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After the asylum, Dean’s tired.
He’s tired, and his whole chest hurts, stinging as the rock salt pushes into his flesh when he moves. It’ll be a bitch to get out, tiny pellets of the rock sticking to the pus that’s already making his shirt glue to his skin.
If only Sam weren’t so stupid as to let himself get possessed by Ellicott.
Of course, it’s really not Sam’s fault, but after the whole spiel his younger brother gave inside, he’s really in the mood to blame something, to take his anger out through his fists or tongue.
That’s why, when Sam starts the conversation with a small, soft “hey, Dean?” he’s already gearing up to get into an argument.
But when his younger brother only says, “I'm sorry, man. I said some awful things back there,” the fight floods out of Dean’s mouth, and he can almost imagine it as blood, pouring down his chin and dripping onto the concrete beneath them. That’s what it feels like, his anger, his life force, leaving him, pushing all the feelings away from him until he’s a black hole of emptiness.
It’s why Dean only responds with, “You remember all that?”
He’s kind of surprised, but in hindsight, he shouldn’t be. Sam always wants to discuss this touchy-feely stuff. He’s always pulling at Dean’s emotions, trying to get an acknowledgement from the elder that everything is actually not okay.
“Yeah. It's like I couldn't control it. But I didn't mean it, any of it.” It’s earnest, and his younger brother has one of his biggest puppy dog faces happening, eyebrows scrunched together in worry. He’s examining Dean’s body language.
Any other time, Dean would’ve given in, he’d have chucked and sighed, let Sam off the hook and joked with him over dinner about the rabbit chow that he calls food.
But right now, Dean’s exhausted and weary, his whole body hurts, and there’s still blood drying on Sam that he knows he’ll need to help clean off.
As much as Dean wants Sam to shut up and get in the car, he also selfishly wants to make Sam hurt. To make him feel the same way that Dean did while Sam was spitting those mocking words.
That’s why his voice is gruff when he responds. “You didn't, huh?”
Sam’s face falls in reply, and it makes Dean’s gut curl in satisfaction. It’s probably sick, on some level, sadistic even, to get enjoyment out of seeing his younger brother squirm, but he’s allowed it after the day he’s had.
“No, of course not! Do we need to talk about this?” The exclamation is instantaneous, almost apologetic.
It doesn’t matter anyway.
“No. I'm not really in the sharing and caring kinda mood. I just wanna get some sleep.” It’s a dismissal, plain and clear, and Dean ignores the way Sam’s face falls further.
Instead, he moves towards the Impala, pointedly sliding into the driver’s seat and ignoring when Sam follows a moment later, hesitant.
The drive home is silent apart from the rock playing through the speakers, and when Sam opens his mouth, Dean’s quick to turn the dial higher, drowning out whatever Sam might’ve wanted to say with music.
There’s no apology that’s going to fix this rift between them.
When it comes to John, they’re simply on different wavelengths, something that’s been there since childhood, and Dean’s not going to take a half-assed apology.
No, he’ll take this situation, like so many before it, and shove it down, find it a place somewhere in his chest, between his ribs, and let it settle there. It’ll shrivel up, cold and forgotten, until Dean buries it under new shitty situations that he doesn’t want to discuss, and his chest becomes overflowing and crowded with memories that are bloody and painful to touch.
He’ll die before that cavity explodes outward, though. Hunters never live very long anyway.
They pass a few diners on the way back to the motel, and there’s one that catches Dean’s eye. It’s well lit, a pale, baby blue and white, and a family sits in a booth closest to the window.
Their faces are caught in a collective smile as the Impala speeds past, and the image stays in his mind, flipping it over and over as he imagines himself and Sam as kids like that. Their biggest problems would be taking the SATs and deciding which movies they want to see in theatres.
It’s why Dean doesn’t stop at any of the restaurants along the way, because he doesn’t think he can watch another happy scene like that, while half a metre away, across the table, Sam would look like a kicked puppy, and the conversation would be nonexistent.
It’s dark when he pulls into the empty motel parking lot; the clouds block out the moon and stars, casting a black shadow over the night. Sam would probably say it was representative of the mood or something, pull out a literary technique like pathetic fallacy because he’s a tall, stupid nerd.
The silence is heavy when the Impala’s engine shuts off, the music dropping out, and for a moment, Dean just sits still, watching the glow of the motel lights as they poke into the night. They’re a shitty replacement for the moon.
Sam sits with him, and when he feels that his younger brother is about to crack, attempt to say something, Dean pulls away and gets out of the car.
The Do Not Disturb sign hangs off the handle of their door, and it swings as Dean enters the room, taking out his anger on anything he can.
He’s ready for sleep, ready to curl up on the less-than-comfortable bed and let the mattress springs push into his back, but there’s something he has to do first.
“Sit.” Dean points to Sam and then to the bed in front of him, and Sam staggers over, shoulders hunching in at Dean’s tone, like a child who got caught stealing sweets. He sits obediently cross-legged on the bed in front of Dean, silent as his older brother begins to part his hair.
