Sam chalked it up to habit. He figured, despite the friction between them, Dean was still bound by childhood instincts. Some things he could override, especially when he wanted Sam dead, but some things remained under all circumstances. So, when Sam woke up in the middle of the night and bolted for the toilet, it really shouldn't have surprised him that after a mere ten seconds of retching, his hair was being pulled back.

Dean didn't say a word. He just stood there, holding Sam's hair in one hand and rubbing Sam's back with the other. He sighed heavily at one point, shifted his weight, and then continued rubbing. Sam couldn't help but think Dean was anxious to go back to bed. Not that it was Sam's fault Dean was up; he had never asked for or indicated that he wanted help.

Sam gasped down a lungful of air, spitting into the toilet a few times to rid his mouth of the taste. He was only half successful. Dean let go of his hair, and then the sink was running. Seconds passed, and a paper cup of water appeared in his peripheral vision.

"Thanks," he mumbled, taking the cup and using the water to clean his mouth.

Dean grunted in response. Or hummed. It was a hard sound to peg.

Sam wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, sniffed a few times, and rested his forehead on the seat. "You can go back to bed."

Mostly because Sam didn't have the energy to face Dean—not after everything he'd done, not after starting the end of the world—so he didn't plan on leaving until his brother was under the covers.

"Thought you said you weren't having withdrawals." Dean spoke shortly, sharpened with the cold edge of an anger he was trying to push aside.

"It's not withdrawals." Sam spoke softly, any solid sounds dissipating under the urge to flinch and bury his head in shame.

"Sam, I swear—"

"It's not, Dean." Sam moved his forehead to a cooler part of the porcelain, and despite knowing everything was his fault, he still felt a twinge of frustration that his brother wouldn't believe him. "It was just a nightmare. That's all."

Dean didn't say anything for a moment. "What about?"

Sam sighed, his face screwing up in a mixture of pain, embarrassment, and frustration. "Does it really matter?"

"If it doesn't, then you shouldn't have a problem telling me."

"Come on, Dean, I—"

"You know, with everything that's happened, I think I'm entitled to the truth about pretty much anything I want."

Sam winced at that, because he couldn't really argue, so he let out a sigh of resignation. "It was about you, okay? You and Hell."

Dean was quiet for a second, and then there was more movement, but he didn't leave. He simply leaned against the doorframe at the very edge of Sam's vision. "You need to talk or something?"

Sam laughed.

He couldn't help it.

"Sorry." Sam laughed again, just as bitter and hollow as the first time. "It's just… thinking about the message you left… and then…" He laughed again, lowering his voice a bit to imitate Dean without blatantly mocking him. "Dad always said I'd either have to save you or kill you. Well, I'm giving you fair warning. I'm done trying to save you. Unless there are bad dreams involved, then we put this whole thing on hold. Oh, and if you start puking. I got your back then, too. But other than that, you're a monster, Sam. A vampire. And there's no going back."

Sam let another laugh rise in his throat, a little higher and gigglier than before. Because, despite everything, it really was funny, and just so classically Dean. Just him and his hardwired system engineered specifically to protect Sam at all costs.

Sam coughed a few times, spitting out the phlegm it produced, and he let himself relax a little when he heard Dean's retreating footsteps. Except Dean didn't go back to bed, and Sam just… Sam couldn't risk looking at him. It was nearly impossible to meet anybody's eyes when he was in full control of his faculties; there was no way he could look Dean full in the face while caught in a post-nightmare haze.

But I'm so tired…

Maybe he could just sleep in the bathroom. It wouldn't be the first time—nor the last, in all likelihood—and it was better than the alternatives of staying awake or returning to his bed.

I guess I'll be taking antidepressants again. I'll have to find a way to get my hands on them.

Because he was such a screwed-up failure he couldn't function without something pumping through his system, be it demon blood or pills or enough caffeine to stop his heart. Or all three.

"Sam."

Sam startled, turning his head to look at the still-open doorway. "Hmm?"

Dean stood on the threshold, staring down at the cellphone in his hands. "You called your voicemail… sixteen times since you got that message." He made it sound like a question, his voice tight and halting.

Sam leaned away from the toilet and slouched against the shower door with a heavy sigh. "Yeah, something like that." He hadn't actually counted, and while he knew he had listened to the message at least fifty times, he wasn't sure how many times he had actually dialed his voicemail.

