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Dean nervously opened the door to the bunker, suddenly self-conscious about the only home they’ve had other than Baby. It had been a good home to Sam and Dean for the past five years, and he didn’t know what he would do if Mom was disappointed.
Sam didn’t seem to have any qualms, though, wearily stepping through the doorway into the bunker, letting his duffle fall to the ground.
“I’m going to take a shower,” Sam said, exhaustion punctuating every syllable and movement.
“Be quick, I wanna patch you up after,” Dean said, worriedly raking his eyes over his little brother, noting all the hurried patch up jobs and the many injuries that still hadn’t been treated. He felt a pulse of anger at Toni and the British Men of Letters for doing this to Sam.
Dean shook his head slightly, dislodging the thoughts in his head. It had been a year since the Mark of Cain had graced his forearm, but Dean still was still slightly terrified when he felt the familiar anger rising.
He saw Sam nod his head, stumbling towards the doorway and out of sight. Dean turned around to see his Mom, (his Mom!), still staring all around at the bunker.
“What did you say this place was, again?” She asked, eyes drinking in every detail of the place, noting exits and weapons with the familiar paranoia of a hunter.
“Men of Letters bunker. Dad’s dad was one. We’re legacies. It’s got a bunch of lore books and plenty of room, plus a hundred other little secrets we haven’t found yet. It’s been really useful these past few years.” Dean rambled on, trying to justify why they were staying somewhere so linked to hunting.
“Where’s John?” She asked, looking expectantly around the bunker, as if waiting for Dad to come bursting through at any moment.
Dean’s heart dropped. He'd been hoping that his mom wouldn't ask, would somehow figure it out by filling in the blanks herself, but of course, she just had to ask… “Mom… He – he died. A few years back.” Dean said this quietly, as if the quiet words could even begin to help to soften the blow.
Mom just closed her eyes, shoulders slumping. She took a deep breath, obviously trying to brace herself. “How…” She trailed off, not even able to speak the words.
“I was dying. Dad – He – uh, sold his soul to save me.” Dean shifted awkwardly, realizing for the first time that Dad wasn’t going to be able to see Mom again because of him. Mom had been yanked out of Heaven and her husband wasn’t alive anymore because Dean… Dean fucked up.
It hit him like a speeding freight train. He would have to explain everything that happened throughout their lives, their reasons and their actions, to their Mom.
He would have to tell her about Hell, about Gadreel… He shoved down those thoughts before he puked, a nauseous feeling in his gut.
Reliving those memories in Hell, torturing all those souls, breaking the first seal, kick starting the end of the world…
And even worse, he didn’t think he could quite explain to their mother that he had basically allowed his little brother to be raped by an angel.
Dean swallowed down the bile and quickly turned away, mentally promising that he would never make Sam tell the story, and hopefully never have to explain it himself. Making his way to the kitchen, Dean said, trying to joke, “It’s been, what, thirty three years since you last ate a home cooked meal? What do you want?”
Mom followed him slowly, watching as Dean busied himself in the kitchen. He couldn’t look at her, the shame and guilt choking him like a vice, and he feared that if he stopped for just a moment, he would be blinking back tears that he wouldn’t – couldn’t – explain.
“Pasta.” Dean murmured to himself, realizing Mom wasn’t offering any suggestions. “Pasta and bread. Easy and lots of carbs. Sam likes pasta.” He turned, opening the shelf and pulling out noodles and sauce. He quickly started to heat up a pot of water, adding oil and salt before waiting for it to boil.
Dean cut through the bread, the familiar motions quieting his mind, leaving him exhausted from the fallout of recent events.
“After I – After I died, what was it like for you?” Mom asked, the question cutting through the tenuous calm he had managed to achieve.
Just thinking about telling her the truth almost made him miss the bread and cut through his finger instead.
Yeah, Mom. After you died, Dad went a little bit insane, left me to raise Sammy, started a one-man war against monsters and the demons that had killed you. We never stayed in one place more than a few weeks, and he left us on hunts most of the time. However long he said he was going to be gone, he was usually gone at least double that time. He never left us with enough money and because I was too young to hold a job, I fucking prostituted myself on the streets like a common whore just so Sam could eat. I dropped out of school after sophomore year of high school because Dad needed backup on hunts and so I could get a job so Sam had money to buy books and supplies.
Aren’t you proud of me, Mom?
No. Just… No.