There’s dried blood on Sam’s forehead from where Dean clocked him earlier, and he wants to make sure that there isn’t another gash above his younger brother’s hairline. Head wounds always bleed like a bitch.
It’s a harsh few minutes, the rubber sound of tyres skidding past, and the brother’s soft breathing the only noise.
Eventually, Sam turns to look at him, disrupting Dean’s examination, and he almost breaks at the guilty expression on Sam’s face. His brother’s pupils are blown wide, glinting in the light from the bedside lamp. His mouth is curled downwards in a frown.
“I’m sorry.” It’s barely a whisper, but it echoes around the small room.
“It’s fine, Sam. Your head’s good. Go have a shower.”
It’s another dismissal, and Sam follows it, pushing himself away from Dean and towards the bathroom door.
It’s only when Sam finally closes the door behind him that Dean breathes a sigh of relief.
He’ll always look out for Sam, always make sure his brother is okay physically, but that doesn’t mean he has to accept the meaningless apologies.
It’s in times like these that Dean wishes for John again.
~
In hindsight, they’d definitely underestimated Bela, thought she was another roadblock on the way to whatever their weekly mission is, but now, as Dean’s trying to locate the bullet still hidden in Sam’s shoulder, he’s beginning to regret ever thinking that.
“Can‘t you do this any quicker?” Sam’s tone is biting, and it takes everything out of Dean not to snap back, because really, they have been sitting in this crappy motel for almost half an hour at this point, and Dean is covered in dirt and grime.
“Hold on.” Dean pauses his search to pass Sam the bottle of whiskey positioned on the table. It’s standard procedure whenever one of them is injured, and he isn’t surprised when Sam gulps down more than a shot's worth.
“You ready?” It’s more of a rhetorical question than an actual query, but Dean lets Sam gather his bearings before he shifts the forceps that are halfway into his shoulder.
When Sam nods slowly, Dean presses back into his younger brother’s flesh, ignoring the soft groan that Sam lets out.
There’s sweat rolling down the side of Sam’s forehead, and Dean pushes down the guilt he feels at putting his brother through this. He wasn’t the one who shot Sam at almost point-blank range. Honestly, it’s a godsend that his whole shoulder isn’t blown off right now.
It’s only a few moments later that Dean feels the metal of the forceps clink against the hard casing of the bullet, and he lets out a sigh of relief.
“Found it, Sammy.”
“Took you long enough.” The pain in Sam’s voice makes Dean hesitate for a second, checking that the younger hunter isn’t about to pass out on him.
When Sam only screws his eyes shut and breathes forcefully, Dean rushes back to get the bullet out.
It’s rather easy to grab, Dean’s done this more times before than he can count, and it’s a relief when the bullet is out and dropped into a glass.
Sam is looking positively pale at this point.
“You okay?” Dean asks, brow furrowed in worry. At least if Sam passes out, he’s on a soft surface, but the wound really does need to be washed, and a shower would do them both some good.
Sam lets out a soft grunt in response.
“Think you can handle a shower?”
His younger brother shrugs, eyes still shut, but he lets Dean pick him up, an arm around and under his shoulders, and lead him to the small bathroom.
The room’s light is piercing, and as much as Dean wants to turn it off and let his eyes adjust to the dark, he knows that he needs to be able to see Sam if he’s going to help.
He posits Sam on the closed toilet seat, and after checking to make sure Sam won’t slip off in his half-lucid state, Dean returns to the main room to grab a chair for the shower.
The metal legs let out a clang as he accidentally hits them against the glass walls of the shower, and he winces as Sam opens his eyes to check what's going on.
“What are you doing?” His voice is slurred, so it comes out more as “wha ‘re ya doin’” and Dean’s not sure how much of that is from pain or the alcohol.
Normally, Dean’s the big drinker, the one who enjoys nights out at pubs and sparkling shots of amber liquid. Still, Sammy’s pain tolerance has always been a bit low for a hunter (probably a result of Dean’s own parenting methods, if he’s being honest), and Dean’s not going to tell his brother that he’s not allowed more whiskey when he literally has a bullet in his shoulder.
“Making sure you don’t fall over in the shower.”
“I can do it myself, Dean.” Sam’s tone is whiny, petulant, and Dean can’t stop a snort of disbelief, because right now Sam looks like he couldn’t even stand up from the seat that Dean placed him on.
“Sure you can, tough guy.”
Turning on the taps so that the water has time to heat up, Dean’s crouching in front of Sam, untying his brother’s laces so that he can pull off the boots caked in mud.
It’s eerily similar to when Dean used to help tie up Sam’s laces before he walked him to school, and not for the first time since he began hunting with his brother again, he feels guilty for pulling Sam out of Stanford.
The broad-shouldered man hunched in front of him is nothing like the small, nerdy kid that would chatter while Dean made sure his shoe laces were tight enough, and who would hum and skip on the way to school. Who knew about monsters but was ignorant enough to believe that his Dad and older brother would keep him safe from everything that goes bump in the night.
