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It’s odd, really, how even though this time there hasn’t been any big tragedies or apocalypse’s Dean and Sam still end up talking about their family. Usually it would take at least one person almost (or actually) dying to get them to dredge up old memories of childhood, but Sam just seems interested in going down memory lane- Dean supposes anyway.
So here the two brothers are, Sam cutting up lettuce and other rabbit food for a salad, and Dean leaning on the counter enjoying a drink. Their conversation consists of random tidbits of their lives, mostly from when they were still with their Dad.
“-well there was that time and sometime back in, uh,” Sam pauses, setting the knife down to think for a moment. “Maybe 98’? When Dad went on a hunt by himself, I spent about three weeks doing nothing but sit in a motel room reading while you were out pretending to be over twenty one in about every bar in town.”
“I was what, eighteen, nineteen? That’s basically twenty one.” Dean shrugs, taking a sip of his whiskey. His usual cocky smile spreads over his face, and Sam doesn’t even want to know what he's remembering.
“Yeah, well, Dad wasn’t too pleased when he got home and you weren’t at the motel with me.” Sam rolls his eyes, dumping some chopped lettuce into a bowl. “He yelled for ‘bout four hours straight, his voice was practically gone by the end.”
Dean snorts a laugh at that, pouring himself another drink. Sam gives his brother an unamused look, but said brother can’t tell if it’s because of his laughing or the fact he’s gone through about a quarter of that Jack Daniels bottle already.
“He did that so much I’m surprised he didn’t permanently lose his voice.”
“It wasn’t that bad.” Dean shrugs, leaning back a bit too far in his seat and almost falling backwards. Sam suppresses a laugh at that, the older shoots him a glare.
“Oh yeah? Remember when he just about had an aneurism that time you forgot to clean the handguns we keep under our pillows?” Sam dumps a few freshly washed carrots onto a cutting board, chopping them a little more harshly than needed. “It was one fucking time and he was screaming his head off.”
“Well what if they got jammed because I didn’t clean them? It was an important task and I shouldn’t have forgotten it.” Dean argues back, voice stern but not angry. Sam sighs.
“Whatever.” What he doesn’t say is how annoyed he is with his brother’s acceptance of their father’s punishments, all his overreactions to small problems that led to his anger being taken out on Dean. “I guess the yelling was at least better than the beatings.”
Once those words leave Sam’s mouth Dean stills. A long silence follows, Sam continues chopping and adding things to the salad until the quiet lasts long enough he notices it. His eyes flick up to his brother again, raising a brow. Dean’s jaw is clenched tight and his hold on his glass is a little too hard. But he doesn’t speak, and if it wasn’t for how well Sam knew his brother he wouldn’t have even thought there was anything wrong. However, he does know his brother, and he can see in the way that Dean throws the rest of his drink back that Sam’s comment surprised him.
“What?” Sam slides the rest of the bell peppers he was cutting into the bowl before putting down the knife and board. “Dean, I’m not stupid I know about the shit Dad did.”
“I know you’re not.” Dean pauses for a moment, seeming to consider his next words a little carefully. “Dad never-“
“Hit me? No.” Sam finishes for his brother, knowing it would’ve taken a bit for Dean to choke out those words. “Not once.”
Dean’s shoulders relax slightly with that confirmation.
“Good.” He nods a little, pouring himself yet another drink. A little more this time.
“Still, even if I mostly never saw it happen I’ve known for a while. I mean I could see the bruises-“ he holds up a hand to silence the excuse he knows his brother will spit out. “And I know they weren’t from hunts. Last I checked, ghosts don’t leave bruises on people's wrists every time. I don’t know how bad it was every time, considering you tried your damndest to never let me see the injuries.”
“Sam, it wasn’t like he did it all that often-“ the younger cuts him off with a dry laugh.
“Don’t pull that crap, we both know he did it every fucking chance he got.” Sam looks down, fiddling with the handle of the knife absently. “Mostly because of his fights with me.”
“No, Sammy, it had nothing to do with you.” Dean corrects quickly, setting his glass down firmly. “Dad just needed a little… I dunno, stress relief.”
“And he did that by beating the crap out of his son? Wow, father of the year, truly.”
“Well hey it wasn't that bad, he never laid a hand on you so.” Dean’s voice is casual, leaning forward again and lifting his drink to his lips. Sam stares at him blankly for a moment, letting his brother’s words sink in.
“What.” He finally says, “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?”
