Thirteen Conversations About One Thing
Another fic dump. One more off the ol' hard drive...
Title: Thirteen Conversations About One Thing
Pairing: Sam&Dean Angst, Sam/Castiel
Rating: R
Spoilers: AU after 5.01 "Sympathy for the Devil"
Disclaimer: Not mine!
A/N: I started writing this after 5.01 when I heard vague spoilers of what was to come up to 5.10, but then I never finished it. As such, it's an alternate slant on S5 where things kinda sorta match up to canon, but then again really don't at all.
1.
No matter the conversation, it ends the same.
Sam nods. He agrees.
He always agrees these days, though never heartily, and definitely not with a smile. He agrees with his mouth set in a firm, resolute line and a sad look in his dark eyes.
Dean keeps waiting for those eyes to turn completely black, but they never do. Sometimes he wishes they just would because at least then he’d have an answer. He’d know who or what Sam was and he could finally accept it. Learn how to deal.
But his brother is more of a mystery now than he ever was.
Everything about Sam is steeped in shadows and as barren and desolate as the desert at night. Quiet, but never peaceful.
Empty.
Just like the words exchanged between them.
Dean sometimes wonders if this is what he was like after hell, if this is what Sam saw when he looked at him, but he knows it's not. Sam doesn’t try to drink away the pain. He doesn't try to smother it and he certainly doesn't talk about it.
He just nods. And agrees.
The dutiful soldier. Unquestioning. Committed. Sam does whatever Dean tells him to do without even a spark of stubborn resentment or prideful anger. He'd tried to bail at first, certain that Dean was the one to save the world and that he couldn't be trusted to help or not to make it worse. But then the self-pity gave way, and a deadened but determined soul seems to have replaced it like concrete filling a deep hole.
It troubles Dean to no end. Mostly because this broken shell before him is not the stubborn, relentlessly independent brother he knows. Somehow that's so much worse than the impenetrable wall of half-truths and blatant lies that surrounded Sam for the last year or the onslaught of Sam’s monstrous choices that followed and brought them all to this point.
But it's also troubling partly because of the small voice in the back of his mind that mutters about time. Because part of him thinks Sam deserves this. Because part of him resents Sam for everything he's done. He's angry beyond measure that he went to hell for Sam and Sam turned around and declared him not good enough, not strong enough, not sound enough in mind or body to do what needed to be done. All of heaven backed him, Dean Winchester, and his own brother threw in with a two-faced demon who twisted his soul and stabbed him in the back.
The angels may have sacrificed the world to chaos on purpose, but they did it with all bets that Dean could rein it back in. Him, not Sam. Sam, who opened the door and let Lucifer in all because Ruby showed him the way, a river of blood flowing under their feet.
So while the gnawing feeling in his gut eats away at him with worry for Sam's well being, something deeper and darker eats away at his heart like acid. The pieces of him that have always belonged to his little brother no matter what are slowly and surely eroding.
He tells himself it doesn't matter, that they'll figure a way out of this mess. He and Sam have been broken before and they've always found a way to muddle through and put it all back together. He tells himself they'll be okay. He tells himself a lot of things, but he can’t quite make himself listen.
His greatest fear isn't that soon there'll be nothing left between him and Sam.
His greatest fear is that when that happens, he won't even care.
2.
"Where is Sam?" Castiel speaks softly. His voice wavers now and trembles like it never did when he was pure angel fueled with the intensity and passion of the devout and holy. God's light is fading from him and more darkness has entered Dean’s already black world.
"At the library," Dean grunts and sets his beer down on the uneven tabletop. The motel room smells of mildew and the chair he's sitting in wobbles traitorously underneath him. He adjusts his weight, willing it to break.
Castiel is silent. He sits down across from Dean, drums his fingers against the fake wood.
"He's not going to go find some demon and get high, if that’s what you're worried about," he scowls at Castiel, who remains nonplussed.
"I did not say I am worried," Castiel replies, gaining an edge. "You are the one who is worried. You are the one who does not trust him."
"Would you?"
"You trust me," is the response, and Dean fails to see what that has to do with anything.
"So what."
