A/N I want to apologize for posting this chapter late. Not to cry you a sob story, but work has been crazy and I just didn't have it in me to post. But I got there in the end!
Also, I tried hard to stick to what cannon. I do know that the boys probably wouldn't be so open to talking about their feelings but I made them do so anyway and I hope that it doesn't seem too unrealistic.
Lastly, THANK YOU to everyone who has taken the time to read this fic, and a special thanks to those that reviewed! You really do keep me motivated and they mean the world to me. :) I do have another story that I am working on so that should be up soon-ish...
Chapter Nine
Sam did not leave the room, nor did he make it down to dinner.
He couldn't stomach the thought of making small talk and polite conversation after the bombshell that had just been dropped on him. So instead, he sat in Bobby's guest room, trying to concentrate on the ancient book that was in front of him and failing.
He had listened to the voicemail—again—and some things were off. It wasn't Dean.
It simultaneously made him feel better and worse.
Dean had tried to make things right, despite everything that Sam had done to him. He had been willing to forgive, willing to work things out, and that meant more to Sam than he would ever be able to put into words, but…
Before he had learned that the voicemail was fake he had felt slightly—very slightly and in a way that he felt horrible about—justified in his actions and what had been done. Dean had said some pretty horrendous things to him in that message, and that had only helped push him further into Ruby's grasp, into releasing Lucifer…It had been a very, very, cold comfort amid his pain, but now even that was gone.
Sure, Dean had locked him up in the panic room, but he had been trying to help him. Apparently, that hadn't changed even after Sam had tried to kill him. He had even said that he was sorry. He had been the bigger man and Sam…
Sam had ended the world.
His eyes were dry as he stared down at the page, he was long past the stage of crying. Now he just felt numb.
There were no more excuses to hide behind, even in the privacy of his own mind.
Sam had screwed up in ways that he couldn't even begin to comprehend.
At some point, he heard the stairs creak, warning him of Dean's approach. Sam couldn't face his brother again, not right now. He had been putting on a show for so long, trying to pretend that he was alright, that he wasn't hurting, and he just didn't have the energy tonight.
Slumping back against his pillows, Sam closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. The old book was pressed up against his side, still open.
The door squeaked, and he heard Dean move to stand next to him.
There was a soft clink of glass on the bedside table, and then Dean's hand dropped down to rest lightly on his shoulder.
"Stew and rolls. Also, beer," he said softly and Sam couldn't tell if Dean knew that he was awake and wanted to talk as little as he did, or if he was just filling the silence.
Then Dean's hand was gone, and the door was swinging shut.
Sam kept his eyes closed. He didn't think that he could get up and work even if he wanted to. The weight of everything that he had done, of how he had failed, was threatening to crush him.
He must have drifted off eventually, his brain forcing itself to shut down because sometime later he woke to a yell.
Sitting bolt upright, Sam looked around, floundering for a weapon. The cry came again, this time softer, and Sam jerked his head around to follow the sound. He slowed his frantic movements, even as his heart lurched up into his throat.
In the bed across the room, Dean was asleep, his eyes screwed shut and his body tense as he flinched away from what he was dreaming.
"No. No—!"
A nightmare about Dean's time in hell, then, Sam was sure.
Before he could do anything else, Dean sat up straight with one final cry. He looked around wildly, sweat coating his face.
"Dean?" Sam asked carefully.
"Sam—what?" Dean gasped out, the fear still starkly present in his voice. Fear, that he would deny come morning but right now nothing was standing between him and the horror.
Sam didn't say anything else, he just pushed aside his blankets and moved across the room to sit on the edge of Dean's bed, his hip pressed against Dean's back as his brother slumped down against the pillows. Dean didn't say anything either but his breathing began to calm as his tense muscles gradually relaxed and he drifted back into an uneasy sleep.
Dean was gone from the room when Sam woke again in the morning, but an extra blanket had been thrown over him and the untouched bowl of stew had been removed. The beer had been replaced with a bottle of water.
Sam sipped at the water until it was gone. After that, there was nothing to hinder him from getting ready for the day and going downstairs.
The thought made him anxious, the pit in his stomach tightening. Up here, he didn't have to confront anyone or face…everything. But he had been hiding all of yesterday, and he couldn't keep doing so forever. It was time to face the world again. It was time to man up, it was time to be alright and get back to doing what he had to do.
Sam heaved himself upright and the familiar weight settled on his shoulders, bowing them down.
Bobby was sitting at his desk when Sam made his way downstairs after detouring for a shower and a change of clothes.
"Done hiding?" Bobby grunted, looking up at his approach.
Sam felt himself flush a little. "I wasn't…I was just tired."
