So I have changed my mind, now there will be 2 more chapters. This one ran away from me a little so I'm splitting it up. (Also, congrats to kayter for being my 69th review. *giggles*)
There are wide eyes staring back at him out of the time-smudged mirror that aren't his. They're the same clear shade of moss green as his, they're the same oval shape, they've got the same too-long eyelashes and dusting of freckles underneath that give him the delicate appearance he's spent his whole life over-compensating for, but they're not his. They can't be. Because his have never, ever looked that terrified. He's hunted every kind of monster and spirit and demon in the book, and a fair few that weren't; he's faced down unspeakable evil and pain; torture and carnage and death; he's lost people he loves, hell, he's lost the one person he loves the most so many times it's an absolute miracle his abandonment issues aren't worse than they are. And they're pretty damn bad, even on the best of days. Even as Sam's kissing him and holding him close and whispering promises of love and forever, there's still a tiny part of Dean's mind that feels like Sam's always got one foot out the door. Like it's only a matter of time before something else comes along, like school or the yellow-eyed demon or Ruby – something new and shiny that will lure Sam away because he's already looking for a reason to leave. Because Dean's never been good enough to keep him.
But even through all of that, he's never been as horrified as he is right now. And those eyes staring back at him? Regardless of everything he's ever lived through, they've never looked so anguished. So hollow, devastated, miserable, desolate, heartbroken, agonized, and about a hundred other emotions that he doesn't even have a word for. And they are his eyes. It is his face staring back at him with that haunted look all over it; his fingers gripping the edge of the bowl sink so tightly his knuckles have turned a sickly white. It's his heart throbbing painfully in his throat, cutting off his air supply and drowning him in black, tar-like hopelessness.
Dean feels sick. Physically sick. He's already thrown up once, there are still trace chunks of it floating in the slowly refilling toilet, but the way his stomach is churning like a windmill in a hurricane it's really only a matter of time before it happens again. His limbs feel like they don't belong to him. There's this thrumming of nervous energy under his skin, like thousands of spiders, and it won't settle. It's uncomfortable and it's too hot and his head is pounding in the back of his skull like a firing squad. All because of a few words. A few little words that might be as insignificant as a light breeze if spoken by someone else or in a different context; but because they weren't they mean everything. Because they weren't, they might as well have been bullets. Worse than. Bullets can be removed; wounds cleaned and stitched and healed over. But this – this won't ever go away. This is like a tattoo; painful at first and then there forever as a constant reminder. This is something Dean is never, ever going to be able to wash off or throw away or carve out. It only happened a few minutes ago but Dean can already tell this is going to be one of those memories, like Hell or like the sight of Sammy lying cold and motionless on that table before Dean made the deal – the kind of memory that'll always just be there; never dimming or fading.
And fuck, that's the way it should be. This is something Dean doesn't deserve relief from. He deserves for it to be there every time he closes his eyes. He's done a lot of questionable shit it his life, but this is the worst. The worst by about a million percent. This is worse than the all the people he's ever hurt or used or mistreated. This is worse than the time he let that Werewolf in Tulsa get a jump on him and that little girl died because of it. This is worse than all the people whose lives got ruined because he didn't get there fast enough. This is ever worse than what he did to all those souls in Hell. And he did horrible, unspeakable things to them; all in the cowardly name of saving his own skin. But this is worse. Because this time, he hurt Sam. He hurt Sammy. His sweet, caring, precious Sammy. That's the one thing he was never supposed to do. Sam was the one thing Dean was supposed to keep safe. He's supposed to protect Sam, always; from everything. Dean just never realized that 'everything' included himself. How could he have done that? How could he have taken the one thing in their entire, terrible existence that's supposed to be about affection and refuge and love, and turn it into something depraved? How could he turn their time together into something Sam should dread instead of look forward to? How he could have taken what's supposed to be their sanctuary and used it against Sam, used it to punish him?
