Author's Notes: This is a tag to 13x18 'Bring Em' Back Alive'. There is heavy foreshadowing of later episodes and character development/confessions.

"Where there is anger, there is always pain underneath." – Ekhart Tolle

"I know I wasn't always the greatest brother to you. I know things got dicey…you know, with dad – the way he was. And I just…I didn't always look out for you the way that I should've. I mean, I had my own stuff, you know. In order to keep the peace, it probably looked like I took his side quite a bit. Sometimes when I was…when I was away, you know it wasn't 'cause I just ran out, right? Dad would…he would send me away when I really pissed him off. I think you knew that." -Dean W., 14x12 'Prophet and Loss'

"I-I don't know-I don't know why I get so angry. I just know that-I know that it's-i-it's just always been there. And when things go bad, it just-i-it comes out. And I can't-I can't stop it. No matter how-how bad I want to, I just can't stop it." -Dean W., 15x09 'The Trap'

Sam's body spasmed him awake, his breath hitching in his chest, heavy eyelids blinking open rapidly. Awareness flooded his senses quickly. He was in his own bed, in his room, in the bunker. And, judging by the pounding of his heart, he'd just had another nightmare. He could never remember the details, but he could always feel the tendril whisps of terror at the edges of his consciousness upon waking.

He was grateful that he couldn't remember his dreams, but not remembering left him feeling anxious and uncertain – as if he'd left pieces of himself in another realm.

Rolling onto his back, Sam coughed, cleared his throat, then squeezed his eyes shut against the darkness. Taking deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth, he began meditating. It was a practice he'd perfected over many years. Starting with his heart, he concentrated on each part of his body until the tension left and he felt whole again.

He blinked over at the clock on his nightstand. 2:37 AM. Knowing he wasn't going to fall asleep again anytime soon, Sam got out of bed with a sigh and padded to the bathroom. He emptied his bladder, splashed some cold water on his face, then headed for the kitchen.

He stopped just outside the doorway, surprised to find the lights on. A surreptitious glance around the corner revealed his older brother sitting at the table, hunched over a steaming coffee mug. Dean's face was pinched, lips pursed, glazed and hooded eyes staring off into the distance. He was clearly brooding and didn't seem to have heard his brother approach from down the hall. Sam could tell from the lines on the man's face that he was worn out and possibly in pain.

With growing concern, Sam recalled the bloodied tear in Dean's jacket after he returned from the rift, which had clearly resembled a bullet wound, but Dean had brushed him off when he asked about it. After his outburst, he'd been unapproachable for the rest of evening, and Sam had reluctantly given him space. He supposed now was as good of a time as any to try to get some answers about what had happened in apocalypse world.

He cleared his throat before entering the kitchen, noting his brother's flinch at the noise. He kept his movement fluid and his tone neutral.

"Hey. You get any sleep?"

"No, uh. Not really." Dean replied tiredly. "You?"

Sam pulled the pitcher of filtered water from the refrigerator and grabbed a clean glass from the cupboard. "Yeah. A little."

As he filled the glass with water, he glanced over at Dean and noticed the string of a tea bag dangling from Dean's mug.

"Wait a sec. Are you…are you drinking tea?"

Dean smirked. "Oh, yeah. Third cup, actually."

Sam's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Wow. Not Dean Winchester's usual choice of beverage," he teased.

Dean grunted. "Yeah. Well. I took a few Vicodin earlier and didn't really feel like dealing with the hangover. You know - been there, puked that." He waved a hand dismissively.

Sam leaned against the counter, taking a sip of his water, feigning ignorance and nonchalance.

"Your shoulder, right?"

"Yeah, it's fine. Got it down to dull throb now." Dean smirked grimly.

"So, you want to tell me what happened over there?" Sam asked.

Dean sighed. "I was stupid. All I could think about was getting to mom and Jack, and I got careless. Walked right into the path of a bounty hunter and he clipped me."

