After Sam used his freaky psychic shit to gank Famine and his demons, there wasn't much left to say between the brothers. Dean had known from the moment Sam walked in what he had done, even if Sam's blood goatee hadn't given it away. And Dean tries not to look at all the bodies; he tries to keep his face neutral, or at least suppress the expression of horror he's sure he's wearing. Because this wasn't Sam's fault. Not this time.
"Come on," is all Dean says, moving towards his brother.
Sam keeps his eyes on the floor, staring vacantly at some spot by his feet and visibly steeling himself for the lashing he thinks Dean is about to give him. Dean claps a hand gently on his shoulder, trying to provide some reassurance while he thinks of what to say. He leads Sam out to the Impala and they settle in for the drive, and Sam says nothing when they turn on the highway north. He knows where they're going, and he's not fighting it this time. The guilt in Dean's gut burns white-hot.
"Sam-" Dean starts, at the Sam time Sam blurts out, "I'm sorry." Dean blows out a breath, thinking with dread about the drive ahead and all that's been shattered between them in recent months.
"I'm sorry, Dean." Sam takes advantage of the momentary silence to repeat himself. His shoulders are slumped, head hanging limply. The picture of shame.
"Sammy, it's not your fault." Dean's tone is angry, and he fights hard to keep it that way. Anger is so much easier than everything else.
Sam snorts, but says nothing for a moment. When he does speak, it pierces yet another hole in Dean's battered heart. "You were right, I'm a monster."
It takes everything in Dean not to swerve off the road and hash this out right here, but he has to keep driving. Has to get Sam to a safe place before the detox hits. So Dean clenches his jaw and turns down the music so he's sure Sam hears every word.
"Sammy, you are not a monster. And if it's anyone's fault, it's Famine, for sending those fuckers to get you. Or hell, blame me for leaving you there for them to pounce on, but don't blame yourself. You fought hard as hell to resist it, and told me the truth when you started to struggle with it." Dean's voice is getting choked, and he takes a moment to clear his throat. The next few days are going to be hell for Sam, and Dean needs to be strong. "You let me in and trusted me to help you. You did everything right this time."
"And look where it got me." Sam's tone is bitter, broken. He looks over at Dean, finally, eyes filled with sorrow.
"You're here, with me. And you're going to be okay, I'm going to make sure of it."
Before, when Sam had been locked in Bobby's panic room, it had felt like retribution. Like Dean thought he deserved to suffer, and Sam hadn't disagreed. But for the first time, Sam got the sense that he wasn't going to be in this alone.
"Get some sleep, Sam," Dean instructs him. He stops short of saying that Sam is going to need his strength, but they both know it. Sam leans his head against the window and goes silent, but it's another hundred miles before his breathing starts to even out and Dean knows he's asleep. He chances a glance at his brother, and sees the tension finally gone from Sam's face. But with the sense of relief comes a new spike of worry as he sees the pale shade of Sam's skin.
Dean doesn't sleep that night, driving straight through. He can't spare the time, and he wouldn't be able to relax anyways. Even driving through the night, by the time the pair make it to Bobby's, Sam is sweaty and shaking. Dean half carries him down to the panic room, hating every step. If there was any way to avoid this, make it easier for Sam, for Dean to take his place…
But his brother is going to have to suffer, and Dean is going to have to try to drink away the cavern that's been ripped open in his chest. Because this time, he's not leaving Sam.
He gets Sam settled, making sure he has what he needs but nothing he could hurt himself with. Then Dean ruffles Sam's hair gently and heads for the door, every step leaden. Sam has his eyes screwed shut, fighting back tears as the memories of the last time he was locked in this room flood through his mind.
Turning and stepping over the threshold, Dean reminds his brother, "I'll be right here." Sam nods without opening his eyes, and Dean shuts and locks the door.
Cas is waiting outside the door, but says nothing. Dean settles down on the ground with his bottle of Jameson and prepares for the longest night of his life. He listens for what must be hours to the sounds of Sam screaming, begging for help, calling for Dean. Eventually, Cas tries to provide some reassurance and encourage Dean to go get some sleep. But every inch of Dean is wired on high alert. He hasn't been able to sleep in god knows how long anyways, and now every time he closes his eyes all he can see is images from Sam's last detox. Seizing, bleeding, battered. So every few minutes, Dean is up and checking on Sam; either opening the slot to lay eyes on his brother or listening carefully for any changes in his breathing. After what happened last time, he has to be sure he's alright. So no, tonight, sleep will not come.
Tomorrow, when Sam starts to settle and the screaming is interspersed with unbearable silences, silences that make Dean's blood run ice cold, sleep will not visit either.
But this time, Dean isn't going to head upstairs and do his best to ignore Sam's suffering. He's not leaving his brother.
Dean ends up going four days without sleep, and he's on the verge of collapsing by the time Sam, battered and broken, is detoxed and free of the panic room. Every inch of his body screams for rest, but Sam is weak and needs his help. So Dean helps him up the stairs, to Bobby's guest room; he lays a cool washcloth over Sam's forehead; he unlaces and removes Sam's hunting boots, and he tucks his Sasquatch of a brother under the covers.
Then Dean collapses onto the bed, fully clothed, on top of the covers, listening to the sound of Sam's steady breathing.
He's out instantly.