Ye be warrrrned, there be a fair few f-bombs near the end :) I got really into Dean's head in this one and I may have gotten carried away
The first thing Sam does when he follows Dean into the room is laugh. Dean looks back over his shoulder, confused, but Sam just shakes his head and continues to chuckle at some inside joke that Dean's clearly not yet part of.
"What?" he asks, smiling, but he hears the notes of defensiveness in his own voice.
"Just … this place," Sam shrugs and gestures around the room. "Nice digs for a change."
Dean takes a glance around the room, and yeah okay, it is a lot nicer then their usual standards (although often enough they're in dives so crappy even hookers wouldn't turn tricks in, so he's not sure the word 'standards' even belongs in that sentence) . There's a fluffy, white quilt on the enormous four-poster bed, accompanied by at least ten squishy looking pillows. Dean kind of can't wait to sleep there, but he also has the sudden urge to take a running leap onto it just to ruin how stupidly pristine it looks. The carpet isn't stained and the wallpaper is flowery and wouldn't look out of place in an 80-year-old woman's kitchen, but it isn't peeling and there are no crappily plastered patch spots. There's a burgundy couch in the corner by the TV that still appears to be in possession of all its stuffing and doesn't look like a mass homicide took place on it like the one at that last place – Dean shudders a bit as he remembers fabric ripped all to hell and covered in crusty, dark red stains that he was almost positive were blood. Dean can't see into the bathroom from where he's standing, but he's sure if he looked he'd find a sink with no rust stains or water that runs brown at first, and a shower that he could spend hours in with Sam and the hot water tank wouldn't dream of running out until they'd enjoyed every last bit of each other.
So yeah, it's a nice place, really nice, but that doesn't explain why Sam's still snickering away to himself as he drops his duffle bag down onto the table.
"So what?" Dean asks brazenly, even though he knows it's been at least a minute since Sam's comment.
"So nothing." Sam twists around at the waist and flashes Dean a white-toothed smile. "Just, I mean it's like you got us a fancy room so we'd have nice place to yell at each other. It's just funny, that's all."
"Oh I – I didn't – I just thought – " Dean splutters, for some reason feeling a strong need to defend himself. "I thought it'd be … it's not that stupid, is it?"
"It's not stupid at all." Sam shrugs again and glances around. "Kind of reminds me of that place in Connecticut, except without all the creepy dolls."
Dean snorts, and before he can stop himself he's saying "And maybe this time you won't get drunk and beg me to kill you," and then he's wishing it were possible to kick himself in the face. Idiot.
"No promises," Sam returns easily; his tone still light and the smile is still frozen on his face but the sparkle went out in his eyes the second Dean spoke.
It's so subtle that if Dean didn't know Sam so well he wouldn't even notice, but he does know Sam that well and he really wishes he hadn't just said that. They're supposed to be mending fences here, not bringing up dark periods from their past that neither of them want to think about! Stupid, stupid, stupid. But sometimes Dean's big mouth is too quick for his brain and now it's out there, floating between them like a balloon of tension. Dean's not sure what else to do so he shrugs out of his jacket and digs his hands into one of the pockets, pretending to be looking for something but aware that he's probably not fooling Sam even a little bit.
Sam's always been able to see right through him.
"I'm gonna take a shower," Sam says after a minute, fixing Dean with a quick smile that doesn't quite make it to his eyes and then moving toward a door at the other end of the room that's probably the bathroom.
"Want some company?" Dean asks suggestively, his brain apparently on autopilot now and just spitting out every stupid thing it can possibly think of.
Sam stops short and turns back around, and this time his grin is genuine. "Aren't we supposed to be fighting?"
Dean huffs and scratches absently at the back of his neck. "No we're … I don't know, making up I guess?"
Sam nods and his eyes glitter in amusement, and Dean's pretty sure he's never seen anything so beautiful. It's been way, way too long since Sam's looked so cheerful.
