Work Text:
Dean was still in his room, organizing papers, books, and the plethora of things that had been left lying about while he was “away.” But it was more about the time he had to himself, thinking about everything that had happened. At first, things had been hazy, but it slowly came back to him, each memory adding to the looming mountain of guilt that had settled in his gut. Dean shuffled some papers into yet another pile when the loud knock reverberated off his door.
“Yeah.”
Sam peaked his head through the doorway. “Hey, food’s in the kitchen.”
“Yeah, I’ll be right there,” Dean responded without looking back at his brother.
Sam nodded and shut the door again. Cas had said that Sam would not blame Dean for the things he had done as a demon because he was not entirely himself. Still, no matter what Cas said, it would not comfort Dean; it would not wash away his guilt. Dean had felt it. He had felt the rage and bloodlust and the peaceful chaos that had seemed to drive his every move. More than that. He had felt the uncontrollable anger and hatred towards Sam and the want to watch him suffer.
What the hell was wrong with him? How could he ever have felt that about his own brother? About someone he had spent his entire life protecting and caring for?
Dean swallowed hard, pushing those thoughts from his mind, and stood to follow Sam out of his room. Every inch of his body ached, as though he was just getting over the flu; his head pounded dully, and when he stood, he wobbled slightly on his feet. The sickness that he felt now was nothing compared to the pure pain Dean had felt when Sam was administering the cure, the feeling that his insides, his very blood, had been boiling.
When Dean entered the kitchen, Sam and Cas were sitting at the table, and Sam was already eating. Dean felt their eyes settle on him. He tried not to look back as he shuffled to his seat across from Sam.
“How ya feelin’?” Sam inquired.
Dean shrugged. “I’m fine.” The lie slipped out easily. Dean had been saying that lie since he was about four years old when everyone asked how he was doing with his mother’s death. In his whole life, he had never actually said the words genuinely. He did not want to worry his brother or Cas, but most of all, he wanted them to stop staring at him as though he was about to explode.
He took a bite from his burger. It was warm, juicy, and delicious. He could not remember the last time he had actually enjoyed eating. He had eaten as a demon, but that had been different. He had not done it because he enjoyed it or because he needed to; he had simply eaten because he could. Which, he supposed, was the reason he did anything as a demon: simply because he could. Dean clenched his jaw as anger flowed over him. He wanted to stop thinking about his time as a demon, to stop his brain from wandering back to those horrible thoughts, to that guilt, to that confusion. His eyes drifted to his right arm. It was not burning, itching, or hurting in any way. In fact, except for the constant nagging in his mind, the Mark of Cain could have gone unnoticed under his shirt sleeve.
“With the Mark comes a great burden,” Cain’s words echoed in Dean’s ears. Dean’s mind abandoned the island of denial he was trying to settle on, as the self-hatred became an inescapable raging tempest. He was still trying to figure out how it had all gone so horribly wrong. He had known the Mark was not the best solution, but at the time, it seemed to be the only option. The only way he could do something right and fix what he had smashed. Caught in that desperate need, he was willing to pay the price the Mark came with, or at least he thought he had been. Even when Crowley had revealed the Mark was killing him, it still felt like a fine price to pay. Damn Crowley, he had known, and he had played him. Dean’s anger began to rise again. He rolled his hands into fists as though getting ready to fight the demons that were not in front of him. Crowley had used him, again and again, and Dean had been just too damn stupid to see it, just like he had been too damn stupid to know not to take on the Mark.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice was soft and worried. It brought Dean out of his spinning mind and back into reality. He spread his hands out of the fists he had made and looked up at his brother and his best friend.
“Yeah?” Dean tried to sound as innocent as he could, as if there was absolutely nothing wrong, as if the last few months, hell, the whole last year had not happened. They were just a group of friends having… dinner? Dean realized he did not even know what time it was. Did he feel like it was late because it really was, or because he was so exhausted that it had to be late?
“How’s the burger?”
Dean looked down at the food and smiled, grateful that Sam and Cas were by his side. “Delicious.”
Sam nodded and both the boys continued to eat their dinner. The moments stretched along in silence. Even after everything, the group of friends had experienced together, they could not find the words for this moment. Sam and Dean chewed on their food, an excuse to avoid talking about the daunting elephant in the room. Cas sat silently, absentmindedly playing with one of the ketchup packages that came with the food, and occasionally staring up at his friends, trying to read their human emotions.
At last, Dean stuffed down the rest of his burger, crumbled up the paper it had come in, and wiped his hands on his jeans. He let out a deep breath and closed his eyes. Now that his hunger had been satisfied, his exhaustion nagged unchallenged at his consciousness. “Well, if you guys don’t mind, I think I’m gonna go crash.”
