Thank you guys for your reviews and kind words! Hopefully this chapter will clear things up a bit as to what's happening. The first was deliberately vague - I didn't want to give too much away!

THEN

"Should we split up?" Sam questioned. They were standing in front of the Dunne residence, a few hours later. It was quiet and dark, the moon shining bright in the sky. The last of the lights on the street had just gone out.

"Yeah, we'll cover more ground that way," Dean said. "I'll take Dunne, you take the other one."

Sam nodded and turned to leave... and almost walked right into Crowley. "Careful there, Moose," Crowley said with his customary grin.

"What do you want?" Sam asked with a resigned sigh. Crowley turning up randomly wasn't even a surprise anymore – it just happened, like bad hair days and running out of gas in the middle of nowhere surrounded by cornfields. Not a pleasant occurrence, but one that was more or less inevitable. Just part of their lives now.

"Your help," Crowley replied. "Hello, Squirrel," he greeted Dean, who nodded back at him, looking irritated at the nickname but thankfully not choosing to quarrel about it now.

"With what?" he asked, a tad more aggressive than was normal.

"Rowena," Crowley told them, saying the name like it gave him a bad taste in his mouth. "She's going around wreaking havoc. This case you're on? That's her."

"She's doing this?" Sam asked incredulously. "Why? Isn't this a bit below her pay grade?"

"She wants your attention," Crowley told them sullenly. "She's been insufferable about it ever since she found out you're the Men of Letters."

"Well, she's got it," Dean muttered. "So, all those dead husbands and crying women... that's Rowena?"

Crowley nodded. "Just like Mother," he said, sounding disgusted. "She's killed the men for being unfaithful, and now she's punishing the women for driving their husbands away. Making them feel the deaths more."

"Hexbags?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. You wanna get rid of the curse, you destroy the hexbags."

"Well, that's simple then," began Dean, but Crowley cut him off.

"With holy oil," he finished.

"Holy oil, why?" questioned Sam.

"She's a powerful witch, so simply burning the hexbags won't do a thing. And she's got to make sure I can't come along and ruin her handiwork," Crowley explained. "Not a lot of folks have access to holy oil. You two, on the other hand, do. So get to it."

"Okay, but how do we stop her?" Dean asked. "No point in getting rid of the hexbags if she can just make more."

"Leave her to me," Crowley told him. "Just deal with this."

Before either of them could say a word more, he had disappeared. "Bastard," complained Dean. "He didn't even tell us where she put the frigging hexbags."

Sam sighed, his breath condensing in front of his face. "We've got enough oil in the trunk for the two hexbags," he told Dean. "After that, we're going to have to find a way to stop her before she plants anymore."

"What a bitch," grumbled Dean as he opened the trunk of the Impala and brought up the false bottom. "Makes me feel bad for Crowley. I have no idea how he survived her."

Sam snorted. "Makes me grateful that even though you're pretty bad, you'll never be as irritating as her."

"Oh, blow me," Dean retorted, shoving Sam with his free hand, the other holding the jug of holy oil. Sam just grinned wider as he took the jug and poured half of it into a plastic water bottle.

It really wasn't a lot. They were going to have to be very careful not to waste any. They could always ask Castiel for more... if only Castiel would pick up the phone or answer their prayers. They hadn't seen him in weeks. Probably he was off doing angel stuff, whatever that happened to be at the current point in time. It was always something new with the angels, and the Winchesters had better things to do than keep track. Castiel had it all handled anyway.

"All right, I'll see you in a bit," Dean said when Sam was done. "Meet me at the motel. And Sam?" he added. "Be careful."

Sam nodded seriously. "Yeah, you too," he replied. "Listen – if she's here... don't kill her, okay?" His gaze dropped to the edge of the Mark just visible, peeking out from under Dean's rolled-up sleeve. "Crowley said he would deal with her."

"Yeah, I know, Sammy," Dean said. "Don't worry about me."

They both set off, Dean towards the Dunne residence and Sam towards the Hill place. The victims didn't live far from each other – just another small town thing – so Sam didn't have to jog for long before he arrived. Picking the lock was a matter of a few seconds, and he crept in silently, gun at the ready just in case.

Mrs. Hill was off visiting her mother, so the house was empty. The Sheriff had called to tell him that in the evening, and asked if Sam had any more questions. Apparently the poor woman was too distraught to live on her own for the time being. As for Mrs. Dunne, she was staying with her son and his wife.