That Sam would lug around a large backpack, it was ratty, thrifted and with one too many holes, but he’d fill it with books from the local library of whatever small town they were staying in that month, and he’d brag to Dean about all the facts he’d read that day.
This Sam still reads, but it’s mostly lore books, and he doesn’t have that backpack anymore. Instead, he only carries a duffel, filled with his gun, some knives and his laptop. It’s rather depressing now that Dean thinks about what he’s turned his younger brother into.
Now that his shoes and socks are off, Dean focuses his attention on Sam’s shirt. It’s drenched in blood, some still wet and some dried, sticking to Sam’s skin, and Dean can see the fibres around the bullet wound have been pushed into his brother’s flesh.
Yeah, this will be painful.
“Arms up, Sammy.” Luckily, his brother follows without an argument, and Dean is thankful that Sam’s at least conscious enough to understand.
“This’ll hurt.” He warns, before he pulls the shirt up Sam’s torso.
It makes a small ripping noise as the dried blood crinkles and unsticks from the man’s skin, and Sam whines at the pain.
The shirt’s basically ruined now. It’s russet with blood, and the fabric is gross; it’s uncomfortable just to hold, and Dean chucks it in the sink. Sam will be mad that it’s gone later, they only have limited wardrobes after all, but there’s no saving it, and worst comes to worst, they’ll stop at a Goodwill soon.
Dean’s glad that Sam had the hindsight to take off his belt while he wasn’t half plastered on pain and alcohol, and it’s easy to pull off the jeans that are barely blood-stained. At least they won’t have to throw the entire outfit out.
Stripped down to just his boxers, Sam looks rather pathetic.
Sure, he’s 6’4 and definitely one of the best hunters Dean knows, but there’s mottled bruising all over Sam’s torso and shoulder, the ugly yellows and purples standing out against his skin.
They’re lucky Bela didn’t decide to aim for the other shoulder, because then she would’ve hit Sam’s anti-possession tattoo, and Dean would’ve had to deal with a Sam who’s terrified of getting possessed again (more than he is already) on top of everything else.
“Up we go.” There’s a grunt from both the brothers as Dean heaves Sam from the toilet seat and towards the shower, because Dean’s not weak by any means, but Sam has almost a head on him, and his brother isn’t really carrying much of his own weight.
“Maybe lay off the rabbit food.”
“Shut up.”
The water’s nice and warm when they step in, and Dean is thankful that at least this motel’s water pressure isn’t shit.
Tearing open the motel given soap, Dean hands it to his brother and watches to make sure Sam’s hands grip around it. Sam seems a bit more lucid under the water, and Dean steps back to make sure his shirt and jeans don’t get wet. He’ll shower after Sam’s asleep.
The chair is set up against the glass wall, and Dean leaves Sam to wash himself as he pulls off his own boots. He’s been trailing mud all over the room by accident, and he grabs a washcloth to scrub off the dirt with.
It’s nice and quiet, the water pinging off the tile floor, and the warm tendrils of fog filling the air.
~
Any other time, Dean would be gushing about the blood that Sam’s dripping onto Baby’s seats, but right now, he’s too busy simultaneously driving and finding the nearest hospital on his phone.
“Dean, I’m fine.” Sam’s voice is exasperated.
“Sure you are.”
“I’m being serious.”
But Dean really isn’t listening, because Sam is already pale with blood loss, and this is the third set of towels that they’ve held across Sam’s wrists.
He’s not in the mood for his younger brother to bleed out in his front seat. Especially after he’s already failed Adam tonight.
There’s a pause for a moment, both Winchesters thinking of what to do next, before Sam’s grabbing the steering wheel and pushing the Impala onto the shoulder, gravel flying as Dean hurries to brake.
“What the fuck, Sam!”
“I’m not going to a hospital.” It’s so solid, so steadfast, that Dean actually laughs, and it makes Sam frown.
“If we don’t go to a hospital, you’re going to bleed out.” It’s not even a question of if; it’s a question of when. The slashes on Sam’s wrists are so deep that Dean swears he can almost see bone.
“And what are you going to tell them? That I got attacked by Ghouls? No one’s going to believe that, Dean!”
The argument makes Dean stop for a moment, because he hadn’t really thought that far ahead, and now that he’s thinking about it, what is he going to say to the hospital staff?
He’s not an idiot, he knows how the wounds on Sam look, but he also knows there’s a risk of nerve damage if they don’t get some medical attention, and the image of Sam never being able to shoot a gun again has Dean pulling back out onto the black top, ignoring the indignant squark that Sam lets out at the hurried movement.
“Dean!”
“We’ll figure something out.”
“You’re being stupid.”
And Dean has to hold back an angry retort, because he knows Sam’s not so much afraid of talking to the hospital staff as he is scared of the hospital itself.
The buildings are a sore subject between the brothers. Sam hates them after seeing John die in one all those years ago, and Dean’s not much more fond of the artificial white and antiseptic smell that fries his nostrils. Still, it’s what they need right now, and he knows that Sam will be able to handle it.