"Uh-huh," Bobby said unconvinced. "Look, there's food in the kitchen. Or, there was an hour ago but Dean's been in out and since then. He's outside in the shop right now, though. After you eat, we're getting those chains off, unless you've become emotionally attached to them."
"No," Sam said quickly. "No, I am more than ready to be free of them."
"I figured as much." Bobby paused and then motioned with his head towards one of the chairs. "Hold up, before you eat, I want to talk to you."
Sam closed his eyes, his stomach dropping. They had all been doing such a wonderful job of ignoring things, why did people keep wanting to talk about them?
"Okay," he said, trying to keep the hint of nervousness out of his voice, but Bobby looked knowingly at him all the same.
"We still don't know everything about what happened over the last few weeks, but Dean and I have been able to piece most of it together. Dean also told me about the voicemail. Sam…you know that wasn't him, right?"
"Yeah, uh, I know. Now that I know what happened I can tell, I think."
"Don't think about it, that's going to cause more problems than not," Bobby said sharply. "It wasn't him, don't dwell on it."
Sam frowned, unease and maybe a little resentment tugging at him, but he quickly pushed it away. Bobby was right. Dean had tried to apologize; it was time to move on. The things that had been said—in the voicemail or not—should not be held against his brother anymore.
Bobby was watching him closely and Sam fixed a smile on his face. Bobby relaxed a little, sitting back.
"I know that things haven't been exactly easy between you and Dean, Sam, but things are goin' to get better. You should have seen him yesterday. He was devastated by what he heard in that message, especially after everything that had happened to you with Darrion. To tell you the truth, he's been pretty shaken up ever since you went missing, and he didn't exactly take your… death—" the word was said delicately and it looked like it hurt Bobby to say it, but Sam just shrugged it off. "—lightly at all. I know that things aren't the best that they have ever been between you two, but they're going to get better. You both still clearly want to fix this, so don't give up, alright?"
Sam nodded again, and Bobby jerked his head towards the door. "Get in there."
Released from the makeshift interview, Sam escaped into the kitchen.
He ate the pancakes mindlessly. Bobby had also brought out some fresh fruit, which was probably meant to tempt Sam. The thought did warm him a little, and it was with less effort that he took some of that.
The food, amazingly enough, did make him feel a little better. Apparently, a good night's sleep and food did make a difference, who would have guessed? All the same, he felt slightly more prepared to face his brother when Dean came in through the back door, wiping his hands on a rag.
Dean locked eyes with him, silently checking in, and Sam nodded minutely.
"You ready to get those things off?"
"Dude, more than ready."
"Good. Bobby's blowtorch is heating up as we speak. We are thinking that we can deform the metal enough to slip your hands through. Then we are home free."
Sam nodded, shoving the last blueberry into his mouth, and stood, brushing off his hands. Together, they walked out the door and towards Bobby's shop.
"After we finish with this, I can clean and rebandage your arm," Dean began as they walked, "We don't want infection setting in, that won't help it not scar."
"It's fine, I washed it this morning in the shower. I can rebandage it myself," Sam said quickly, and Dean shook his head.
"I'll help you, don't worry about it," he said firmly. Sam opened his mouth to argue but then decided against it for the moment. There had been a time when Dean wouldn't have needed to offer his help, it had been a given, but that had changed slowly after Dean got back from hell and they had both begun to drift apart.
Sam missed the ease with which they had used to operate, just as he had for the past year, but now more than ever he was sure that he was the only one to blame for their lack of closeness.
It turned out not to be as difficult to get the shackles off as Sam had feared. Bobby had protective gear, for which Sam was immensely grateful—having a blowtorched used on bare skin once was more than enough to last him a lifetime. They wrestled the thick protective gloves over his hands, using a long, thin, rail to poke the material under the cuffs.
It wasn't perfect, and Sam was concerned that it wasn't going to be enough against the intense heat, but the Impala had a tank full of gas and Dean could spin lies like a spider, especially to hospital officials.
They turned out not to need either. Working together, Dean and Bobby were able to pry the shackles open enough for Sam to slip his hands through.
When they were finished, Sam took a step back, stripped the gloves off, and rubbed at his wrists.
"Thanks," he said, offering them a smile. "That's…I appreciate not looking like Jacob Marley."
"Who?" Dean arched an eyebrow, but quickly waved his question away. "Never mind. I was just going to say something about you being able to go out in public again, but then you started making weird literature references, so…"
Bobby snorted, shaking his head as he moved to put away the gear, accepting the gloves that Sam handed over. Dean pushed himself up to sit on a nearby table, letting his legs swing.
"So…what now?" he asked, looking between Sam and Bobby.
