War & Remembrance - New Supernatural Story (PG-13)
Title: War & Remembrance (Gen)
Characters: Dean and Sam mostly, with Cas and Bobby in support
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,873
Warnings: Spoilers through 05.14. Language.
Summary: Angsty missing scene for My Bloody Valentine. This is what happened between the boys defeating Famine and the moment between Dean and Cas outside the panic room.
Author Notes: I'm usually not one for writing missing scenes. First of all, I tend to be as slow as molasses when it comes to writing. So it would normally take me half a season to finish something. Secondly, I have trouble focusing in on a single scene. I tend to think in terms of bigger plots. But I so desperately wanted to see Sam enter that damned panic room, that I decided to write the scene myself. Somewhere along the way, the focus changed to Dean. Who knew?
Many, many thanks to the speediest and most skillful of betas from two phenomenal writers in their own rights--callistosh65 and debbiel. I was pleased and proud to knock out nearly 3,000 words in three days. But these guys were even faster. My betas rock!
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
War and Remembrance
By Ancasta
It'll take them a full day's drive before they reach Bobby's place.
Cas goes on ahead to get everything ready. With Bobby's limited mobility, he needs the help. Bobby tells Dean over the phone he hasn't gotten around to putting in one of those stair lift things for the basement steps, although one was installed so he could get up to the second floor. This means Bobby can't reach his own panic room.
For some reason, that news-something he should have realized, but hasn't really thought about-hits Dean almost as hard as Bobby's initial injury did.
Apparently being dead inside doesn't mean he can't feel, can't hurt.
Much as he might wish otherwise.
Seems like he hurts all the time, these days. A deep throbbing ache has taken up residence inside him, like something gnaws on what is left of his heart. Dean almost can't remember what it feels like to be happy and whole, the open road before him, his music playing, and his family along for the ride. Good times.
Some nights, when he crawls beneath the covers, numbed by exhaustion or a few too many beers, he lies there, and tries to picture one of those moments. The whole and happy kind. When he's successful, he sleeps better. It's as if the memory serves as a reminder. Of who he is and why he's fighting. And that's a comfort.
But even the memories are beginning to fade. Sometimes Dean has trouble recalling if Dad was still alive when they salted and burned the ghost twins in Youngstown, or whether that homemade corned beef hash he loves is on the menu of a truck stop just outside Peoria or Moline. It's as if the memories are so fragile, they've become damaged, have lost substance and meaning, the way ink can fade on paper over time or become smudged by careless fingers.
He isn't alone in his pain, of course. His little brother hurts right along with him, just as he has since Stanford. Tonight, Sam's troubles aren't the usual crushing guilt and anger. Instead it's actual physical suffering. Withdrawal is setting in, coming on more quickly than the last time he went without. Dean doesn't need to look at Sam to know this is so. He can tell by the way Sam breathes, by his silence, and the way he can't seem to get comfortable.
Sam spends the last several hours of their journey curled up against the passenger side door. His eyes are squeezed shut, but he isn't sleeping. His arms are wrapped around his middle as if he's protecting a wound, and just outside Sioux Falls, he begins to tremble. Dean asks him if he's all right, and he mumbles that he is. Just the same, Dean bumps up the heat inside the car because he can't think of anything else to do, and keeps on driving.
The weather is frigid. Wind whistles through the Impala's frame so loudly not even Joe Perry's wailing can drown it out. They share the endless interstate mostly with truckers. The lonely darkness and the cold remind Dean of outer space.
When they drive up to Bobby's house, he rolls out onto his porch to greet them, like he's been waiting for them, just inside the door. Cas follows along after him, solemn and silent as hope. Seeing the two together, Dean wonders what kind of small talk they must have shared while they bided their time. Dean has already told Bobby about their showdown with Famine.
"Boys," Bobby says. "You made good time."
"The weather held," Dean replies, knowing that's no small thing when it comes to South Dakota in February. "We didn't make many stops."
He looks over at his brother, who hasn't said a word. Sam is standing in the vee created by the Impala's interior and the open car door. It seems to Dean as if the moonlight is casting strange shadows on him, hiding his face and highlighting his hands so it looks as if the skin has been stripped from his knuckles, leaving behind nothing but bone where he clutches at the roof of the car and at its door.