“Hm?” Dean looks up at his sibling again. Sam is giving him one of the most dumbfounded and almost disappointed expressions ever.
“He didn’t do it to you so it’s fine?” Sam says exasperatedly. “That’s such bullshit.”
“Well-“
“No, y’know I’m getting really sick of you thinking stuff like that.” The younger puts his hands down on the counter loudly, Dean raises an eyebrow.
“Like what?” He questions.
“All this stuff about how as long as it didn’t happen to me it doesn’t matter, it’s crap. Dad did so much shit to you and you act like it never happened because Sammy didn’t have to deal with that and Sammy’s ok so it’s all fine. I’m so tired of it.”
“Just drop it, Sam.” Dean rubs the bridge of his nose, tension visible in his face and movements.
“No I won’t. You do this all the time.” Sam stops for a moment, hesitating. “This-this stupidly over-protective older brother crap.”
“Sorry I give a damn about you I guess.” Dean throws his arms up and stares up at his brother, expression appearing annoyed but Sam knows him well enough to see he’s merely acting how he always does in situations like this. Defensive, like a cornered animal.
“Dean, that’s not the problem, you know that. The problem is that you always obsess over protecting me, since we were kids. To the point you act like a self-sacrificing, suicidal idiot.”
The two grow quiet for a minute, letting the conversation settle. Dean presses his lips into a thin line, silently continuing to sip his drink. Sam finally exhales, shoulders dropping.
“I just- I wish you’d care about yourself, and I wish you could accept that you didn’t deserve the shit Dad did.”
“What Dad did he did for a reason.”
“Dad was an abusive ass! And there is no good reason to hurt your own kid. Especially when he did it because I screwed up, or because I argued.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” Dean replies, and Sam looks at him with a softening expression. The younger brother’s eyes begin to wet.
“I hated it so much every time. I would get into a fight over something petty with dad and then you’d go outside with him with a new excuse for why. But when you’d get back you’d be limping or holding your side, you’d have bruises on your wrist again too.” Sam stops to wipe his eyes, swallowing down the shake in his voice. “I wish you would’ve told me, just a single time I wish you would’ve said something to me.”
“Sammy you were a kid, you shouldn’t have known about it. I shouldn’t have let you figure it out.”
“You were a kid too! Why can’t you stop thinking like that for one damn second?!” Dean tenses at his brother’s yelling, Sam exhales sharply. “I know you want to protect me, you always have, but I can’t stand how you just accept this crap. How you act like you had to take it and pretend it didn’t happen because you think you had to.”
Dean doesn’t respond, instead he stands up and rounds the counter. He opens his arms wide and gestures for his brother to come in for a hug. Sam hesitates but does. He wraps his arms around his older brother and pushes his face into the crook of Dean’s neck.
“Why does it always end up with you protecting or-or comforting me?” Sam asks, voice muffled and wavering.
“Because that’s my job, Sammy.” The older replies, his voice steady. That response only makes the tears run down Sam’s face faster, because he truly hates that in all the years he’s spent with his brother he still can’t protect him. No matter how much he tries it always seems Dean has to be the strong one, the one there to hold him and keep him safe.
“I wish for once you’d let me do the same for you.” He mumbles, and Dean places his hand on his younger brother’s back. Rubbing gentle circles over and over. “You should’ve had someone to protect you too, now and back then.”
“I was a tough kid, and that’s all in the past now.”
“Just shut up.” Sam mutters, face still pressed into his brother's shirt. Despite his towering frame he still feels so small in Dean’s arms.
Before Sam can continue to push his brother into talking or admitting anything, the bunker door opens loudly. Sam lifts his head and wipes the tears from his face, glancing down at the wet spot he left on Dean’s shoulder. Dean pulls back and pats his brother on the shoulder.
“Guess Cas is back, let’s finish up dinner alright?” He says, Sam nods and watches his brother turn to go get something from the freezer. He can’t get rid of the ache in his chest though, for the rest of the night it feels like there’s a weight there. The weight of a conversation unfinished, the knowledge he wasn’t able to get through to his brother.
Dinner that night is quiet, if Cas notices he doesn’t say it, but the evening lacks their usual banter. And Sam can’t help but notice Dean drinks more that night than typically, by the time Sam walks back to his room for bed Dean is passed out face down on his bed. His frown deepens as he flicks Dean’s bedroom light off and shuts the door quietly.
He’s going to bring this up again soon, and he hopes that time Dean will finally listen to what he says. Because he’ll always try to help his brother, whether Dean accepts it or not. That’s his job.