Dean's stomach gives another excruciating twist and he barely makes it the few steps back to the toilet before he's retches again, bile burning his throat as his stomach empties itself into the bowl. He coughs and splutters until he's dry heaving, eyes watering as he tries to spit the awful taste out of his mouth. He's dizzy and disoriented and the small, white room won't stop fuckin' spinning so fast that Dean's not altogether sure he's done being sick even though he's positive there's nothing left in his system to come up. There's a quiet knock at the door that Dean barely hears over the pounding in his head, and then Sam's voice is calling for him.
"M'fine, Sam," Dean manages to choke out as he blinks spots out of his eyes and drags his resisting body back towards the sink to rinse his mouth out.
"You don't sound fine. Did you barf?"
Dean chooses to ignore him for a minute; filling a glass with cool water and swishing it around in his mouth before spitting it into the sink. He really wishes there was a toothbrush in here, or some Scope at least. The water manages to dull the bitter, acidic taste on his tongue, but it doesn't take it away completely. He takes a long drink and a few deep breaths, and then twists the tap back on so he can splash some water on his face. It makes him feel a little better, physically at least, but there's still that powerful, coiling ache in his chest that probably isn't ever going to go away. He hurt Sam. That's all Dean can think, over and over on constant repeat in his head. Sam; beautiful, passionate, amazing Sam, who's so strong but gives himself up to Dean so willingly; trusts Dean; loves Dean. And Dean hurt him in the one part of their lives that's never supposed to be about pain.
"Dean?" Sam's voice comes again, still soft but with an edge of concern now. "Look, I – I'm sorry. I'm an idiot, okay? I didn't mean that the way it sounded."
Didn't mean that the way it sounded. Which means he still meant it, at least on some level. Dean's head spins and his eyes burn.
"Sam …" he begins weakly, but that's as far as he gets before his throat closes in an attempt to keep from gagging again. Dean shoves his face into the crook of his arm and tries to will his stomach to settle.
"Dean, please. You can't stay in there forever, at some point we're gonna have to talk about this. You beating yourself up isn't gonna do anybody any good. I'm not mad at you, I swear. And I still … god, Dean, just please come out so we can fix this."
Sam's voice is muffled like he's standing right up against the door, and Dean's reminded suddenly of just a few hours ago when their positions were reversed – when Sam was the one locked in the bathroom and Dean was the one begging him to come out; to talk. To fix things.
"Sam, please," he whispers, his voice breaking as he turns away from his own battered reflection in disgust. "You gotta … just give me a few minutes, okay?"
"I swear I didn't mean it," Sam insists, suddenly jiggling the doorknob harshly like he's hoping it'll change its mind about being locked. "C'mon, we can just forget this, like I never said anything, okay?"
"I can't!" Dean explodes, finally snapping and wrenching the door open so hard it smacks violently into the tub and cracks up the middle. "Seriously, Sam, what the hell am I supposed to do now? How can I still be with you, knowing what I did?"
Sam stands there fuming for a few moments, and Dean spares a second to notice that Sam's put his sweatpants back on. Not his shirt, though, and while Sam's impressive chest would usually be something Dean could spend all day staring at, right now while it's paired with the absolutely furious look on Sam's face, his size is nothing short of frightening. Then he pitches forward and crowds into Dean's space; gripping Dean's biceps hard.
"No, no fuckin' way, you do not get to take this away from us!" he cries, shaking Dean a little like he's horrified at the very idea.
Dean snarls and pushes Sam off roughly, then shoves past him into the main room.
"I'm not gonna do this to you, Sam," he says firmly, grabbing his duffle bag and pulling his jacket back on. "I'm not gonna let myself hurt you anymore, and I'm not gonna just sit here and pretend it didn't happen."
"So what, you're gonna leave?" Sam asks incredulously. "All those times you've busted my nuts about walking out on our family, and now you're gonna do the same thing?"