"Let's get you both inside," Bobby says, pivoting his chair to point it back in the direction he came from. "It's cold enough out here to freeze off something important."
Sam follows Bobby like a sleepwalker, his gait shuffling and weary. Dean grabs a duffle bag from the back seat and trails after him. When they get inside, he drops the bag in the foyer, removes his jacket, and notices Bobby has a fire going in the living room. It's warm, the lights are low, and he can smell chili simmering on the stove. If Dean didn't know the reason for their visit, the setting would seem almost homey.
Sam drops onto the couch, heavy with something besides muscle and bone. He's still wearing his coat. He clasps his hands tightly before him, and keeps his eyes on the floor. Bobby spares him a worried glance before rolling forward to hand Dean a beer. Dean comes this close to telling Bobby they might as well skip right to the hard stuff.
When no one says anything for a moment, Bobby breaks the silence. "You wanna get some rest first or eat something?"
Sam lifts his head. He washed the ghoulish blood mustache and goatee from his face the minute they got back to their motel room. Now, his skin is pale and pinched. Dean sees circles sunk deep in the fragile skin beneath Sam's eyes. He wonders if they're new or if they were there before, and he's just now noticing them. He hasn't been looking at Sam as much as he used to, or as closely.
"Let's get this over with," Sam says. His voice sounds shredded, low and ragged, like someone has taken a cheese grater to it. Dean knows it will only get worse before they're through. Screaming will take its toll.
Sam stands and shrugs off his coat, crossing to hang it on one of the hooks Bobby has mounted on the wall. Dean is on the other side of the room, his beer in hand. He watches his younger brother; Sam doesn't seem to notice. He's bigger than Dean, has been for some time, and stronger. He has within him a terrible power, one that makes him something more than human, and something less.
Even on their best days now, Sam scares the hell out of him. Dean fears both what might become of Sam, and what he might be capable of. What is worse is Dean knows Sam shares his fears. Neither of them talks about them. But ever since Dean found out what Sam was up to while his older brother was in Hell, it has become the bedrock of their relationship.
"I've prepared the room," Cas says. "Everything should be ready."
Sam looks at Cas and nods. Dean can see how frightened he is. "Thanks."
Dean remembers what it was like last time. Luring Sam here, and trapping him inside the room alone. Listening as Sam yelled and swore and pleaded for rescue. Watching as Sam's helpless body contorted and convulsed, before being flung across the room by unseen hands. Last time he betrayed Sam. This time he's helping him.
It doesn't feel any different.
Dean chugs what is left of his beer. When he turns to put the bottle down, Sam is standing beside him.
"Come on," Sam says. He tries to smile for Dean. The effort isn't very successful. That Sam even attempts it makes Dean want to cry.
Dean follows Sam and Cas down Bobby's ancient basement steps. The panic room door looms before them like a massive, hungry mouth. Sam hesitates only a second at the foot of the stairs, then takes a deep breath and leads the way. He reaches the door first and opens it.
Everything is as Dean remembers-the warding symbols and salt covered walls, the cot in the middle of the space and the vent overhead, its fan turning lazily.
"There is water here and food," Cas says, gesturing as he speaks. "In case you want it."
Sam nods, but doesn't say anything. He stands near the center of the room, not far from the cot, and swallows as if he's trying to keep from throwing up. He seems lost and younger than he has in a long time. He looks to Dean. Dean struggles to meet his eyes.
He wants more than anything to fix Sam-the way he did when they were kids and all it took to make Sam smile was a Tootsie Roll Pop or letting him ride shotgun for a change, alongside Dad. Only Dean has no idea where to begin, how to fix a situation this fucked up and so far removed from candy or road trips. He leans against the door jamb, unwilling to enter the room. Not just yet. His arms are folded, and he's quiet, like Sam.
Their silence seemingly urges Cas to fill the void. "I didn't know if you would want to be restrained. Bobby has cuffs he said you used before-"
"No cuffs," Sam says quickly, glancing over at Cas then away again, as if ashamed of exposing any weakness. "I…uh…I think I've had my fill of being tied down. At least for now."