"Ketch was supposed to have your back," Sam said, shaking his head in frustration.

Dean looked up. "He did. Sam, he did. Hell, if it weren't for him, I wouldn't have made it back."

At Sam's questioning look, he continued, half rolling his eyes like what he was saying was no big deal.

"The bullet had some Men of Letters poison on it. Some real nasty stuff. Ketch made me an antidote."

Sam shook his head again. Hearing how dire the situation had been was like a punch to the gut, and only increased his concern.

"We really should've checked you over once you got back," Sam murmured. "Still should."

"Nah, I'll be fine." Dean replied, aiming his exhausted stare back at the wall. Sam got a good look at his eyes, then, and could tell they were glassy and bloodshot.

"We gotta stay focused on what's important."

"Dean. You are important." Sam said quietly.

He was predictably ignored, Dean either unable or unwilling to acknowledge that fact.

Neither of them said anything for a long moment.

Sam finally broke the silence with a sigh. "You know – sleep would be really good for that shoulder." He took another sip of water.

Dean hardly broke his staring contest with the wall. Just gave a noncommittal "yeah."

Sensing he wasn't going to get anymore out of his brother tonight, Sam finished off his water and pushed off the counter. He put the empty glass in the sink and was about to bid his sibling goodnight as he walked past the dining table, when Dean spoke.

"Hey, Sam."

He stopped short, turning toward his brother, who seemed unnaturally still.

"Yeah?"

Dean cleared his throat, his eyes sliding toward Sam. "Listen I, uh. I wanted to say I'm sorry."

Sam frowned. "Sorry for what?"

"Earlier. You know. Losing my crap on you guys. You and Cas did the best you could, and you didn't deserve that."

"Forget about it," Sam said dismissively.

"I can't." Dean said gravely. "I can't just forget about it."

Sam slid onto one of the stools across from Dean. He studied his brother. Dean usually wasn't this open unless he was concussed.

"What's going on with you?"

Dean took a breath and looked down at his tea, fiddling with the string from the tea bag.

"You remember how dad always was, right? I mean, he was a real emotional guy."

Sam blinked, taken off guard by the seemingly random topic.

"It was like, when he was sad…he wasn't just sad. You know? When he was sad, it felt like nothing could ever be good again. Like there was this black hole just eating up the life in the room. And man, it felt like…like if I didn't do something, I was gonna get sucked up in it too."

Dean glanced up at Sam then, and the fragile expression he saw there almost choked him. He didn't understand what had brought him here, or why, but he suddenly had a sense like that of one standing on sacred ground. He swallowed down his emotions and kept his expression neutral, silently begging his brother to continue. To finally get whatever the hell this was off his chest.

Dean looked back down at his mug and continued to speak.

"And when he was disappointed in me, you know. I felt it. Man, I felt it in my bones. Nothing was ever good enough. He had that face, you know. That look. And just that look could shrivel your soul."

Dean swallowed hard.

"I tried so damn hard to avoid that look. I thought…I thought if I just did whatever he wanted, the way he wanted…he'd never look at me that way again. And I told myself I'd be damned if I ever looked at you like that."

There was a pause.

"And when he was angry…." Dean trailed off. His gaze lost its focus, returning to the wall, and his breath hitched in his chest.

Sam nodded encouragingly, trying not to reveal his earnestness. He felt his own heart racing, the burning of tears at the back of his eyes. Keep going brother, he silently begged. Get it out.

"I mean, I know he did the best he could. Right? Mom died, and he was pissed, and he was scared. He needed to feel like he was in control, like he could protect us. Being angry was better than being helpless, or sad, or afraid, or dead. And I get it now – because I'm just like him."

"No. Dean," Sam whispered, trying to interject. But Dean was lost in his memories.

