CHAPTER 14
Sam carried Cas out of to the Impala. Dean would've done it, but he didn't trust himself – not when he didn't know when he was going to trip over something that wasn't there, or see something that would send him into a panic.
He hated these fucking hallucinations. Hated them with every single cell of his body.
Dad drove the Impala back to the motel. Cas was in the backseat, with Dean on one side of him and Sam on the other. He leaned his head against Dean's shoulders, and Sam kept steady pressure on Cas' stomach.
"Where are we going?" Dad asked, about two minutes after they'd taken off. Then he cleared his throat, and added, "I mean, does he need a hospital?"
Dean turned to Sam. He didn't know the answer – he couldn't even tell how fucking deep the bullet had gone into him, for crying out loud, how was he supposed to figure that out.
He'd expected Sam to answer, but he didn't. Instead, Cas did.
"No hospital," he said, voice weak but firm. "I am not healing like a human."
"The fuck does that mean?" Dad asked.
"It means take us to the motel," Sam said, and Dad grumbled under his breath, but that's what he did.
They drove down different streets than the ones that they'd taken when they'd first rolled into town earlier that day. Meaning that they had to be headed to a different motel – made sense, considering that the last one had been completely destroyed. Dean didn't bother asking where it was. He didn't really care, honestly.
After a few minutes, though, there was one other thing he wanted to ask. He glanced over at Sam. "The Colt was a fake?"
Sam frowned, and shook his head. "No," he said. "We didn't have time to find a fake. We had to bring the real thing."
Dean frowned back, and looked down at Cas. His eyes were closed now, face still drawn with pain – Dean could tell that much, but not much more. What he did know, though, was that Cas was definitely still alive. Unless this hallucination was the most twisted at all, making him thing that Cas was still here when really-
That didn't make sense, though. The hallucinations wouldn't show him something good, right? No way would they be what he wanted. But then, it didn't make sense. Last he'd heard, the Colt was supposed to destroy anything it shot, and it'd sure as fuck worked last time they'd tested it out.
"We swapped out the bullet," Sam said after a moment, apparently sensing Dean's confusion. "We knew we had to save the last one, and didn't want to risk it going off. The real bullet is locked in the motel safe."
"Not that it'll do us a whole lot of god without the damn gun to shoot it with," Dad added from the front seat, his voice low enough that Dean could barely hear it.
He did manage to hear it, though. And based on the look on Sam's face, he'd heard it, too.
"We've got the angel blade," Dean said quickly. "We can still do this. Who needs the Colt, right?"
"Yeah," Dad finally said, after way-too-long of a pause. "Fine. We've got the blade."
After that, nobody said anything else.
Last time Cas had gotten hurt on a hunt, Dean had insisted on being the one to patch him up. Those cuts hadn't been as bad as a bullet wound, but they'd still been enough to freak Dean out a bit, even if he'd known that stuff like this was par for the course. He'd never really gotten used to it, not with Dad, and most definitely not with Sammy. No matter how often he had to stich Sam up or push his joints back in place, he never, ever stopped hating every second of it. Stitching Cas up last time had been like that, except there was the added bonus of having guilt crushing him the whole time. Sure, it wasn't like he could've known that Cas was going to get kidnapped while they were out digging a grave, but still. Cas hadn't had the experience that he and Sammy had. He never should've been left alone while they were on a hunt. 'Course Dean had insisted on being the one to stitch him up – because he couldn't stop some part of him from being convinced that he was responsible, and so he had to be the one to fix Cas, to at least make some part of it better.
This time, it was so much worse. Mainly because this time, he knew that he was the one at fault. He'd been the one to get himself kidnapped, and Cas never would've gotten hurt if Dean had just managed to do a better job against Kubrick and Gordon in the first place, and had never been taken. But even though he knew for a fact that this was his fault, he still couldn't do anything except sit and keep a death grip on Cas hand while Sam removed the bullet and stitched Cas' side.