"What do you mean?" Bobby asked acidly, wheeling his chair around to face Dean. "Nothing's changed in the past five minutes besides Sam losing about twenty pounds."
Sam leaned up against the table, frowning a little as he remembered everything left for them to do. He sighed, running a hand through his hair and relishing in his ability to do so without making an ungodly amount of noise.
When he looked up again, Dean was eyeing him, and Sam straightened, nudging his shoulder against Dean's and offering a smile.
Dean had enough to worry about. The mere fact that he had gone tearing across the countryside looking for Sam was enough, he didn't need to bear his burdens as well.
"Yeah, I guess we're back to hunting evil sons of bitches while finding a way to defeat even more powerful sons of bitches," Dean said a moment later. Bobby rolled his eyes, but Sam was nodding again.
"It's the family business, after all."
Dean met Sam's eyes, and for the first time in a long time, his eyes looked lighter. He smiled, reaching over and cupping the back of Sam's neck and squeezing it before sliding off the table.
"Can't save the world on an empty stomach. You want some lunch? I'll make something?" It was a loaded question with a hopeful look. It was a chance for them to start over once again, a second—really, they were probably in the thousands now—chance.
Sam smiled.
"You two idjits coming over to help or what?" Bobby called grumpily and Dean jumped off the table as Sam grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and pushed him forward.
They ended up in the kitchen, Dean floating around like he had been the one to lose the extra weight and laughing more than he had in a while. Sam watched him quietly, inserting himself into the conversation only when Dean or Bobby talked directly to him.
It was good to see Dean looking so happy, or at least content, and even Bobby was joking more than he had since his diagnosis.
So why did Sam still feel so numb inside? For a brief moment out in the workshop, things had felt hopeful, but the feeling was slipping through his fingers at an alarming rate.
At midnight, Bobby shooed them both off to bed, complaining that even if they didn't need sleep, he did. It didn't take Dean long to drift off, but Sam found himself unable to. He twisted and turned for about an hour, before finally giving up and heading back downstairs. They—he—had wasted a whole afternoon when he could have been researching more on Lucifer and he might as well make himself useful.
Grabbing a couple of Bobby's oldest books, Sam eased his way out through the front door, wincing when it squeaked loudly, and settled down on the porch steps with a flashlight.
The books were like a damning weight. Dean would come down from his high of having Sam back all too soon, and then he would grow discouraged about beating Lucifer and Michael, would remember how it was their fault.
Dawn brought nothing new besides a lot of dead ends and a headache. Dean joined him outside a little bit later, and they sat in silence, both pouring through books until Dean gave up and announced that it was breakfast time.
After that, he pulled Sam aside to clean and bandage his arm again. The skin was irritated and red, the words standing out more starkly than ever. Sam's stomach turned over, and Dean gave him a helpless look even as he dabbed more antibiotic cream over them. He didn't say anything as he wrapped gauze around them, apparently at a loss of how to help him.
They spent the rest of the day going through books and vocalizing half-baked plans on how to stop the pending apocalypse. By dinner, Dean had grown exasperated and frustrated. Putting down the book that he had been going through, he started to search for new hunts instead. Bobby took over Dean's book and gave him a fond, if exasperated, look.
By one in the morning, Bobby had gone to bed, and Dean followed suit soon after.
Sam continued to pour over his book, his heart beating treacherously fast in his chest. He had to find answers.
He didn't think that he could sleep even if he wanted to.
At three, just as the letters on the page started to blur, Bobby came back into the library, squinting and looking as tired as Sam felt.
"Go to bed," he grumbled.
"I'm almost done. I'll go to bed after this book," Sam said, shifting it closer to the lamp to better illuminate the words. Bobby promptly flicked the light off.
"You're done now. Get some sleep, kid," he said pointedly, before rolling into the kitchen and returning to his bedroom with a half-empty bottle of whiskey.
It was Bobby's way of caring, but Sam…Sam couldn't go upstairs right now. There was too much he had to make right. He sank back into the stiff wooden chair, rubbing at his eyes. He could wait until Bobby had gone back to sleep to continue reading, but who knew how long that would be?
Besides, Sam wasn't processing the information. He hadn't slept the past two nights, and he was older than he had been at Stanford when that had been a regular thing, especially during finals. Pulling all-nighters was harder now, or maybe that was just the emotional weight that was hanging over him and had nothing to do with his age.
Back at Stanford things had been…not easy, but it had all made sense. Jess had been there, but Dean hadn't been. But he had been safe. He had a purpose, a plan to help people.
Now…now he wasn't safe, had a terrible purpose, and didn't have Jess…but he did have Dean. Even that had changed, however. Dean didn't look at him the same as he used to, hadn't for a long time, and maybe that was what had been bugging him over the last few days.