"You weren't around for most of it but, uh…when he was angry? It was like anything could happen. Just an explosion, you know? He'd scream. Top of his lungs, man. Just pure, uncontrolled rage. Stuff got thrown. Stuff got broke. Doors slammed. He'd leave. And I never knew…" Dean took a deep breath before continuing, his voice trembling slightly. "I never knew if he was finally gonna do something he couldn't come back from, or if he'd send me away, or if he'd even come back at all."

God, Dean. Sam thought, briefly closing his eyes. He remembered fighting with his father. Not specifics, just the feeling. He remembered how good it felt sometimes to just go off, to challenge him. He never once felt the danger Dean was describing – probably because Dean had been shielding him. He remembered Dean always getting in between him and his dad, even taking a few hits on his behalf. Dean always tried to keep the peace. No one ever considered the cost.

"It scared the hell out of me, you know?" Dean admitted. "And I thought, if I just didn't question him, and if I kept you in line, it would hold everything together. That's all I cared about, was keeping us together. Because it was all I had."

Dean's eyes briefly flickered back to Sam and the younger man kept absolutely still, fixing his eyes on the edge of the table near Dean's elbow, afraid to spook him.

"And I idolized the guy, you know that. Even sitting here now, there's a part of me that can't let go of-of how I wanted it to be. How I wished it would be. The man was a hero – still is."

"But…." Dean trailed off, shaking his head and clumsily rubbing his reddened eyes with his fingers.

"But what?" Sam prompted gently.

"That part of him - I swore to myself I'd never be like that. That I'd never make the ones around me suffer because of what was going on inside of me."

Dean grimaced, and Sam couldn't tell if it was pain from his shoulder or pain from what he was revealing.

"Dean…."

"Just-just let me get this out, I'm almost done," Dean said quickly.

He paused, seemingly gathering his thoughts.

"Earlier today – I lost my shit, man. I made a mess. I yelled. I was so…." He cut off abruptly, shaking his head slightly as if he couldn't find the right words. "Anyway, it isn't the first time I took it out on you. Even when you were a kid, I remember getting so ticked at you. Shoving you, yelling. I even threw some punches. You didn't always deserve it. It was my own crap."

Sam shook his head. "You're not dad."

"No, but I have the same problem. My anger. My feelings," Dean said with feelings with clear derision. "I go off the rails just as easily as he did."

"Dean," Sam began with some exasperation. "You're allowed to have feelings. You're allowed to be angry. Hell – I get angry, too."

Dean looked away, shaking his head again.

"But I can't control it. I get angry, s-so quickly." Dean's bloodshot eyes suddenly filled with unshed tears. "I just…I never wanted you to feel the way that I felt. But then I turned around and did the same thing. And for that I'm sorry."

"It's not the same, Dean," Sam insisted.

"How is it not?"

"Dad never apologized to us, for one. Not for that kind of stuff, anyway."

"So what? Saying sorry doesn't fix it. It doesn't make it any better. If anything, it makes it worse."

"How does it make it worse?" Sam asked, genuinely confused.

"Because it means I'm failing you."

Sam recoiled a bit at the depth of self-loathing in Dean's voice. He was beginning to understand that this was a deep core shame of Dean's, that it was coming from the parentified part of his brother. This wasn't his sibling or his brother-in-arms speaking, but the man who had begun raising him while he was still a boy himself. It was a parent's fear of failing to break a generational curse, of hurting their child the way they were hurt, or of their child feeling the same confusion and resentment toward them that they felt toward their own parent. All Dean could see was that he'd broken a promise that he'd made both to himself and Sam, and he kept breaking it. He didn't know why, and he didn't know how to fix it. He only knew that he was failing.

Sam didn't quite know what to do with all this, or what to say. It seemed so big - certainly too big to address in one night. He didn't dare patronize his brother with platitudes. And sleep was calling, pulling hard on the backs of his eyelids.

There was one thing Sam knew he needed to make crystal clear.

He leaned across the table into Dean's space, forcing him to make eye contact.

"Dean. You. Have. Never. Failed me. Never."

"Sammy…."