"Dean, surely you must have realized by now that both the powers of heaven and hell were conspiring to push Sam into this. I am the one who released Sam from the prison in which you placed him. I set him on the path to his final destination. I knew all along that Sam was the only one who could set Lucifer free and I did nothing to stop it until it was too late."
"I know all of this, Cas. It was you against the will of heaven but you, you made your stand in the end. Sam didn’t. So what's your point." Dean demands sharply. He doesn’t see the need to re-tread this road where the ground is covered in broken shards of bad memories. He's battered and bloodied enough.
"My point, Dean, is that your brother was in no condition to fight off one force as strong as heaven or hell and he was pitted against both." Castiel’s eyes are cold, uncomforting. He leans forward slightly. "My point is that you have forgiven me, an angel of the lord who should have known better, while remaining embittered and angry toward your only brother. Who, if you wish me to be blunt, was only receptive to manipulation because you were cast into hell, an occurrence for which only you are to blame."
"I went to hell for him!" Dean exclaims, eyes widening with disbelief at Castiel’s words.
"You did not go to hell for Sam, Dean," Castiel nearly scoffs. "You went to hell for you. You went to hell because you were too weak to live without him. And then you dare to pass judgment on Sam for what transpired when he had to live without you."
"I came back."
"I brought you back." Castiel corrects. "Have you ever wondered why that was, Dean? We could have saved you from going to hell, but we did not. Heaven did not care for you until we needed you. Only then did you matter. If not for that, you would still be there, in hell, tortured in the most unimaginably horrific ways and heaven would be turning a blind eye to your pain."
"Don't sugarcoat it or anything," Dean snipes, hiding how Castiel's words are sharp enough to draw blood. Castiel is unapologetic.
"Sam, he holds hell responsible for the breaking of the first seal. He does not point a finger of blame at you for that action and you know this. You know he is mindful of the exigent circumstances under which you made your choices. Yet you hold him solely responsible for the breaking of the last." Dean stares wordlessly at Castiel, but Castiel does not relent. "Those are the facts, Dean."
"They may be the facts, but that’s not the truth," Dean replies, sighing bitterly. Castiel may be on his way to becoming human, but he can’t understand this, not yet. "What I did and what Sam did...it's not the same thing."
"How is it not the same thing?"
"It’s just...not."
Castiel seems to waiting for Dean to come up with a better explanation but there's no way Dean can put it into words.
"Why are you defending him?" Dean asks instead. "Time was, you were first in line to condemn Sam for what he was doing."
"I see things more clearly now."
Castiel stares at him for a long moment but Dean does not budge. He doesn't want to hear what Castiel has to say; he expected Castiel to be on his side as he always has been. Castiel lets his shoulders slump.
"Your brother is not at the library." He frowns. "He is sitting in a park about a mile from here. Alone." Castiel looks toward the window, brow furrowing deeply, his eyes drifting out of focus.
"What the hell is he doin' there, I-"
"He is contemplating the ultimate sin against himself and against God." Castiel states frankly, snapping his icy blue gaze back toward Dean.
"You mean-" Dean starts but Castiel holds up his hand with a tired sigh.
"He contemplates this everyday, Dean. But he will never do it, not while he yet feels a responsibility to clean up the mess he has created. I only thought that you should know the dark thoughts that weigh down your brother's soul."
"Well thanks for giving me even more shit to worry about." Dean gets up and heads for the bathroom. "You know your way out." He mutters before closing the door behind him.
He waits for a few long minutes, avoiding his reflection in the dingy mirror, and then comes back into the room. It's empty.
He doesn't go after Sam.
And when Sam returns hours later with his arms full of musty books but an even deeper sadness shattering over his sharp features, that malicious voice whispers again: Serves him right.
3.
Bobby never comes out and asks Dean directly about how Sam's doing, which should be a warning sign enough.
Bobby never was one to beat around the bush and he certainly didn't shy from speaking his mind. He never looked the other way or refused to say what needed to be said. Bobby faced facts, and faced grim ones better than most.
But when Ellen asks the question, it's Bobby who shoots her down with a gruff He’s fine even though it’s obvious Sam's anything but. Bobby's worried enough to be scared. Too scared to say it aloud.
It used to be that Dean was Bobby's obvious favorite, the bond between them stronger than anything Bobby had with Sam, a perfect mimicry of the world when John was in it.