"Well we should get to it then, I hear make-up sex is fantastic," Sam declares dramatically, beaming like headlights. "I'll be five minutes."
Dean heaves a fake put-upon sigh and mutters "Yeah, okay," in mock disappointment, and Sam leans in and kisses the corner of Dean's mouth before he disappears into the bathroom. Dean runs a hand over his face and blows out another breath. He rolls his shoulders and tosses his head back and forth a few times, trying to shake the tension out of his body. He can hear a creaking coming from behind the door that separates him from Sam; sounds like shower nozzles being twisted, and then a few seconds later the door opens and Sam steps back into the room, brushing his hair back from where it's fallen into his face.
"I think the shower's busted."
"Oh. Do, uh, do you want me to get us a different room?"
Sam shakes his head and flops down onto the bed. "No, it's fine. I don't smell that bad, do I?"
Dean laughs a little and shakes his head. "You don't smell bad."
Pretty damn far from it, he doesn't need to say out loud. He's actually really digging the way Sam smells right now.
"Alright!" Sam sits back up and claps his hands together. "Let's get this show on the road."
Dean nods and tries to smile, but suddenly there's bile burning the back of his throat. How can Sam be so calm about this? Why isn't he freaking out like Dean is? Yeah, Dean means for this to be them 'working things out', but doesn't Sam realize how easily this could go the other way and break them? But Sam's probably right; better to just get this over with, knowing them it's gonna get out of control fast and end up taking them all night. Oh joy.
"Okay, well, first I, uh …" He draws in and then blows out a shaky breath before he continues. Sam is not gonna be happy about this. "I want you to tell me about what happens when you're detoxing."
Oh yeah, Sam's definitely not happy. His whole face clouds over so fast it's almost comical; his mouth drawing into a thin line and his eyes turning dull and gray. It's like Sam's bitch face mixed with that kicked puppy look that just breaks Dean's heart.
"Dean … no."
"I need you to tell me," Dean says firmly. The big brother in him is screaming like a maniac in his head; screaming at him to hug Sam and tell him it's okay, and that he doesn't have to do this – doesn't have to relive such fresh, obviously painful memories. But he can't back down; he has to know. He didn't make Sam tell him last time, which means Sam's spent nearly a year dealing with those memories alone.
"It's over now, let's just leave it," Sam pleads. "I know how much this whole thing hurts you, I do, but please, let's just let this one go."
"We can't do that, Sammy." Dean's voice breaks on his little brother's nickname. "I know it sucks, but we have to do this, we have to get everything out or it's just gonna keep building and festering until it destroys us."
Sam rubs his knuckles into his eyes. "Dean, I just … I mean, why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you even want to know? I don't wanna talk about it, and you … it'll only make you feel worse. So what would be the point?"
"Because we need to fix this!" Dean cries, his arms flailing helplessly by his sides. "You and me – it's been different, wrong. For a long time, longer than I thought. And it's been killing me, Sam, but until what you said last night I never realized how much more it's been killing you."
"Last night?" Sam looks genuinely confused. "Did we talk last night?"
"When you – you don't remember?"
Sam shakes his head.
"I guess you were kinda half asleep. You … you asked me not to call you Sammy."
"I've asked you not to call me Sammy a million times," Sam says flatly.
"Yeah, when you were a kid," Dean reasons, "but it's been years since … and this time was different. You said something about me hating you, and that you didn't deserve to be my Sammy anymore. And god, that's – "
Dean's windpipe closes up a little as a wave of emotion hits him hard in the chest.
"That isn't okay. At all," Dean continues, trying his best to keep his voice steady. "You're not perfect but you will always be my Sammy, and if you ever thought even for a second that wasn't true then we have a serious problem."
Sam is quiet for what feels to Dean like a long time. He's leaned over so his elbows are resting on his knees, and his hands are clasped together so tightly that his knuckles are turning white. Dean can't see his face because the way his head is hanging hides it behind too-long bangs, but he's never needed to see Sam's expression to know exactly what he's feeling. Those clenched arms and hunched shoulders speak for themselves.