It was an hour later, and Cas was completely passed out. That girl Ava had been in the motel when they'd first gotten back, but she'd left immediately after she'd seen them carrying Cas into the motel, looking like she was trying her best not to puke or pass out, one of the two. Dad was on the other side of the room, drinking whiskey that he'd headed down to the corner store to buy half an hour earlier. After hesitating for a long moment, Sam had finally dropped down into the seat across from Dad and poured his own glass. Neither of them had said anything this whole time, but they weren't fighting, either.
Honestly, whiskey looked like a hell of a good idea. Hell, any kind of alcohol would be good with him, as long as it could get him wasted. He wasn't drinking right then, though. For one, getting sloppy drunk sounded like a fucking terrible thing to mix with the hallucinations that were still flickering in his vision. They weren't as bad now – dark shapes in the corners of his eye, weird flashes across his vision, split-seconds where he swore that Cas was burned and smoking, or that Dad's flesh had melted off, leaving nothing but his skull, watching him with empty eye sockets.
They weren't always there, at least. He didn't always see them. Still, though, drinking didn't sound like the smartest idea.
Besides, he was still sitting on the edge of the bed, holding Cas' hand while he slept, and he didn't really want to get up to go grab a glass anytime soon. He was pretty sure that he was going to be holding vigil by Cas' side all night, just like he had after the whole shapeshifter thing had happened. He wouldn't be able to stand it if he didn't.
Dean's weapons were once again tucked into his pockets – including the angel blade, still shoved into the inside of his jacket. Dad had given it back to him once they'd reached the motel. Or, Sam had taken it from Dad and handed to Dean without a word, that bitch face locked in place, the kind that said that he'd kick Dean's ass if he tried to argue. Dean hadn't. He didn't have it in him to argue with anyone right then.
Stabbing someone was another story. Or shooting someone. Gordon was lucky that Dean didn't know where he'd gone off to, otherwise there'd be no way that he'd be able to hold himself back.
They'd been sitting in silence for twenty minutes now, ever since Sam had finished treating Cas, and Cas' muffled cries of pain had died out as he'd drifted into a halfway-peaceful sleep. The only sound in the room had been Cas' still-labored breathing, and the clink of glass against glass whenever Sam or Dad poured themselves another drink. Now, though, Dad decided to break the silence.
"We need a new plan," he said, "since Gordon made off with the Colt. We need a new way to kill Azazel, something more reliable than a blade that you guys think is going to work."
Sam stiffened, and straightened slightly in his seat. "We know that it's going to work," he said. "All we need is a way to get close enough to Azazel that we can stab it into him."
"How?" Dad asked, and for just a moment, Dean thought that Dad was asking about their Azazel-stabbing strategies. Then he added, "What makes you so sure that it will work. Where's the research on it?"
"We haven't done any," Sam said. "But Cas says it'll work, so it'll work." And Dean could see it on their faces – Dad wasn't going to call that reason enough, and everyone in here knew it.
"Can't this wait until later?" Dean demanded, voice coming out harsher than he'd meant. "Like maybe more than an hour after Cas just got shot saving Sam's life?"
Something flashed across Dad's face, something that might almost look like guilt, except it was gone before Dean could see for sure. Dad shook his head. "We can't afford to wait," he said. "And we can't afford any uncertainty, so unless we have proof, we're not going to rely on it."
"Oh, so now we're a 'we'?" Sam asked, narrowing his eyes. Fuck, that wasn't going to make anything better.
Dad glared right back at Sam. "You two are the ones that always wanted to get involved," he said. "I was never the one who wanted you in this, but you insisted."
"And you tried to do everything to keep us away from you, no matter what damn problems we had," Sam snapped. "What makes you decide that we're just going to be a team now?"
Dad was quiet for only a few seconds, which was just long enough for Dean to think oh shit. Then Dad was standing, hands slammed down on table in front of him, leaning forward to glare at Sam. "I've been keeping you safe," he snapped. "You really think you're in any place to question that, considering how badly it was all fucked up the last time we tried to work together. We lost our best chance at the demon and your brother could have died. You really need me to spell it out for you why I didn't want you two to join me again?"
Sam was on his feet, too, now, mouth open, ready to snap.