He half wants to reach out; he would’ve before hell, to rustle his brother’s shoulder and tell him that it’ll all be okay. Now, that would get him shrugged off and Sam yelling again, so he stays silent as the Impala course corrects for the nearest ER.
It’s almost midnight when they reach the door, and luckily, it’s pretty empty apart from an old couple sitting near the reception and a middle-aged woman filling out paperwork in a hard plastic chair.
Dean almost feels bad for the way the receptionist’s eyes almost fly out of her skull at the sight of himself and Sam, and it’s barely half a minute later that Sam’s being taken down a hall as blood drips from the towels still held against him.
Dean’s about to follow behind, when someone grabs his sleeve, and he’s about to whirl around and punch them straight in the face, adrenaline still running high, before he realises it’s the receptionist from before, and he barely manages to avoid hitting her.
“We need you to fill out some paperwork before you can see him.”
It’s stupid and boring, and he wants to actually hit her this time, but he reads her nametag, Lisa, and lets her lead him to the desk where a clipboard waits.
They’re pretty standard questions, relationship to the patient, allergies, and the like, but Dean starts when he gets to the last page and realises they’re all mental health-based.
Of course, it’s probably standard procedure when someone comes in with a slash on both wrists, but it doesn’t stop Dean from frowning and walking back to where Lisa’s sitting.
“Do I really have to fill out this last page? Sam is fine.”
At first, she seems confused, before she notices the specific page Dean’s complaining about, and her eyes gain a sort of pity that has Dean’s anger rising again.
“I’m sure he is.” She placates, “We just need to know.”
Her pity has Dean wanting to yell until his lungs give out, but there’s a security guard at the door that’s eyeing him suspiciously, and he really needs to see Sam, so he settles for a harsh glare and quickly fills out the form.
Has Sam ever shown signs of depression?
Dean ticks no, ignoring the summer when his younger brother had refused to get out of bed, hiding away under the blankets and behind closed curtains, even though Dad’s hunt had found them in a bigger city with parks and shops to explore.
Has Sam ever shown signs of suicidal ideation?
Dean ticks no again. Sam has died before, tried to die to save Dean, but that’s normal, being a hunter, it’s what family does for each other.
By the logic of this stupid quiz, both of them would have suicidal ideation, and probably even be suicidal. The thought makes Dean scoff.
Has Sam ever shown signs of seeing/hearing things that weren’t there?
Dean ticks no. Sure, the whole psychic thing was weird, but they were events that did actually happen, so the quiz is really out of the ballpark in that regard.
There are a few other questions. Dean pays them little mind, ticking off no to almost everything, except the answers he knows he’s supposed to say yes to. Anything to make his younger brother seem normal.
“Thanks,” Lisa smiles when he hands back the paperwork, and he gives him instructions to Sam’s room.
Dean almost laughs when he gets there.
Sam’s positioned on a mattress close to the floor, and the room is plain apart from a beanbag against the wall. Even the corners are rounded.
“They’ve got you in the suicide room.”
Sam doesn’t seem to find the situation as funny as Dean does, and he pouts up from his position on the bed.
“I told you.”
“Don’t worry, I filled out all the paperwork to say you’re fine in the head.” Dean taps his forehead for emphasis and drops into the beanbag opposite his younger brother. It’s a further drop than he’s expecting, and Dean lets out an “oof” as the foam beads catch him.
“Serves you right,” Sam mutters, shutting his eyes.
Dean uses the time as an excuse to look his younger brother over. There are thick swabs of bandages covering Sam’s arms, and he’s relieved to see that blood hasn’t started staining them yet. Sam looks brighter too, less like he’s about to collapse from blood loss.
“How’re you feeling?”
“Like shit.” Sam doesn’t open his eyes, even when Dean huffs out a laugh.
It’s quiet for a few moments, and the sounds of the hospital filter into the small room. There’s the rumble of a metal trolley as it’s pushed down the hallway, and the soft mumble of nurses as they wander past.
“If they lock me in the psychiatric ward, that is all your fault.”
“Don’t worry, Sammy. We’ll be out of here before they can lock you anywhere.”
~
Dean guesses it was too much good luck in a row to hope that Sam would be fine after his wall collapsed, but for a second there, as Sam crept behind Cas and stabbed him with an angel blade, Dean saw the headstrong little brother that existed before he became Lucifer’s chew toy.
But then, Cas is still alive, and even worse, he’s monologuing about how he’s the new God, and Sam is swaying slightly as he stands.
At least, there’s a hesitant peace, a short-lived truce before Cas’s saying, “Not doing so well,
are you, Sam?” and Dean can see the strength it’s taking his younger brother to stay upright.
Sam looks, pun intended, like he just climbed out of hell. His pupils are blown wide as he takes in the people around him, and his eyes have harsh, purple bags beneath them. His hair is sticking up at different angles, and Dean longs to move towards him.