"Every fear I've ever had comes to life and everyone I've ever loved shows up to tell me exactly how much I've let them down."
Sam's quiet voice startles Dean just a bit, like maybe he wasn't really expecting his brother to give in and tell him.
"What?" he asks, his voice suddenly raspy and weak.
"That's what happens," Sam continues, still focusing his gaze on his hands. "You wanted to know, so … there is it."
Dean watches Sam intently for a few moments, stuck between hoping he'll keep going and hoping he won't say another word. Dean spent five excruciating hours listening to Sam in what sounded like unbearable pain and fear and Dean's really not sure he's gonna be able to handle hearing about it in any kind of detail. At least not without breaking and pulling Sam into the bed and promising him over and over that he'll never let this happen again. It doesn't matter how many times Sam insists that it isn't Dean's fault – it is. He's the one who jumped at the chance to go after Famine; he's the one who put Sam in the position to relapse. God, what he did is practically like letting an alcoholic loose in a liquor store. He's the older brother – it's his job to protect Sam from things like this! And he didn't.
"Sam …" Dean begins.
"There's torture too," Sam interrupts as if he didn't hear Dean speak. "Like, the strapped to a table with chains and leather, getting carved up to pieces kind of torture. I mean, I know it's not real, but … it feels real. At the time."
Dean really wishes he could say he's surprised by that, but honestly he suspected as much. The way Sam screams and begs for it to stop, that definitely sounded like someone being tortured to Dean, even from the floor above. And he should have done everything in his power to keep Sam from ever having to go through that. Dean's voice has completely given out on him at this point, so he walks slowly toward the bed and sits beside Sam. He really wants to take Sam's hand or something, any little gesture that would say 'I'm here, Sammy', but the way Sam tenses and then shifts his body away from Dean's – a really, really horrible idea pops into Dean's head that he can't believe he never considered before.
"Is it …" Dean pauses. He isn't totally sure he wants to know the answer to the question that burns like acid inside his chest, but then again, how could he ever live with himself if the answer was yes and he never even asked, never tried to make it right?
He takes a deep breath. "Is it ever … me?"
When Sam finally looks up he seems confused and oh god, Sam, please understand what I mean because Dean's positive he doesn't have the strength to actually say the words out loud. But Sam's eyebrows are scrunched together and he's shaking his head a little and shit he doesn't know and Dean's gonna have to say it.
"Am I ever, the one, who's …" he gestures vaguely and then looks away, his face hot and ashamed, but something finally clicks in Sam.
"The one who's doing the torturing?" Sam asks loudly.
Dean closes his eyes. It hurts to even hear Sam say the words.
"Dean, no!" Sam cries, inching a bit closer and forcing Dean to meet his eyes. "Of course you aren't. You wouldn't ever hurt me, why would you even think that?"
Dean wishes he could be as sure about that as Sam is, but he isn't, and the one word that keeps bouncing around in his head is the reason why not – Hell. He wouldn't have been surprised if an image of him had been the one torturing Sam in his hallucination. It wouldn't be the first time he's kicked Sam's ass over this addiction. Shit, it wouldn't even be the second.
"Dean, look at me."
Reluctantly, he does.
"I know what you did in Hell," Sam says gently, reading Dean's mind. "But I also know you. I don't care how many people you hurt down there, we both know that you'd die before you'd hurt me. I mean, you've clocked in the face a few times, when I was being an idiot and I deserved it," Sam adds, his eyes smiling, "but you'd never really hurt me. Not like that."
"Yeah," Dean mutters.
"Sometimes it's Alastair, sometimes it's Ruby, but it's never you, do you hear me? Never," Sam says, slowly and emphatically, and he sounds so certain that Dean's really tempted to believe him.