“Dad was inconsolable,” Dean started slowly, accepting that the best course of action would be to mix lies with truth. “He found Missouri, a psychic in Lawrence, and she told him the truth about monsters. He couldn’t bear to stay in Lawrence anymore, so… We moved to South Dakota.” Dean spoke in halting sentences, desperately trying to come up with a plausible theory that didn’t crush Mom’s memories of Dad.
“There was an old, retired hunter there. Bobby Singer,” Dean said, unable to keep the soft smile off his face as he remembered the pseudo-uncle. “Whenever Dad was off on a hunt, Bobby’d look after us. Kept us safe, and… Happy.” Or, well. As happy as the old man could, and Dean would be damned if Bobby hadn't done a damn better job than John ever did.
“Sounds like a good man,” Mom said, an unreadable expression on her face. “Still, I never – I never wanted this life for you, Dean. For either you or Sam.”
“Sam got out,” Dean hurriedly explained, trying to make her feel better. “He made it all the way to Stanford, full ride, the nerd,” he ended affectionately, letting his pride in his brother show clearly.
Except remembering that Sam was in Stanford reminded him of why Sam never finished Stanford, and yeah, Dean was back to hating himself again.
He cleared his throat. “Pre-law. Lost his diploma somewhere a few years back, but,” Dean paused, and shrugged. “He was happy.”
Dean fucked that happiness right up when he went to Stanford after Dad went missing, but Mom didn’t need to know that.
“And you?” Mom asked, and Dean started. Almost laughed. Him? College? Yeah, right.
“Me? I – uh – I never liked school. Finished High School and got my GED but never went further than that. I wanted to help Dad hunt – he needed someone to help watch his back,” Dean said with a shrug.
Mom looked at him sadly, and Dean wanted to punch something. Less than seventy-two hours with his mom, and she was already disappointed with him. He turned around to find the pasta boiling, and he quickly turned off the heat whilst checking the sauce cooking next to it.
They didn’t exchange any more words as Dean finished up cooking, wanting to wait for Sam.
Shit. Sam.
Sam didn’t realize that Dean was covering for Dad. A loud clang echoed throughout the kitchen and adjoining dining room as Dean’s hands slipped and caused two pots to bang together. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mom flinch at the loud and unexpected noise.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Dean said quickly, movements jerky as he finished plating all the food. His thoughts were racing. They’d have to hide their relationship. He didn’t think that their mother would be happy knowing that her only two sons were in a codependent, homosexual, incestuous relationship. Thankfully, though, Sam came stumbling through the door into the room, saving Dean from messing up any further.
And thankfully, Sam seemed too out of it for Mom to question him. Dean gave a silent sigh of relief. He’d have time to tell Sam to leave the story-telling to Dean.
And if Dean told Mom what happened, Sam wouldn’t have to relive those memories in bright, violent detail. And Dean could blur the details to preserve whatever memories Mom had of Dad
“Heya, Sammy,” Dean said softly, recognizing that his brother probably had a headache. “Eat, and I’ll go stitch you up.”
Sam nodded blearily, sitting down as Dean served up a plate for Sam and one for Mom, before turning to go get dental floss for Sam’s stitches.
Dean sat next to his little brother, carefully triaging his injuries, ignoring his own rumbling stomach. When Sam was done eating, Dean quickly wrapped up his triage in his mind before slowly leading Sam to his own bed. By the time he got back to the kitchen, Mom was done, so Dean set her up in one of the many empty rooms in the bunker.
“Goodnight, Mom,” Dean said, exiting the room of her choice, elated at being able to say such a simple phrase.
“Goodnight, Dean,” Mom returned, a soft smile on her lips.
Dean left her, heading back to the kitchen and mindlessly cleaning up, thoughts elsewhere.
Dean. Remember. Lock the doors, the windows, close the shades. And most important: watch out for Sammy.
Dad always did care more for Sam then he did for Dean. He wouldn’t be surprised if his mom did, too.
*
After that night, it was almost like Mom was trying to soak up all the information she could. Dean would just be going through his everyday life and Mom would pop up, ask a question, then leave with a contemplative look.
Honestly, it was exhausting, and he couldn’t even curl up around Sam like he usually did after a hard day. Meanwhile, Dean was trying to make up a whole new background for him and Sam, weave in enough accurate information so it sounded plausible, and try to keep Sam from noticing that the stories he told Mom weren’t entirely accurate. He was getting better at determining the types of answers she wanted to hear, though, and Dean would say whatever it took to keep her happy.
“What did John do for your eighteenth birthday?”
Dean blinked, looking up from where he was reading about vessels at the abrupt question. His confusion must have shown on his face, because she explained further.