Good thing, too. Someone who cried that much at the slightest mention of their deceased husband – which, okay, understandable, but like Dean said, that was a lot of tears from both women – shouldn't be left alone. Plus it gave them the opportunity to look through the houses.

The living-room was devoid of any hexbags, so Sam tried the kitchen. Nothing. It took him fifteen minutes to look through the first floor, and then he advanced to the second. The guest bedroom and bathroom were okay, and so were the old kids' rooms. That left just Mrs. Hill's room.

The door was ajar, Sam noted as he got closer to it. Gun pointed in front of him with one hand, he pushed it open, rapidly looking through the room for any threat. Nothing materialized though, and he relaxed marginally.

Something was off, though. It didn't smell right in here. Sam knew this odor, unfortunately – stale meat and blood, mixed with various bodily fluids, and his breath caught in his throat. Mrs. Hill was with her mother, right? Right?

He made his way towards the smell, gun at the ready. It seemed to be coming from the closet, and sure enough when he opened it Mrs. Hill's disemboweled corpse fell out, falling at his feet with a sick muffled thud. Her eyes were open and unseeing, horror-wide and bloodshot. Sam knelt down and put two fingers to her skin where it wasn't caked with blood. It was warm enough for him to be able to tell that she'd died not too long ago. Someone had paid her a visit between the time after Sam and Dean had talked to her, and now.

Sam wondered if there was any point in finding the hexbag now. Mrs. Hill was already dead. Still, the house would be sold and he didn't want to come back here at some point in the future and find out that the hexbag was causing trouble for the new occupants. Sighing silently to himself, he straightened and resumed his search.

He found it in Mrs. Hill's bottom-most dresser drawer, nestled between her lingerie. The garments looked like they hadn't been used in a long time, and Sam was reminded once more that her sex life had been unsatisfactory. Made sense that she wouldn't have spotted the hexbag, then, since she would have had no reason or wish to open that drawer.

A sudden thought occurred to him just as he set the hexbag aflame, and immediately he got his cell phone out of his pocket and to his ear. "Dean," he said the second Dean picked up. "Dean, she's dead. Mrs. Hill."

"So is Mrs. Dunne," Dean told him sombrely. "Did you find the hexbag?"

"Yeah, dealt with it," Sam replied. "You?"

"Yeah."

"Dean, I think it's a trap," Sam said. "I think Rowena wanted us to come. Crowley said she wanted our attention. This is her way of getting it."

There is a pause as Dean considers this. "Fuck," he whispers finally, summing up their feelings on the situation in one word. "Sam, get out of there, okay? Meet me back at the motel. Hurry."

"Okay, but you too," Sam said quickly. "If she finds you, Dean–"

"I won't kill her," Dean finished, sounding annoyed. "I heard you the first time, Sam." He hung up without so much as a "see you soon."

Sam glared at the phone for a moment before pocketing it and making his way downstairs, gun still held out ready in front of him. He'd just gotten to the living-room when the lights flickered on, and he found himself standing face to face with Rowena.

"Sam Winchester," she said, and she sounded positively delightful.

"What do you want?" Sam snapped, pointing the gun at her face. "Why did you kill her?"

"Why, to get your attention, of course!" Rowena said, smiling gleefully at him. "And it worked, didn't it?"

Sam cocked the gun.

"Oh, do get rid of that nasty thing," Rowena said, dismissively snapping her fingers. The gun flew out of Sam's hands. With a flick of her wrist she sent him hurtling through the air, landing hard against the wall and having the breath knocked out of him. He tried to get up and found he couldn't move – she had him immobilized.

"What do you want?" he repeated, aware that his anger and irritation was leaking into his tone. He didn't care.

"I want to make a deal," she replied, walking closer to him and leaning against a couch, looking down at him as she talked. "It has come to my attention that you've got a great deal of witchy knowledge locked away in that bunker of yours. And that you've got the Book of the Damned. I want to buy them from you."

"Yeah?" Sam asked, glaring at her. "What are you going to pay me with?"

She smiled wider, her expression turning smug, like she knew he wouldn't be able to resist. "I can remove the Mark from your brother's arm."

"Bullshit," was Sam's immediate response, eyes narrowing in disbelief.

"Have some faith," she said, clicking her tongue. "The Mark is just a curse, Sam. And you know I'm the only one who can read the Book and get rid of it properly."