Cas bobs his head. Dean thinks he sees a very human understanding in the angel's eyes. "Very well."
Sighing, Sam runs his hand over his hair and looks at Dean again, this time with what appears to be apology. "Later…if you have to… I mean, if you have to, do what you need to do."
Dean can't look away, even though he really wants to. He wets his lips before he speaks. "All right."
Sam gives him another faint smile. "It's okay. I trust you."
"Don't," Dean says before he can think about it.
Sam's expression turns almost comical with surprise. He cocks his head as he looks at Dean, and his eyebrows climb his forehead. Seeing that, Dean focuses on the ground rather than on his brother. He's revealed too much.
"Cas, can you give Dean and me a minute?" Dean hears Sam ask.
"Of course."
Dean has to step out of the doorway and into the room to let Cas pass. Sam and he are alone now. It feels as if Dean has nowhere to look but at Sam. So he does.
"What's going on with you?" Sam asks, taking a step closer. His shoulders are hunched and his brow is wrinkled. Dean can tell the pain is still with him.
"What do you mean?" Dean counters, wondering if maybe he can bluff his way out of this before making his getaway.
"Telling me not to trust you," Sam says. "Why would you do that?"
"Why would you trust me?" Dean needs to know.
"Why wouldn't I?" Sam says, his arms spread wide. "You're my brother."
"So, what-it's about blood then?" Dean asks. "About us doing what's expected of us, playing our roles?" God, he's so tired of that argument.
"No!" Sam nearly shouts at him. "Fuck destiny and all that crap. This is about you and me. If we don't have trust between us, what do we have?"
"You trusted me the last time we were here, and look what happened," Dean says, unwilling to let this go. "I betrayed you."
"The same way I betrayed you with Ruby?" Sam asks quietly.
"Yeah," Dean says. "Exactly like that."
Sam drops his head, and places his hands on his hips. He chews on his bottom lip for a moment, then nods as if he's come to a decision. He speaks. "Okay, maybe I was wrong. Maybe what you and I have isn't all about trust."
Dean shrugs, and tries to pretend it doesn't bother him how easily Sam was convinced. "I could have told you that."
"It's about love too." Sam says it as if he's unhappy he needs to say it, as if he's daring Dean to contradict him or make fun of him.
But Dean can only question. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about why it was harder for you to walk into this room than it was for me," Sam says. "I'm talking about how, even though you can be hard on me sometimes, you've never walked away, not really, and you've never given up. Not on me."
There's a reason they don't talk about their feelings very often. It's awkward as shit and there's no way to keep that kind of conversation from turning into a Hallmark commercial. Besides, Dean doesn't trust words. Actions have more meaning. Which is the point he's trying to make here. "Sam-"
"You put me in here last time because you wanted what was best for me," Sam says. "I know that. You weren't trying to punish me; you were trying to keep me from making a really horrible mistake."
"Yeah," Dean says, barely able to keep from rolling his eyes. "And we all know how that turned out."
For some reason, that makes Sam chuckle. It's the most genuine attempt he's made at humor since Dean left him in their motel room, chained to the sink. "Well, you know what they say-it's the thought that counts."
It's so ridiculous-so fucking Hallmark-Dean has to smile. He lowers his gaze, and shakes his head, considering for a moment the ancient symbols on the floor. They make more sense to him right now than his brother does.
"That's how I hold it together most days," he hears Sam confess, the words spoken in a hush. "I tell myself no matter how many mistakes I've made or how difficult the battle becomes, at least I'm trying. I might not win. But I can still fight for something I believe in. We can still fight."
Dean looks up. "Seems like that's all we do."
"Yeah," Sam says, lowering himself carefully onto the cot, his arm curled around his middle again, his forehead now glistening with sweat. "Sure beats the alternative, though. Doesn't it?"
"What-sitting out the Apocalypse on a beach in Mexico?" Dean says, trying to divert Sam's attention.
"No," Sam says, seemingly unwilling to be distracted. He winces and his breath catches. Soon Dean will need to lock the door and leave him behind. "Being taken out of the battle altogether."