But something happened while Dean was gone. Even with Sam going off by himself immediately after Dean's death and cutting off all contact, the experience of losing Dean for good - or so they thought - cemented something between them that Dean simply can’t touch.
He hadn't failed to notice that over the year leading up to Lucifer’s grand entrance, if there was a new case, a new lead, it was Sam's phone that was ringing and Bobby on the other end of the call. When Sam needed something, it was Bobby that he turned to first.
Sam has become Bobby's weak spot. He'd never been one to live in denial yet Bobby has a permanent address there now. Forward all mail.
He tries to talk to Bobby about the problem, perhaps knock some sense into him and make him see what's staring all of them in the face, but it’s no use.
Sam's wasting away. He’s thin and pale and it's obvious he's not sleeping. While he's quicker and deadlier with a knife than ever, Dean catches him gasping for air after even a short run. He works himself to the bone day after day - searching for answers, solutions, a savior. But if he offers a possibility up to Dean and the rest of their rag tag band of hunters, it’s with a meekness and humility that Dean finds unsettling. All of his confidence is gone.
And hunters smell weakness like sharks scent blood in the water. Sam doesn’t dispute or acknowledge a word they say, doesn't try to defend himself, and it's a bigger admission of his guilt than anything else could have been. The world is on fire, and in their eyes, Dean only spilled the gasoline. Sam's the one who lit the match and let it burn.
Hardly anyone speaks to him and even fewer trust him. Only Bobby regularly engages Sam in any kind of conversation. The rest all talk around him or behind his back.
After awhile Dean tires of constantly defending Sam with words that, if he's honest, he doesn't entirely believe himself.
4.
"Quite the shiner Sam's got there." Jo plops down next to him and pulls the beer he's nursing in front of her, takes a sip, and slides it back. "Want to share with the class?"
"Not really." Dean mumbles, pushing the glass back at her when she sets it down. She shrugs and takes it back to finish it off.
"Well, you should clear the air, Dean. People are talking."
"People are always talking, Jo. They never say anything good."
Jo sighs in frustration, turning to face him and trying to get him to see how serious she is.
"They’re talking like a lynch mob. Earthquake hit downtown L.A. this morning, leveled entire city blocks. Thousands dead. We're not stopping this thing, Dean, and folks are looking for someone to blame. They're looking for Sam."
"This isn't news," Dean replies, looking bored and ignoring her as she tries to catch his gaze and make him look her in the eye.
"What's news is that you're going around punching Sam in the face. You and Bobby are all he's got, you know, and if you're not-"
"That isn't true. There's Cas, and Chuck…they-"
"A washed-up angel and an alcoholic writer? Yeah, they’ve got Sam's back," she snorts, tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder. "Dean, if you turn on Sam, you're signing his death warrant. You're pretty much the only thing standing between him and being burned at the stake."
"What do you care, anyway? You were first in line to get at Sam before."
"Yeah, well. It's been months and Sam's done nothing but be perfectly contrite."
"Contrite? Is that what he is?" Dean asks, shaking his head.
"Why, he's not?" Jo leans closer, eyes narrowing. Dean sighs and Jo sets her hand on his arm. "If there's something we need to know, Dean..."
Dean knows he shouldn't say a word, but he has to talk about it with someone. Bobby won't listen and there's no one else.
"We killed a demon today. Practically stumbled across the schmuck in a gas joint halfway into town. I think it was looking for our hideout," Dean continues quickly when Jo's eyes widen. "But it didn't really have a clue. Sam sliced that thing wide open, didn't even hesitate. Dead before it hit the ground."
"And?"
"And I turn around and Sam's got this…he’s got this look on his face and its blood on his hands..." Dean closes his eyes, trying to block out the memory. "And the fucker licks his lips."
"Did he...?"
"I didn't wait to find out if he was gonna." Dean flexes his sore fingers across the bar top and then clenches them again. "I thought he was passed all of that."
"Addicts are always addicts, Dean. That doesn't change."
"Well I can't live like this. Always terrified Sammy's gonna fall off the wagon. It's too much."
"It is too much," Jo agrees quietly, her gaze trained on the side of his face. Her voice drops low. "But you'll do it."