His brother looks like a scared, caged animal, and it’s what gives Dean the courage to angrily retort, “You said you would fix him. You promised!”
His pleading doesn’t get very far, however, and before Dean can make the angel rebuild Sam’s wall, Cas is disappearing away, and Sam collapses onto the floor, yelping as his palm is stabbed with broken glass.
“Sam!” Dean’s running and sliding, kneeling next to his brother. He tries to grab his younger brother’s hand to inspect it, but Sam flinches back, eyes wide and glassy as he inches away from Dean.
“No, please.” Tears are leaking from Sam’s eyes, and he’s holding his palm to his chest, blood leaking onto the fabric of his shirt.
“Sam, what–?” Dean turns back to Bobby, who's still standing behind him, eyes narrowed in confusion.
Sam’s pushed himself against the far wall now, eyes pressed shut as he mutters to himself. He’s rocking backwards and forwards slightly, and his hand is still pressed tight to his body, bloody handprints stark against his shirt.
“Sammy, come on.” Dean’s voice is soft as he stands and inches towards his brother. He has no clue what's brought on this most recent panic attack, but he really needs to get Sam to calm down and back to somewhere safe. “Come on, buddy. Open your eyes.”
His voice is soft enough not to scare Sam, but loud enough to be heard over his brother’s delirious mutterings, and he finally stops just in front of Sam, lowering himself to the ground.
Sam’s muttering has ended, but his eyes are closed, breathing raggedly as he senses Dean in front of him.
“Sammy, it’s okay.” Dean moves to grab Sam’s hand, and he’s glad when the hunter doesn’t pull away from him again. Sam does let out a whine, though, and Dean shushes him softly, inspecting the palm.
There’s blood pooling along its ridges, and Dean winces at the broken shards of glass held in Sam’s skin. They’re too small to be pulled out with fingers, and they’ll have to wait until they can find some tweezers. Instead, Dean rips off a portion of his shirt and wraps it around Sam’s hand, hoping to minimise at least some of the bleeding.
Sam’s silent throughout the process, and Dean would be worried that he’d passed out from fear if he wasn’t trembling so hard and breathing like he’d just run a marathon.
“What’s wrong?” Dean tries, but Sam only shakes his head back and forth, and Dean’s lost on how to help.
Bobby’s still standing behind him, but Dean has a feeling the older hunter is as lost as he is.
“Open your eyes.”
Apparently, it’s the wrong thing to say, because Sam chokes out a small sob, and then starts crying harder, pulling his hand from where it sat in Dean’s and curling it closer to him. His hair is wet, almost dripping with sweat, and the scent of fear rolls off him in waves.
“Sammy, I don’t understand.” Dean’s voice is tinged with urgency now, because Sam is sobbing so hard he looks out of breath, and he’s wheezing like he’s about to pass out.
Physical touch used to help ground Sam in the past, a soft squeeze of his shoulder or a calming hand in his hair, but now Dean’s not sure if that would help.
It’s the only thing he knows, though, and Dean reaches forward to pull Sam against him, pushing his little brother’s tear-streaked face into his shoulder.
At first, Dean thinks he’s made the wrong decision. Sam’s stiff against him, still trembling, but with his limbs locked, and Dean’s about to sigh and release him, when finally, Sam melts against him.
It’s awkward, Sam’s not exactly a small guy, but Dean has experience looking after his trauma-prone younger brother, and lets Sam’s breath hitch as he gasps into Dean’s t-shirt.
“It’s okay. You’re okay.”
But Sam only shakes his head, whimpering out a small “No” every time Dean tries to assure him. It’s heartbreaking, and Dean lets a few tears slip down his cheeks as he rubs up and down Sam’s back.
His shirt is wet with snot and tears, but after a while, Sam finally stops sobbing, cries petering out into wet sniffles and occasional gasps.
“How’re you feeling?”
Sam only hums in return, and Dean takes what he can get, continuing the soothing motion, rubbing his younger brother.
He can feel Sam’s spine beneath the flannel, and he reminds himself to get Sam eating something as soon as possible. Dean knows from his own time in hell that most meat is probably off the list, and anything red as well.
When Sam is finally calm again, breathing relatively even, Dean manages to coax his brother’s head from his place against his shirt, and Dean has to push down a frown.
Sam’s eyes are red and puffy from crying, and up close, he looks even worse than before.
They sit in silence for a few moments, Dean taking a moment to finally think about how they’re getting out of here without any more Sammy breakdowns, before it all goes to shit again.
Sam’s eyes shift from where they meet Dean’s to something just beside them, and his breathing instantly picks up again, a long, soft whine coming from the back of his throat.
It has Dean’s hackles rising immediately, ready to see Cas, or worse, any other brand of monster, but when he follows Sam’s gaze, there’s nothing there except the tile wall, and Dean’s worry increases again.
“Sam?”
But there’s no point trying. His brother’s back in panic mode, and Dean pushes Sam’s head towards his chest, away from whatever has gotten him worked up.
Instead, he turns to Bobby, who's watching silently. “Can you find us a car?”