Dean doesn't want to do this. "Sam-"
"This isn't going to kill me, Dean," Sam says. "It's going to be brutal, and I'm going to complain a hell of a lot. But I will survive it."
Dean just looks at him.
"You will too," Sam says quietly. "Try to remember that, will ya, when you're on the other side of that door, listening to me lose my shit."
"I'll try," Dean says, because Sam needs to hear it, and Dean's first inclination has always been to give Sam what he needs.
Sam smiles-really smiles, even if it's small-and shrugs. "That's all I'm asking." He starts, a subtle jerk of his head, and grimaces, lifting his hand to rub at his temple. "You should probably go."
Now that the time is actually here, Dean finds himself wanting to stay. Still, he knows that won't help Sam. It'll only make him feel like he needs to keep up a front. "Yeah, all right." He starts walking towards the door.
"You're not just going through the motions, Dean," he hears Sam say softly from in back of him. "Neither of us are. If we were, we wouldn't care as much."
That little shit. To throw something like that out there now, when he knows damned well they don't have time to get into it.
Glaring, Dean turns, ready to tell Sam in no uncertain terms to quit getting all Dr. Phil on his ass. Only he sees Sam has fallen over onto his side on the cot, his knees drawn up as if he's struggling to fit on the narrow mattress. His eyes are closed, and he's shivering again. Dean hesitates, bites back all the harsh things he planned to say, and considers the timing of Sam's words.
Sam doesn't shy away from sharing his feelings, not like Dean does. He would never pass up the opportunity for a brotherly heart-to-heart, especially if it were Dean's heart under examination. But he might be willing to spare Dean that kind of scrutiny if he thought it was what Dean wanted.
"I will be on the other side of that door, Sammy," Dean tells him. "You're not alone in this. In any of it."
"I know, Dean," Sam says, opening his eyes. "Neither are you."
Dean nods, looks at his brother until Sam's eyes close again, then leaves him. And locks the door behind him when he goes.
And as he stands outside in the hours to come and listens to his brother being tortured by a gift he never asked for, Dean tries to remember Sam's words. But as with the memories from their childhood and simpler times, sometimes he forgets.
The End
Characters: Dean and Sam mostly, with Cas and Bobby in support
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,873
Warnings: Spoilers through 05.14. Language.
Summary: Angsty missing scene for My Bloody Valentine. This is what happened between the boys defeating Famine and the moment between Dean and Cas outside the panic room.
Author Notes: I'm usually not one for writing missing scenes. First of all, I tend to be as slow as molasses when it comes to writing. So it would normally take me half a season to finish something. Secondly, I have trouble focusing in on a single scene. I tend to think in terms of bigger plots. But I so desperately wanted to see Sam enter that damned panic room, that I decided to write the scene myself. Somewhere along the way, the focus changed to Dean. Who knew?
Many, many thanks to the speediest and most skillful of betas from two phenomenal writers in their own rights--callistosh65 and debbiel. I was pleased and proud to knock out nearly 3,000 words in three days. But these guys were even faster. My betas rock!
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
War and Remembrance
By Ancasta
It'll take them a full day's drive before they reach Bobby's place.
Cas goes on ahead to get everything ready. With Bobby's limited mobility, he needs the help. Bobby tells Dean over the phone he hasn't gotten around to putting in one of those stair lift things for the basement steps, although one was installed so he could get up to the second floor. This means Bobby can't reach his own panic room.
For some reason, that news-something he should have realized, but hasn't really thought about-hits Dean almost as hard as Bobby's initial injury did.
Apparently being dead inside doesn't mean he can't feel, can't hurt.
Much as he might wish otherwise.
Seems like he hurts all the time, these days. A deep throbbing ache has taken up residence inside him, like something gnaws on what is left of his heart. Dean almost can't remember what it feels like to be happy and whole, the open road before him, his music playing, and his family along for the ride. Good times.
Some nights, when he crawls beneath the covers, numbed by exhaustion or a few too many beers, he lies there, and tries to picture one of those moments. The whole and happy kind. When he's successful, he sleeps better. It's as if the memory serves as a reminder. Of who he is and why he's fighting. And that's a comfort.