Sam shot his head up, surprised by the sudden break in the tension of the room. “Yeah, of course.” He gave his brother a small smile that he returned before leaving the kitchen.
Dean walked silently down the long halls, his footsteps echoing like a methodic drum. When he reached his bedroom, he pushed the remaining items off his bed, changed into more comfortable clothing, and fell into his bed. It was warm and comfortable, not the lumpy, dirty beds of the skanky motel rooms. This was his. The bed in the room, in the Bunker, in the small town of Kansas, was his home. It was safe. And everything that had gone down, all of it, was over now. The silence of the room cushioned Dean’s ears as he nodded off to a peaceful sleep, safe and sound.
***
In the library, Sam poured himself a shot of whiskey before looking at Cas and pointing at the container, silently asking him if he wanted any. Cas shook his head. Sam sipped at the whiskey. “You think he’s gonna be okay?”
Cas nodded. “Yeah. He just needs some time. I suggested he take some time off before doing any work to get back on his feet.”
“Right, that’d probably be best.” Sam stared off into space for a moment. “What about the Mark?”
“There’s nothing we can do about it now. We’ll do research. Eventually, we will find something.” Cas paused. “You were right though, one battle at a time.”
“Huh, yeah.” Sam rubbed his hand down his chin.
“I should probably get going anyway. Hannah will be waiting for me.”
Sam had forgotten that Cas had brought another angel with him. “Wait, has- has she been waiting in the car this entire time?”
Cas thought for a moment. “Probably. I’m not sure. I don’t see why she’d go anywhere else.”
“Cas, it’s been hours!” Sam said with an amused chuckle at the end. “You can’t just leave someone in a car without any explanation for hours!”
“I doubt she minds. Plus, I wanted to stay, to make sure Dean was fine. Hannah will understand.”
Sam shook his head, smiling. He sipped at his whiskey. “Yeah, go, we’ll be fine here.” Cas nodded and then turned to leave. “And Cas?” Cas stared back at him, eyes wide. “Thank you, for everything. Call if you need something, okay?”
“I will. Same to you and Dean.”
Sam nodded and watched his friend climb the stairs and leave through the creaky Bunker door. Then, all was quiet; Sam was left alone in the library with his whiskey. He breathed out slowly. It was over now; it was all over.
As Sam continued sipping his whiskey, the silence became heavier and heavier until it weighed on him like a ton of bricks. If he let the thoughts at the back of his mind bother him, it was almost as if Dean was not there. That he was still missing, still gone, still… dead. Sam felt it, felt his heart turn heavy with dread. It took everything to remind himself that Dean was alive. More than that, Dean was alright, he was human again, and he was going to be fine. Whatever Sam had to do, he would. Whatever it took to save Dean from the Mark.
The early hours of the day grew as the whiskey drained away. Finally, Sam emptied his glass one last time and left it on the library’s table. Heading down the Bunker’s halls, Sam walked by Dean’s bedroom. The door was ajar; all was quiet inside. Sam slowly opened the door, just to check, just to make sure all was okay. Dean was sprawled across the bed. He was not snoring like he usually did, but Sam could hear his deep, even breaths. Once again, memories began to invade the present, and this memory came sharp as the edge of a blade.
Sam had been drinking, just as he had been tonight. There was an ache that festered deep inside him. Fed by the brokenness Sam had felt at having watched his brother die in his arms. Infected by the guilt of telling his brother, only months before, that he would let him die. On that night the Bunker felt more like a coffin than a sanctuary. The empty halls had seemed longer and bigger than they ever had been. When Sam had found his way to the dungeon, the dark hole inside him clenched his heart, and anger rose in his throat like bile. There there were the remnants of a summoning spell, one that Dean had used to free himself from the prison Sam and Cas had locked him in. “Damn it, Crowley,” Sam spit the words out of his mouth, “You got him into this mess. You will get him out, or so help me God.”
Sam lit the match and threw it into the summoning bowl. Crowley, however, never showed. Finally, Sam had gotten tired of waiting for someone who was likely to never come, so he wandered back down the Bunker’s halls. As he passed Dean’s bedroom, he fearfully looked in at his brother’s dead body. Only there was no body. Sam felt the excitement take hold of him, practically shaking him. “Dean?!” He smiled, looking around, waiting for his brother’s voice to answer him. All was silent.