“In hunting families, the eighteenth birthday is always important. It’s usually when you lead your first hunt. It’s kind of a tradition,” Shen ended sheepishly.
Come on, Dean! I don’t have time for your bullshit birthday. There’s a werewolf up in Ohio that needs dealing with, and I’m in Washington. I can’t get there in time, the Lunar cycle will already be over… I don’t fucking care what you do about school, Dean. Drop out if you have to. I’ll send you all the info so you can’t fuck it up like last time… No, you won’t have any back up. There’s no one around there. Besides, if you get injured on this it’s your own fucking fault. I’ll meet up in a week, and that werewolf better be dead.
Dean forced a smile. “He took us out to the beach. I guess since he didn’t grow up in a hunter family, he didn’t know about any traditions.” He shrugged, waving his hands in a ‘what can you do?’ manner. “He didn’t have a lot of money, but he splurged on this awesome ice cream…” Dean looked off into the distance, remembering that ice cream shop down in Tennessee. It had been a bit of a treat for making it through the year after Sam left for Stanford. “Best ice cream you can imagine, so soft and creamy, and the taste… Well. There’s nothing like it.” Dean ended his short fairy tale with a blinding smile.
“Dean? Can I talk to you?” Dean almost gave himself whiplash at the sound of his little brother’s voice from the doorway. Looking at the way he was standing, hands fisted in his pockets, trying too hard to casually lean against the doorway, Dean could tell he was trying to keep himself from getting too angry before he understood what was going on.
“’Course, Sammy,” Dean said with fake carelessness, “Though if it’s about that thing you had last month, I really don’t want to hear about it.”
Oh man. If looks could kill, he’d be dead ten times over already.
Still, he sauntered over to Sam, trying to hide the nervousness that resulted when he realized he got caught telling lies.
The moment that they were out of hearing range, Sam turned around, almost, but not quite crowding Dean against the wall. Despite the circumstances, Dean relaxed, his little brother closer than he had been ever since Mom came home.
Sam was obviously feeling the same, stealing a quick kiss from Dean before beginning. “What was that? You know as well, if not better than I do, that not only did Dad never take us to the beach, but that he forgot all of our birthdays after 1990.”
Dean ducked his head but tugged Sam closer, missing the feeling of being so close. Sam stepped between Dean’s legs, wrapping his huge arms around him, pinning him between a wall and a hard place. Chest. Same difference.
“Sam–” Dean said, then sighed. “Sam,” He tried again, “Mom started asking me what our lives were like after she died. I couldn’t just tell her that Dad abandoned us every other week at motels, that he didn’t care about your schooling, or even your fucking birthdays.” He brought his head forward, voice muffled by Sam’s shirt. “I couldn’t ruin her image of him. She loves him. Please, Sam. He’s dead. It won’t hurt anyone if she remembers him like he was before she died.”
Sam ran his hands through Dean’s short, cropped hair, and Dean melted against him. He had missed this so much. It was like Dean was constantly off balance, unable to sit too closely to Sam when they were eating, to reach out for a reassuring touch, to fuck in the hallways of the bunker. They had to sleep in separate rooms, for God’s sake. Not being able to feel the heat pouring off Sam four inches away in the middle of the night reminded him too much of the time that Sam refused to be anything more than business partners.
Those cold, lonely nights had been the worst of Dean’s life. It was worse than Cold Oak, because Sam had chosen to leave Dean alone.
Dean purposefully shoved those thoughts down back into the cold, dark hole they crawled out of, and focused on Sam, in front of him, now.
“Alright, Dean.” He breathed easier at Sam’s words, letting his body relax completely between the wall and his brother, thankful that they could keep their mother happy. “What’ve you told her so far?”
*
“Sammy!” Dean yelled, abandoning the grave he was digging and rushing towards his little brother who was currently being thrown around by a spirit. In a jolt of panic, Dean realized that Sam was defenseless, his salt gun wrenched out of his hands when he was thrown across the graveyard. Dean slid in front of him, shooting salt at the spirit, dispelling it for a second while he turned and looked at Sam, behind him.
“You good?” Dean asked sharply, not liking the way Sam blinked sluggishly. Still, Sam nodded, and Dean pushed him towards the grave, telling him to dig while he stood up, gun ready in his hands.
Sam, thankfully, did as he was told, jumping into the grave and shoveling in quick succession. Dean looked back up, eyes catching the ghost as it appeared, and shot it. The spirit reappeared quickly, heading for Sam and the grave, intent on protecting its bones.