"Don't wake Cas," Dean said quickly, glancing over at him. He was curled like he was trying to protect his injured side, and didn't move at all, not even a twitch.
Sam instantly looked guilty, and stepped back from the table, though he didn't sit back down. "Let's just forget about the last hunt and focus on how we're going to kill Azazel now."
See, that sounded like an excellent idea to Dean. Just forget about everything, focus on ganking this bastard now, everyone would be happy. Except Dad, apparently, because he just shook his head. "Doesn't work like that," he said firmly. "You don't get to just forget about these things, not in this life. You're lucky that we got a do over, no harm done. It could have just as easily ended with any one of us dead. You're not allowed to walk away from that stuff."
Oh, god. He could see it in both of their faces, there was no way that either of them were backing down now. Ever since Sammy hit the argumentative teenage years, Dean had learned how to sense how bad a fight was going to get. It was in the way that they both stood, the way they glared at each other, whether their arms were crossed tight or if they were gesturing widely.
Basically, he knew the signs. And he saw all of them now. This was going to be a big one.
"And you're allowed to just walk away?" Sam demanded, taking a step forward. "We're calling for you, and you're allowed to just walk away? I called you when Dean was frickin' dying, way before he nearly got killed by Azazel, and you didn't need to get involved?" Sam broke off, shaking his head. "That's bullshit, Dad, and you know it."
"Seriously, guys, Cas just took a bullet," Dean pointed out, hoping that that would at least stand a chance at calming Sam down. Or maybe it'd make them decide to go take their fight somewhere else, so that Cas could sleep through it. It wouldn't change the fact that they'd both walk back in here in half an hour, sending each other death glares and growling at each other for the rest of the night, but at least then Dean wouldn't feel like he had to sit here and listen to it.
Sam lowered his voice again, but that was all he did. "We needed you here, Dad, and you never showed up. So now you get to decide that you want to waltz in here and help us out, but only on your terms? That's not the way it gets to work."
"You're being childish," Dad said.
Dean wanted to stand up that they were both being the childish ones, but of course he didn't – he could just imagine how Dad would respond if Dean ever said anything even remotely like that. Instead, he just lowered his head, using his free hand to rub his temples.
The images were getting worse again, flashing across his vision more and more often, and he was sick of it. Sick of everything, really, and pissed beyond belief. He wanted Cas to not be hurt, for his frickin' mind to stop betraying him, for Dad and Sam to stop going at each other's throats for one fucking second, and for them definitely to stop doing it now, when they were ten feet away from where Cas was lying wounded. There was enough shit going on, and if they didn't stop it soon, he was going to lose it.
In a way, it worked, he guessed, because suddenly Dad turned away from Sam and looked toward Dean instead. "And what's going on with you?"
Dean frowned, then slowly lifted his head to look toward his dad. "What do you mean?"
"Don't try to deny it," Dad said. "I've seen you rubbing your head, or staring at nothing and freaking out. Something's up, and you're not as good at hiding it as you think you are. So I'm giving you one chance to tell me what's going on."
Fuck, Dean had thought that Dad wouldn't pick up on that. Of course that was a stupid thought. Dad was the best hunter Dean had ever met – no way would he miss these kind of signs, even though Dean had kinda been banking on the fact that Dad would be too pissed at Sam to even glance in Dean's direction. Apparently that hadn't panned out, though.
"It's nothing," Sam said, before Dean got the chance to answer.
"This is between me and your brother," Dad snapped, glancing at Sam for a split second before returning his eyes to Dean. "And it's not nothing, and you'd better tell me right now."
"Nothing that we're going to tell you about," Sam amended. "You weren't here when it happened, wouldn't even let Dean call you and tell you about it. You don't get to demand answers now."
This time, Dad didn't pay the slightest bit of attention to Sam. "Dean," he repeated, in that warning voice he used. The one that meant that Dean had better tell him now, or the consequences were going to be worse than the monsters they fought.