Sam wasn't sure if he should believe her or not. On one hand, she was an extremely powerful witch and he wouldn't have put it past her to have tracked down the Stynes and acquired the information required for the cure just so she could barter with it. On the other hand – powerful, evil witch. He also wouldn't have put it past her to double-cross him, kill him and Dean both and use the Book and the knowledge in the bunker to try and take over the world or something.

Well, as Bobby was so fond of eloquently stating, balls.

"How do I know you're not lying to me?" he asked, looking up at her smug face and wishing he could break it.

"You've just got to take my word for it," she sang happily. "What have you got to lose? Oh, wait." She giggled at her own joke, and the sound made his stomach turn.

It was no secret that he'd give up the world for Dean. They both knew it. Every monster out there that had heard of them knew it. Rowena took this fact and played it to her advantage, and now here they were, Sam pinned to the floor and Rowena towering over him, smiling, waiting for him to say something.

"Well?" she prompted.

"I'm not believing it till I see the cure," Sam told her, hoping to find a middle ground and hold it. "Cure him, and you can have the bunker." He hoped she had no way of finding out when a person lied to her – Sam had no intention of giving up his home to the bitch.

"Do you think I'm an idiot?" she asked rhetorically. "Sam, dear, I'm hundreds of years old. To me you're but a wee lad. Don't try to play me." There was an undercurrent of cold fury in her tone now.

"I'm just going along with your deal," Sam pointed out, ignoring how his pulse picked up at the detection of his lie, and hoping that if he kept bullshitting she would believe him. "Let me up. Show me the cure. If it works, you can have your whatever. If not, I will not hesitate to put a blade in your face."

"You don't get to call the shots," she said, but she flicked her wrist and the invisible weight on his body lifted, allowing him to stand and use his height to tower over her instead.

"Neither do you," he told her, voice low and dangerous. "If anything happens to my brother, Rowena, I will end you."

"It won't come to that," she said, looking affronted that he even dared to doubt her skills. "Meet me at the cemetery on the full moon, a week from now."

He snorted. "Really going for the dramatic effect, aren't you."

She sniffed haughtily. "I don't have to explain myself to the likes of you," was her testy answer, and then she was gone.

"Where were you?" asked Dean when Sam arrived at the motel, half an hour later.

"Got held up," Sam answered vaguely, heading for the shower. He really needed to pee.

"By?" Dean questioned, raising an eyebrow. He'd already showered, and now was sitting on his bed with his back against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him. Sam deliberately didn't look at him, aiming for the bathroom door.

He'd almost made it when Dean made a sound of irritation and asked forcefully, "Sam, what or who held you up?"

The look on his face said quiet clearly that he was not going to let go of it until he had an answer. It was annoyance mixed in with concern but not a small amount of fondness, and God but that look was so familiar it hurt to see. Why did Dean always have that look on him when it came to Sam?

Sam sighed. "Rowena," he said. "She came at me. Wanted to, uh, make a deal." He said the last word with a certain amount of sarcasm.

Dean blinked at him. "Deal? What kind of deal?" he asked.

Sam shifted from one foot to the other, his bladder feeling fit to burst. "Dude, let me just pee and shower and I'll tell you, okay? Gimme ten minutes." To emphasize his point he raised his arms so Dean could see the sweat spots on his shirt.

Dean did, and he grimaced. "Fine, just hurry up," he said, reaching for his phone to keep himself occupied in the meanwhile.

Now that the adrenaline rush had worn off, Sam could feel his injuries plainly. He wasn't hurt much except from what he'd gotten when Rowena threw him around, but patches of skin still felt sore and some were already showing the discoloration typical of bruises. He sighed to himself. He'd had worse, but honestly this was getting so old.

Dean had managed to use up all the hot water, as per usual, but this time Sam felt that he honestly didn't have the energy to complain. Besides, cold water was nice too, especially after sweating so much. It felt refreshing, and he let it wash over his skin as he closed his eyes and tried to get his tense, wound up muscles to relax.

He got out of the shower fifteen minutes after he'd gotten in, and wrapped a towel around his waist after using it to dry out his hair as much as he could. Dean was still sprawled on his bed when Sam exited the bathroom, playing what looked suspiciously like–

"Dude, is that Candy Crush?" Sam asked incredulously, pausing in his walk to his bag.

"It passes the time," was Dean's defensive reply. Sam just chuckled at him and pulled on his boxers before tossing the towel to the side and hunting for something comfortable to sleep in.

"Dude, you look like shit," Dean said a moment later, and Sam looked up to find his brother watching him closely. "Did she hurt you?"