But even the memories are beginning to fade. Sometimes Dean has trouble recalling if Dad was still alive when they salted and burned the ghost twins in Youngstown, or whether that homemade corned beef hash he loves is on the menu of a truck stop just outside Peoria or Moline. It's as if the memories are so fragile, they've become damaged, have lost substance and meaning, the way ink can fade on paper over time or become smudged by careless fingers.
He isn't alone in his pain, of course. His little brother hurts right along with him, just as he has since Stanford. Tonight, Sam's troubles aren't the usual crushing guilt and anger. Instead it's actual physical suffering. Withdrawal is setting in, coming on more quickly than the last time he went without. Dean doesn't need to look at Sam to know this is so. He can tell by the way Sam breathes, by his silence, and the way he can't seem to get comfortable.
Sam spends the last several hours of their journey curled up against the passenger side door. His eyes are squeezed shut, but he isn't sleeping. His arms are wrapped around his middle as if he's protecting a wound, and just outside Sioux Falls, he begins to tremble. Dean asks him if he's all right, and he mumbles that he is. Just the same, Dean bumps up the heat inside the car because he can't think of anything else to do, and keeps on driving.
The weather is frigid. Wind whistles through the Impala's frame so loudly not even Joe Perry's wailing can drown it out. They share the endless interstate mostly with truckers. The lonely darkness and the cold remind Dean of outer space.
When they drive up to Bobby's house, he rolls out onto his porch to greet them, like he's been waiting for them, just inside the door. Cas follows along after him, solemn and silent as hope. Seeing the two together, Dean wonders what kind of small talk they must have shared while they bided their time. Dean has already told Bobby about their showdown with Famine.
"Boys," Bobby says. "You made good time."
"The weather held," Dean replies, knowing that's no small thing when it comes to South Dakota in February. "We didn't make many stops."
He looks over at his brother, who hasn't said a word. Sam is standing in the vee created by the Impala's interior and the open car door. It seems to Dean as if the moonlight is casting strange shadows on him, hiding his face and highlighting his hands so it looks as if the skin has been stripped from his knuckles, leaving behind nothing but bone where he clutches at the roof of the car and at its door.
"Let's get you both inside," Bobby says, pivoting his chair to point it back in the direction he came from. "It's cold enough out here to freeze off something important."
Sam follows Bobby like a sleepwalker, his gait shuffling and weary. Dean grabs a duffle bag from the back seat and trails after him. When they get inside, he drops the bag in the foyer, removes his jacket, and notices Bobby has a fire going in the living room. It's warm, the lights are low, and he can smell chili simmering on the stove. If Dean didn't know the reason for their visit, the setting would seem almost homey.
Sam drops onto the couch, heavy with something besides muscle and bone. He's still wearing his coat. He clasps his hands tightly before him, and keeps his eyes on the floor. Bobby spares him a worried glance before rolling forward to hand Dean a beer. Dean comes this close to telling Bobby they might as well skip right to the hard stuff.
When no one says anything for a moment, Bobby breaks the silence. "You wanna get some rest first or eat something?"
Sam lifts his head. He washed the ghoulish blood mustache and goatee from his face the minute they got back to their motel room. Now, his skin is pale and pinched. Dean sees circles sunk deep in the fragile skin beneath Sam's eyes. He wonders if they're new or if they were there before, and he's just now noticing them. He hasn't been looking at Sam as much as he used to, or as closely.
"Let's get this over with," Sam says. His voice sounds shredded, low and ragged, like someone has taken a cheese grater to it. Dean knows it will only get worse before they're through. Screaming will take its toll.
Sam stands and shrugs off his coat, crossing to hang it on one of the hooks Bobby has mounted on the wall. Dean is on the other side of the room, his beer in hand. He watches his younger brother; Sam doesn't seem to notice. He's bigger than Dean, has been for some time, and stronger. He has within him a terrible power, one that makes him something more than human, and something less.
Even on their best days now, Sam scares the hell out of him. Dean fears both what might become of Sam, and what he might be capable of. What is worse is Dean knows Sam shares his fears. Neither of them talks about them. But ever since Dean found out what Sam was up to while his older brother was in Hell, it has become the bedrock of their relationship.