The hallucinations were hitting hard now, darkening his vision until it looked like midnight instead of the middle of the afternoon. He could hear them ringing in his ears, too, like a low buzzing that he couldn't shake. It was making his own breath sound too loud in his ears, and his voice didn't sound like his own, not at that moment. It almost sounded like it was someone else completely who took that deep breath and said, "I sold my soul to a demon."
The moment that the words were out of his mouth, it was like he'd snapped back to reality, and suddenly he was way too aware that the words had come from his mouth, he was the one who had just admitted that, and Dad was staring at him like he was going to kill him.
"Sold your soul to a demon?" Dad repeated, followed immediately by, "What the hell is wrong with you? I leave you alone for a year, and now you're off sleeping with supernatural creatures and selling your soul?"
"It was ten years ago," Sam said, his voice like stone. "When he sold his soul, I mean. It happened a long time ago, during one of the other times when you weren't around."
"This doesn't involve you," Dad snapped at Sam, then toward Dean, "How could you be so stupid?"
"Like hell it doesn't involve me," Sam said. "Why do you think he was forced to do it?"
"I thought you didn't believe Cas was an angel," Dean said, at the exact same time.
Dad looked back and forth between the two of them, then for whatever reason decided that he was going to answer Dean's question first.
"I saw him get shot," Dad said stiffly. "I saw the blood. No normal human heals that fast, I'll give you that much. And no normal human would be that lucid when they've lost that much blood. There's something going on with him. Whether he's an angel or something else, I don't know, but he's definitely not human."
Dean nodded his head slowly, and waited for whatever came next. No way was Dad done talking yet, Dean could sense it.
And he was right. Almost immediately, Dad continued, "Which makes me wonder why you two are so quick to trust him. He lies about his name, he lies about his species – is there anything he's actually been honest with you about?"
"Cas is family," Sam said.
Dad shook his head. "Not in my book."
Sam's eyes narrowed, and he crossed his arms over his chest. "Then your book is wrong."
"Do we have to do this?" Dean asked, voice too loud. For a second, he'd almost forgotten about Cas sleeping right next to him, about the fact that he'd been the one telling Sam and Dad to keep it down just a second ago. He stopped, lowered his voice. "Cas just took a bullet saving Sam's life. You're going to tell me that you still don't trust him?"
"We don't know enough about him," Dad said.
"I know plenty," Dean said, and made a vague gesture toward his brother. "Sammy knows plenty. We know that he's here, and that he's saved both of our lives more than we can count, and that he's running his ass away from Heaven so that he could join us in fighting back against this whole fucking mess. I don't know, but that sounds good enough for me."
Dad's eyes narrowed further, and fuck, now Dean was really going to get it. He flinched, then bereted himself for reacting so stupidly, then tried to hold back a growl when the hallucinations suddenly grew sharper, until all at once they looked clearer and more real than the real world.
"We're getting off topic," Dad said. "This isn't what we're supposed to be talking about." And Dean had just enough time to be relieved that Dad was at least going to stop digging at Cas, and then Dad said, "You still haven't told me why the hell you would sell you soul to a demon."
Sam was staring at Dean now, and Dean could read the offer in his eyes, could tell that Sam would be the one to explain it if Dean wanted him to. Dean hesitated, just for a second, then nodded his head slightly.
Sam nodded back, and faced Dad again. "I died," he said, voice flat – no emotion, nothing at all. "I was thirteen, and I was murdered by an angel. A demon offered Dean the chance to bring me back. He took it."
"And you never thought to mention this to me?" Dad demanded. "Why the hell did you even let them get that close? What were you even doing?"
"We were at the park climbing trees," Sam said. "He didn't know it was an angel. He thought I'd fallen out on my own."
If John heard, he didn't react at all. "I gave you one job," he said, taking a step toward Dean. "Just one job. You were supposed to take care of your brother, and look what happened. How the fuck did you let that happen?"
"I fixed it," Dean said. "I know I fucked up, but I fixed it, okay?"
"Too late for fixing it," Dad snapped. "It never should have happened in the first place. And now there's hellhounds on your trail – yeah, I know what happens when your soul is sold, I know the symptoms. So now the hellhounds want to rip you to shreds, don't they? Sounds like you just messed everything up worse."