The older man looks almost relieved, and he hurries out of the room.
Left with just the two of them, Dean returns his attention to his little brother and runs a hand through Sam’s hair. It’s gross. Oily and sweaty, but Sam leans into the touch, breath shuddering, and Dean continues it, happy that he's actually able to help somewhat.
“Hey, Sammy.” He’s not sure if Sam’s going to respond, and he almost jumps when the hunter croaks out a small, “Dean.”
It sounds like it tears at Sam’s throat on the way up, and Dean wants to tell him to rest.
“I missed you.” Sam almost whispers it, like he’s ashamed.
Dean’s tempted to brush it off. He wants a cold beer and a long sleep and a warm shower and no more chick flick moments, but he knows that Sam needs this, so he lowers his voice and whispers, “I missed you too, little brother.”
~
Sam was always a sick kid.
That’s why, when the trials start raging hell on his younger brother’s body, Dean knows exactly how to look after him. Blankets and soup.
But Sam is older and stubborn now, and really won’t let Dean take care of him, so he resorts to leaving food outside Sam’s door and bundling blankets on his bed when Sam’s researching in the library.
Dean isn’t even sure what Sam’s researching. He’s in no condition to hunt, barely able to make it from one end of the bunker to the other, and Kevin’s the only one who’s able to decode the tablets. Sam either doesn’t realise this, or just doesn’t care, because he sits in that hard chair and pours over books until his eyes have a hard time staying open, and Dean has to usher him to his room before he collapses.
It’s become their daily routine now, and Dean pushes down his worry because Sam really does look worse with each day that goes by.
It’s eerily similar to when Sam was kept awake by Lucifer’s hallucinations, and Dean has to stop himself from asking Sam if he’s seeing the devil again, because he doesn’t think he can deal with the answer.
Dean’s been leaning against the doorway for almost ten minutes when Sam finally looks up from his book and notices him, startling so hard in his chair that Dean’s momentarily worried that he’s going to fall backwards.
“What do you want?” Sam’s voice is weary.
“It’s nearly midnight.”
“And?” It’s a valid question on Sam’s part, without any form of natural light, time warps and twists on itself within the bunker, and numerous times the brothers have emerged at what they thought would be midday, only to find it was just past sunset. That’s not what worries Dean, though.
“You haven’t had dinner.”
“I’m not hungry.”
The dismissal is instantaneous, and Dean has to push down the annoyance that rises within him. Sam has to be hungry; he hasn’t eaten apart from the two coffees Dean made him earlier (and they were decaf, but Sam doesn’t need to know that).
“I don’t care. Dinner time.”
When Sam doesn’t move from his spot at the table, even going so far as to look back down at the book he’s reading, Dean groans and stomps over where Sam resides.
It doesn’t take much to swipe the book from under his brother’s hands, and Dean steps back, taking the book with him.
“No more reading until after dinner.”
It’s a stupid strategy, one from their childhood, when Sam was too busy immersed in his newest fantasy book to eat the mac and cheese Dean had cooked him, and Dean had to resort to running around the hotel room with Sam chasing after him.
“Dean!”
He can tell Sam’s getting annoyed at being treated like a child, but, to be honest, Dean’s getting annoyed with having to treat his brother like a child. He did enough parenting between the ages of 4 and 22; he really doesn’t want to start again now.
“Just eat, Sam. It’s not that hard.” His voice is slightly upset, and he can tell his younger brother picks up on it.
Sam’s face turns into a frown, and Dean can‘t help but feel satisfied. Sam deserves to feel guilty after acting like a child these past few days. They’ve already got enough going on without fighting over everything, too.
Dean’s secretly relieved when the other hunter follows him towards the kitchen, and he pulls out the chicken breast from the oven, grabbing the salad in a bag that he knows Sam likes out of the fridge and dumping it in front of where his brother now sits at the table.
“Dean. Look, I’m sorry—“ Sam starts, but he closes his mouth when Dean glares at him.
“It’s fine.”
“Is it?” Of course, Sam has to push this. He always has to, can’t ever leave things be, especially when it comes to Dean and his feelings.
Sometimes, he doesn’t mind it. It’s nice to know that Sam does want to know how he’s feeling. But right now, when his main problem is the brother who’s now interrogating him, all Dean can feel is a numb sort of anger.
“Yes, Sam.” It’s more forceful than he means it to be, and it effectively shuts Sam up, ending the conversation.
The night is quiet after that. They work in tandem to clean and dry the dishes before Sam mutters a goodnight and retreats away to his room.
The bunker’s empty then, and Dean takes to pacing up and down the corridors. There are lower floors, with storage rooms that the brothers haven’t explored yet, and Dean avoids them in case something happens and Sam actually has to save him.
When pacing becomes boring, he pulls out his phone to text Kevin. He’d call, listen to the kid’s musings until he was bored out of his brain, but he’s not really in the mood right now, and he promises to check in fully tomorrow, bring the kid some fresh food and fruit.