“Dean!” He yelled again. Too many times had the brothers miraculously avoided death. It was no longer a permanent thing, only a minor inconvenience that could and would eventually be fixed. So, of course Dean was not dead. Of course he was back in the land of the living. But the longer Sam stood there in the empty Bunker hall, the less probable Dean’s return to life seemed to be. Sam heard no sound but his own beating heart, and when he looked back into Dean’s room, he noticed what had replaced his brother’s corpse. A small paper note sat folded on the bed. Sam hesitantly entered the room and picked up the last remembrance of his dead brother. It was one sentence, written in Dean’s own hand, asking Sam to let go of his brother. It was gone, all of it, the excitement, the hope, replaced with a terrible feeling that something was wrong, something was horribly wrong. Sam looked around at the empty room once more, to the bed where his brother’s dead body had laid only minutes before. They had lost. Dean was gone, and now his corpse was gone with him.
Sam swallowed the memory. Dean was there. Dean was fine. Sam looked at his tranquil sleeping brother one last time. Then he pulled the door to its agape position again, and turned away from Dean’s room and the memories of past times. When he reached his bed, he tumbled into it, not even bothering to change out of his jeans and flannel. It only took seconds for him to drop off into the void of sleep.
***
When Sam awoke, his head pounded dully from the alcohol he had partaken in the night before. Sam, however, had certainly had worse before. His path back to the kitchen and a fresh pot of coffee took him past Dean’s room once again. Sam could not help himself. Perhaps it was the memories of his brother disappearing from the room, perhaps it was the pain that he had seen him in while administering the cure, perhaps it was even the fact that those months leading up to Dean’s death, Dean had barely slept. Whatever it was, Sam pushed his brother’s wooden door open again. Sam scoffed at himself and shook his head. To no one’s surprise, Dean was still inside, still fast asleep. Hell, he had not even changed positions. He looked exactly the same as he had hours before. Sam headed to the kitchen.
While Dean continued his heavy sleep, Sam spent the time reading a lore book from the Bunker’s library. Then, he watched some TED talks, and as the hours built on top of each other, Sam’s agitation grew. He found himself sifting through everything they had on the demon cure, which was not very much, and absolutely nothing on what was “normal” behavior for the patients after the cure was given.
Sam let out a light sigh as he stared at the folder about the demon cure.
“Whatcha readin’?”
Sam immediately closed the folder and looked up at his brother. “What? Nothing. Just, you know, lore and stuff.”
Dean nodded as he sat down in the chair adjacent to Sam. It was then that Sam realized how much better Dean looked. Somehow the night before Sam had not registered how pale, tired, and sick Dean had been.
“You sleep well?”
Dean raised his eyebrows and scoffed. “Yeah, like fourteen hours of sleeping well.”
Sam gave a slow nod. “So, I guess we have a vacation. What you planning on doing today?”
Dean casually shrugged. “I was planning on fixin’ up Baby. She probably needs some love.”
“Yeah, sounds good.” Sam looked down at the folder in front of him. “Hey, Dean?”
“Hmm?”
“You are feelin’ alright, right?”
Dean gave his brother a small smile. “I’m good, Sam, really.”
***
Dean opened Baby’s door and wrinkled his face in disgust. Sam was right; the Impala was filthy. Dean picked up a dirty, grease-stained napkin that had been left on the dashboard with the tips of his fingers. “Ugh.” He dropped the napkin into the trash bag and whipped his hand on his jeans. With a sigh, he patted the black leather seat. “I’m so sorry, Baby.”
He began pulling out the rest of the trash that was thrown about on the dashboard, floor, and under the seats. Feeling as though he would much rather be touching the old, forgotten, and strange items while wearing gloves and accompanied by fifteen liters of Purell. Once the Impala’s interior had been purged from the echoes of Dean’s demon life, Dean began scrubbing her exterior until the dust gave way to her natural shiny black. He was taking a look under Baby’s hood when Sam came into the garage carrying a plate holding a sandwich and a glass of water. He lifted them slightly. “Sustenance.”
Dean took the plate and glass from his brother’s hands. “Thanks.”
“How’s it going?”
Dean looked back at the now polished Impala and shrugged. “It’s going. Making our way back to mint condition.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“What, you under a hood?”
Sam put up his hands in surrender. “Hey, I’ve helped fix the car before.”
“Yeah.” Dean gave his brother a small smile. This was good; this was as normal as the brothers had ever been. The two of them fixing up the home that they had been raised in, what more could Dean ask for? It may have taken time and a little heartbreak, but at least they were together and united. Dean's smile grew as he looked at his little brother. “Go pick up a wrench, and we’ll see what you can do.”