Chapter Eleven

They drove to Bethel, Delaware in the chase of another hunt. Sam turned out to be a good researcher. Dean wasn't surprised at that, really, because he knew Sam was a smart kid (seemed like the kind who'd enjoy analytical tasks like these), but what did surprise him was how there was still, yet, another thing that made him strikingly similar to Adam, the little brother he lost and never forgot for a second. He was always there, the presence of his memories and thoughts of him, lurking in the back of his head every day. His face, the color of his hair, the sound of his laughter, his voice; they had long faded from his mind though.

He knew it wasn't right, constantly comparing Sam to the little brother he lost. He knew it was building expectations and hopes that would eventually be broken, proven wrong, and they would hurt more and more the deeper he went in. Sometimes he wondered if Sam only reminded him of Adam because he wanted him to.

Most of all, he knew it was wrong to be using Sam as some kind of anchor, a crutch, a way of coping with his grief, easing his pain. Sam didn't even know anything about it, about all the ways Adam haunted him through him.

It wasn't as if he didn't like the kid without all of that, though. It wasn't as if he wouldn't have taken him in if he never reminded him of Adam. Sam was a good kid, kind and smart and selfless; that was who he was, and that was a good enough reason to keep him around.

But Adam was a good kid too, wasn't he? He was also kind, smart, selfless. He also loved researching and books and dogs.

The contemplation made his mind feel like it was splitting, jerking two ways in confusion. He didn't know what he felt and what he thought anymore, wondered if his selfishness and kindness had blended into something so indistinguishable that he could no longer know his own intentions clearly towards Sam, towards the reason why he saved him and took him in. Was it pure and altruistic, just to help an innocent boy who had nowhere to go? Or was it for his own self-interested benefit, something to ground him into reality every time he felt himself slip into that black hole that sucked his life out of him, something that made that fissure in his chest a little more closed, made the pain of it a little lesser?

"Harpy from the Greek and Roman mythology," Sam announced, startling Dean out of his puzzled pondering. "According to the source, they were not always monstrous, but rather wind spirits and were depicted as beautiful young women with wings. However, over time, they developed into loathsome beasts. They became ravenously hungry and would steal food or eat people before taking away their souls. It fits. All the witnesses are claiming to have seen a bird-like woman and the victims were all shredded to pieces."

"Huh," Dean said, frowning. "Guess we found our monster."

He straightened from where he had been leaning against the wall while he listened, and as he did, he gave Sam a light pat on the shoulder. "Good job there."

The flash of surprise across Sam's face, and the way he ducked his head with a smile, beaming into the ground, made Dean's heart ache (because it was obvious that nobody had ever told him how proud they were of him) and also warm with the sight (he felt glad that he could do that for him now though).

...

"You're still not ready to go on hunts though," Dean said as he zipped up his bags, a concerned frown on his face when he glanced up at Sam, his gaze raving over him observantly.

"No, I-I think I feel better," Sam said, feeling slightly exposed under Dean's scrutiny. He also felt like the longer he went without being useful, the more they would all grow annoyed with him, which was something he didn't want. They were good people, probably the best he'd ever known. "I think I can do this."

"Sam," Dean warned, eyebrow raised in admonishment.

"I think I can," Sam repeated, knowing this was exponentially better than most of the states he had hunted in. He was grateful that Dean allowed him the time to heal as much as he had.

Dean stared at him, gauging his honesty. He still sounded uncertain when he asked, "You sure about this?"

Sam nodded.

Dean sighed, nodded too. "Alright then. But if you feel even a whiff of anything, you stop and let me know, okay?"

Sam nodded. That was another thing. Dean gave him choices, asked him what he wanted to do and let him decide for himself, in things as simple as what he wanted for dinner to whether he wanted to hunt or not. But usually, even in the smaller things, he found it hard to answer, found himself too indecisive because he wasn't used to it. He thought about that and felt ashamed with himself that he had let anyone control him like that, that he had let his fear of anyone control him like that. He should have been stronger, should have stood up for himself.

"Alright," Dean said, clapping his hands with a feral grin only reserved for the monsters he loved to slice apart. "So how do we gank this bitch?"

...

"You boys come over with me to my place after the hunt," Bobby suggested. "Stay a while, eat some homemade food."