“Hey, fugly! I’m over here, you bastard!” Dean yelled, shooting it at the same time. The next time the ghost came back, its murderous eyes were pinned on Dean.
He grinned savagely, shooting it again, before beginning to reload quickly. He distantly heard Sam grunt, so he whipped around to check on him, accidentally dropping the salt round.
He wasn’t looking when the ghost threw him into a gravestone. Dean floundered, desperately trying to breathe after the wind was knocked out of him.
The ghost flickered before it leaned in close, fingers clawing into Dean’s chest where he still couldn’t breathe, face inches from Dean’s, and in a rattling voice, whispered, “Boo.”
Dean’s mouth opened in a yell he couldn’t voice, and seconds away from passing out, the ghost vanished in a yell of rage and searing flames. Immediately, Dean sucked in a breath, chest lighting up in pain.
His hand frantically patted his chest, and looking down he saw that there were five circular holes, each about a half inch deep. Dean groaned, breaths heavy and erratic, letting his head fall back and bang against the gravestone behind him.
“Dean?” Sam called. “You good?” Dean distantly saw Sam looking at him from where the grave was a bonfire.
Besides, if you get injured on this it’s your own fucking fault.
Dean cursed in his head. He dropped the salt rounds. He fucking dropped the salt rounds. What a godforsaken rookie move. Where the fuck was his head? God, he was a fuck up, dropping the salt rounds, Jesus.
“I’m fine!” Dean yelled, zipping up his jacket, thankful he chose his black one as it hid the blood. With a grunt of effort, he picked himself up, pausing as his vision faded for a second. He grabbed the offending shells on his way over to Sam, quickly scanning him for any injuries.
“What about you? You were flying there for a moment, princess,” Dean said, patting Sam’s shoulder.
Sam snorted as he shrugged. “I hit my head but it’s not a concussion. Other than that I think I’m fine,” he said before rolling his eyes as Dean tugged him down to his level, hands parting his hair where Sam pointed. Dean hissed as he found a cut, about an inch long, but not very deep in Sam’s hair.
“It’s not a bump, it’s a cut,” Dean commented, confused.
“I think I hit a rock. Or a nail.”
“Alright, we’ll keep an eye on it to make sure it doesn’t get infected.” Dean graciously allowed Sam to stand up straight again, finished with examining his little brother. Dean started to turn back to the car to head back to the bunker when Sam grabbed his arm.
“Wha-” Dean started, his question cut off by Sam’s lips on his. Dean reacted instantly, lips moving in sync with Sam’s. The kiss only lasted a few seconds, but when Sam pulled away, Dean tried to chase Sam’s hot, inviting mouth. Sam gave a low chuckle and only pulled away far enough to breathe, air shared between the two of them.
“I’m fine,” Sam whispered, smiling. “It’s just a scratch.” They paused for a moment, Dean reveling in having his brother so close.
“I missed you, bitch,” Dean said, smirking.
Sam pulled away, laughing. “I love you too, jerk.” Sam playfully hit Dean, turning around and walking back to the car. He didn’t see Dean suck in a breath and blink rapidly due to the agony that flared through his chest.
He almost asked Sam to help him out, but the echo of his Dad’s words reminded him of his duty and his obligation. His job.
If you get injured, it’s your own fucking fault.
Dean swallowed back the nausea, plastering on a smile. Sam had better things to do with his time then look after his stupid older brother.
They drove back to the bunker, Sam falling asleep halfway there. Dean turned the music down, telling himself it was so Sam could sleep, but sighing when it slightly lessened a headache he hadn’t felt forming.
Most important: Watch out for Sammy, Dean. Don’t fuck this one up.
Dean gripped the wheel so tight that his knuckles turned white. He wouldn’t fuck this up. He wouldn’t.
*
“What was it like?”
Dean jumped, a pain rushing through his chest at the motion. He cursed as the bottle of whiskey he was drinking almost fell out of his grip at the sudden move. He hadn’t seen or heard his mother coming up behind him. He was getting rusty. He righted the bottle on the table before turning to Mom.
He yawned, heart slowing. “What was what like?” He rubbed his eyes, dead tired. He really didn’t want to do this now, after a long hunt and no rest. He was glad he put Sam to bed earlier, so at least Sam didn’t have to be up for this. Dean himself had been up half the night, trying to research ways to find Lucifer, trying to be useful. Only, there had been no such luck on either fronts.