"I've prepared the room," Cas says. "Everything should be ready."
Sam looks at Cas and nods. Dean can see how frightened he is. "Thanks."
Dean remembers what it was like last time. Luring Sam here, and trapping him inside the room alone. Listening as Sam yelled and swore and pleaded for rescue. Watching as Sam's helpless body contorted and convulsed, before being flung across the room by unseen hands. Last time he betrayed Sam. This time he's helping him.
It doesn't feel any different.
Dean chugs what is left of his beer. When he turns to put the bottle down, Sam is standing beside him.
"Come on," Sam says. He tries to smile for Dean. The effort isn't very successful. That Sam even attempts it makes Dean want to cry.
Dean follows Sam and Cas down Bobby's ancient basement steps. The panic room door looms before them like a massive, hungry mouth. Sam hesitates only a second at the foot of the stairs, then takes a deep breath and leads the way. He reaches the door first and opens it.
Everything is as Dean remembers-the warding symbols and salt covered walls, the cot in the middle of the space and the vent overhead, its fan turning lazily.
"There is water here and food," Cas says, gesturing as he speaks. "In case you want it."
Sam nods, but doesn't say anything. He stands near the center of the room, not far from the cot, and swallows as if he's trying to keep from throwing up. He seems lost and younger than he has in a long time. He looks to Dean. Dean struggles to meet his eyes.
He wants more than anything to fix Sam-the way he did when they were kids and all it took to make Sam smile was a Tootsie Roll Pop or letting him ride shotgun for a change, alongside Dad. Only Dean has no idea where to begin, how to fix a situation this fucked up and so far removed from candy or road trips. He leans against the door jamb, unwilling to enter the room. Not just yet. His arms are folded, and he's quiet, like Sam.
Their silence seemingly urges Cas to fill the void. "I didn't know if you would want to be restrained. Bobby has cuffs he said you used before-"
"No cuffs," Sam says quickly, glancing over at Cas then away again, as if ashamed of exposing any weakness. "I…uh…I think I've had my fill of being tied down. At least for now."
Cas bobs his head. Dean thinks he sees a very human understanding in the angel's eyes. "Very well."
Sighing, Sam runs his hand over his hair and looks at Dean again, this time with what appears to be apology. "Later…if you have to… I mean, if you have to, do what you need to do."
Dean can't look away, even though he really wants to. He wets his lips before he speaks. "All right."
Sam gives him another faint smile. "It's okay. I trust you."
"Don't," Dean says before he can think about it.
Sam's expression turns almost comical with surprise. He cocks his head as he looks at Dean, and his eyebrows climb his forehead. Seeing that, Dean focuses on the ground rather than on his brother. He's revealed too much.
"Cas, can you give Dean and me a minute?" Dean hears Sam ask.
"Of course."
Dean has to step out of the doorway and into the room to let Cas pass. Sam and he are alone now. It feels as if Dean has nowhere to look but at Sam. So he does.
"What's going on with you?" Sam asks, taking a step closer. His shoulders are hunched and his brow is wrinkled. Dean can tell the pain is still with him.
"What do you mean?" Dean counters, wondering if maybe he can bluff his way out of this before making his getaway.
"Telling me not to trust you," Sam says. "Why would you do that?"
"Why would you trust me?" Dean needs to know.
"Why wouldn't I?" Sam says, his arms spread wide. "You're my brother."
"So, what-it's about blood then?" Dean asks. "About us doing what's expected of us, playing our roles?" God, he's so tired of that argument.
"No!" Sam nearly shouts at him. "Fuck destiny and all that crap. This is about you and me. If we don't have trust between us, what do we have?"
"You trusted me the last time we were here, and look what happened," Dean says, unwilling to let this go. "I betrayed you."
"The same way I betrayed you with Ruby?" Sam asks quietly.
"Yeah," Dean says. "Exactly like that."
Sam drops his head, and places his hands on his hips. He chews on his bottom lip for a moment, then nods as if he's come to a decision. He speaks. "Okay, maybe I was wrong. Maybe what you and I have isn't all about trust."