"Will do, Bobby," Dean said with a small nod, smiling. He glanced at Sam, who was packing up his things on the bed. Dean's face wavered, and he looked back at Bobby. "I think he's making progress. With me, anyway. But..." He paused, exhaled. "But I'm not sure staying with us is good for him. I mean, after what he's been through... and he's still just a kid, and..."

"What?" Bobby pressed when Dean didn't continue.

Dean sighed deeply again, glanced back at Sam once more. "I was hoping you could take him in. Let him live with you until he decides he wants to move out or whatever. It'll be good for him."

Bobby could see that Dean wanted him to stay, the way his gaze seemed a bit heavier and softer with sadness, knew how much the kid had grown on him. But he couldn't deny that it'd be better for Sam.

"We could ask 'im," Bobby said, knowing that was the best thing they could do. "If he wants ta' stay with me or with ya, that's up to 'im."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, still watching Sam. Then he turned back to him again. "Before you do that, though, you might wanna clear his notion about you not liking him."

Bobby spluttered, nearly choking on his beer. "What?"

"I said..."

"Yeah, I know what ya said, ya idjit," Bobby whisper-yelled. He reeled his reactions in for the few seconds Sam's gaze found them, before he quickly went back to his task apprehensively, as if he thought that if he caught him staring, Bobby would get on his back about it or something.

"That damn idjit thinks I don't like him?" Bobby asked, his voice low. Dean shrugged. "Why?"

Sometimes, Dean really did know how to be unapologetically blunt. "Well, ever since your little awkward display at the motel, he thought it was because you didn't want him around." Well, don't sugarcoat it, would ya? Bobby thought. "Honestly, I still ain't sure what that was about, but I'm pretty damn sure that wasn't it. He thinks you think less of him after finding out about…uh…"

Bobby nodded in understanding so Dean didn't have to struggle to finish the sentence. Sam was oblivious that he was the topic of their hushed conversation, but Bobby couldn't help but stare at the poor boy, suddenly feeling so heavy on his chest that it almost left him breathless. Sam caught his gaze again, flinched and swallowed, quickly looking away to suddenly find the straps of his new bag completely fascinating.

"Ah, boy," Bobby murmured sadly.

…

Bobby thought he was a big friggin' coward when it came to fixing emotional damages he caused, unwilling as it may have been. He had been standing by his truck, trying to muster up courage to go up to the kid and subtly show him that things were good between them. Maybe give him a light whack up the head for even doubting that for a second. Bobby could never stop liking that boy if he tried.

Eventually though, he gave up and decided the best time would be after the hunt.

…

The hunt was successful, in the sense that they had gotten the Harpy and had eradicated one more evil from hurting others in this world. Concurrently, it didn't go too well, in the sense that it didn't end before Sam had jumped between a sneaky Harpy and an oblivious Dean and had the end of its claws sunken into his stomach, the result of which was a panicky trip to the hospital and leaving behind John and Bobby to deal with the monster.

"Stay with me, Sammy," Dean whispered, running a hand through the kid's hair, the other firmly gripping the wheel. "Just a few minutes more."

...

Sam was reaching for a glass of water, feeling the split flesh in his abdomen stretch at his exertion. He was almost there, almost touching the side of the glass, almost able to push it closer towards him with the tips of his fingers until...

Until another hand came into his view, picked it up and handed it to him like it was the easiest thing in the world. It was, for the ones who weren't lying in a hospital bed with a gash in their stomach, he supposed. He felt useless and stupid. Probably because he already was those things. But he was worried and afraid that Dean and Bobby and John would get sick and tired of him and kick him out, because it only made sense. All he had ever done so far was get hurt and get others hurt, and had been nothing but a failure and a screw-up and just completely worthless in everything he did.

He didn't look up at the face, for fear of having all his thoughts solidified even more, but he knew that it was Dean's face he was going to find, and he knew he was going to break if he found all the things he had found everyday in his Dad's eyes and in Rick's eyes. He wanted to apologize, but he didn't want to know that it was valueless, so he stayed silent like the coward he was.

Sam's hand shook as he drank his water.