“Your childhood.” Dean looked at his Mom, her face earnest and open. She looked at him and hurried to continue, “I know you’ve already told me the main points, but…” she trailed off, looking as though searching for the right words. “I missed everything, Dean. Funny stories, injuries, school assignments, bad days, first kiss, girlfriends… Everything. I just– I’m trying to catch up.”
Dean nodded, about to make up some bullshit lie, when she continued.
“The last thing I remember, I was in Heaven. I was with you, and Sam… and John. You hadn’t grown up, obviously, but… We were happy.” Her wistful tone dropped. “And now, I’m here. I have two sons who are older than me, my husband is dead, and–” She stopped abruptly, looking panicked. “Oh!” She suddenly exclaimed. “No, I mean. Dean, I don’t blame you at all! I’m just a little… disoriented. I need a little time to catch up, you know? And I want to get to know you, but I don’t know you at all. I wish I were there for you, to watch you – to see you become who you are today.” Mom hastened to add the last part, as if it would soften the blow of her previous words. Except for the fact that it really didn’t.
Dean nodded and swallowed deftly past the guilt that seemed to make itself home in the back of his throat recently. He thought back to when he and his brother were younger, smiling slightly at the memories of Sam from back then.
“Sam was a good kid. A bit stubborn,” Dean allowed, “especially when it came to school. He once brought home an essay he wrote for English class; it called for a nonfiction story, and he wrote a werewolf hunt he had been on with Dad and I a week or two back.” Dean laughed, “Teacher called me in worried about the kid.” Dean shook his head, smiling lightly. “I had to tell the guy that I read to Sam too many stories and that Sam had an overactive imagination.”
Mom smiled, and Dean felt his face warm.
He could do this. Could make her happy. Not push her away.
Just keep talking about Sam.
“He was a sophomore in high school and he joined the theatre,” he rolled his eyes, half expecting Sam to butt in – it was drama club, Dean – like usual. “He played in Our Town. He was cute. Freaked out about remembering his lines for two weeks before opening. I swear, I heard the entire play at least ten times through before he even got on stage. Still, it was good. I got him flowers. He was blushing so hard and embarrassed, but I could tell he loved it.”
Mom laughed, and Dean felt his heart swell.
He could do this.
But then she looked at him with an eager look on her face. “What about you?”
Fuck.
His heart dropped.
“Me?” He looked over and she seemed confused by his lack of response. He hurried to say something, anything.
“Dad gave me Baby – the Impa– uh, the car, when I was sixteen… He taught me all about that car. Found out I had a knack for it, got a job being a mechanic. Bobby had a shop called Singer Salvage where he’d repair cars – I helped him out a few times.” He ended awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.
Mom frowned slightly, but stood up anyway. “I’m sure you’re tired – I’ll let you go get some sleep. Goodnight Dean…” She said, starting to turn around, before pausing and tilting slightly to look back at Dean. “And… thank you.” She left the room without another backwards glance.
Dean let out a breath, gingerly touching his chest, where he had cleaned and wrapped his injury. It let out a dull throb at his probing so he let his hands fall to his sides.
What was he even doing?
He sighed as he looked at the clock. 2:34 AM. He took a long sip of the abandoned whiskey, appreciating the burn as it went down and pulled his laptop closer.
Lucifer. He had to find Lucifer. And keep his family safe. And try to save as many people as he could. And everything else.
Sounded simple.
For hours, Dean researched, looking for any signs of Lucifer or anything else that might be useful. Occasionally, he got the opportunity to stretch his legs and look for a book in the Men of Letters archive, but as the hours passed, the motion of getting up and back onto his seat stopped being refreshing.
Dean raised the bottle to his lips, then scoffed. It was empty. He gingerly set it on the table next to him, knowing that if he tried to aim for the trash at this point, he would most likely miss.
It wasn’t much later when Dean could tell that Sam was up and moving around. 7:30. Later than he usually slept. Dean felt a pang of worry for his brother.
“Hey,” Sam said, walking into the kitchen and grabbing a mug.
“Hey,” Dean replied, eyes raking over Sam’s form, making sure he was okay. “You slept later than usual.”
“And you got up earlier than usual. What time did you get up?”
“Seven.” Well. He got up at seven yesterday morning, so it wasn’t technically a lie.
“Couldn’t sleep.” He saw Sam send him an incredulous look, and he swiftly changed the subject. “I’ve been doing research on Lucifer, trying to find something useful.”
That successfully captured Sam’s interest. “Any luck?” He asked, grabbing an apple and sitting down across from his brother, Sam's eyes having been trained on Dean the entire time.