"Just tossed me about a bit," Sam answered nonchalantly, locating a pair of comfortable cotton slacks and pulling them on. "Nothing we haven't had before."

Dean nodded, but looked pissed off anyway. "When I get that bitch," he began.

"Dean," Sam interjected. "I'm fine, man, really. It's just a couple of bruises." He found a nice loose T-shirt and pulled it on, before toweling off his hair some more and getting into the unoccupied bed. He sprawled out just like Dean, stretching out and feeling himself relax into the mattress and soft but warm blanket. He let out an involuntary sound of deep satisfaction that made Dean chuckle quietly, before turning so he was lying on his side and facing his brother.

"Okay," Dean said when Sam had settled. He reached out into the space between their beds and turned off the dim lamp, so that they could only see each other silhouetted against the moonlight that came in through the net curtains on the small window. "Now tell me. What did the bitch want?"

"Like I said, she wanted to make a deal," Sam replied, before pausing. It felt kind of hot tonight, so he kicked his blanket off his feet and slung one leg over it. Dean watched patiently, that same annoyed expression with the undertone of affection on his face.

"You settled?" he finally asked when Sam stopped moving, sounding amused.

"Yeah," Sam said. "Okay, so – she says that she can get the Mark off you. No, just hear me out," he added when Dean opened his mouth, looking like he wanted to protest. "What she wants in return is the Book of the Damned, and the bunker."

"Hold on," interjected Dean. "Does she know we burned the Book?"

Sam didn't answer.

"Did we burn the Book?" Dean demanded. "Sammy, answer me!"

"I didn't, okay," snapped Sam defensively. "I couldn't. I couldn't just go on and set fire to the one thing that can save you, Dean, I couldn't do it."

Dean groaned. "C'mon, Sam, you know nothing good will come from that book!" he exclaimed, sounding frustrated.

"Except for the cure to the Mark," Sam shot back. "I don't care what it takes, Dean, I'm getting it off you, and I don't care what I have to do."

"Why?" asked Dean loudly. "Sammy, I've told you I'm good with it–"

"For how long?" demanded Sam, cutting him off. "Dean, it's not good enough, okay, I'm sorry but you can't hold it off forever! You saw what it did to Cain, Dean, I'm not letting that happen to you! I don't give a damn how you think you'll live with it, Dean, because I have seen firsthand what happens when it takes over, and I am not putting us through that again!" He was breathing hard when he finished, and glaring at Dean, though there was also a plea in his eyes.

Dean sighed to himself, heart hurting like it always did when he thought back to his stint as a demon. What he'd done, to others, to Sam... he wasn't sure he could ever atone. It had taken so long just for Sam to not be terrified of him anymore, for his nightmares to stop and for him to drop his guard around Dean again; and while Dean knew that this was a normal process and that Sam was slowly coming to terms with what had happened and would eventually trust him again when he felt ready, every single agonizing moment had still felt like he had set fire to their relationship with his own bare hands, like he might never get his brother back even though he knew Sam would never walk away from him.

And to go through all of it again would be unbearable. Sam wouldn't be able to take it, and neither would Dean. It would destroy them, ruin everything they shared... and that was if Dean didn't kill Sam first.

"All right," he finally conceded. "Okay, Sammy. I hear you."

Sam exhaled. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Dean confirmed. "I get it, okay? I do. But hey, Rowena wanting the Book I get. Why does she want the bunker?"

Sam looked relieved as he explained, "Apparently there's some knowledge on witchcraft stored in there that she's really interested in. So she wants to meet up next week in the cemetery."

"Sammy, it's a trap," Dean said immediately. "I'm calling it now, man, it's a trap and she's gonna fuck us up."

"We've walked into traps before and survived," Sam pointed out. "Besides, she won't do anything. She knows that she needs us to get her into the bunker, which we won't do if she can't get the Mark off."

"I don't have a good feeling about this," Dean declared. "Besides, I thought we decided I could live with the Mark. You know, in case it doesn't work."

"I didn't decide that, you did," Sam reminded him, looking annoyed at the same old argument. "And why, though? We have a chance at a cure. Look, just go with me on this. If it works, awesome. If it doesn't, we haven't lost anything. Either way, we're ganking her. She doesn't get to the bunker."

"Powerful, centuries-old witch," was Dean's short reply to that. "You think she won't anticipate that?"

"Of course she will," Sam said. "But look, we've got Cas, and even Crowley will work with us if it means getting rid of Rowena. We have an advantage."

