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The Werther Box definitely played a major role in how Sam ended up nearly bled dry in the front seat of the Impala and he was playing it pretty cool. Not many people lost as much blood on the regular as Sam Winchester, so it was just another day at the office. At least that was the impression we was trying to put off the entire ride back to the bunker.
But Dean had his doubts. He wasn’t intuitive like Sam, he didn’t always pick up on subtleties, taking the emotional temperatures of those around him, but how difficult it had been to tear Sam away from the curse that was literally draining his life disturbed him. The struggle lingered in the back of his head and started eating at him, even as the two settled into the bunker for the night after the long drive.
Dean knew his Werther was a hallucination. Benny was dead and gone, Purgatory was a place he’d most likely never get to visit again, and the biggest clue of its deception was it was trying to coax an immortal being to kill himself. Nice try, he had thought of the curse, but it was a no-go. He had to hand it to the thing, though. It knew the right avenues to take to tempt a person towards suicide.
“So what did the box show you, Sammy?” Dean asked. Sam was winding down with some reading while Dean had a beer.
Sam’s eyes darted up over the book, surprised by the question. “Uh,” he faltered, shrugging.
“I mean,” Dean continued. “Mine was trying to convince me dyin’ would make my life easier, but.. you looked like yours put you on a mission.”
“Yeah, in a way it did.” Sam returned to his book.
“C’mon, man. Give me more than that.”
Sam sighed like Dean was requesting very personal information. Which maybe he was, but he didn’t care, he had to know.
“It made me believe–” Sam cleared his throat. “It made me think giving all my blood would–”
“Open the box,” Dean finished. “And it would have. It tricked you with the truth?” Dean stared, his jaw hanging a little too low. How could that be what Sam was willing to die for?
Sam shrugged again. “I guess.”
“Like a sacrifice?” Dean suggested. Typical, he thought. The Wether really did know how to come at people. Sammy had been known to be cool with his own death while on the job. If it could tap into that part of Sam’s brain, it was sure to work, and it nearly had.
Sam nodded awkwardly. “Sure.” Dean raised his eyebrow, still curious as to what made him so willing to sacrifice himself. “Look, it tried to guilt me into it at first but I knew it was fake so it came at me in a different way.” Dean relaxed a bit. “It made me think the the blood was the only way to help you.”
“Wait–” Dean crossed the room and set his beer on the table across from Sam, taking a seat. “That shit you did at the box was because of me?”
“Not because of you.” Sam bristled at the accusatory tone. “Look, Dean, it was a mind game, okay. I didn’t choose it–”
“But you thought you were bleeding out for me?”
“I know it's surprising to you, Dean. That I am capable of that for you, even though that’s ‘not what I said last time,’ or whatever it was you said in front of Charlie. But that’s what it used.”
Dean blinked at his brother. He wasn’t sure what to say.
Sam pushed his chair away from the table and stood with a tired sigh. “You asked what the Werther did. Sorry you don’t like the answer.” He replaced the book on a shelf behind him. “I’m going to bed.”
Dean watch him leave the room, wordlessly. He wished he’d poured himself some whiskey instead of grabbing a beer.
That cursed box wasn’t the first time Sam had nearly bled himself dry to prove something to his brother. An image flashed in Dean’s mind, a memory of Sam swaying on his feet holding a syringe in his shaky hand, tears falling down sallow cheeks from red-rimmed eyes. In the church, Dean had been blindsided, shocked. He couldn’t understand how Sammy could get things so incredibly twisted. His perception had to have been wrong because historically wasn’t Dean’s purpose in life to protect him? To make sure he never felt the way he did on that night at that altar? Dean had stormed in there to save Sam’s life, after all.
But here they were again, and just a few hours before, Sam was nearly dead for trying to prove another point? Sam wasn’t doing the Trials this time, but the same paleness, the same glisten of sweat across his brow, the determination to keep going if it meant he met his goal had reflected back at him from Sam’s face as he crouched next to that box. Dean had saved Sam’s life the night the angels fell, but it seemed like something Sam was still pretty willing to throw away.
And it was for Dean? To cure him? Or to earn his approval again? Was it a bit of both?
Dean screwed up his expression into that of pain and confusion. It didn’t add up, he couldn’t sort it all properly, and the Mark had started doing that thing where it feels like it’s buzzing. He brought his fingers to it and scratched, like that did any good.
A wave of apprehension washed around him as his attention was brought back to his constant companion. This fucking Mark had caused him so much trouble, caused him to do and say things he would never have allowed himself to do before. He hated those things, but he hated how much he enjoyed doing those things even more. The frustration about the Mark and its effects only ever compounded them so thinking about it for too long always made it worse, but he couldn’t help it at times. He couldn’t escape it. No wonder Sammy was working so hard to get rid of it…
And for a slight moment, Dean felt a twinge of relief. He hated the Mark but if he could shelf some of his guilt on it instead of his own shoulders, at least it was good for something. Maybe Sam’s latest attempt to die wasn’t because of Dean, wasn’t because he had said and done things that made Sam feel dying was the only way to prove himself. It was the Mark. Even if it seemed like Dean, looked like Dean, sounded like Dean, Dean knew without the Mark those things would have never happened.
But just as quickly as the relief came, it went. The image of his brother in that damn church jumped back into his head again.
Dean hadn’t had the Mark that night. The Mark wasn’t even a thought in either of their heads back then. He felt guilt grip him, an icy, unwelcome sensation in his chest. The Mark buzzed on.
“Don’t you dare think that there’s anything past or present that I would put in front of you.”
The command echoed in his memory. It was the truth. Wasn’t it? Hadn’t it always been? The tagline of Dean’s life?
Dean took a swig of his beer.
“We’re stronger together than apart.”
He had said that to Sam just after they finished the case, slapping his brother on the shoulder and climbing into the driver’s seat. And it had been the truth then, right? He had meant it. But he hadn’t known how the curse had manipulated Sam’s mind, that what he had to wrench his brother away from was another of Sam’s attempts to die in Dean’s name.
He had said this to Sam, but could it really be true if they just continued to end up here?