Sam scoots closer still and takes Dean's face in his hands, staring into Dean's eyes, searching. Then he leans in and kisses Dean, slow and warm, and Dean meets him there, loving when Sam hums and slides his tongue along Dean's bottom lip. God, Dean wants more than anything to just get lost in that kiss; it's been such a long time since he and Sam have been like this – talking honestly and actually acting like they love each other, not just quick, rough fucks whenever they're horny or riled up from a hunt. It feels like forever since Dean's allowed himself to be vulnerable like this; trusting that if he falls apart Sam will be there to pick up the pieces. Because for a long time, he didn't trust Sam. But it exhausts him to carry everything by himself all the time, and he wants to let Sam back in; to get things back to how it was before all the crap that's come between them. And Dean knows if they're ever going to get back to that, they need to lay everything out on the table, everything. So even though right now he'd love to just lose himself in lust and take Sam, gentle and loving, he can't. Not yet. He needs to force them to keep talking.
He plants his hands firmly on Sam's shoulders and pushes him back enough to detach their mouths. Dean's about to attempt explaining to Sam why they have to stop kissing, why they have to keep talking, but Sam seems to understand anyway. He nods a little and waits for Dean to take a few deep breaths and collect his thoughts. Sam just about shut Dean's brain down with that kiss.
"Do you see me?" Dean asks after a minute, dreading the answer to this question just as much as the last one, but once again he just has to know.
Sam sighs and purposely doesn't meet Dean's eyes. "Yeah."
He'd suspected that much too. "And I … I tell you that you've let me down? Like the others do?"
"Dean, do you … do you understand what's happening when I'm down there?" Sam asks slowly; cautiously.
"I … not really, I guess." Dean shrugs.
"The demon blood, I know you're gonna hate me saying this, but it makes me feel powerful, indestructible. Like nothing can touch me. So when we have to get it out of me … it kind of, turns on me and does the exact opposite. Instead of making me feel strong and safe, it – it's like it brings out everything that scares me."
Dean nods slowly. "Okay … I guess that makes sense. What's your point?"
"That I – yeah, I do see you sometimes," Sam says carefully, "and you tell me that I'm a monster and you hate me, and you wish you'd never come to get me from Stanford, but Dean, you have to know, none of that is about you, okay? It's all me, it's about my insecurities. You haven't done anything wrong."
Dean blinks. "How can you say that? If you think that I hate you and I regret ever coming to get you, obviously I must've done something wrong!"
"No, Dean, that's just it – I don't think that you hate me," Sam insists. "It's … just … argh, I don't know how to explain it!"
He slides off the bed and paces across the room, rubbing his temples like he has a headache.
"Try," Dean says, and it comes out sounding more like an order than he meant it to.
Luckily Sam doesn't seem to notice; he just exhales heavily and nods, but doesn't turn back around. "All that stuff, I know it's not … it isn't about me thinking you hate me. It's about me being scared that one day you're going to leave me again."
"What? Sam – !"
"I know, Dean," Sam interrupts. "You made the deal to save me and you didn't have a choice, I know all that. I didn't say it was a rational fear, okay? It's just … how I feel."
Dean is torn halfway between livid and heartbroken, but he somehow manages to clench his jaw and keep his objections to himself. He promised himself that he was going to give Sam a chance to explain before he jumps in and starts trying to fix it.
Sam sighs again. "I know what it's like to live without you and sometimes … Dean, sometimes I'm so terrified I'll lose you again that it's hard to breathe. So the things I imagine you saying to me down there, it's just how that fear, I don't know, manifests itself."
Dean can feel his chest tighten. Being terrified of losing the person you love … that's a feeling Dean is all too familiar with. And it's a horrible feeling. There were moments last night when Dean was tempted to drive a knife through the soft spot on his skull just so he could get away from that feeling.
Sam turns around slowly and faces Dean with sad, pleading eyes. "It isn't your fault."
Dean nods, but can't help thinking that yeah, it kinda is his fault. At least partly.
"C'mere," he says quietly.
Sam looks a little hesitant, and that smarts a lot more than it probably should, but after a moment he moves back towards the bed and sits beside Dean.