Even though he now knew that the voicemail had been a fake, it didn't change everything or make it the way that things used to be.
He had known long before that message that Dean thought him a freak; a monster.
Shaking his head, Sam stood. He retreated once again outside and sank down onto the steps. Running both hands through his hair, he gripped it at the roots and dropped his head down as he tried to wrestle through the feelings that were churning through him so rapidly that it was dizzying.
He knew that he needed to let it go. Dean had apologized, and so had he. They didn't need to talk about harsh words that they had exchanged, they just needed to let things go.
So why couldn't he? Why couldn't he just wash away the emotions that were tearing him apart?
"How long are you planning to keep up this strike against sleep? 'Cause sleeps gonna win in the end, I can promise you that."
Sam flinched and looked up in surprise as he surreptitiously attempted to wipe at his face. Dean stood there in his t-shirt and shorts with his hair pressed down oddly on one side as if he had just woken up.
"What?" Sam asked none too eloquently and Dean snorted, dropping down to sit next to him.
"You planning on going to bed tonight before your brain stops working completely?" he asked.
"I'm not tired," Sam said, looking down at his clasped hands.
"You should be."
Sam looked away, sniffing softly and once again wiping a hand under his nose.
"Sam…"
"What?" he asked sharply, wishing that Dean would just leave him alone. He just wanted to be alone.
"You just seem…" Dean shrugged again, his hands flailing helplessly as he tried to express everything that he didn't want to put into words.
Dean had never really liked words. Actions meant more to him, they always had, and Sam understood that. He knew that he was deeply loved through everything that Dean had done for him, things that he still did. But sometimes it meant that Dean forgot that words had power, that they could cut just like a knife, and tossed them around without thinking of how they would hurt someone or the consequences.
"I'm fine. Don't worry about me."
"Kinda my job." Dean ducked his head, trying to look under the fringe of Sam's hair. Sam shook his head again.
"Dude, please, don't—don't pretend that things are the same as they used to be. Things are still all sorts of screwed up, I—" Sam pulled himself back together again with effort and closed his eyes. "I'm fine. I'm good."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "I don't think you are, and whatever that little speech was proves it. You haven't been sleeping, and I know that a lot of crap went down recently. I wouldn't…I wouldn't blame you if you were having some sort of…breakdown, even if it is a little Oprah-y"
Sam snorted wetly, and he could feel Dean's eyes boring into his, trying to read and understand him. Dean had been so angry, even just a week ago. Why did he care now?
"It's okay, I'm okay. I'm not…having some sort of breakdown."
"Really?" Dean sounded incredulous. "you're going to just lie to me like that? Dude, I don't think that you've been okay for a long time."
"Neither of us have been. Not since Mom died and Dad went off the deep end."
"Hey, don't—Sam, don't play that game."
Sam finally turned and faced his brother. "Okay, fine. Things with Darrion were hard, but I'm managing. You don't have to be worried about me, I—" He stopped, choosing his next words carefully. "And I know that voicemail wasn't from you, okay? So I'm not trying to mope around or throw some sort of temper tantrum. I'm just…I'm just working through it, and then I'll be okay. Just go back to bed."
Dean was silent for a long time, and they both listened to the faintly chirping crickets. Dean finally shifted, scratching at his nose in a silent warning that he was about to speak.
"Sam, we need to come to the bottom of some stuff, I think. I know that we talked just the other day, but that didn't—that didn't really go in the direction that I had in mind and if we want things to go back to the way that they were, then we need to start being honest with each other, stop keeping secrets."
"What? Dean Winchester wants to talk about feelings and hold my hand to make it all go away?"
"I'm not your girlfriend, no hand holding or coddling from me. But I am your brother, so talk to me, man. I'm ready now, I know that I wasn't before, but I am now."
Sam looked anywhere but at Dean's hopeful face, and Dean continued after an awkward pause. "Look, that voicemail, what was said…I would be screwed up if I thought you were saying those things to me, so I—"
'You don't get it, do you?" Sam interrupted suddenly all the pent-up frustration, sadness, and anger coursing through him as he abruptly stood, rounding on Dean. "You don't—the voicemail hurt, yeah. And it was fake, but Dean, parts of it weren't anything that I hadn't heard from you before!"
Dean looked like he wouldn't have been more surprised had Sam slapped him, but Sam was on a roll and didn't stop. "And I messed up, big time, and I'll have to live with that knowledge for the rest of my life so I'm not trying to make excuses but I was trying so damn hard to do what was right. Until I wasn't and again, that's on me. But maybe things changed for you because we learned that the angels played us, but I'm still the messed-up freak who almost killed my own brother and screwed the world. You can't—you couldn't even look me in the eye after you found out about the demon blood. Hell, ever since you found out that I had been using my powers, and you let me know what you thought. Man, I believed that voicemail."