"I don't know, Sammy," Dean said after a pause, during which he considered it all. "What if it goes sideways and I become a demon again?"

"Then I'll bring you back again," was Sam's determined reply, jaw set. "This is a really good chance, Dean, even if it's risky. Let's not waste the opportunity."

Dean still wasn't convinced, and it must have shown on his face. Sam sighed, and reached out across the space between the beds so that his fingers were lightly touching the back of Dean's hand. "I hate seeing you like this," he said quietly. "And I don't want you to become something you're not. Let me save you, Dean. Let me help. You can't carry your burdens alone. You know I'm right here for anything you want."

Dean didn't make a move to reciprocate Sam's gesture, but he didn't move his hand away either. "Sam," he said, voice low as well. "Look, I appreciate it, man. Really. But I don't want to get my hopes up and have them come crashing down. Worse than that, I don't want that to happen to you. I know you're trying, man, but if nothing comes of it..."

"I'll find something else," Sam finished, sounding determined again.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Dean sighed, but then he turned his hand so that it was covering Sam's. "Fine, I'll do it," he gave in. "But, Sam, if it doesn't work–"

"It will," Sam said stubbornly, his tone holding a challenge, but he was smiling at Dean. "Thank you," he whispered a minute or so later, withdrawing his hand and resting his arm on his own bed.

"Don't be dumb," Dean retorted with a snort, voice full of fond exasperation.

NOW

They arrive in town at the crack of dawn. Dean's bone-tired, and he can't stop imagining himself in a motel bed, wrapped up in a blanket with no one disturbing him until he's had his fill of sleep. Sam's awake as well, and looks just as tired. He's staring silently out of the window, watching the shrubs go by. Dean glances over at him surreptitiously once or twice, and tries to determine how best to deal with their situation.

"I'm not gonna burst into tears and sob to my heart's content, you know," Sam says wryly when he catches Dean looking for the fourth time. "Really, Dean. I'm fine."

"Never said you're not," Dean shrugs off nonchalantly. "Just concerned, man."

"Yeah, no, I get it," Sam assures him. "I do. And I know nothing I say will stop you from worrying, but I'm not kidding, man. I'm okay."

"Whatever you say, Sammy," Dean replies, and turns back to the road.

They stumble into their motel room half an hour later. Dean kicks off his shoes and collapses on the bed, nuzzling the pillow and letting out noises of satisfaction that sound almost orgasmic.

An abrupt burst of laughter makes him stop, and he looks up to see Sam standing by his own bed, outright laughing at him, and it's the most wonderful sound he's heard in a long, long time. It's such a 180 turn from his previous perpetually tired, sad demeanor that it catches Dean by surprise, and he finds himself staring unabashedly. Sam's cheeks and the tip of his nose are red, his entire face a shade of pink that Dean's not seen in such a long time that it almost feels like a punch to the gut. There are actual tears in his eyes, he is laughing loudly and openly, and while it's a bit of an overreaction to Dean's antics, it's still just so wonderful to hear.

It occurs to Dean that the curse extends to positive feelings as well. Makes sense. Sam hasn't had a single moment of happiness – or whatever comes close enough – for the past few weeks, but something about Dean groping his pillow must have set him off. Well, Dean's glad, even if all the laughter is at his expense. At least it's a good change from the tears and nightmares.

And – at the risk of sounding corny as all hell – Sam's laugh is such a beautiful sound.

"Okay, okay," he grins at Sam, unable to help the smile that spreads on his face. "You've had your fill, man."

"Oh man, you were like, rubbing your face all over the pillow!" laughs Sam, tears spilling over and going down his cheeks. "I should've made a video!"

"Nice, Sam, laugh at the man who drove all night," accuses Dean mock-seriously. "I thought you cared more about my comfort and well-being."

Sam just laughs harder, and Dean can't help it; he begins laughing too.

They only stop when they're both out of breath, faces red and splotchy, cheeks wet from tears of mirth. Sam takes off his own shoes and socks and finally gets into his bed, his grin transforming into a small smile. "That felt nice," he says.

"It did," Dean agrees. "Even though you decided to be a little bitch and laugh at me instead of literally anything else. I'm hurt, Sammy." He's pulling Sam's leg and they both know it.

Sam huffs, going along with it. "I laugh at whatever I find funny," he tells Dean. "Though I gotta admit, I had no idea I'd end up laughing this much."

"Yeah, I didn't think that happy things were included," Dean says. "But it's a good thing, eh, Sammy? Any time you feel down I'll just tickle you or something."