"Don't you dare-" Sam began, but he was cut off before he could say anything more.
This time, Dean was the one to cut him off.
"I did what I had to do," he said, dropping Cas' hand so he could stand up and face Dad now. He wasn't speaking loudly anymore, but he felt like his voice was iron. "You would've done the same thing. Hell, you almost did do the same thing."
"That's different," Dad said, and didn't explain how. Instead, he just asked, "When does your deal come due?"
Dean frowned, but after a few seconds, he finally admitted, "About eight days ago."
Dean could see Dad working out the math in his head, then watched his eyes narrowed. "The same day that Sam was supposed to be taken."
"Yeah," Dean said. "Azazel probably worked it out that way on purpose." And the demon bastard probably got a real kick out of that, too, planning on taking Sam on the same day that his big brother had been killed, wanting Sam to be off balance and not able to fight back. The thought was enough to make Dean think that he didn't want to just stab Azazel through the heart, after all, because that wouldn't be nearly quick enough.
"So that's another thing," Dad said. "You go through a demon attack, you know that Sam was supposed to be taken, you know that you're supposed to be dragged down to hell, and then what? You don't even pick up the phone and let me know that you fucking survived, or call me up and tell me that you had demons on your trail too?"
That did it.
"I did call you," Dean shouted. He didn't know when he had made the decision to raise his voice so much – he was pretty sure he'd just decided on doing the exact opposite – but he was doing it now, and he didn't exactly think that he'd be able to stop any time soon. "I did call you, all the time. Jesus, Dad, I must've made thirty phone calls before my deal came due, and you were the one who didn't exactly want to get in touch. Because you said it, didn't you? That if we walked out that door, then we weren't allowed to come back, for good this time. So I'm sorry that I listened, and that I was so busy trying to track down Cas that I started acting like you. Because your fucking phone calls are so much more important than mine, huh?"
"Don't you dare-" John began.
Dean shook his head, and cut him off. "And you know what? You were the one who always told me to take care of Sammy, no matter what it took. And I fucking did. I was the one who always made sure that he had food, even when you were gone for months and we started running short. And I got him up and dressed and shoved him out the door to make sure that he got to school on time, not you. And when he was lying dead in my arms, I made sure that he came back, that he didn't die for good when he was thirteen years old. I did all of that. And you know something else? I'd do it again if I have to, so don't you dare try to tell me that I'm wrong."
Silence. Just, complete silence. Dad looked pissed as fuck, Sam looked something that was almost like pride, but mostly, both of them just looked like they couldn't fucking believe that Dean had just said that. He couldn't blame either of them. Honestly, he couldn't believe it, either.
"I think I was wrong," Dad finally said. "I don't think that we'll be able to hunt together, after all."
Dean stiffened, because that was exactly what he always didn't want to hear. And for just a second, there was the overpowering urge to give in and apologize, to say that they should work this out. That they had started this fight with the three of them, and they should finish it together, too.
He didn't, though. Instead, he just took a deep breath, and nodded. "Okay," he said, and again, it didn't even sound like his own voice, and not because of the hallucinations this time. "But I'm not sticking Cas in the Impala again until he's healed more, so this time, you're the one who's going to have to leave."
It was like a frickin' out-of-body experience. No way in hell would Dean Winchester ever say those words. No way would Dean Winchester ever even imply anything close to that, not after spending so long and working so hard to try to find Dad.
No way would Dean Winchester just stand there and watch as Dad did exactly what he'd just told him to.
Dad stopped in the doorway, duffel bag thrown over one shoulder, and for a second, Dean thought that Dad was going to decide not to actually leave. And honestly, he couldn't help being relieved at the idea, even if he wasn't going to be the one to tell Dad not to go.
"I don't want either of you going after Azazel," he said. "Keep hunting, but nothing with demons, and definitely nothing that could get you killed while your soul isn't your own. I hear word of either of you getting mixed up with Azazel again, and there'll be hell to pay, you got it?"
He left without waiting for an answer. The door swung shut behind him.