Sam's voice broke and he looked away. "I believed it was you. I am a monster."
"Sam—"
"Don't try and fix it or-or deny it, Dean. I'm not blaming you, I just—" Sam wanted to go back to being a kid again when none of this was an issue when he still thought that someday he would have a chance to be normal.
Dean was also standing now, and moving towards Sam, trying to grab his arms. Sam backed further away, holding his hands out to prevent Dean from getting any closer.
"Sam," Dean tried again, his voice low. "Sam, c'mon, you're going to wake up Bobby. And he's a grumpy bastard if he doesn't get his sleep."
Sam scoffed, but he did stop, his hands on his hips. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe out slowly. He was fine. It was all good.
Dean's hand settled on his shoulder, but Sam shrugged it off.
"Hey, c'mon, calm down. I just want to talk." Dean said, holding his hands up plaintively and giving Sam an earnest look. Sam sucked in another lungful of fresh air and tilted his head back. He couldn't see the stars through the tears that had formed.
"Go back to bed, Dean. We'll talk in the morning, otherwise we actually will wake Bobby."
Dean dropped back to sit on the stairs with a thump. "I'm calling BS, you're talking to the person who taught you how to avoid having these sort of…feelings and heart to heart, so no. We're talking now."
"It's like three in the morning."
"Closer to five, but you didn't give a crap about that a couple of minutes ago." Dean smiled pleasantly and nodded at the seat next to him. Sam wavered, biting at his lower lip. Dean's smile wilted, and he patted the stairs firmly. "Sit."
Sam slowly sank down, sitting on the edge of the step, and once again they lapsed into silence. Dean sat with his head tipped back, staring at the fading stars, and Sam stared at the gravel, his hands twisting together.
"I'm sorry," Sam finally said. "I didn't mean to lose it like that."
"You always have been an overly emotional girl," Dean said, clearly trying to lighten the mood, but Sam couldn't force it tonight, and left Dean hanging.
Dean nodded, clasping his hands together.
"Do you…do you really think that I would've said those things?"
It was only because Sam knew him so well that he could read the deep hurt in Dean's voice. He worked on his answer for a moment, before sighing.
"You called me a monster just a couple of hours before I got that message, in that hotel room. So yeah. Wasn't exactly hard to believe."
"And I seem to remember hands around my throat and also recently finding out that my brother was addicted to demon blood. What else did you expect?" Dean cut in sharply and then pulled a face of instant regret, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Sam wiped his hands down his jeans as he closed his eyes, fighting against the burn there. Dean's hand was on his arm, but Sam couldn't look at him. "I know, and I'm sorry. I don't think that I will ever be sorry enough for what I did that night."
"No," Dean cut in, "Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone off like that. I know that you're sorry, and I shouldn't have called you a monster. I…I will admit that I didn't have your best intentions at heart and stepped out of line. But Sammy, I was trying to get you to listen to me. To see sense and see that you were way out of line. But I didn't actually—" Dean cut himself off abruptly, and Sam realized that whatever Dean was about to say would have been a lie.
His heart twisted painfully.
Dean switched directions quickly. "I was mad, Sam, and worried. But I didn't actually think that you were a monster, that you are. Or even a freak."
Sam chewed on his lower lip. "I've always been a freak," he muttered quietly, his hand jumping up to close around his left arm where the wounds were still healing. "I was the freak growing up because I wanted to be normal. I wanted that white picket fence, and all you and Dad wanted was to hunt. But I wasn't normal at school either because we did hunt. At Stanford, I tried, but there was part of me who was always a damn hunter. I was always odd."
"Okay, so you were a little different. Doesn't mean you are a freak, and that sure as hell doesn't make you a monster."
Sam shook his head, clenching his jaw as he fought through the emotions in an attempt to make his voice sound normal. "Okay, alright."
Dean scoffed. "Not even the most idiotic person in the world could have believed that."
"Dean, I don't know what else you want? You want me to believe that I can be okay, but I can't—" He didn't even really know what he was trying to say.
Dean looked frustrated. "Sam, just so we can be clear, I never thought of you as a freak. You assigned yourself that label, not me. Now drinking demon blood…that's a little—" he made a gesture, but Sam was shaking his head.
"You told me that you would be willing to hunt me. Right after you found out that I was using my powers before you even found out about the blood. Like I was a monster who needed to be put down."
"No, I said that if I didn't know you, I'd want to hunt you. Again, I was trying to make you see reason! I was trying to protect you, make you see that you were going down a bad path. And I was right, wasn't I?"