"What you did was stupid, Sam," Dean whispered. Sam flinched, closing his eyes and trying to stop shaking with his anxiety and dread. This was it. Dean had enough of his bullshit, and was going to tell him to get lost, and Sam hated himself. Hated himself for ruining the life he could have had with the best person he had ever known, right along with Bobby. But maybe it had all been too good to be true from the start anyway, and he never should have hoped. He never should have... "It could have been your heart. You could have been killed. They had to put fucking stitches in your stomach, you know that?"

Sam swallowed, felt overwhelmed and confused at the anger and the words. Dean was pissed, really pissed up until the tone of his voice, but his words were concerned and afraid, like he cared, like it would have mattered to him if it had been his heart instead.

"I..." Sam croaked, wanting to at least try to respond. His head felt clogged with too many thoughts and intense emotions, and his chest felt heavy with the pressure of uncertainty and anticipation of consequences. He still didn't know what Dean really felt, didn't know what he'd do next, and truth be told, it scared him. But he felt like he was supposed to try to explain. "I wan'ned..." He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes firmly on his hands. "to save you."

Dean fell silent. To Sam, silences like these were often unpredictable, right after an explanation for something he screwed up. It was either left at a glare, a mutter of an insult, or a punch right over his eye. Sam swallowed, finding himself wondering which one it was going to be with Dean, just for a second.

It was none.

Dean exhaled, took the glass he was holding and set it back on the little nightstand, and dropped down on the edge of his hospital bed. Sam never dared to look up, still. Still not sure whether the voice was true or the words.

"I'm sorry," Dean said.

Sam's head shot up, brows furrowed. He looked before he could even think about what he would discover again, and by the time his mind caught up, he realized how wrong it was. Dean wasn't looking at him with hatred or disgust or disappointment or annoyance. He was just looking at him remorsefully, guilt and sorrow mixed into his green irises, and Sam couldn't understand this.

"Why?" he asked.

"You're just a kid. You're still recovering from all the crap you went through. I should have protected you instead of having been the reason you got hurt in the first place. I should have watched out for that Harpy."

And Sam still couldn't understand.

"It's... it's not your fault."

"I should have kept you safe," Dean said.

"It's not your responsibility," Sam said. "You barely know me."

"You barely know me either. You still decided to jump in between a Harpy and me to save my life."

"I screwed up the hunt along the way, so there's that."

" You didn't screw up anything."

"Well... I seem to always either hurt others or get hurt myself."

"Is this still about you accidentally shooting my dad? Because it was an accident, Sam. He's already moved on from it, and so should you."

"Doesn't matter. Point is, you're all gonna get sick and tired of me and tell me to fuck off someday," Sam said, defeated and tired and accepting. He seemed too exhausted to filter what he wanted to say and what he didn't, courtesy of morphine.

"Sam..." Dean said, shaking his head. "Sam, that's not true. You're... we're not doing to do that, okay?"

Sam fell silent, stared at him through a gaze quickly growing foggy with tears.

"I don't get you."

"What?"

"I don't get you." Sam repeated, tears clouding his pinched, reddened eyes.

"Why?"

"I..." Sam trailed off, shook his head. Opened his mouth, closed it again, and opened it again, as if he didn't know how to explain.

He sucked in a deep breath. "R-Rick... he 'ated me, an-an' it made sense. I knew all... all the reasons it was, the reasons it coul' be," he whispered, sounding breathlessly sad and confused, and his voice shook, face crumpling. "But you... you're good to me. An-an' I can't understand why."

Dean's heart panged, and he shook his head, like he was the one confused. Maybe he was too. It was painful to imagine that these were the thoughts that went through his head every day, a kid as good as him. He reached out a hand and put it on the side of his neck gently.

"I have a lot of reasons, Sam," Dean said, his voice no louder than Sam's was. "Some of them have to do with who I am, and some of them have to do with you." He paused, sighed, and leaned closer. "And I'll give you a little clue about one of them." He laid a hand, somewhere between the bandaged wound under his gown and his heart, and Sam wasn't sure which one it was meant to be. Maybe it was both. "This right here. That's why."

He kept his hand there, on his neck, just staring at him firmly for a moment, as if trying to sink this truth into him. And then, with that, he stood up, nothing more to say. That was good, because Sam didn't know what to say either. All he could do was stare, watch his back as he walked towards the door, and with one glance behind him, disappeared on the other side of that door as it fell shut with a click.