Tickling doesn't induce any strong emotion (other than annoyance, perhaps) and so won't fall into the curse parameters, but Sam appreciates the effort anyway. He smiles again at Dean. They can hear birds chirping outside, and the sun's up. There's sunlight streaming through the vaguely grimy window. "We have a couple hours before we have to get up," Sam says, and yawns. "Later, Dean."

"Mm, yeah. I'll wake you up," Dean says, and sets an alarm on his phone before closing his eyes, even though he knows he's not going to be able to sleep. At least Sam's already dozed off, though, so there's a small blessing right there.

He turns on his side and watches as Sam's face goes slack, body relaxing as he falls deeper into much-needed sleep. The light mood of earlier seems to have worked wonders – Sam's face is content in a way Dean hasn't seen lately. The last thing he sees before he falls asleep is the small smile on Sam's lips.

They wake up a little later than they're supposed to, but neither of them can find it within themselves to be displeased about that. Despite only having slept three or so hours, Dean feels rested and content, and Sam's demeanor tells him his brother feels the same.

They take turns showering and dress in comfortable silence, going through the practiced motions with the sort of blind ease you only had if you'd been doing something forever. Dean still watches Sam out of the corner of his eyes, though. And if Sam does the same he doesn't see it, but he's got a feeling Sam's watching him too.

"You know," he says twenty minutes later, sitting across from Sam at the corner booth in a no-name diner, "you don't have to keep an eye on me all the time."

Sam snorts. "And you're not doing the same?"

"Well, you've got a curse on you," Dean points out. "I'm worried about you."

"And you're borderline drunk 24/7," retorts Sam. "I'm worried too."

"I'm not drunk right now," Dean counters.

"You will be before the day's out," Sam predicts.

"And you'll have cried at least once."

"I can't help that. The drinking, though – that you can control, Dean."

"I am controlling it, Sammy," Dean assures him. "I'm okay, man. I've got it."

"No you haven't," sighs Sam, and great, the corners of his mouth are pulling down. "You're gonna drink yourself to liver cirrhosis. I just... you know I'm right here, Dean. I wish you'd talk to me instead of trying to drink your problems away."

There is a lump in Dean's throat. Sam's right, of course he is. It's just that– "Sam, I can't do that to you. You've got enough on your plate."

"And so do you," Sam points out, still looking sad as hell. "Dean, we don't have to do this alone. Any of it. I'm sick of us just being in our corners and dealing with all of it by ourselves. I don't wanna do that anymore. I wanna help you."

"Sam, how can you help me when you start crying a minute into any conversation we have?" questions Dean softly. "Don't get me wrong, man, I know you mean well, but c'mon, how's this supposed to work, with the way you are now?"

"I'm getting better," argues Sam, though his tone is just as soft. "You know I am. I'll be back to normal soon."

"I know you are, Sammy. I'm just sayin' – until that happens, I don't want to dump more on you than you can take."

"You're not," Sam assures him, a hint of a plea in his voice. "Dean, I can handle it. So what if I'm not a hundred percent okay? Are you? We're both messed up, man, the least we can do is share the burden, make it easier to deal with."

"Sammy–"

"Look, I'm not asking you to completely stop drinking. I'm just saying, maybe ease up on it? It's not gonna help you, Dean. You're just gonna bury it all and pretend nothing ever happened and then, sooner or later, you're gonna blow up, and it'll be me in the blast zone." Sam sounds imploring, beseeching eyes fixed on Dean.

Dean sighs. Again, Sam's right. This has happened way too many times in the past, and he's not going to deny it's becoming a pattern. Something happens, he represses, he drinks, he explodes and every time, Sam is the one who has to deal with it. And currently, Sam's in no condition to do that. It has to stop.

"You're not gonna let this go until I agree, are you?" he asks with a small, wry smile.

Sam returns it. "Damn straight I'm not."

"All right," Dean says, giving in, noting the way Sam's eyes light up with hope. "I'll try my best, Sammy, but I'm not gonna promise that nothing will happen anyway, okay?"

Sam nods. "No, yeah, I get it," he says, sounding relieved.

The waitress arrives with their breakfast, and immediately both of them dig in. The air between them seems different now, less charged. And even though Dean hadn't felt it before, it feels like a load has just slid off his shoulders, leaving him lighter, a little bit less tense.

For the first time it feels like maybe, if they just try hard enough and stick together like they always have... they'll survive.

Thoughts? Feedback? You know the drill :D

Love,
Remy x