"That's not fair," Dean grumbles, but they both know Sam's right. "How'm I supposed to stay here and just … god, Sam, I've been …" Dean can't even say it out loud. "How could I do that to you?"
"I don't get you sometimes!" Sam steps over and tries to get Dean to look at him, but Dean holds firm. "I don't understand how you can be so fiercely protective of me, how you can go on and on about how it's your job to keep me safe, and then be just as quick to assume that you'd ever knowingly hurt me! It doesn't make any sense!"
"But I did hurt you! You said so!" Dean yells, jerking away from Sam's warm hands and turning away again.
"No you didn't," Sam maintains, softly; gently. Like Dean is something fragile and if Sam speaks too loudly he might break. "I know what I said. But I mean c'mon, do I look like someone who can't take it a little rough? I was never anything but the good kind of sore the next day, I promise."
The tone of Sam's voice says he meant that to be soothing, but it really doesn't make Dean feel any better. He wants to curl up and die – to just melt away into the floor and never have to look at Sam's beautiful, trusting face again. Not now, not after finding out exactly how badly he abused that trust.
"I can't …" he whispers. "Sammy, I just can't. Not anymore."
"Dean, please," Sam whispers back, placing his palm between Dean's shoulder blades.
"No!" Dean barks, pushing Sam off him.
Sam stumbles a few steps backwards with the force of Dean's shove, but then he steadies himself and holds his position.
"You can't do this," he said breathlessly.
"Do what?" Dean spits in annoyance.
"You know what," Sam returns angrily. "I saw your eyes change, Dean. I saw you go to that place like when we were teenagers, where you're stuck between wanting Sam and needing to protect Sammy."
"Sam, that's not …"
Dean just shakes his head and takes another few steps away. It's completely true, actually; Dean spent the good majority of his late teens and early twenties wanting nothing more than to get his hands and lips and tongue on every bit he could reach of Sam's lithe, teenage body, while at the same time constantly losing sleep over the fact that he was corrupting his sweet baby brother; robbing him of his innocence and childhood. It's ridiculous of course – in truth, Sam lost his childhood the day their mom died. But Dean tried so hard to let Sam keep as much normal as possible, and then Dean had to go and fall for him and ruin it. If Dean had just tried a little bit harder, if he'd just had the willpower to keep his lustful hands off Sam, the poor kid could have a happy life. He could have had the wife and kids and white picket fence. He was on his way there, too, with Jessica. She was so beautiful and the way Sam looked at her – Dean could tell she was everything the kid had ever wanted. And then Dean showed up and wrecked everything, like he always does. If he gets hit with a straight shot of those soft hazel eyes right now he's gonna lose it. Sammy's beautiful, incredible eyes that seem to change color, not with the lighting or the shirt he's wearing, but with his mood – a warm, honeyed teal when he's happy and relaxed; stormy navy when he's angry; the bluest blue imaginable when he's sad; and a bright, fierce green when he's staring down at Dean in lust – such a pure, crystal clear green that sometimes Dean isn't even sure if he's actually seeing Sam's eyes or just his own reflecting back at him. Dean knows that if he looked right now they'd be wide and dark, probably that shimmering, mossy grayish color they get when Sam's really scared. And they see right through Dean. Right to his core. Right to all the things he's afraid for Sam to see.
"Dean …"
"Sammy, I … god, I just …" Dean can hear desperate pleading scratching his voice, but exactly what he's pleading for he isn't even sure. For Sam to forgive him, or for Sam to say he never will. Dean knows which one he deserves, but selfishly he wants the other – he wants this to all go away so they can go back to kissing and touching – so he can have Sam like every inch of his body and heart and soul longs to. He doesn't deserve it. But his fingers itch to touch Sam's bare chest and his whole body aches to be wrapped up in Sam's strong embrace. Being with a girl can't even compare. They're warm and soft and they smell nice, but they're too small and fragile. Sam is the only person Dean's ever been with who made him feel protected. But he doesn't deserve it. He deserves to be thrown out to the wolves.