Dean looked at the phone in his hand for a long moment, shaking his head again. He didn't look up when he spoke—Sam didn't mind; he couldn't look at Dean anyway—but there was clear emotion in his voice. "Why?"

Sam dragged his sleeve over his face, clearing away the sweat and brushing back the tangled strands of hair. "Do we really have to—"

"Yes, we have to do this now!" Dean gripped the phone, lowering his volume but still visibly upset. "Just… answer."

Sam folded his arms atop his knees and buried his head in them, speaking a little louder to be heard around his legs. "I kept listening because… it hurt." He swallowed. "And I thought… if it still hurt, then… there had to be at least some part of me that was still human. That there was—" He bit his lip and shrugged, eyes burning. "That there was some part of me that wasn't a monster."

Dean inhaled, probably to speak, but Sam kept going.

"I know, right? So stupid." Sam scratched at his forearms, shaking his head slightly. "I mean, it's… in me. It's always been in me. I know better. Especially now." He shuddered. "I tried to—tried to turn it into something good, but I failed—like I always do—and now everything's worse. Because this thing in me is not good. It's never been good, and it never will be." He was speaking faster, growing almost hysterical. "There's always been something wrong with me, and I knew. I always knew, even—do you remember reading that Knights of the Round Table comic book to me?" Somewhere in the back of his mind, it occurred to him that he was talking about things he didn't want Dean to know.

"Sam—"

"I was just a little kid, but I remember listening to the story, looking at Sir Galahad bathed in light, and I remember thinking—" He wiped his face, gasping for air. "I remember thinking I could never go on a quest like that because I'm not clean. Because I knew. I didn't know why—"

"Sam, stop."

"—but I knew. I could feel it in me. I knew I wasn't good, wasn't—wasn't supposed to be good. That I wasn't—that I'm not pure. But now I've screwed things up for everyone, Dean. I mean, you know, before, I failed you and Dad and Bobby, and it sucked, and I hated it, and I hated myself for it, but it wasn't—I didn't—" He shook his head, drawing his knees closer to his chest. "But this time it's everyone getting screwed over—it's the whole world—because I was trying to be something I'm not, and no matter how many times I listen to that stupid voicemail, it won't change anyth—"

"Sam!"

"I wish you had let me stay dead." Sam choked back a sob and curled up a little tighter. "Why couldn't you just let me die? I was supposed to die!"

"Sammy, stop!"

Sam jolted, hands suddenly on his shoulders, and he caught a glimpse of green and tan before he ducked his head again. "M'sorry."

"Sammy, hey, look at me." Dean sounded upset.

Sam shook his head, screwing his eyes shut.

Dean shook him a little. "Come on, look at me, man."

"How?" Sam ground the word out in a stifled scream, eyes locked on Dean's chest. "How am I supposed to look at you after everything I've done?" He tried to stop screaming, pushing back the tears and the swelling in his chest. "I can't even look at myself, Dean; how am I supposed to look at you?"

Sam flinched back again, feeling one of Dean's hands cupping his cheek, and while he didn't let the hand pull his head up, he did lean into it.

"Sammy, just look at me. Come on, it's—it's me. You can always look at me."

Sam only shook his head. "I can't. I can't. I'm not strong like you, like Dad. I can't. I can't do what you can. I couldn't even—" He cut himself off, shutting his eyes again.

There was a pause. "Couldn't even what, Sam?"

Sam shook his head harder, trying to pull away from the hands on him.

"Sam, what couldn't you do?"

"It was different—" he gasped through his tears, "—different for me, Dean. It was—" Excuses. "Because when I was dead, I was—I was just dead." Excuses. "You didn't have to live with the knowledge that I was in Hell because—because you got yourself killed like an idiot, and every day, every minute, every second—I just kept thinking about you being tortured, and I—" Excuses, excuses, excuses. "I just couldn't do it, Dean." He sucked air between his teeth. "I'm not strong enough."

Dean didn't say anything for a second, and then his hands disappeared. He shifted his weight around, and then he was next to Sam, one arm draped over his shoulders. He spoke softly, warmly; kinder than he had in a long time.

"What couldn't you do, Sammy?"