"I have to ask you something and I need you to tell me the truth, even if you think it's gonna hurt me, okay?"
"Okay," Sam agrees cautiously.
Dean takes a deep breath. "Are you … afraid that I might die? Or that I'll leave you, like … by choice."
"I … both."
Damn it. To be honest, it's the answer Dean was expecting, but that doesn't make it sting any less. He doesn't say anything for a minute – can't say anything for a minute. Or maybe two. He would never leave Sam, never, and the fact that Sam thinks he would is so many kinds of wrong that it makes Dean's head spin. But Sam's got that lost puppy look all over his face again and Dean's always been powerless to that, since the day Sam was born. It's the look Sam wears when something's really wrong and he's silently begging his big brother to make it okay again. Dean couldn't resist if he tried; his 'big brother' mode is so deep-rooted in his personality that it's a completely uncontrollable reflex.
"Sam, you – we're family, you know? That means something to me. Means we stick together even when things suck." Dean smiles weakly and reaches over to brush some hair out of Sam's eyes. "I can't exactly promise that I'm not gonna die, but as long as I'm still kickin' there isn't a damn thing you could do to get rid of me, okay?"
Sam swallows thickly.
"Say it, Sam. Tell me you believe that I'm not going anywhere."
Sam takes a deep, shaky breath, but he nods. "Okay. I believe you."
He still looks pretty miserable and Dean wants to wipe that sorrowful look off Sam's face, to cover his beautiful little brother's face in kisses until it forgets how to look sad ever again, but instead Dean forces himself to plugging along.
"What does everyone else say? The other people you see down there," Dean clarifies when Sam looks confused.
"Oh," Sam mumbles, closing his eyes and rubbing at his forehead again. "They, well, I see Dad. And he says … pretty much what you'd expect him to say. That he's never forgiven me for going away to school, that I was never good enough for him, or for you. And I see myself, when I was maybe ten? And he – I … I talk about how I've ruined our life, how I shouldn't have lied to you because bad things happen when I keep secrets from you, like you used to tell me all the time when I was a kid."
Dean's trying to stay still and quiet and just let Sam get it all out, but suddenly he can't help himself. The tone in Sam's voice is one Dean recognizes – it's all that self-loathing that he himself feels every single day, and he knows how much it hurts, so he moves in a bit closer to his dejected-looking brother and puts a hand between his shoulder blades. He doesn't rub or squeeze or anything like he wants to; just lets his hand rest on Sam's back and hopes that the warmth and weight lets Sam know that it's okay.
"And Jess," Sam continues, unenthusiastically scratching at a spot on his knee. "I see her on fire … and she says that it's my fault she's dead, that she would have been better off if she'd never even met me."
Dean really wishes he could tell Sam that one isn't true, but it kinda is. There are a lot of people in the world who'd have been better off if they'd never met him or Sam. Dean doesn't know what it's like to have your girlfriend killed by a demon who was really after you, but he knows how he felt when they lost Jo – how empty and devastated and worthless he felt because she got hurt trying to protect him. He wasn't in love with her, but he definitely loved her and a part of him died when she did, so Jessica's death must've made Sam feel a hundred times worse than Jo's death made Dean feel … and Dean doesn't even want to think about how broken that means Sam must've been. They never really talked about it, then, but now Dean's beginning to think maybe they should have. Dean tried a few times to get Sam to open up about it but Sam resisted, so after a while Dean just left him to deal with it on his own. Looking back now, that feels like it was probably a mistake. Dean probably should've tried harder.
"The worst one, though? Is Mom." Sam's eyes are sparkling with tears now and his voice is wavering a little.
"You – see Mom?" Dean's almost afraid to ask. There's no way this is going anywhere good.
"She … she says that she hates me," Sam whispers brokenly. "Because of what you and me … do."