Dean sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Nada – But!” He held up a finger. “The Men of Letters had some information on a special weapon called the Archangel Blade that can kill Lucifer,” he paused, annoyance clear in his face, “but it does, actually, have to be wielded by an Archangel to be of use. And since I doubt we can convince Lucifer to kill himself, well…”
“Not helpful,” Sam finished for him, with a slight shake of his head. His eyes fell on the empty bottle next to him. “You sure you’re alright?”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “I’m fine,” Dean may have had trouble meeting his brother’s eyes then, but his voice held an edge that suggested that this conversation was over – even though it hadn’t started. “How’s the head?”
Sam took the hint and didn’t argue. “Fine,” He said, rolling his eyes. “Well, I’m going on my run,” he said, getting up and heading to the exit. “Let me know if you find anything.”
“See ya,” Dean said quietly as the door closed behind Sam. He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the computer screen and grimaced. Dean got out of his chair slowly, his chest sore and his legs stiff. Running a hand through his hair, Dean grimaced at the sensation of dirt and grime. Dean half wondered why Sam hadn’t said anything.
Still, it was time for a shower.
A quick but somewhat refreshing shower later, Dean was clean, a little more awake and staring in dismay at his chest.
The wounds were red and puffy. Dean sighed, not understanding how they got infected. He would deal with it, but he wouldn’t be happy about it.
He started cleaning them out, not having to try too hard to keep quiet. He was far too used to pain.
Still, the unexpectedness of the door opening around the corner jolted his hands and Dean groaned when he accidentally hit a tender spot.
“Dean?” Sam asked, now alert and slightly wary. Dean cursed and tried to clean up quickly, knowing that Sam wouldn’t stop till he saw him. He hurriedly threw on a shirt and turned around, only to come face to face with Sam.
“Sam,” Dean said, offering a quick smile that wasn’t reassuring at all. “You’re back early.”
Sam brushed off his attempts to distract him, quickly seeing the old bandages with blood that littered the floor.
“What the hell, Dean?” Sam asked, eyes now raking his body, but not in the way that Dean would have appreciated. No, it was far too serious for that. “Are you injured? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s not a big deal, Sam,” Dean said, “just a couple of scratches. Nothing worth worrying about.”
“You’ve been checking on my head almost every time I walk into a room and that didn’t even require a band-aid, Dean, do not lecture me on what needs worrying about.” Sam fumed, stepping forward and trapping Dean against the bathroom counter with his body. “Where is it?”
With the anger in Sam’s voice, Dean let his head fall back slightly and leaning further back, his eyes closing as he took his shirt off. He hadn’t managed to put new bandages on them before Sam walked in, so unfortunately Sam got the full view of the infected wounds.
“God, Dean,” Sam hissed, anger in his voice, but his eyes showed his concern. “These are infected. What the hell were you thinking?”
“That I’d try to clean them out,” Dean shot back, anger belied by his obvious exhaustion.
“I meant, ‘why didn’t you come to me?’” Sam responded, anger quieted somewhat now that he had taken over and was starting to work on Dean.
Dean snapped, “Because it was my own fucking fault that I got trapped by the goddamn ghost in the first place!” His eyes blazed, disguising the self loathing. “You were injured; I dropped the fucking salt rounds; ghost cornered me. End of story.”
Sam didn’t say anything. His hands were quick and careful trying to clean Dean up. “This may hurt,” Sam warned, but he didn’t meet Dean’s eyes.
Dean rolled his eyes, but dutifully braced himself. The expected burn really wasn’t all that bad, dulled by his preoccupation with the argument that he knew was coming. He stood silent and still as Sam finished bandaging Dean’s chest.
“I’ll be right back,” Sam said as he started out the door. “Don’t move.”
His tone brokered no argument, and Dean sighed dramatically but did as he asked. A minute later, Sam came in with Advil and water, and Dean grabbed both before Sam could even tell him to do so.
After Dean swallowed, he put the water on the counter and looked up at Sam’s calculating stare.
“Come on, Sam. I’m fine.”
Sam nodded. “Yeah, you are. But you could have not been.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Sam stepped forward, closing the gap between them. “This?” He lightly tapped on the bandages now on Dean’s chest. “This wasn’t that bad. But what would have happened if you got hurt worse and didn’t tell me? What if it was in a place where you couldn’t reach?”
“I would’ve asked for your help!”
Sam looked at Dean. “Would you?”