"God, we can't even have sex without it turning into a fight anymore," Sam mutters. "We're so frigin' dysfunctional."
"Yeah, no shit! We're brothers who fuck!" Dean snaps. "Did you think it was gonna be all cuddling and romantic walks on the beach?"
"Fuck you, you know that's not what I meant."
Dean can feel Sam shoot him a glare through the back of his skull, and he twitches involuntarily and turns around halfway so he can see Sam. "What do you want me to do?" he asks brokenly. "I can barely even be in the same room with you right now, knowing what I did."
"Jesus fuck! This is fucking insane! You're acting like you raped me or something!"
"I practically – "
"No you god-damn didn't!" Sam yells, spreading his arms out to the sides in a 'bitch, please!' kind of gesture. "Dean, I'm four inches taller than you and a good 40 pounds heavier, if I'd wanted to throw your skinny ass off me, I could've!"
"Then why didn't you?" Dean explodes. "What, you've got some kind of pain kink now? Have I really fucked you up that badly!"
"No, don't! Don't do that, don't you dare do that!" Sam shouts. "That isn't what this is about and you know it!"
Sam is downright scary when he's this mad, but Dean's about six feet past the end of his rope. The rug's been pulled out from under him or he's jumped off the cliff or whatever the hell the expression is.
"Then what am I supposed to do?" Dean shouts back. "Seriously, tell me! Tell me what to do! Tell me how the hell I'm supposed to fix this?"
"You – Dean, I can't okay?" Sam's head falls to the side a little and his eyes go squinty and sad. "I would tell you just to chalk this up to me saying something stupid but I know you wouldn't listen to me. You've got that self sacrificing, big brother look all over your face, like you're about to tell me I can't do something because it's not in my best interests."
"Well maybe it's not! Look at me, Sam! I'm a mess! I've been a mess for years!" He's spiraling so quickly out of control Dean's surprised he hasn't thrown up again. Instead it's coming out like word-vomit. His head is pounding and all he can hear is the rough gravel of his own bellowed rambling but he can't stop. "I'm an asshole and I'm annoying and I'm tired and worn down and I use you! I take it out on you when I'm pissed off and I always keep you at arms length because I'm so damn terrified of letting you in 'cause I know if you see what's really inside me, if you see how broken I really am inside you'll start running as fast as you can in the other direction! And that would kill me, do you get that? I would die if you left. That's not me being overdramatic, that is the god's honest truth. And that's not fair! It's not fair to you! You deserve to be with someone who isn't fifty different kinds of fucked up!"
Sam looks absolutely livid, but a tear runs down his cheek. "You don't get to decide that for me anymore!" he cries desperately. "And I am not letting you take this away! I need it. I need it, Dean, like I need water and oxygen and you do too! And I love you, you fuckin' idiot! I love you so fuckin' much and you love me back and somewhere along the line that just has to be enough!"
Dean chokes back a sob as the thin twig that is his remaining sanity snaps cleanly in two. "It's enough," he breathes, voice coming out on a pathetic waver but he doesn't even care. "It is enough, of course it's enough. Sammy …"
He launches himself wildly at Sam, their chests connecting hard enough to knock the wind out of Dean but he doesn't care about that either. He wraps his hands around the back of Sam's neck and brings their foreheads together, clinging tightly.
"It's enough," he whispers again. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Sammy."
"Shh, I know. I know," Sam soothes, rubbing his hands up and down Dean's arms.
"Shit, I …" Dean pulls away and drops heavily to the edge of the mattress, leaning over and burying his face in his hands. "I'm so sorry," he mutters one last time, not even sure if Sam can hear him but for some reason he needs to say it again. He needs Sam to know how much he means it.