Dean took a breath and counted to five, then to ten, then fifteen, and still none of them said anything. Dean didn't even know what he was supposed to say, or if there was some rule to how he was supposed to react to just throwing Dad out of the motel room.
The thing was, Dad had thrown them out before. When Sam went to Stanford, when they'd decided to stick with Cas, even sometimes when they were younger, and Dad was pissed over a hunt gone wrong and needed to be alone. Usually after Dean had been the one to mess up the hunt somehow, stupid beginner mistakes, and Dad wasn't ready to face him yet. They'd always been able to come back, though, whether it was hours or days or years after the big fight. Hell, even Sam had been accepted back onto the team, and he'd done the biggest betrayal of all, leaving the life and heading off to college.
This time, though, Dean wasn't sure if they'd ever get that option, and the thought left him feeling like he was freefalling.
Then a voice behind him said, "Dean."
Dean turned around. Cas was propped up slightly on one arm, putting the weight on his uninjured side. His face was pale – Dean could see it now. The hallucinations had faded away, still clinging to the corners of his eyes, but no longer covering the center of his vision. That meant that – finally – he could see how Cas looked for himself, not just having to rely on what Sam said and how he acted.
Cas looked good. Pale, shaky, tired, in pain, a sheen of sweat covering his body – but he didn't look like someone who'd just gotten shot, that was for sure. Dean released the breath he hadn't even noticed that he was holding, and sat back down on the edge of the bed again – carefully, making sure that he didn't jostle Cas at all. "Shit, I didn't mean to wake you up."
Cas ignored that completely. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," Dean said quickly, because he wasn't entirely sure if that was a lie or not, but even if it was, there was no way in hell that he was going to say that to Cas and make him start worrying about Dean when he needed to be healing. He might look good for a guy with a hole in his stomach, but that sure as hell didn't mean that he was completely okay.
"You don't have to say that for my sake," Cas said immediately, because of course he'd see right through that one. "If you want to talk about it-"
"No," Dean said, before Cas could get any farther. He shook his head. "No, I think I've done enough talking." He paused, then gave the best fake laugh he could manage. "Hey, look, I actually stood up for you. Look who's being a good boyfriend this time."
If he'd thought that that would lighten the mood, he was dead wrong. Cas just kept looking at him, the serious expression on his face not shifting at all. "Yes," he finally said, acknowledging that with a nod. "But I care more about the fact that you defended yourself."
Well, shit, there wasn't really anything else to say to that. One more moment passed, then Cas winced and lowered himself back onto the pillows.
"Go back to sleep," Dean said immediately. "Trust me, man, you need it."
And it was completely obvious that Cas did, but still, he shook his head stubbornly. "I want to make sure you're okay."
"I am," Dean said quickly, then "If you're going to worry about me, at least wait until you don't look like you're on the verge of passing out. Trust me, all this shit is still going to be around when you wake up, you can get yourself all panicked over it then."
And yeah, that was definitely the most reassuring thing that he could have said. It worked, though. Either that, or it was just a testament to how decidedly not okay Cas was, because he didn't protest after that. Instead, he nodded, and his eyes slid closed again.
"Just wait until I have recovered fully," Cas said, voice low and slurred slightly, as he turned his head to press his cheek against the pillow. "I will take care of you then."
"Yeah," Dean said, and even managed a smile, though even he couldn't tell if it was real or not. "Yeah, you do that."
Cas didn't hear him, though. As far as Dean could tell, the guy was already fast asleep.
Sam was still watching him. Dean looked up, and narrowed his eyes. "I meant it," he warned. "I don't want to talk about it, and that goes for you, too."
Sam nodded. "Okay," he agreed, easily enough. Then he grabbed the bottle of whiskey off the table, where it'd been left because Dad hadn't bothered to bring it with him when he collected his stuff. "Want to get drunk, then?" he asked, and shrugged. "We might as well."
And, well, who was Dean to argue with logic like that?
An hour later, they found themselves sitting on the couch, both of them nursing their glasses, the half-empty bottle sitting on the table beside them. Neither of them had quite crossed the line into "drunk" yet, but they weren't entirely sober, either, which was exactly how Dean liked it.