Dean swallowed but didn’t answer. Sam nodded like that was what he expected. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “Dean, people make mistakes on hunts. It’s not good, and you shouldn’t have a lot of them, but mistakes do happen.”
Dean snorted derisively, but Sam pressed on. “When you said it was your fault for getting injured, you know who that reminded me of?”
“Robert Plant,” Dean shot back sarcastically, but Sam’s next words stopped him cold.
“Dad.”
Dean let out a quiet breath before he answered. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice was shaky despite his best efforts to steady it.
That was enough for Sam. He closed his eyes and sighed. “Yeah, I do.” His voice was quiet and resigned, no remaining anger from before.
“This has nothing to do with Dad!” Dean snapped, anger flaring up at Sam’s words. “So you can stop psychoanalyzing me, now, thanks!” He put his hands on Sam’s chest with the intent to push him away and stalk off, but Sam’s huge paws gripped his wrists and didn’t let go.
“Dean. Let’s go through the list. You haven’t been sleeping, haven’t been eating, you’ve starting drinking whiskey with breakfast again, and you’ve been putting me before you in everything we do, and it’s become frankly ridiculous.”
“Oh, so being a good brother is a crime now?” Dean retorted, tired of his actions being dissected by his little brother.
Sam, however, didn’t rise to the bait. “Dean,” he said, somehow turning his name into an exhausted breath. “Dean, we got over this years ago. You and me. We dealt with Dad and what he did to us years ago.”
“And tell me, what did he do to us? ‘Cause Dad loved us, Sam, and he did everything he could to keep us safe!”
“Except he didn’t love us, Dean! He abused you! Mentally, physically, and emotionally! And he would’ve done the same to me except you never let him get to me!” Sam said, frustration lacing his tone. He backed away from Dean, his body tense, starting to pace.
“I got what I deserved from him! Every time I fucked up or let you get hurt, I deserved what he gave me!” Dean snapped at Sam, panic building.
Sam’s head snapped up, eyes locked on Dean’s. Sam’s voice dropped to a hiss, eyes burning. “Nobody deserves to get thrown in the hospital by their own father. It doesn’t matter what you did.” Sam got close to Dean, body effectively trapping him again. “Not to mention that he beat you for everything I did.”
Dean spit back, pushing his own chest against Sam’s clothed one in retaliation so as if to match Sam’s anger. “I should have kept you safe, and there is no way in hell was I gonna let him touch you for doing what any other kid would have done!”
“You were a kid, too, Dean!” Sam yelled in Dean’s face, anger finally reaching a peak, forcing Sam to turn around and punch the wall. Sam left a sizable hole in the plaster of the wall, and his hand was undoubtedly throbbing quite painfully in that moment. A quick look determined that it wasn’t broken, though.
However, when Sam had punched the wall, he had missed Dean’s full-body flinch. Dean sent up a quick, shaky prayer of thanks that he did.
But when Sam turned back around, Dean could only see the anger etched in every line of his body, eyes burning, furious. He slid down the wall, legs collapsing beneath him because – Oh God, this was all his fault.
“Dean! Hey, hey, hey brother,” Sam said, panic now in his voice, running back to Dean and falling to knees part way, sliding the rest of the way to Dean. “Are you okay?”
Dean distantly heard Sam’s voice, the pulse of his heartbeat thundering in his ears. All his mind could think of, though, was all the times he had failed.
Failed his father (where’s your brother, Dean, where were you, you were supposed to protect him!), failed his brother (flames, too late to save her, why wasn’t his brother running for God’s sake), and failed (Sam! Down, down, down he goes, knees hitting the mud, a hole in his shirt, blood, Dean?), and failed (it’s okay, I’m here, I’m not gonna leave you; and falling, falling, falling), and failed (John, Mary, Jessica, Caleb, Pastor Jim, Marshall, Layla, Ellen, Jo, Bobby, Charlie, Benny, Nancy, Henrikson, Wandell, Gabriel, Ronald, Anna, Casey, Meg Masters, Gwen, Rufus, Cole, Tessa, Isaac–).
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Dean repeated, people flashing before his eyes. Sam leaned in front of Dean and he flinched, hands automatically reaching up to protect his head. All he could remember was Dad, looming over him, intent on giving Dean what he deserved.
Sam’s huge hand grabbed his face and forced Dean to look at him. Sam’s mouth was moving but he couldn’t focus long enough to understand what he was saying.
His eyes trailed to his little brother’s hands, and immediately recognized the red blood weeping from his knuckles.
Fuck. He couldn’t even protect his brother. With single-minded determination and stubbornness, Dean reached over and grabbed the bottle of disinfectant that had fallen over without either of them noticing.