Sam doesn't respond, he just takes a deep breath and makes his way slowly over to the bed, swinging one leg up and around Dean's body and straddling him from behind. He cups his big palms over Dean's hips and rubs his thumbs in soothing circles over the skin just under Dean's t-shirt while he waits for Dean to pull himself together. Dean tries, he really does, but he can't stop a few tears from spilling over his eyelids any more than he can stop himself leaning back into Sam's strong chest; soaking up the warmth and taking a small amount of comfort in the feeling of being held; supported. But then Sam slides his arms around his waist and Dean bristles again; tensing and standing up to take a few steps away. Sam shouldn't be the one comforting him right now, it should be the other way around. And besides, Dean doesn't deserve to be held or hugged or soothed after what he did. He deserves to be punched. Not for the first time Dean finds himself wishing that Sam was the kind of person who takes his anger out with his fists like Dean is. If Sam would just get mad like a normal human being, then he could kick Dean's ass a few times and then they'd be even and Dean could start to put this all behind them. But Sam won't. Instead he has to be all understanding and nice about it, and all that does is make Dean feel a million times worse.
"Dean, please," Sam says quietly.
"Tell me what I did." Dean turns back to Sam and fixes him with a firm stare.
Sam falters. "You – what?"
"I need you to tell me," Dean insists. "Everything, okay? I want to know exactly what I did."
Sam's eyebrows stitch together. "C'mon, what good would that do? It's over, can't we just - ?"
"No." Dean shakes his head, standing his ground even though he knows this is going to hurt. "I want you to tell me. Please."
Sam opens his mouth to protest but it dies in his throat, and he sighs and looks down at the ground. "You … okay, a few times, just a few, I – it would've been nice if you'd … waited, a little, before you started … moving."
Sam makes a tiny, unnecessary gesture with his hand, but Dean knows what he means. His blood runs absolutely cold.
"Oh god," he mutters, pressing the back of his hand into his mouth.
"No, Dean, I – I'm okay. I was always okay," Sam insists. "You were mad at me. I lied to you, I betrayed you, hell, I started the freakin' apocalypse. I deserved you being mad at me. I always understood that."
"No, don't say that, please don't say that," Dean begs. "Doesn't matter what you did. You never deserved … that."
He wants to hold Sam, pet him and kiss him until everything's better, but he can't even look at his little brother right now. Dean misses the days when he really could make everything better with just a hug. The last few years, he's felt so utterly helpless when it comes to Sam. He's felt like an absolute failure as a big brother. Everything's spinning out of his control so fast he can't keep up, and Dean can't just make things okay again like he could when they were younger. Things aren't that simple anymore.
Sam shrugs. "Like I said, it wasn't that many times. Mostly I just … missed the closeness, you know? We were just … fucking. It lost … well, whatever it used to have that made it more."
Dean nods. He missed all that too. He just … he didn't know how to keep things the same between them when everything else was changing. He didn't know how to look at Sam and not see Ruby, and the blood and Hell and everything. He didn't know how to turn off his brain and pretend all that stuff didn't happen – pretend there wasn't a world chalk full of angels and demons and monsters all looking to tear Sam away from him; to take his brother away from him for good.
"Tell me you love me."
Sam's voice is soft and airy and it startles Dean. "What?"
"I know you don't like to say it, I know you think it's stupid or girly or whatever, but please." Sam sniffs and looks up at Dean with wet, pleading eyes; shining in a mixture of misery and quiet hopefulness. "I just need to hear it, okay? Just once. Please."
Dean's pretty sure his heart actually stops for a few beats. He inhales so fast the ball of air hurts his lungs. Sam shouldn't have to beg to be told that he's loved. This might actually be the lowest Dean's ever felt in his life.
"I never realized it hurt you so much that I didn't say it," he says breathlessly.
"It doesn't, it's just – I don't know, right now I just need you to tell me."