Now, though, he just sends a quick ‘Any updates on the Trials?’ and leaves it at that.
Dean pushes down the guilt.
Tonight, like every night the past few weeks, Dean finds himself outside Sam’s door. His brother’s soft breathing comes through the wood, and he pauses, glad that Sam’s actually sleeping for once.
Sam’s had nightmares since Jess’s death, but the trials have seemed to ramp them up, and it’s almost every night now that Sam’s screams echo through the hallways.
Neither of them are strangers to nightmares. Dean himself gets them often enough. It doesn’t stop him from jumping out of bed, grabbing his Taurus, and stalking towards Sam’s room in case this time something is actually wrong and he’s got to protect his younger brother.
The bunker’s warded, but Dean really doesn’t trust it.
He trusts his guns, and he trusts Sam (most of the time). Nothing else.
He spends a few more moments outside Sam’s door, long enough that he’s convinced Sam’s actually asleep and not just faking it, but not long enough for it to be considered creepy, before he’s padding back along the hallway to his own room.
The memory foam shifts below Dean, and he settles in quietly, already planning for tomorrow.
If Sam’s actually asleep, then he’ll probably stay asleep until at least midday, and by that point, he’ll be starving and hangry, back to the annoying little brother that Dean’s used to nowadays.
He’ll make a pot of coffee and leave some outside Sam’s door for whenever he wakes up. His brother actually doesn’t mind it cold, what a freak, so it won’t matter when Sam finally decides to get up and drink it.
He’ll take Sam to see Kevin, check on the kid and make sure he’s not having another nervous breakdown.
Maybe Dean will also get some Chinese takeaway from the shop in town. Maybe Sam’ll finally leave the bunker for the first time this week.
It’s a lot of maybes, and Dean tosses and turns for a while before he finally gets comfortable and allows himself to fall asleep.
~
After Michael, Dean just wants some peace and quiet.
He wants to go home and sleep for a million years. Let his cells die off and regrow, because at least then he’d have a body that was his own, one untouched by a greedy, power-hungry archangel. A body that didn’t betray him, that walked around with someone else in control while Dean drowned inside himself.
He wants to sit in the shower with the door closed and the drain blocked until the water covers him completely and he sinks into its depths because at least there he’d be completely alone, left with only his thoughts and feelings.
He wants to cut off his fingers, watch the blood spurt out across him, and his veins twitch and shiver as they’re separated. Those fingers aren’t his anymore and he doesn’t know what was done with them and he doesn’t want them. Would ask Sam to remove them if he knew his brother would say yes.
He wants to sit in the shooting range and fire gun after gun until he’s used up all the ammunition they have, until his hand is sore and his ears ring from the noise. It’s a fitting punishment.
He doesn’t do any of that.
Because there are people all over the bunker, and nowhere is safe.
So, he buries himself in his room, lies in bed for days on end, doesn’t eat, barely sleeps, watches the goriest movies he can find on repeat, because it feels like Michael didn’t just take his body, he took his soul, and Dean really wants to feel something.
Sometimes, he practices speaking to himself in the mirror, but his mouth always moves weirdly and his voice cracks and it’s stupid anyway.
Last time Dean tried, he’d barely even gotten a word out before the face looking back at him was no longer his own, but Michael’s, and Dean had smashed the glass with his fist.
His knuckles are still bloody, the glass shards no doubt still in his skin, and they’ll stay there until someone else has the time to dig them out, because there’s no way Dean’s doing it, not when he pushes the wound every time he’s supposed to feel something but doesn’t.
He’s doing it for the third time that day when Sam enters the room.
If his brother’s shocked at the blood that coats Dean’s hands, he doesn’t show it, just sighs and grabs tissues from the box near the door.
“Are you going to come out today?”
It’s a conversation they have every time Sam checks in, and the answer is always the same.
“No.” It’s more of a grumble than an actual word, and Dean takes the last opportunity to push into his harmed knuckles before Sam grabs his hand gently, pulling it away from his body.
There’s still a horror movie on Dean’s laptop, blood coating the scene and overdramatic screams echoing through the room.
Before Michael, Sam would’ve commented on it, told Dean to turn it off because it wasn’t helping him, but now he doesn’t say anything, just checks Dean’s fist.
“I’m going to get tweezers. Hold on.” Then Sam’s leaving the room, and, thankfully, he shuts the door on the way out.
The first time his younger brother had visited, he'd forgotten to, on the way out, and Dean hadn’t let him in the next two times. Now he’s more careful.
Still, the sound of voices passes beneath the door as hunters come and go, and Dean moves further up the bed and away from the crack of light that flows from the hallway under the wood.
It’s not because he’s scared of them.
If anything, he’s scared for them, because Michael’s going to be back and Dean’s probably drawing him here right now, a massive beacon of a soul.
It’s probably dimmer than it used to be, light fallen as he lost hope, but it’s still easy enough to track for an archangel, and there’s no way Michael’s not going to be able to get in.
The bunker’s safe, but it’s not that safe. After all, Lucifer’s been here numerous times.