Sam grabbed his arm, intent on making him sit still, but one broken, raspy, desperate plead that fell from Dean’s lips made him let go.
As he grabbed the disinfectant and tweezers, he grabbed Sam’s hand and focused entirely on getting the pieces of the plaster out of his knuckles. He studiously ignored his trembling hands, ignoring how it took him twice as long to clean Sam up due to his uncontrollable shaking.
But by the time all Dean was finishing wrapping up his little brother’s hands, his mind was calmer, and there was only a faint quiver still left in his hands.
Once that small task was done, Dean let his head fall to his knees, trying to cling to his fragile calm.
“Dean,” Sam said, quietly.
“Please, Sammy, don’t,” he rasped out, parched voice sounding like it was dragged over deserts and mountains.
“You can’t keep doing this. It’s only hurting you, Dean. You can’t keep lying to yourself, to Mom.” Sam’s voice was still quiet, but laced with a stubbornness that Dean knew intimately.
“It’s her Heaven, Sam.” Dean pleaded, “Please, don’t tell her about Dad. It’s her Heaven.” He hoped Sam understood all he was trying to say. It’s her best memory. Her true happy place. Don’t take that from her.
He felt, more than heard, Sam sigh. “Alright, but you’re gonna leave storytelling to me from now on. But right now, we’re gonna get you a bottle of water and back into your room where you’re gonna sleep this off. You’re exhausted, Dean.”
Dean was nodding in acceptance before Sam had even finished speaking. It was times like this that Dean knew he could count on his brother, despite Dad’s voice in the back of his head, telling him to stop being weak.
Sam gently pulled him up, giant hands catching him when he overbalanced. They made their way to the kitchen, Sam never more than an arm’s length away.
When they got to the kitchen, though, Dean stopped, dread filling him as he saw Mom, tears on her face, with her bags packed and beside her.
“Mom?” Sam asked, confusion filling his voice, obviously not understanding the situation.
“I’m sorry,” She said, “I heard everything.” There were tears streaming down her face. “And I’m sorry, but I can’t – I can’t do it. I’ve tried so hard, but all I can see is four year old Dean, baby Sammy, and John –” Her voice caught on a sob. “They were my life. And it’s all gone, ripped from me, and I can’t… I can’t be here for you.”
Dean shut his eyes and turned his face away, tears threatening to spill over. Guilt trapped his voice in his throat, unable to say anything, not even to comfort Sam, who was beginning to shake next to him.
“I’m leaving,” Mom said, voice slightly stronger now. And Dean didn’t watch as his Mom grabbed her bags and walked out the door. He didn’t watch as his little brother started trembling next to him. He didn’t watch as his hope for a happy family collapsed.
But once it was all over, once the echoes of the door closing dimmed to nothing, he opened his eyes. He slung his arm over Sam’s shoulders, forcing Sam’s own limbs over his shoulders, and walked them back to his room.
Dean set his little brother on his bed, ignoring his hunger, his pain, and his leftover panic in favor of turning the lights off and settling back in his brother’s arms.
And once the light was off, Sam turned his body into Dean’s, grabbed him tight, and neither of them let go.
The silence was only broken after what could’ve been three hours or three minutes.
“I always wanted a mom,” Sam said into the darkness. Dean didn’t reply. “I had always wanted normal. And I knew you held her on a pedestal, as did Dad, but… I stopped needing her a while ago. And I wanted her to be good, but it was more for you than for me, because I didn’t need her the way you did.”
A deep breath.
“I’m glad she’s gone.” Sam’s voice was quiet, but unwavering.
Dean stiffened beside him, shock and a bit of anger filling him.
Sam was quick to continue. “She was hurting you, Dean. She wasn’t what you wanted, what you expected, and she was making you relive everything we had moved on from. More importantly… she was keeping us from each other. And I won’t – I can’t forgive her for making you feel like you can’t come to me.”
Dean relaxed, lifting his head and placing it on Sam’s chest.
It’s fine, Sam.
“She wasn’t there for any of it. She doesn’t know what we went through. And I’ve learned that I don’t need her, Dean. Not the way I need you. So if getting you back means she’s leaving… let her leave.”
Dean raised his head and found Sam’s lips, tasting salt. He kept it chaste and slow, letting his lips say all the words his voice still couldn’t.
I love you, little brother. I love you so much. Nothing’s gonna change that.
And in the space between kisses, Sam agreed.
“I’ve got you, Dean.”