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Sam apologized for the big stuff. The moment he found about everything his soulless self had done, letting Dean get turned by a vampire, he had apologized. After he had inadvertently started the apocalypse, Sam had been a walking apology. Oops, my bad. Somehow worse than that, Sam had left Dean high and dry in purgatory. That one still turns Sam’s guts over. He said sorry with his words, said sorry with his eyes, said sorry by bringing home cherry pie.
And Dean had done his fair share of crap, too. He still feels stung when he thinks about how Dean killed the Kitsune Amy Pond behind his back. But Dean knew his sins, lived in his own guilt the same way he lived in his grey robe. All of Dean’s bad, he had done out of love, and out of love for his little brother. Always out of love for Sam. In some sick way, Sam loves that, and maybe he should be apologizing for that too.
They lived with all the spoken and unspoken apologies settled below the surface. Much of what they felt remained unsaid; otherwise their throats would be run ragged with I love you and I’m sorry. When Dean pours Sam a cup of coffee in the morning, he is pouring I love you, you know. When Sam tells Dean to shower first in some motel where there’s probably not enough hot water to go around, he’s saying I know I let you down. And when Dean rushes through his shower to preserve the heat, he’s replying It’s okay, Sam. They both have too much to say that it all cancels each other out, so they’re happy to live and let be.
Sometimes, however, a moment of fear or anger that had spurred Sam to do something awful popped into his brain and made it hard to breathe.
Like right now, for instance.
They are lounging on the couch in the den of the bunker. Dean is the best and the worst person to watch television with, depending on your mood. He is not a passive observer; he yells at Bachelor contestants when they give a rose to the wrong person, he curses out Joffrey for this or that. He and Dean are watching Say Yes to the Dress, of all things, and Sam smiles because the Dean of ten short years ago wouldn’t be caught dead with TLC on in the same room, much less commenting on how unflattering drop-waist dresses are.
That’s what he’s doing now, all dressed in soft black sweatpants and a softer burgundy shirt. He’s relaxes into the couch with his ankles crossed up on the ottoman in front of him. His left hand is loosely slotted under Sam’s and his right is free to flail and point at the people in the tv.
The new contestant introducing herself in the Kleinfelds is labeled Portia by the letters on-screen. She’s got her blonde hair pulled into a perfectly messy topnotch, and she’s so bubbly and excited she may just vibrate right through the screen and flop out into the bunker. She would probably keep right on talking about veils. “I’m just like going for a really, really fun vibe. Like, I just love, um, color, and, having a good time!”
“You want to fill in a little detail?” Dean complains, and Sam flinches before he even knows why. Of course, Dean is referring to how everything Portia just said does not help the bridal staff pick a dress for her in the least. One second, then two, and Sam remembers when he heard Dean say that before.
They were in the Impala, flying down a long stretch of highway in the black of the night.
“You're not pissed we're going after the girl. You're pissed Ruby threw us the tip.” Sam spat at Dean.
“Right. 'Cause as far as you're concerned, the hell-bitch is practically family. Yeah, boy, something major must've happened while I downstairs, 'cause I come back, and- and you're BFF with a demon?” Sam remembers Dean’s words fueling the fire burning in his chest, unaware of Ruby’s later betrayal.
“I told you, Dean, she helped me go after Lilith.”
“Well, thanks for the thumbnail- real vivid. You want to fill in a little detail?”
“Sure, Dean, let's trade stories. You first. How was Hell? Don't spare the details.”
Bastard. Damn bastard. Sam had spent so long begging for Dean to let him in and open up about hell. He waited months, tiptoeing around the subject, carefully laying out situations that might allow Dean to be comfortable enough to finally admit that he remembered what happened down there. It was tough work, but Sam knew nothing in this world better than he knew his big brother. He knew Dean’s shame, his guilt, his stubbornness. And because Sam was frustrated in a stupid argument, he made a dumb jab at Dean for being withholding about hell. He knew that would shut Dean right up, and it did. It shut him up and shut him down.
Sam could’ve gotten whiplash from how quickly he regretted his words. He knew the guilt was plain as day on his face- had Dean been looking at him. But his steely gaze was on the road, or really nowhere at all. Sam had nearly apologized on the spot, but his guilt had stoppered his throat in it’s attempt to shove itself deep down into the dark.
Dean still hadn’t told Sam about hell, not really. Sam was glad for the information Dean had eventually shared with him, painful as it was. Time's different. It was more like 40 years. Sam had nearly lost it right then. They sliced and carved and tore at me- not surprising, but worse than death for Sam. But then I couldn't do it anymore, Sammy. I couldn't. And I got off that rack. God help me, I got right off it, and I started ripping them apart. He wanted to get on his knees in the dirt under Dean’s feet. I wish I couldn't feel anything, Sammy. I wish I couldn't feel a damn thing.
But the apocalypse had moved in like a hurricane rushing the coast, and all their energy turned to that. And once that was over, there was one crisis and the next and the next. Hundreds of trials and tribulations separated the Winchesters from each tender moment they unearthed during the eye of a storm. Miracle upon miracles, they let themselves hold hands as the winds battered their house. They let go of convention, because the Winchesters had never been conventional and their love was no exception. Everyone who met them knew they were more than brothers- two people closer than genetics could explain.
What sweet, simple joy to be sitting on a couch, hand in hand with his soulmate. Sam had known Dean his whole life, and still never tired of those sparkling green eyes, along with the crinkle that outlined them as he smiles at his own bad joke. Dean had the same haircut for over 40 years, god bless him, but Sam wouldn’t ever tire of running his fingers along the soft spikes.
Because Sam knows Dean and Dean knows Sam, Dean lowers the volume on the tv and turns to look up at Sam. “Alright, out with it. What’s eating you?” Sam’s not sure how long his mind has been independently working since that soundbite.