"Well, maybe you should work on your delivery because that sure as hell didn't sound like what you were saying! Even now, Dean, do you not hear yourself? It's like you think that saying things that you know are going to hurt me, is going to make me want to listen to you or confide in you," Sam spat out bitterly, and Dean looked away, rubbing both hands over his face in exasperation.
"Tough love, Sam. Dad did that with us—"
"And Dad sucked at it. I hated that, I hated it so much. You of anyone should know that."
Dean opened his mouth, and then shut it, again, apparently unsure of where to go from there. Sam didn't know either, and the anger that had been sustaining him bottomed out.
Laying his arms on his knees, Sam rested his head atop of them. Dean's hand drifted up, lighting scuffing his neck.
"We'll get through this, Sammy. I'm not…we're going to work through this, together, alright? You're not a freak. You're not a monster, and you never—never—have been. You made some mistakes, I made some mistakes, but that is all that they are. That doesn't make you a monster."
Sam shook his head, biting at his upper lip in an attempt to keep the soft sobs at bay. He was done talking, he didn't think that he could anymore. Now that his anger had run out, all he had was emptiness and sadness.
He half-wondered what Jess would have thought of him if she could see him now. What his Mom would of. Hindsight was all too real, and the hallucinations during detox had been just that. Hallucinations that were both trying to damn Sam and justify his actions. His mother would not have hugged him, nor told him that he was right. She was a hunter, she would have been disgusted.
He didn't have to wonder what his Dad would have done. Unlike Dean, he probably would have put Sam down the instant that he knew he was using his powers willingly, even to help people. At least Dean had tried—and was still trying despite everything—to help him.
Dean still loved him.
Sam rubbed his wrist under his nose, trying to keep his breathing even.
Dean was silent next to him, his hand moving up and down Sam's back, rubbing small circles occasionally. Dean, who had loved Sam the most and been let down by Sam in ways that he couldn't even describe.
The tears were flooding now, and Sam would have been embarrassed if he wasn't so overwhelmed.
He had to make this right, for Dean. For himself. He didn't know what it was going to take, but even if it cost him his life, he was going to make things right.
"Sammy…" Dean said, but Sam only buried his head further into his arms as the sobs shook his body.
Dean was right, mistakes had been made on both sides but they were both together, trying to work things through. That had to mean something. It should have brought relief, but tonight it didn't. Maybe in the morning it would, or the next day.
Dean sat with him until dawn touched the sky, his arm resting around Sam's shoulders. Sam had long ago cried himself out and was just sitting there, staring numbly at the gravel and half-hoping that the world—or himself—would simply cease to exist.
"My ass is numb," Dean said, breaking the silence. Sam closed his eyes. He didn't think that he could do this, didn't think—but no, he had to. Sam nodded and straightened, subtlety scrubbing his face clean. He was sure that his eyes were still red, however, as Dean gave him a worried and also incredibly sad look.
To his surprise, he found that Dean's eyes were red and puffy as well.
Guilt rose, and Sam looked away.
"You want breakfast?" Dean asked, his hand sliding over to Sam's bicep.
"No, I'm—"
"Then you'll feel better if you get some sleep."
"Dean, there is so much to read, to look through, I don't—"
"Bed," Dean said firmly, and Sam didn't have the energy in him to fight the order. He let Dean lead him upstairs before collapsing down on the bed and closing his eyes, spent in ways that he didn't know that he could be.
#
Dean sat chewing on his fingernail and gazing out the window. Sam's little breakdown hadn't been unexpected, but what had been said, and his own reaction to it, had surprised him.
He hadn't known what to do or what to say to make things right, not really. Part of that could probably be blamed on his still lingering anger, but he had distanced himself from Sam long before he had known about the demon blood. That had happened after Hell, or maybe even before when he simply refused to see what his deal was doing to Sam.
Ever since then, he had only been able to find the wrong words to say, and that had only made things worse, clearly. He hadn't even realized how badly he had messed up and how far apart they had drifted until now. Too often he spoke without thinking, and he had known but hadn't realized how tightly Sam had been clinging to his words. He should have. When Sam was small, he had believed that Dean could do anything and his word was the final law and that little brother belief was still somewhere inside Sam.
He had tried so hard to raise Sam right, to let him know that he was loved.
After he had gotten back from hell, however, things had gotten so screwed up. He had been screwed up and had made wrong choice after wrong choice.
The only time that he had felt he had really been doing the right thing for Sam had been when he had called and apologized, but even that hadn't worked out.
Dean had felt like an invisible weight had been lifted off his shoulders after the discovery of the faked voicemail, but Sam had gone to bed last night seemingly more discouraged than ever.
