Diagnosis Before Cure
K Hanna Korossy
He had never, ever beaten his brother into unconsciousness before.
The haze of grief and anger cleared just enough to let a thread of worry in. Had he gone too far? Dean fumbled under the bloody chin, eyes closing when he felt the strong pulse under his fingers.
He rocked back on his heels, then slid around to sit next to his brother's motionless frame. Without conscious thought, Dean's hand moved down to rest on top of the rising and falling chest, scrunching the fabric a little in his aching fingers.
He'd beat Sammy unconscious.
Okay, not exactly his brother. Sam had admitted—because he finally had to—that he was different since he came back. Didn't feel anything, in his words. He'd let Dean get turned into a vamp because it was pragmatic. Was a better hunter because he didn't care about anything. Watched Dean's back because it made sense. That was not Sam.
But it was Sam who'd told him he needed help. And Dean's response was to start whaling on him. Kept pounding even when Sam was completely out.
He clenched Sam's shirt a little tighter, looking unsteadily at all the blood on Sammy's face, and Dean's knuckles. Who was the monster now?
Dean's lip quivered a little. He bit it, hard.
He'd left Lisa and Ben for Sam. People he loved. A normal family life: probably the only time he'd get a chance at that brass ring. But his little brother needed him.
Turned out, not so much.
Dean glanced around, desperate for distraction. Veritas's body lay nearby. Her victims, in various stages of dismemberment, lay on stretchers and piles on the floor. Death surrounded them. This was Dean's life. The one he could only stand because he was in it with his family.
He squeezed his eyes shut again, took a deep breath. Felt Sam keep breathing.
Okay. Okay. So they were both screwed up. Nothing new there. Dean had thought Sam was…wrong more than once: after he came back from Death the first time, when he was addicted. There was always an answer. There would be one this time, too. Bobby would help them find it. Dean just had to get them there.
Thank God for the darkness. Nobody saw Dean carry a large, limp figure out of the house and to the car's back seat. The fire Dean left behind in Veritas's "dining room" wouldn't be noticed until it had destroyed all the evidence. Who knows what the authorities would make of all the bodies, but that wasn't Dean's concern now. The only body he was worried about was sprawled in his back seat.
Dean started to shut the rear door, paused. He couldn't leave it like that. Shaking his head, he wasn't even sure at what, he retrieved a blanket from the trunk. He arranged the long limbs more comfortably and threw the blanket over them. If you didn't look at his bloody face, it looked like Sam was just crashing in the back. He was wheezing a little now, probably from his nose and half his face swelling.
"'M sorry," Dean murmured, voice raw.
For the beating. For taking this long to be sure something was wrong. For not keeping it from happening in the first place. Hell, for Sam going to Hell.
But Sam had lied to him. Left Dean to suffer while he thought Sam was in the cage for a year. Left him to agonizingly becoming a vamp. Doing God-knows-what all those nights when he disappeared, all those months with those screwed-up Campbells, all the times Dean thought his brother was at his back. His hands curled into fists again.
Whatever, he would deal with all that later. For now, he had to focus on figuring out what was wrong with Sam, now that he knew it wasn't just Sam trying to cope, or having Lucifer on board, but actually impaired. Dean needed to fix it.
It was his job.
He got into his car and turned the rear-view so he could see the back seat. Be reminded of his failure, his fury, and his redemption.
Then Dean peeled out of there, taking them both to Sioux Falls.
The End