“I’m sorry.” Sam purses his lips and looks down.
“What for?”
Sam clears his throat. They’ve come too far to be dishonest. “Back when we were chasing down Anna, Anna Milton, we had a fight in the car and I- I made a joke about you in hell.” A moment. “It was a dumb, heat of the moment jab, and it hurt you, Dean. I know it did.”
Dean doesn’t try to deny it. He shifts up to look Sammy in the eye. “How do you even remember that? I sure didn’t.” He does now.
“I don’t know. I’m just thinking- I really fucked up. And not in a big apocalyptic way that you’d let me apologize for, but I- I hurt you Dean and I’m sorry.”
Dean pulls his feet from the ottoman and crosses them under himself, turning to Sam. His free hand finds Sam’s and pulls both pairs into his lap. “Hey, hey, look at me.” And Sam does. His head is higher than Dean’s but he somehow pulls his eyes up to look into those doe eyes. “I forgive you, Sam. I always have, and I always will. As long as you can forgive me for the million and one stupid things I’ve done.” He’s giving a sad chuckle as he says it.
“But you still don’t talk about it. Hell. You can forgive me, but I said something that closed you off. Shut you down.”
It’s Dean’s turn to look down in shame. “It was so long ago.” That’s quiet, like he knows he doesn’t mean it.
“You were in hell for 40 years, Dean. You were there almost as long as you’ve been alive now. You complained about the Game of Thrones finale far more than you’ve even mentioned hell.”
“Would you- would you still want to hear?” That’s how Dean asks for things he’s too scared to admit he wants. He needs to get experiences of hell off his chest, so he asks if that’s what Sam wants. Like it’s a sin to care about himself.
Sam wouldn’t push, wouldn’t even bring it up if he didn’t see Dean still suffering the effects of hell. It’s become even more apparent now that they sleep in the same bed. Sometimes he’ll wake up, gasping for breath and limbs splayed wide like he’s stretched on a rack. Dean had told Sam about what the demon Belphegor had said while occupying Jack’s body. When you were in hell, with Alastair, I got a chance to watch you work. And, I mean, the things you did to those people, it wasn't torture. It was art. Dean hadn’t slept that night, and didn’t eat until Sam practically shoved a piece of toast down his throat two days later. “Yes.” Sam squeezes the hands in his. “Of course.”
“Well.” A clearing of his throat. “I’m not sure what I can say. I mean, you’d think for someone that was skinned alive everyday, that I wouldn’t even feel pain anymore. But I still felt so- so, raw. And so vulnerable, everyday. Still do.” He’s faltering a bit. “No, this is good.” Dean shakes his shoulders, gathers himself. “Time blurred together- sometimes I couldn’t even see, because Alastair decided I could use a few weeks without eyeballs.” Sam shudders. “And sometimes, when I did have eyes in my gourd, he’d- he’d- he would make himself look like you.” Now the tears are welling up with purpose. “Or dad, a lot of the time. I almost believed that one, knowin’ he was in hell and all. I thought he got offered the same deal I did and took it. And the way he laughed when he scooped my liver out with his bare hand-” Sam can’t stop himself from pulling Dean into his shoulder and clutching for dear life.
Dean’s eyes quickly stain the light grey of Sam’s tee with hot tears. “Oh Dean, God- ” and there’s not much his voice lets him say at the moment. All he can do is pull his brother closer and mourn that it will never be close enough.
“S-Sam, I’m sorry. I know it wasn’t you, it could never be you, I’m sorry, I just- please-” and he’s gasping.
“Hey, hey. I’ve got you. It’s okay. I’m here. I got you.” Sam had no idea. He knew hell was the worst of the worst, but hearing the gory details makes Sam nauseous. Sam feels grief, feels intense sympathy. In the back of his mind, there’s pride, too. He is so, incredibly proud of his brother's strength. He can’t believe Dean was walking, talking, and hustling fresh out of the grave. He’s also proud of the Dean in his arms, the one who finally feels brave enough to share his worst with Sam.
There’s still a lot to talk about. But Dean is done for the night. Sam is content to hold him in his arms, rubbing soothing circles into his back. It’s maybe a bit uncomfortable, the way Dean’s weight is cutting off circulation to Sam’s thigh. Sam couldn’t care less. He would let his big brother steal the air from his lungs if it would let him breathe just a little bit easier.
“Let’s go to bed Dean. It’s okay. I have you.” Sam loves the fact that he is bigger than Dean. In true little brother fashion, it’s fun to lord the two extra inches over his big brother. It’s also ridiculously satisfying how easy it is to pin Dean against the wall and ravage him. Or to pin his wrists above his head with one hand and pull a leg over Sam’s shoulder with other to fuck him, hard and deep. And in moments like these, he is grateful to be strong enough to carry Dean. He lets Dean be tender like this, glad for moments when he can be the one to protect him. Dean spent his whole life looking after Sam, and Sam relishes when he can return the favor.
Dean's face is still buried in Sam’s shoulder as Sam carries him to their room bridal style. He doesn’t look where they’re going, doesn’t have to. Sam is taking care of it.
Sam ever-so-gently lays Dean onto the bed, doing his best to maintain his closeness. He lays a soft kiss on Dean’s forehead, places a few more down his cheek, then his neck. Sam removes Dean’s socks- he knows how he hates to sleep with them on. He pulls the covers around the both of them and snakes an arm around Dean’s waist as he settles against his back and pulls tight. “Sam?” A small voice.
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, Dean. Always.”
That night Dean shakes, but Sam is there to hold him tight. In the morning Dean softly hums “Going to California” as he pours them both hot coffee, and Sam considers it a win.