Sam grit his teeth and curled up a little tighter, fighting every instinct in his body so he wouldn't curl into Dean's side, seeking comfort. "Couldn't—couldn't make it. Not alone."

"What's that mean, Sammy?" Dean whispered the words.

Sam shook his head. "No, you'll—you'll be so ashamed, and I—I can't let you down again. I already—I can't—" He buried his face in his hands, sobbing when Dean pulled him closer, knowing it was a silent demand for an answer. "Dean…"

"Sammy." Just one word, just two syllables, but it got the job done.

Sam relented. "I took—I took a bottle of pills, um, about three weeks after—" He shook his head, curling up as much as he could, keeping his face hidden as apologies started tumbling incoherently from his lips. "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Shh."

"Please, don't hate me. Not for that. Please, not for that. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know—I know it was wrong. It was selfish and ungrateful. You saved me, and I—I didn't mean to let you down. I tried—I tried so hard—"

"Shh, stop it."

"I just—" his voice cracked. "I just couldn't—and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, please don't hate me, I'm sorry. I won't do it again. I promise I won't. I'm sorry. I'm—"

Sam was cut off by arms pulling him against Dean's chest, holding him close, gripping him tight, fingers tangled in his hair, cotton shirt against his dampened cheeks.

"Shh. Shh, Sammy, stop now."

Sam hiccupped, letting Dean hold him, letting the safest arms he had ever known protect him once again. He let them push back the cold, hard reality of what Sam was and what was happening as a result. He just curled up, weeping like a child, and pressed himself into Dean's side.

"I'm sorry."

"I forgive you, okay? I forgive you."

Sam sobbed, still gripping his head. "No, you don't. You're angry. You feel betrayed—you were betrayed—and you don't trust me anymore." He grit his teeth, another cry bursting through his lips. "I did this. I made this mess, and now you're trying to clean it up, because that's what you always do, but it's not your fault."

For several seconds, there was nothing, and then Dean started to move. He shifted onto his knees and grabbed one of Sam's arms, pulling one of his hands away from his head. He grabbed a shoulder and pushed it back, going for the other hand and dragging that one away from Sam's face as well. Two hands pressed into Sam's cheeks, pulling his head up, and he screwed his eyes shut.

"Look at me."

"I can't."

"I said look at me."

Swallowing, Sam forced his eyes open, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks as he tried to blink away enough of the moisture to see. He found sage green eyes, glassy but focused and earnest and passionate.

"You listen to me, Sam Winchester." Dean took a deep breath, speaking slowly and clearly. "I will always forgive you. Maybe I'm angry, and maybe I'm betrayed. But you are my brother." He gave Sam a shake. "Mine." He thumbed away the moisture on the flushed face in his hands. "I would never give up on you, Sam, and it kills me that you don't know that. That you didn't hear those words and immediately realize something was wrong."

Sam breathed shakily, air stuttering into his lungs, and his lips started to move, to ask what Dean meant by 'something was wrong.'

"You think I could hate you for being in so much pain you tried to off yourself? You think because your brain tells you you're not clean that it makes it true?" Dean's lips pulled up in the corner, and he let out an incredulous laugh, so small it was almost an exhale.

Sam sucked in a breath. "But I—"

"You've made some mistakes, Sam, and I'm not gonna lie and say they aren't big. They are, but… that doesn't make you evil." Dean shook his head, his somber expression returned. "You're not unclean because you've got demon blood in you. I mean, is someone with cancer broken or wrong or unclean because they've got something in their body fighting them?"

Shuddering, Sam sniffed quietly, and he didn't stop looking at Dean's face.

"We're gonna take care of this. We're gonna get you some help. And you're gonna be okay." Dean shifted his hand, brushing Sam's hair back out of his face. "You're gonna be alright; we've just gotta work for it. But we're used to that. We've worked for every good thing we've ever had, and we're not gonna stop now."

Sam reached up, hands trembling, and grabbed onto Dean's arms. "I…" He stared, still feeling the wetness on his cheeks. Blood pounded in his head, throbbing against his eardrums, and he tried to wrap his head around the idea that his brain was wrong. He tried to process the concept of worthiness, of cleanliness, of value, of redeemability. "I…"

Dean gently put his hand against the back of Sam's head, pulling him close and pressing Sam's forehead to his neck. Sam stared at Dean's shirt, feeling his brother's chin resting on him, and he gripped Dean's arms even tighter.