How was he going to help him? How could he possibly help Sam see that he didn't think that he was a monster, that he had just been saying things in the heat of the moment that he didn't believe? He had wanted to hurt Sam like Sam was hurting him. But if he was honest then Sam was about as good as they came, if occasionally misguided, and there was no way that he could be considered a monster.
Hell, that was the whole reason that the Ruby bitch had been able to wind him around her little finger and get him started on the demon blood. It had all been under the pretense of saving people, of saving Dean.
Dean shook his head.
Sam wasn't going to believe anything that he said now.
A week ago, he might not have tried too hard to correct Sam's misunderstandings because he was hurting too, but holding his little brother's dead body had a way of making him fix his priorities.
He'd had a long time to think while they had sat outside, Sam silently crying and refusing to let Dean see his anguish, and he…he had an idea of how to fix at least one thing, even if in doing so he felt like he was yanking out one of his own teeth.
It wouldn't mend all the holes, but it might show Sam that he was trying. And that was all that Sam had ever asked from him, even when they were growing up. It hadn't mattered that Dean had only been able to give him a subpar home, with badly made food, and second-hand belongings.
Sam had loved him simply because he had tried. Sam's love had bolstered him, given him a reason to care and try in the first place.
Making up his mind, Dean strode over to the computer. He had some research to do and knowing Sam, he would be back down within the hour, maybe two at most, and he wanted to figure it out before then. Preferably before Bobby was up too.
#
Sam wasn't surprised when Dean announced later that day that they were leaving the next morning. Bobby wasn't either, although he looked disappointed.
He actually hugged Sam when they were saying goodbye.
It made Sam's heartache for no good reason.
At least Bobby and Dean were glad that he was alive, even if no one else was.
Dean got a hug that was more of a manly thump on the back, and then they were on their way, just the two of them again.
This time, however, things didn't feel quite as heavy as they had before. Dean was humming quietly along with his music, even singing occasionally, so that was something. The revelation that Sam would have been willing to listen to him had he received the right voicemail seemed to have done his older brother a world of good. The darkness was still there, hiding and waiting for the perfect moment to come out, but it was less than before.
When Sam asked Dean where they were headed and what they were hunting, Dean just shrugged and said, "Idaho, and what might be a vengeful spirit."
He had left it at that, offering up no more information, and Sam didn't dare break the pleasant peace. Instead, he returned to the book that he had borrowed from Bobby. Translating Latin was hard enough when not in a moving car, but Sam pushed through, determined to get it done.
Besides, it had potential. Something about where Lucifer had been held before he had been set free.
It sent a shiver of foreboding down Sam's spine, but he shoved it aside.
They drove all day, slept in the Impala, and then continued on the next morning.
It was just before six in the evening when they entered the small town of Driggs, Idaho. Dean didn't pull over at the first motel that they saw, and Sam figured that they were getting food.
Only, Dean passed by the little diner that simply screamed Dean, and Sam looked over at him quizzically.
His brother was focused, staring up at the road signs, and appeared to have an exact destination in mind.
"Dude, most people won't want to talk to the Feds or whatever it is we are today after five," Sam said and Dean threw him an annoyed look.
"I'm not an idiot, I know that, we're not talking to witnesses tonight. Besides, the spirit is in Tetonia." He craned his neck to look down a side street, before making an abrupt turn that had Sam reaching for the door handle to keep himself steady.
He was wearing his jacket, ensuring that his arm was covered up completely. The wounds were healing nicely, but he wouldn't be surprised if some of them scarred, leaving behind permeant reminders of his experience. Self-consciously, he tugged the sleeve down further, ensuring that no one could see even the bandages.
"Where are we going then?" he asked, but Dean was aiming them towards a city park that, for a small town, was bustling. Something was happening, and he watched with some confusion as a family crossed the street carrying lawn chairs and a picnic basket.
"You'll see," Dean said distractedly as he found a spot to park and began to work the deceptively large Impala into the tight spot.
"No, Dean, really. What's happening?"
Dean sighed, turning off the ignition before looking at Sam. He began to twist the keys in his hands, before beginning. "Listen, I know…I know I haven't been the best brother recently. I've said a lot of things that I regret, that I don't think I even realized were hurting you. We're different, we need different things sometimes, and I haven't always acknowledged that. Don't say anything, just let me say this because it is not easy for me, and I'm only going to say it once," he added quickly as Sam opened his mouth to rebuff parts of his statement.
Sure, Dean had said stuff that sometimes hurt. Hurt like hell, in fact, but Dean had always loved him like no other and had forgiven him of things that Sam didn't know if he should have been forgiven of.
Dean, in many ways, was the man that Sam wished that he could become but knew that he never would.