After a while, Bobby came in, and Sam's chest fizzled with more dread, felt sick and uncertain all over. He didn't know what Bobby was here for, what he was going to say, how he was going to look at him (he looked away and never dared to move his eyes away from the wall next to him). As he came in through the door, sensing him standing beside him while he laid uselessly on a hospital bed, he felt small and pathetic, awkwardness crawling under his skin, queasy in his stomach.

"Sam?" Bobby said softly, unusual for such a gruff voice.

Sam stayed quiet, his mind empty, his lungs and throat heavy enough to feel like he'd have to strain his voice out.

A scruff and screech of a chair sliding, metal legs clinking to land against marble tiles. "I know ya went through a lot, boy," Bobby started.

...

"And I know that what ya went through has… has made you feel real down, which is an understatement. I know that things have changed too fast for ya, and you're scared and finding it hard to trust anyone. But dear god, boy," Bobby said softly. "How could ya ever doubt that I love ya like my own son? I only wanted ya ta' have a friend, boy. That's all it was back there."

Sam didn't ask how he knew, maybe because he already knew who told him. "You haven' talked much t'me since... since you foun' out," Sam said quietly, breathing tremulously, holding his tears in and breaking Bobby's heart. "S'like you were avoidin' me."

"Yeah, I guess I kinda was." Sam flinched at that, and Bobby sighed sadly, knowing how he took it. He continued, "I was ashamed. Shoulda' known what was goin' on. I saw the signs, and I shoulda' figured out what it meant, when you wouldn't get yer shirt off even when yer bleeding through it, the random flinches when I moved too fast or spoke too loud, how ya were talkative all the time with me, and then suddenly got quiet whenever they all came 'round. I had a Daddy who was an abusive bastard. I shoulda' known better than anyone."

Sam 's eyebrows furrowed, sniffed and shook his head. "It wasn't your fault."

"It wasn't yer fault either then. Boy, yer the last person to be blamed for what happened to ya." Bobby paused, and breathed deeply, looking off to the wall next to him. "And maybe if I had known… ya know? I coulda' stopped it. I… I shoulda' known.

Silence fell over the room after, and it gave Bobby a moment to think about living in a place where nobody wanted you and everybody kicked you down, and when that everybody was supposed to be your family.

"It doesn' matter 'nymore," Sam said, even though Bobby knew it was far from the truth, because things like that didn't just go away, didn't just stop mattering even after everything was okay. His eyes were glassy with morphine, and he was smiling (smiling because, what? Because he didn't hate him? Goddamnit, this kid was ripping his heart apart). And then it faded, and he glanced up at him. "You don' hate me?" he asked, his voice small.

"Never, ya idjit," Bobby said, his hand slipping into his. "And don't you breathe a word of this to anyone, or I will whack you up the head."

...

Sam laughed at that. Laughed like he hadn't allowed himself to in front of anyone for a long while, not since the last time he had visited Bobby three years ago, not since his world had tilted on its axis, became disorienting and confusing and too fast and too different. But better. So much better.

Bobby didn't hate him. Dean didn't either. And it was the first time he had ever felt like all that hope on the better days (not good, just better) meant something, were for something after all, instead of just something to hold himself on from one day to the next, endlessly and hopelessly, with no real destination in mind.

Today, he realized he had found it.

Author's Note: I just have to finish writing one more chapter, and then the story's done. After that, it's just a whole lot of editing. There are fifteen chapters, but I might divide some of them into smaller chapters so there might be more due to that.

Thank you so much to Kas3y, StyxxsOmega, Ghostwriter, ArtistKurai, Engxty Piksy, babyreaper, Eruthiawen Luin, AlElizabeth, YesteryearsGirl, 1hotpepper, Sparkiebunny, reannablue, Finnaboo and all the Guests for the reviews. They were the sweetest! And thank you for all the favorites/alerts, whether that's for my story or for me as an author. I can't believe I've gotten how much I have, and it's just such a mood-booster and so heartening. You all are amazing, seriously! *hugs*

Constructive criticism is welcome. But please be polite and respectful! :)