"You're gonna be okay, Sammy. You just gotta keep talking to me and telling me what's going on in that head of yours."

They sat in silence, and Sam soaked up the sensation of his brother holding him. He felt the warmth and softness, the steady thrum of Dean's heartbeat, and the gentle fingers tangled in his hair. He sniffed again, knowing he should get up and clean his face—knowing he should try to hide the damage—but not wanting to move away from the safety and comfort Dean provided.

"For now, let's get you back to bed." Dean slid his hands down, sliding them under Sam's arms and slowly standing.

Sam let Dean lift him, and after another moment of staring at the dark gray t-shirt, he looked at Dean's face again. "I… I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry for everything."

"I know." Dean let him go. "I forgive you, just like I said. I can't control what I feel. If I think about things and I start to get angry, that doesn't mean I don't forgive you."

"But Dean—"

"I love you. You know that, right?"

Sam swallowed hard and nodded. "Yeah. I—I know that." His eyes started to burn. "I love you, too. I know I've screwed things up, but I do love you. I'll always love you."

Dean smiled and stepped into the motel room, motioning for Sam to follow him. Hesitant, Sam shuffled after his brother, and they made their way over to Sam's bed.

"Uh… Dean?"

"Go on." Dean pulled down the covers on the half of the bed that had been unoccupied, and then he crawled in. "Just like when we were little."

Sam wiped his face on his sleeve and got in on his side, pulling the blankets up over him as Dean did the same. "You…" He stared up at the ceiling. "You said something was wrong about the voicemail. What… what does that mean?"

"It means I didn't leave it." Dean sounded angry, but his words quickly revealed that it wasn't directed at Sam. "Freaking angels… they must have done something. Or Ruby. Who knows?"

Feeling like he couldn't breathe, Sam tried to get a better idea of what was going on. "So… so they made a fake voicemail?"

"Well, I did call you." Dean shifted, folding his arms under his head. "But that's definitely not what I said."

Sam wet his lips, trying to look casual as he interlaced his fingers and rested his hands on his stomach. What he really wanted to do was wring them beyond all recognition. "What, uh… what did you… say?"

"Ah, geeze, I don't remember. Something about… needing to give you a beatdown, but I'm not Dad, and we're still brothers, and I shouldn't have said what I said." Dean laughed softly. "I apologized and crap like that."

Swallowing, feeling his eyes burn, Sam reached out a little further, not understanding why Dean wasn't completely done with him. "But… but what about the pills? You went to Hell for me, and I just—"

"Sam, you were in pain." Dean shifted in bed, making himself more comfortable. "When you think about it, I did the same thing when I sold my soul. It just took a year for the pills to kick in and kill me. You don't hate me, do you?"

Sam jerked, head snapping over to look at Dean. "No! Of course not!"

Dean glanced over and smiled at him. "So, I don't hate you, either."

Sam just stared, his lips struggling to form words.

"Now, get some sleep, Sammy." Dean turned his head to face the ceiling and closed his eyes. "First thing tomorrow, we're gonna get you some help."

"Don't you think the end of the world is a little more pressing?" It was the first thing that popped into his head, but in that moment, he couldn't have cared less about the world. He was still drowning in the fact that Dean didn't hate him.

"We can do both." Dean opened his eyes and gave Sam a look. "Now sleep."

Sam watched Dean's face for another moment—a face he hadn't been able to look at just ten minutes earlier—and then he looked up and closed his eyes. He doesn't hate me. He exhaled, feeling some of the pain and guilt leave him with the air. He doesn't hate me. He tried to settle in for some sleep, hoping the nightmares wouldn't return. He doesn't hate me, he doesn't hate me, he doesn't—

"Goodnight, Sammy."

Sam didn't open his eyes. He doesn't hate me.

"Goodnight, Dean."

Author's Note: I know it's just a short little ditty, but I hope you liked it! I know I tend to write a lot of Suicidal!Sam (which I find weird because my depression, while severe, never led to suicidal ideation), but I have a story about Depressed!Sam who isn't and has never been suicidal that I am working on, so hopefully that will be posted sometime in 2024.

If you like my writing style, check out my tumblr or my website to see what I'm working on!