"No. I need you to understand that. The rest…we'll figure it out, okay? But I need you to make that stone number one. You have never, ever failed me."

He watched as Dean's Adam's apple bobbed up and down a few times, saw the discomfort and doubt in his eyes. Then Dean blinked, as if coming back to himself.

"Yeah, ok. Apparently, I overshared. Since this turned into a chick flick. Damn Vicodin."

Dean leaned back a little, rubbed a hand over his face and winced as the movement jarred his shoulder.

"Whatever you took didn't work well enough." Sam said, eyes narrowed in concern.

"Probably out of date or somethin'," Dean slurred tiredly.

"Dude, you need to ice that and get some rest. Seriously," Sam said.

Dean closed his eyes. "Yeah, maybe you're right."

He jumped as Sam tossed an ice pack from the freezer into his lap. "Come on, man. I'm beat. You're half asleep already. Let's just call it a night."

Dean wasn't moving without assistance. His body felt leaden, and his shoulder was throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He let his brother pull him up by his uninjured arm and draw it across his shoulders.

The support felt good. Then it also felt kind of scary.

Halfway to his room, Dean suddenly got the idea that he should be able to walk on his own, thank you very much. He pulled away from his brother without warning and overbalanced, nearly taking them both down.

"What the - ! Geez, Dean, take it easy, alright! I got you."

He heard his brother's voice as if listening from the bottom of a fishbowl. Damn Vicodin. Or maybe some of the antidote was still in his system. Or maybe it was the fact he hadn't slept or eaten properly in days. Maybe all of the above.

His back hit the mattress and he felt Sam lift his legs up, arranging his body so it was somewhat even. He felt Sam carefully balance the ice pack on his wounded shoulder. He felt his boots slide off his feet and the cool draft as a blanket was thrown over his body.

It all felt like something he didn't deserve. He'd failed so many times. But he could keep trying. He owed them all that much. And that's the one thought that carried him into sleep.

I'll keep trying.

Sam left Dean's room and walked slowly back to his own, feeling exhausted and more than a little overwhelmed. He heard shuffling up ahead and noticed Cas walking toward him from down the hall.

"Hello, Sam. You're up early," Cas noted.

"Yeah, I just was talking to Dean in the kitchen. I think he said more words in the past 40 minutes than he has in the past few months. He really opened up about some things." He frowned. "It was really weird, actually."

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, just…." Sam trailed off, his line of thought shifting. "Hey, did he tell you that he got shot in apocalypse world with a poison bullet?"

Cas's eyes widened in concern. "I sensed an injury but he insisted he was fine. I was trying to give him space."

"He mentioned that it was a Men of Letters poison, and that Ketch made an antidote."

"You think that something in the poison, or the antidote, made Dean more…talkative…than usual?" Cas guessed.

Sam grimaced. "Yeah, actually. Too bad there's no way to research it."

Cas gave a slight nod. "It is a valid theory – many of the Men of Letters' potions were engineered using herbs like scopolamine, designed to make a monster more compliant and suggestable."

Sam bit his lip worriedly. "Truth serums. Damn. That explains a lot."

"Yes."

Sam said nothing more, lost in thought. He wondered if Dean would even remember their conversation in the morning, given the circumstances.

"You look tired, Sam," Cas said, compassion in his eyes. "You should get some rest."

Sam gave a small, sad smile. "Yeah. I'm just…."

"Worried about Dean," Cas stated.

Sam heaved a sigh. "Yeah."

"I will watch over him for you," Cas offered, eager to help take some of the burden off of his friend. "He won't even know that I'm there. And in the morning, we can pester him until he lets us look at that shoulder. I should be strong enough to heal it by then."

Relief and gratitude flooded Sam's face. He placed a hand on Cas' shoulder. "Thanks, Cas."

Cas watched as the tall man shuffled to his own room, and he willed healing, restful energy in his direction.

Then he walked down to Dean's room to begin his silent vigil.

The End.