"You know," Sam suddenly said out of nowhere, "those things you said to Dad? Those were the exact same things that I was going to say. Just making sure that, you know, making sure that you know."
That... Honestly, Dean didn't know if it made him feel better or not. On one hand, he was usually the one getting super pissed off when Sam said this kind of crap to Dad, so being the one to say what was on Sam's mind? He didn't really know how to feel about that.
But then, at least he hadn't just been pulling stuff out of his ass, if Sam felt the same way. That was something, at least. Made him feel like maybe he'd had a right to say it, after all.
Okay, he still felt like he was going to get fucking crushed with guilt the moment that he stopped and thought about it, but the rest of him... didn't regret it, actually, which was weird as hell for him, and he didn't want to think about that too closely.
And in either case, he'd told Sam not to bring it up, which meant that he was basically required to flip him the bird. "Fuck off," he added for good measure, downing the last of his drink.
Sam just laughed, in that half-giggling way he had that made Dean wonder if he was a little closer to drunk than Dean had counted on.
"Just making sure you know," he said, as if that wasn't obvious enough already, then followed Dean's lead and threw back his whiskey, too.
Dean grabbed the bottle off the table, pouring both of them another glass, because screw good decision making, right? He sipped it slowly, neither of them saying anything for another few minutes. Then maybe he was closer to drunk that he'd thought, too, because he somehow decided that this was a good time to say, "About the demon blood."
Sam froze, the laughter dying from his face. "What about it?" he asked.
Dean shrugged. "It's been a few days," he said. "I just wanna make sure you're okay with it."
Sam's mouth twisted slightly. "Am I okay with the fact that I have Azazel's blood running through my veins?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "No, I'm not." Another drink of whiskey, taking this one way too fast, then he added, "But I'm dealing."
"You sure?" Dean asked. "Just 'cause, you know, that seems like a big thing to be dealing with. And you didn't seem to be taking it well last time we talked." And oh yeah, this was definitely the alcohol talking. No way would Dean even think about saying any of this if he didn't have a few drinks in his stomach already.
Sam nodded, though he was staring into his drink instead of at Dean. "Yeah, I'm sure," he said, and nodded again. Though he wasn't terribly convincing, especially since he sounded like he was talking to himself more than Dean. After a second, he took a breath, and added, "I have to be, I guess. I can't change it, so I have to live with it. Getting worked up isn't going to help."
That was basically the exact same advice that Dean had given to him the last time they'd talked, but still, it sounded kind of messed up, the way that he said it. Made Dean think that they should be doing something about it, not just sitting around all resigned to their fate.
Dean didn't think there was actually anything he could do, though, that was the sucky part. It wasn't like they could travel back in time and stop Azazel from infecting Sam in the first place.
So instead, he just leaned over and elbowed Sam in the ribs. "That's why we've got to gank the bastard. Get revenge, at the very least. Show him that he messed with the wrong Winchester."
"Yeah," Sam agreed, but he still didn't look up.
Dean frowned, then elbowed Sam again, harder this time. This time it made Sam squawk a protest and look up at him, and Dean grinned. "You know, demon blood or not, I can still kick your ass."
"In your dreams," Sam shot back immediately. "I can beat you any day."
"Only 'cause I let you," Dean said, "and only 'cause you're such a frickin' pain in the ass when you don't win."
Sam shook his head, and shoved Dean hard enough to nearly knock him sideways – though, in fairness, the alcohol had a part in that, too.
"Bitch," Sam said.
Dean grinned. "Jerk."
He wasn't exactly good with the touching conversations or emotional declarations. This was the only way he knew how to cheer Sam up, to try and reassure Sam that the demon blood didn't bother Dean, at least, even if Sam was still squicked out by it. That Dean agreed with everything Cas said about the demon blood not changing who he was, or making him any less. Because Dean sure as fuck wasn't going to say any of that out loud.
Based on the way that Sam grinned back, though, Dean was pretty sure his brother had gotten the message.