The image of Michael standing at the top of the stairs is enough to rattle Dean, and he pushes into his knuckle again. The pain is grounding, but not enough, and the Michael at the top of the staircase has his face, and he’s smiling down at him.
His voice had a different cadence whenever Michael spoke through it, and it’s what Dean hears now as the archangel mocks him.
“I’m coming back.”
They’re the words that he hears whenever he turns off his never-ending supply of movies. They’re the words he hears whenever he dares to fall asleep. They’re the words that he remembers when he’s not making himself hurt in one way or another.
He believes them.
“Dean?”
It’s Sam’s voice that pulls him out of his head, and Dean guiltily meets his brother’s worried stare.
“What?” He’s on edge, a starved animal trapped into a corner, ready to bite and claw to get away to safety. Sam senses this and only sighs, sitting down on the bed and pulling Dean’s hand towards him.
It’s quiet as Sam makes to remove the small shards of glass, and Dean finds his eyes drawn back to the computer screen. They’re rolling the credits now, and the long list of names plays by as Dean lets the pain zone him out slightly.
Sam’s being slow and careful with his movement, trying not to pinch the raw flesh between his small prongs of metal.
The next movie to begin playing is one that Dean recognises instantly, and he almost makes a move to skip it.
The House That Jack Built.
It was the first movie he’d watched after he came back from Michael. It was new, the CGI impressive and realistic, enough that Dean actually forgot about the hellhole that his life had become.
But the ending had thrown him off, and it was almost too similar to himself.
A murderer who escapes into hell? Dean’s been there and done that.
The opening scene begins, and Dean watches it play out vaguely. Maybe Jack’s a little too familiar to Dean, and he wants to reach through the screen and punch the man, preferably with his injured fist.
If Sam realises his older brother’s preoccupation with the movie, he doesn’t say anything, but Dean can see his frown deepen out of the corner of his eye.
“What do you want for lunch?” Sam finally asks when he’s finished with Dean’s hand.
There’s silence for a moment, and it’s less because Dean is thinking about the question, and more because he’s focused on the film.
“I don’t care,” is the final answer, and Dean pushes himself back under the blankets.
“If I bring you something, will you eat it?”
It’s a valid question. Numerous half-eaten take-away containers are strewn across the floor and desks, gathering even in the sink. There’s mould growing in some of them, but Sam knows that complaining will only get him kicked out, so he keeps his mouth shut.
“No.”
“Dean.” Sam pauses, “I’m worried.”
Dean’s worried too, but he’s not saying that in front of Sam.
“I know.” He tries instead. “Michael will be back.”
“No, not about that.” It’s the force in his younger brother’s voice that finally pulls Dean’s eyes away from the movie, and he frowns.
“What then?”
“I’m worried about you.”
Well, that’s stupid. Why would Sam be worried about him? Sam should be worrying about the traumatised hunters that mill around outside and probably need more help than Sam can offer them.
“Don’t be.” Dean rolls his eyes and almost turns away before Sam’s grabbing his shoulders and turning him to meet his eyes.
“Dean. You haven’t left your room in ages. You barely eat, and you spend all your time watching horror movies. You’re not okay.”
It’s the last words that annoy Dean.
Who’s Sam to say what Dean is?
He’s just had an archangel inside of him, no control over his body, and now his brother wants to tell him about himself in the same way, like his body still isn’t Dean's.
He knows logically it’s not the same, but in his twisted, muddled-up, upside-down brain, it is the same.
“Shut up, Sam.”
“Why won’t you let me help you. I’ve been through this before?”
Usually, Sam’s puppy dog eyes would work here, but Dean’s coiled too tightly, stomach in knots, and already feeling nauseous at the thought of having to talk about this.
“I can’t.”
But Sam still presses. “Can’t or won't?"
Goddamn it, Sam.
“Can’t.” It’s more choked this time, and Dean can feel his oesophagus making its way into his mouth, eyes beginning to fill up with hot tears. This is the most embarrassed he’s felt in a while.
“It’s okay.” Sam’s voice is soft, and he holds his arms out, pulling Dean closer. “It’s okay.” He repeats.
Sam smells safe. He smells like his strawberry shampoo and the leather of the Impala and a tiny bit of sweat. He smells so different to Michael, to the heavy cologne the archangel wore, and his grace that smelt faintly of dust and gunpowder.
Dean’s not a big crier, John beat that out of him young, but here, in his home, filled with people he doesn’t know and doesn’t trust, and held by his younger brother, Dean sobs.
His body doesn’t feel like his own, and his mind doesn’t feel like his own, and his soul certainly isn’t his own, because Michael saw it so wholly, saw every part of him.
But Sam also knows every part of him. They’ve lived in each other’s pockets since they were toddlers, and Sam knows what it felt like growing up without a mother, and Sam knows what he did in hell and purgatory, and Sam knew him when he was a demon.
And Sam forgives him.
So, maybe Dean can forgive himself, as well.
He’s too tired to continue being miserable.