Dean plowed ahead, not giving Sam a chance to voice any of his thoughts. "And I know that you have been trying to make things right and fix what happened with Ruby and Lucifer. But, man, it hit me hard when we were talking the other night that I've also made some pretty big mistakes…I've thrown my fair share of punches over the years," Dean paused, and Sam could almost read the unspoken,
At least I didn't try and strangle you or leave you for a demon.
"And I've hurt you in ways that I don't even comprehend, I think. After the Talamh, when I was holding—" Dean cut himself off, his throat working hard and Sam was surprised to see what looked an awful lot like tears glistening in his eyes. "You were dead. And all I could think about was how in one of our last conversations, I had called you a freak. Because I wanted to hurt you because I was hurting and didn't want to try even over something as dumb as Shakespeare, a dude who has been dead for I don't even know how long. That shouldn't—that shouldn't have happened. And I'm sorry."
"Dean, it's fine. You were—"
"I'm trying to apologize here, man, just let me, okay?" Dean interrupted and Sam shut his mouth, slightly amazed. "I just want you to know that I'm trying, man. Don't give up on me. I'm probably going to mess up again, hell, I know I'm going to, but you should know that I never really thought that you were a monster. And I'm sorry that I said that you were. It's my fault that you thought that. I know that I'm having a hard time trusting you and I still think that we've got a lot of issues that need to be worked out, but you're still my brother. And nothing is changing that, not ever."
He looked over at Sam with apprehension, but Sam didn't know what to say. He had been waiting so long to hear some of those things, to hear that Dean knew that he had hurt Sam in ways that he couldn't even fully describe, but the justification was gone.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for everything."
"I know you are, Sammy."
Sam nodded mutely, looking down at his lap. His jacket had come up, and the white bandages were just peeking out. Dean's hand moved, stopping Sam from pulling the material down again as he covered up his wrist.
"It doesn't matter. It really doesn't matter. We have other issues that we gotta work through, but you're no monster. That doesn't matter to me."
"Jerk," Sam said, mustering up a smile.
"Bitch."
Sam snorted, straightening. "So, ah, that still doesn't explain what we are doing here."
"A damn Shakespeare play, that's what. I'm doing what I swore I would never do and, of my own free will and volition, am watching a damn Shakespeare play."
That threw Sam for a loop and he shifted, shooting Dean a surprised look. "Where's the holy water?" he joked and Dean shook a finger in his face even as his cheeks flushed.
"If you dare, then I will put itching powder in your shorts again. And—" he turned to face Sam, a glare attempting to cover up his embarrassment. "I swear that if you ever mention this to Cas or Bobby, or anyone, I will hurt you in ways that your grandchildren will feel it, do you understand?
Sam laughed. "Oh, trust me, I'm telling. Don't know who or where, but someone is going to know that Dean Winchester, hunter and badass extraordinaire, went to see a Shakespeare play."
"Shut your mouth before I shut it for you," Dean growled, and swung his door open. Sam followed, marveling slightly to himself that he was going to see a play, with his brother. Together. With the apocalypse happening.
There truly was hope for them yet.
"You don't have to do this," he said, catching up with Dean.
"No," Dean said stubbornly and with the air of a martyr. "I need to do this."
"Okay, then. I hope that you didn't spring for Romeo and Juliet in that case. We've both read that in school, it would have been a waste."
Dean shuddered. "Hell, no. I would have drawn the line there. And also, this is free, which is good because we are still kinda broke. No, there is this group out of Montana that goes around performing at parks and stuff. The play is a comedy, I think. It's at least got comedy in the title, A Comedy of…Errors, I think, is what it is called."
Sam shrugged. "I don't know. As I said, I went to a couple of plays with Jess and read a few in high school, but I'm no expert by any means."
"Cool, then maybe we will both suffer." Dean grinned, ruffling Sam's hair up and Sam shook him off with a glare, but there was a warmth in his chest that wasn't fading.
It stayed there throughout the play, almost like a reassurance that everything was going to be okay. Even if it took a while, even if things between them got hard again, they were going to be alright.
#
They were about halfway through the play—and despite himself, even Dean had found himself laughing, and wasn't that just weird?—when Dean glanced over at his brother. They were hanging out on the fringes of the crowd, leaning against a fence and not interacting with the other families, but Sam had a smile on his face. His eyes were bright as they watched the actors and did not seem as sad as they had so frequently been lately. It might have been just for the moment, but it was a moment that Dean was going to hold onto. The embarrassment of going to a play was worth that.
Dean nodded to himself, feeling the all too real warmth of love and satisfaction. Leaning slightly to the right so that their shoulders were touching, he turned back to the stage.
The End.