Dean nods again, numbly this time as he makes his way over to Sam's despondent form in a trance. Everything in his vision is blurred except for Sam; his little brother, his best friend, his reason. Every single thing Dean cares about all packed into a powerful 6`4 frame that's never accurately exhibited the kindhearted, gentle person inside; who always selflessly worries about everyone else before he worries about himself; who lets Dean push him away again and again but always comes back. The boy the world has chewed up and spit out more times than either of them can count, but somehow always comes out on the other side stronger. Dean sinks to his knees in front of Sam's legs, bracing his hands on Sam's thighs and staring up at him through watery eyes.
"I love you," he whispers. "I love you so god damn much, baby boy."
Sam looks up slowly but before their eyes can meet, Dean ducks his head down and rests his forehead in the crease of Sam's hip. He couldn't handle seeing Sam's face right now – he knows all he'd find there is love shining back at him but he just can't.
"I love you," he says again, breath moist against the cotton of Sam's pants. Dean's full of way too many emotions to even begin sorting them all out; all he knows is he hates the feeling in his chest right now. He wants it to go away and never, ever come back.
"I love you too," Sam answers, petting Dean's hair gently. "So … how come when you say it, it sounds like a bad thing?"
Dean doesn't know what to say to that, so he just grips the backs of Sam's thighs tighter and doesn't say anything.
"You say it like … like you think it makes you weak." Sam's fingers stroke along the back of Dean's neck.
Dean shrugs, shoulders bumping against Sam's knees. It's true, really. Loving Sam does make him weaker; vulnerable. It gives the world something to use against him. It clouds his judgment, because it makes Sam's safety and happiness more important than the job Dean's been raised to do. Problem is, Dean was raised to do two jobs; hunt, and take care of Sammy. The two don't always fit together so nicely. And every monster, every demon, every angel, every enemy Dean's ever had knows his one fatal weakness – that he'll always choose Sam.
"It makes us stronger," Sam says softly, like he's reading Dean's mind. "It gives us something to fight for, you know?"
Dean still can't say anything, words getting caught and strangled in his throat, and after a minute Sam inches forward on the bed and then slides smoothly to the floor, pulling Dean into his lap as he does. Dean doesn't have the energy to fight it. He lets himself fall heavily against Sam's sturdy chest, and Sam pulls his feet up to sit flat on the floor so his knees bracket either side of Deans body as he wraps his big, strong arms around Dean's shaking shoulders. Dean feels oddly sheltered; encased like this with Sam completely surrounding him. It's warm and safe and just comforting enough to strip Dean of his last bit of strength. The last brick in his wall is knocked over; his last pane of glass shattered. He lets the warm, wetness fall down his cheeks; not fighting it at all because it's Sam. Dean can feel small and idiotic and lower than dirt, but Sam won't make fun of him. He just holds him close, absorbing the sobs that rack Dean's body and soothing Dean's anguish with soft lips against his forehead. Dean doesn't even know why he's crying anymore; it's everything. Everything he's held inside for so long; for years; all crashing down around them.
"Is this what you wanted?" he manages to choke out. "Me to be broken down and stripped bare like this?
"Of course not," Sam murmurs. "I'm sorry, I just … I wanted to … I'm sorry."
Dean coughs and splutters a little, reaching out for Sam and wishing his brother was wearing a t-shirt so he'd have something to grab on to. He curls in hands into fists so tight his blunt fingernails dig into his palm.
"I did this to you, didn't I?" Sam asks quietly. "I left too many times, I … I took you for granted too many times. I knew you'd always be there no matter how bad I treated you, I took advantage of that."
Dean shakes his head fervently, because this isn't Sam's fault, none of it is, but Sam's fingers tighten over Dean's arms and he keeps going.
"I made you into this person who thinks loving someone is a bad thing," he whispers sadly.
Dean heaves a few shuddering breaths as he tries to talk, but the words won't come. He's shaking so hard now that he can barely breathe; the air gulped into this lungs going down so roughly it hurts. But there's no pulling himself together, not this time. And honestly, Dean's too exhausted to care. He just cries into Sam's shoulder, throat in agony on every wretched sob and fingers digging into Sam's bare chest. And Sam just holds him tight and lets him fall apart.