Dean tilts his head and looks at her for the first time since she came over.
"I don't know if I can."
"You can. And you will. Because no matter what else he is or what he becomes, Dean...he's your brother. I know you can't walk away."
Dean's tempted to ask Jo to talk to Sammy. He almost tells her that Sam really needs a friend, someone to talk to about everything that's running through his head. Dean used to be that person, but he's not - he can't - anymore. He nearly begs her to set their differences aside and just be Sam's shoulder to lean on, for his sake.
But he stays silent and lets her leave.
People close to Sam tend to get caught in the crossfire and he's not letting anyone else get hurt. There's too much on his conscience already.
5.
Castiel and Sam talk to one another in the dead of night. Sitting on the ground beside the porch, leaning back against the shake siding, they think no one is awake and that no one can hear them. For a long time, no one was and no one did.
Then a sleepless, frustrated Dean stepped onto the front porch of the rundown farmhouse they were crashing in on the edge of nowhere. As the crickets broke the silence of the three o’clock hour, Sam and Castiel's voices joined the chorus.
Night after night Dean returned, quietly as he could, and eavesdropped on their private conversations. He could never hear it all quite clearly, afraid of getting too close and being discovered, but he picked up bits and pieces.
They spoke of the world and they spoke of their guilt, but they never spoke about him. Once, just once, Sam whispered he'll never forgive me and Castiel, just as hushed, returned probably not. It is never mentioned again, at least not while he was listening.
The discovery of their late night meetings stirs strange feelings within him. Jealousy of Castiel for being the one Sam's opened up to. Jealousy of Sam for being the one Castiel now evidently prefers as company. It makes him lonely, confused, lost. Inadequate. Guilty. The two had been his touch-tones; his anchors in an unsure world, and now both had shoved him off.
But they are both struggling to find their way back toward humanity. They both need to re-define it, to grasp it, to make themselves whole after parts of themselves were stripped away. They understand one another perfectly.
Dean comes to see that, but not until long after he witnesses them sharing a private moment in the broad light of day when they think they are alone. He looks on as Castiel runs a gentle, comforting hand through Sam's hair. He watches Sam close his eyes and lean into the soft kiss Castiel places against his temple. It is nothing sexual, just comfort, a closeness they both must need to feel, but Dean can’t stand the sight of it.
He avoids Sam for days afterward, unable to talk about why. The space between them widens. The shadows under Sam’s eyes purple deeper and he pulls further into himself.
Most mornings, Dean pauses in Sam's open bedroom doorway - so far away from his now, so separate - and finds the bed untouched.
He never hears them beside the porch again. Where Sam spends his nights after that is just another secret Dean will never know.
6.
"Why Sam?" Dean demands of Castiel one day when it all gets to be too much. He slams the car door and abandons the supplies he'd run to get. The long drive to and from the nearest outpost gave him nothing but time to think and with every passing minute, his frustration grew.
"Just tell me." He's not really sure what he's asking. Why did Sam have to be Azazel's chosen one? Why did Sam have to be the one who killed Lilith? Why him? Why them?
Or maybe it was Why Sam? as in Why you and Sam?
Castiel repeats the question like he doesn't fully understand it either.
“Why Sam...what?”
Dean hesitates.
"I...don't know. You know." He glances toward where Sam is working, chopping and stacking firewood along the side of the house. Despite the chill, he's dressed in only jeans and a thin gray t-shirt, hair sweat-stuck to his forehead. Sam moves like he's dead tired but pushing through.
He hadn't so much as looked over when Dean had pulled up in the Impala. The sound of that engine used to be home, but Dean can't remember the last time Sam had rode shotgun with him anywhere. "Why Sam...all of this."
"You know the reasons, Dean. Do you really need me to state them? Would it help to hear someone else speak of the deal your mother made all those years ago? To say how your brother's fate was determined before he was born?"
"Maybe it would. I don't know." Dean states stubbornly, brow creasing in a stern line.
They're standing out on the dry, decaying lawn, wind sweeping dust across the flat ground. Castiel squints off into the distance, eyes focusing on the rotting barn that's leaning slightly sideways like one more hard gust is all it needs to collapse.
