked, shrugging. "He was stuck with me, Sam! Do you know how hard it was for him to hunt with me for back-up? Do you?"
"Actually, Dean, I do. And it wasn't that hard at all. You might've been deaf, but you were more than competent. You're one of the best damn hunters I know!" And there it was, a look of disbelief so bright in Dean's eyes that a lump actually formed in Sam's throat. He hurriedly tried to choke it back down. "You do everything you can to help people and more. There's nothing wrong with you, Dean! Can't you see that?"
And it was Dean's turn to scoff at him. "When Roy healed me, he must've accidentally threw some bad mojo your way, Sammy, cause I'm pretty sure going blind."
Sam really hated what he did next.
Without thinking (which he was quite good at sometimes, only sometimes), he grabbed his brother by the shoulders and slammed him up against the wall. The way Dean's eyes widened, and the hollow of his neck more than visible when he sucked in air only made Sam feel all the worse, but he had to make his thick-headed brother see what he saw. It really didn't help that he could feel Dean's thin fingers grasping at his forearms.
"All my life, you've watched out for me. Every time I've gotten myself into a mess, you somehow managed to come along and get me out of it. Any time I needed you, Dean, you've always been there, no matter what. Does that sound like something a bad person would do?" When Dean didn't respond, he found his grip tightening, hating the way his fingers wrapped too far around his brother's arms. "All this hiding you do—this mask you put on—I see right through it, Dean! There's a damned good person in there—and a damned good brother. I love you, Dean, and I'm sick and tired of seeing you just pass yourself off like you mean nothing to anyone, because you mean something to me!
Do you know how hard it is to watch you get hurt over and over again? To watch our father—the man who was supposed to protect us from harm—punch you and kick you and make you run until you're about to drop? I mean, thank God I haven't had to see everything that happened, because I don't think I could take it. I really don't. But what I have seen? What I have seen is you doing the best you could for someone that doesn't deserve that kindness. Open you're eyes, Dean. There's nothing wrong with you!"
"Yes, there is!" Dean shouted back, the cords in his throat bulging as he raised his voice. There were still tears in his eyes, but none had fallen over the edge.
Yet.
"There is plenty wrong with me, Sammy!" he exclaimed, voice standing on shaky ground. "I'm slow, I'm clumsy, I get in the way-"
"No, Dean, you aren't and you don't!" And he shook his older brother once more, and he could feel Dean tense underneath his fingertips.
"And you call me thick-headed," Dean mumbled, shaking his head and glancing away for a moment. After a few seconds, he looked back up at Sam. "How can you not see it?" he asked, shaking his head. "How can you not see that I did deserve all that? All that and fucking more, Sammy! I've screwed up more times than I can count! Hell, if it wasn't for me, you wouldn't even be here now! You'd be happy, and on your way to becoming some hot shot lawyer! Face it, Sam, all I've done is drag you down, and that's all I'm gonna keep doing!"
Sam opened his mouth to retort, but stopped himself short. Dean appeared on the verge of hyperventilation; his face was red and splotchy, and his breath was coming out short and fast.
"Dean," he said, and his voice was quiet, gentle. "Whether you realize it or not, you're slowly killing yourself because of Dad. He's hurt you in ways no father should ever hurt their son, and he's put a tremendous amount of pressure on you that most men twice your age wouldn't be able to handle. But somehow, you have. Just once, open up your eyes, and stop listening to that man. See yourself for who you really are, Dean, and not this—this piece of garbage Dad's made you out to be."
"But-" and his voice truly was trembling now. "It is what I am, Sammy." A tear escaped his hold and rolled silently down his cheek. "That's what I am, and always have been. Even to you," he added quietly, shrugging out of his little brother's grasp.
"Dean-"
"Just remember—you left. You discarded me like I was nothing, and left me with him. And eventually, he got sick of taking care of this piece of trash, and he left too. So save your 'you're the best brother in the world' bullshit, and quit worrying about me, cause I'm not." His words hung throughout the air as he grabbed his jacket that was draped across one of the motel chairs.
"One day, Dean..."
He was almost at the door when he turned back around, gaze on the floor before traveling back towards his little brother. "Yeah, save it, Sam. Just save it," and with that, he exited the room, leaving the brunette alone with his thoughts and a blossoming headache.
A/N – Once again, apologies for the long wait. I still can't thank you all enough for sticking with this story for so long. MANY THANKS to HPSmallCharm29, dandy44, babyreaper, Glades of Grey, weedom, renniespice, Sarah, MysteryMadchen, M J Azilem, kissacazador, CrazyDreamin', melitta4ever, and all those that have favorited this story or are following it. Thank you all again so much, and I hope the chapter sufficed.