Dean shrugs, and tries to pretend it doesn't bother him how easily Sam was convinced. "I could have told you that."
"It's about love too." Sam says it as if he's unhappy he needs to say it, as if he's daring Dean to contradict him or make fun of him.
But Dean can only question. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about why it was harder for you to walk into this room than it was for me," Sam says. "I'm talking about how, even though you can be hard on me sometimes, you've never walked away, not really, and you've never given up. Not on me."
There's a reason they don't talk about their feelings very often. It's awkward as shit and there's no way to keep that kind of conversation from turning into a Hallmark commercial. Besides, Dean doesn't trust words. Actions have more meaning. Which is the point he's trying to make here. "Sam-"
"You put me in here last time because you wanted what was best for me," Sam says. "I know that. You weren't trying to punish me; you were trying to keep me from making a really horrible mistake."
"Yeah," Dean says, barely able to keep from rolling his eyes. "And we all know how that turned out."
For some reason, that makes Sam chuckle. It's the most genuine attempt he's made at humor since Dean left him in their motel room, chained to the sink. "Well, you know what they say-it's the thought that counts."
It's so ridiculous-so fucking Hallmark-Dean has to smile. He lowers his gaze, and shakes his head, considering for a moment the ancient symbols on the floor. They make more sense to him right now than his brother does.
"That's how I hold it together most days," he hears Sam confess, the words spoken in a hush. "I tell myself no matter how many mistakes I've made or how difficult the battle becomes, at least I'm trying. I might not win. But I can still fight for something I believe in. We can still fight."
Dean looks up. "Seems like that's all we do."
"Yeah," Sam says, lowering himself carefully onto the cot, his arm curled around his middle again, his forehead now glistening with sweat. "Sure beats the alternative, though. Doesn't it?"
"What-sitting out the Apocalypse on a beach in Mexico?" Dean says, trying to divert Sam's attention.
"No," Sam says, seemingly unwilling to be distracted. He winces and his breath catches. Soon Dean will need to lock the door and leave him behind. "Being taken out of the battle altogether."
Dean doesn't want to do this. "Sam-"
"This isn't going to kill me, Dean," Sam says. "It's going to be brutal, and I'm going to complain a hell of a lot. But I will survive it."
Dean just looks at him.
"You will too," Sam says quietly. "Try to remember that, will ya, when you're on the other side of that door, listening to me lose my shit."
"I'll try," Dean says, because Sam needs to hear it, and Dean's first inclination has always been to give Sam what he needs.
Sam smiles-really smiles, even if it's small-and shrugs. "That's all I'm asking." He starts, a subtle jerk of his head, and grimaces, lifting his hand to rub at his temple. "You should probably go."
Now that the time is actually here, Dean finds himself wanting to stay. Still, he knows that won't help Sam. It'll only make him feel like he needs to keep up a front. "Yeah, all right." He starts walking towards the door.
"You're not just going through the motions, Dean," he hears Sam say softly from in back of him. "Neither of us are. If we were, we wouldn't care as much."
That little shit. To throw something like that out there now, when he knows damned well they don't have time to get into it.
Glaring, Dean turns, ready to tell Sam in no uncertain terms to quit getting all Dr. Phil on his ass. Only he sees Sam has fallen over onto his side on the cot, his knees drawn up as if he's struggling to fit on the narrow mattress. His eyes are closed, and he's shivering again. Dean hesitates, bites back all the harsh things he planned to say, and considers the timing of Sam's words.
Sam doesn't shy away from sharing his feelings, not like Dean does. He would never pass up the opportunity for a brotherly heart-to-heart, especially if it were Dean's heart under examination. But he might be willing to spare Dean that kind of scrutiny if he thought it was what Dean wanted.
"I will be on the other side of that door, Sammy," Dean tells him. "You're not alone in this. In any of it."
"I know, Dean," Sam says, opening his eyes. "Neither are you."
Dean nods, looks at his brother until Sam's eyes close again, then leaves him. And locks the door behind him when he goes.
And as he stands outside in the hours to come and listens to his brother being tortured by a gift he never asked for, Dean tries to remember Sam's words. But as with the memories from their childhood and simpler times, sometimes he forgets.
The End