Oh god. Dean doesn't have any idea what he could possibly say to make that one better. Because for all he knows, it could be true. The mom he barely got to know but loves so much, the one he and Dad risked everything to avenge, could very well be sitting up in heaven looking down on him and Sam and hating them for what they've become. Maybe even wishing she'd never had them in the first place.
"She says that we're disgusting, and that I'm selfish for doing this to you."
"You're not doing anything to me, Sam, you know that."
Sam sniffs and looks away, but not quick enough for Dean to miss seeing a few tears spill over his watery eyelashes. But then Sam just shakes his head and doesn't offer any further explanation; like it hurts too much to force the words out.
"Sam … " Dean reaches his other hand over and squeezes Sam's thigh.
"She said 'Dean's already been to Hell for you once, are you really so selfish that you're willing to send him back,'" Sam grinds out, so low and quiet that if Dean wanted to he could almost dare to hope he heard wrong.
But deep down, he knows he didn't. And it's like a white hot knife right through his sternum, cutting off his air supply and turning his whole body to ice.
"Please tell me you know that isn't true," he whispers, trying to tug Sam in close but Sam's tensing again and pushing Dean away.
"I need a minute," he says shakily.
"Sam – "
"No!" Sam snaps suddenly, pulling completely away from Dean and standing up. He wipes at the tears on his face roughly, like they've offended him by being there, and then stalks back toward the bathroom.
"Sam, c'mon, don't do this!" Dean's aware that he's pretty damn close to begging, something he usually has way too much pride for, but he's way beyond the point of control. "I don't care if you need to cry, or – "
"I didn't want to talk about it! Because I knew this was gonna happen!" Sam fires back, whipping back around and shooting daggers at Dean with his eyes. "So forgive me if I'm not gonna cry into your shoulder like I'm a fucking little kid!"
"Why the fuck not?" Dean cries indignantly, standing up too and squaring his shoulders. "I'm your big brother, Sam, if – "
"Dean, stop it." Sam's voice is dangerously quiet now and he's got his don't-fuck-with-me face on; a pretty clear warning to Dean that he means it. "If you use 'I'm your big brother' as an excuse to manipulate me into doing what you want one more time, I swear to God … "
He trails off with a growl and then heaves a giant, frustrated sigh. Dean holds back a few hundred angry retorts that are all fighting to come out at once, because Sam is possibly the most stubborn person on the planet when he wants to be and Dean can tell this is definitely not the moment to dig in his own heels, as much as it hurts to hear Sam accuse him of being manipulating. Which, alright, maybe is a little bit true, but still.
"Just … I need … a minute, okay?" Sam holds up a hand to indicate he's not willing to negotiate this one, and then storms off into the bathroom and Dean can hear him locking the door.
God-fucking-damnit! Dean could just scream and throw things and maybe take a machete to all those damn pillows; sitting there looking all pretty and white and so god damn perfect it should be illegal. Now his perpetually screwed up life is being mocked by pillows, for fuck's sake. Great, just bloody fantastic. This isn't how today was supposed to play out! Sam was supposed to tell him about the withdrawal and Dean was supposed to soothe him and say how hard it is to listen to it and how happy he is that Sam's safe and that it's over, and then they were supposed to – he … alright, fine, Dean has no idea what he was expecting would happen. But not this! Not Sam mad and hurt and refusing to let Dean help him!
Why should he? You never let him help you.
Dean's fully aware that it makes absolutely no sense, but he could have sworn it was his reflection in the mirror that just said that. And now the smarmy asshole is smirking back at him because they both know he's right, whether or not either of them will admit it – he never does let Sam help him, so why should he expect anything different from Sam? Dean flops down onto the bed and throws an arm over his eyes. One more crack outta that dick in the mirror and he's gonna smash it into a million pieces with his bare hands.
"Friggin' jerk," he mutters. And now he's talking to himself. Well that's just … fuck.
PS - Three pages of reviews! That's a record for me! Thanks lovelies! I send every one of you a telepathic signal for a dream tonight of Jared, Jensen and Misha shirtless and wet :) Enjoy!