Work Text:
Sam didn't know how he knew, to look at them, but somehow he did.
He could tell Addie was still angry, cold fury radiating from her every bone, even as her terror ruled the roost, driving her to be here in the first place, Dean leaning half-conscious on her shoulder and bleeding down on the ground. Dean—well, Sam was never much at reading Dean, even when he wasn't hurt. And sometimes he thinks it was that very first second, hearing Jess's confused and worried, "Sam?" and coming up behind her to see the two of them, younger sister and older brother swaying together in his doorway. He thinks he knew then.
Or maybe he just thinks he should have.
*
At first, it's just the Winchester kids as usual; somebody's bleeding, somebody's barking, somebody's running the lighter across the needle or the knife. Dean's hurt pretty bad. Worse than Sam's ever seen him, but Addie won't hear of taking him to the hospital. She tells him there are people after them. She tells him Dad's dead.
Sam's hand shakes and even most of the way passed out, Dean yelps when the needle stabs deep. Addie reaches and steadies his wrist with a glare that holds all the compacted hate of the past three years. It shouldn't surprise him. For all she's the girl among them, Addie never really learned to cry. She turns all her grief back into her rage, the only thing that fuels her, like a rocket, knocking off pieces as it goes. Sam wonders what happens when and if she reaches orbit, if she'll somehow fly out into space or explode and rain down to earth. Either way, he's a little afraid of her.
Times like this, he realizes maybe he always was.
*
It's late by the time he finishes patching Dean up. Sam leaves Addie at his side, unable to sit under the dual weight of Addie's stare and the horrible expectation that he might lose Dean today. Though they probably took it worse than Dad ever did that Sam left, Sam's fight was never with them and the ache for them around him (but not like this never like this) has never gone away. This is the distillation of all he never wanted.
At the door, he turns back to look at them. Dean, pale as a ghost himself, spread out over Sam and Jess's blood dabbled sheets and Addie, one of Dean's hand held fiercely in both of hers, the turquoise and silver of her rosary dripping down between their joined fingers. Her lips move in silent speech—prayer or incantation, he doesn't know and both are equally likely.
He always stood between them before, Dean on one side and Addie on the other. Now the space is closed, and filled with something else. Something he can almost see, razor and lightning edged, smoke and blood stained. It tugs at him with a subtle sense of wrong, but one he doesn't want to look into too deeply.
Then Addie leans forward and presses her lips to Dean's forehead and Sam knows. Even through such a innocent gesture, he knows.
*
Sam is the one that's there when Dean wakes. He is cold, inside and out. He has drugged his sister so he can confront his brother. He used his girlfriend to coax addled Addie onto the couch. These are the things he's done and he knows Dean can read every one of them in his face when Dean's eyelashes flutter up, glazed and in pain.
"She's your sister, Dean."
Dean shakes his head, licks his lips and closes his eyes again.
Sam is afraid of himself when he grabs Dean by both arms and shakes him. Under the bandages, crimson flowers bloom and the smell of blood—their iron blood—fills the room, driving Sam's rage that much harder. "She's your sister, Dean."
"I wanted it," Addie's voice says from behind him and Sam drops Dean to twist around. Addie clings to the doorway, looking as fragile as a china doll. Her eyes glitter in rings so dark they look like bruises. "You left us and I wanted…" Her face twists. "I made him do it."
"You made him fuck you," Sam spits, just to be ugly, just so the words are out in the open. He wants one goddamned thing out in the open. He wants her to hear what she's doing—to him, to Dean, to herself.
Addie flinches but her chin comes up. With a pang, Sam recognizes the gesture as his own. "Yes. I made Dean fuck me."
Sam shakes his head. "What is wrong with you? What is wrong with both of you?"
Addie tilts her head sideways. "You left us and Dad died." She spreads her hands. "What else was there?"
Bile burns his mouth. Sam doesn't know.
*
It's too soon, but the next morning, Dean is on his feet, Addie pasted to his side. Sam wants to argue with him. He wants to tear them apart, make them listen, make them see.
He hates that most of all what he wants is to wash his hands of the whole thing. Pretend it never happened.
"Call me," Sam says lamely, and he knows by the way Addie's lips press, by the way Dean's eyes fall away from his that it came out as weakly as it sounds to his own ears. "Call me," he says again, more strongly. "Let me know…you're okay."
Addie doesn't say anything, tugging at Dean to go but Dean nods once.
*
Sam stands at the window and watches the two of them limp-step from the apartment. He looks at Dean's arm around Addie, almost dwarfing her against his side. He looks at the way Addie holds them both steady, guiding them in a line. Dean opens the car door but stands for a long time, looking down at Addie with the keys in his hand. Finally, Dean runs his thumb down Addie's cheek. Addie's eyes close and she sways forward a little. Then Dean drops the keys into Addie's palm and lowers himself slowly into the car. Dean looks up and his eyes meet Sam's. There are messages there Sam doesn't know how to read.
He thinks that's always been his problem.
"Are they going?" Jess's hand creeps over his shoulder and it's both a reflex and a comfort to put his arm around her and gather her against his side. "So soon?"
"They've got each other," Sam says numbly, even as something inside of him howls in hysterics. "They'll be okay."
And he prays to God that it's true.