"You've never been able to see your brother through anyone's eyes but your own. What makes you think you can start now?" Castiel is barely concerned with him. He has become bitter and distant, as if the further Dean lets Sam drift the less Castiel respects him.
"I need to." Dean steps in front of him, demanding his focus. "Can't you like...mojo up some kind of magic that just lets me...get outside of this? Get me to some point where this all makes sense."
"Such a point does not exist and even if it did, you know I no longer have the power to place you there. You have to find your peace with Sam and with yourself, I cannot help you do it."
Castiel begins to move away, steps slow and measured. Dean expects him to turn back long before he actually does.
“If you desire perspective, perhaps the answer lies with someone other than me."
Dean has no idea what the hell that means.
"Thanks for being clear as always!" He shouts furiously at Castiel’s back as Castiel walks toward the house.
Castiel pauses a few paces from where Sam works, hovering at the edge of Sam's peripheral vision. After a moment, Sam stops. Castiel picks up Sam's discarded plaid shirt from where it lays in the dirt and hands it to him, gently nodding his head to the front door.
Sam's breathing heavy and his shoulders are tight and hunched, but from where he stands Dean can see him visibly relax as Castiel speaks. It's a melting effect, the hard edges of his gaunt face softening until he looks years younger.
He follows Castiel inside without once casting a glance in Dean’s direction.
A stranger would think they didn’t even know each other.
7.
Dean flips through page after page of Chuck's account of their lives and, purple prose aside, the words he's reading are still making him feel sick to his stomach.
He gets up from his rumpled bed and crosses to the dresser, setting the book down on its cracked and dusty top. His reflection is pale in the dirty mirror above, dark circles under his eyes as if he hasn't slept in days. His body feels like he went six rounds with a heavyweight champ yet he's done nothing but sit and read all day long.
Sunlight is fading now and the musty room is growing dim. It is silent and cold and only getting colder.
Dean rubs his hands over his face and tries to get his muddled thoughts in order.
There are things Sam was feeling that Dean never guessed. Experiences that Sam had - Six months, six months without him because of the damned Trickster - which he'd never so much as mentioned.
Some part of him had always assumed that Sam would be fine without him. Sam never needed him the way he needed Sam, after all. Sam's the one who went off to Stanford without looking back, Sam's the one who had planned on returning to California first chance he got - until Dad's death changed his mind.
No, Dean was the one who always needed. Sam was the one who wanted. That's how it was. Dean clung; Sam reached. Sam left.
Except Dean's done his fair share of leaving now, in ways far more final than just going to college. And Sam, unused to the idea of being left and unprepared for being alone and without choice, had lost that obstinate optimism that had always set Sam apart from their father and from him. That optimism that made Sam self-sufficient, that made him a survivor.
While that light drained from Sam's life, at least then Sam had had the determination to catch the Trickster and undo what had been done. There had remained a glimmer of hope even in the vast darkness.
When he went to hell, Dean can only imagine how fast the lights all went out.
He can imagine a lot. But to ask Sam now would be too little too late. Perhaps if they'd had that conversation long ago, back when they should have, they wouldn't be in this mess now.
He'd assumed too much. Or maybe he'd been so wrapped up in his own angst that he'd been blind to Sam's pain. In the end, it all boiled down to the simple fact that Sam had changed. It scared him and angered him in surprising ways.
He realizes that he felt betrayed that Sam had loved him just as much as he loved Sam. That Sam fell apart too and couldn’t get it back together. The thought is beyond idiotic now - being appalled that Sam was devastated enough by his death to be easily manipulated, twisted around…
Dean sold his soul outright after Sam's death. One bold gesture to immediately cease the pain. Sam sold his off in tiny jagged bits and pieces, letting the darkness chip away at him until there was little left.
Dean drags a finger along the cracked binding of the paperback. Ragged white lines split its title, bits of black paper flaking off and showing pulpy white underneath.
Maybe he doesn't have the guts to face Sam, but there's still someone else who can tell him what really happened during those long months apart. There’s another person who knows all that Sam did when he stole away with Ruby and what he truly felt all of that time.
All Dean has to do is ask.
8.
"Write it all down. All of it."
Chuck looks up, startled, as Dean slams a pad of paper onto coffee table in front of him. The bottles and glasses rattle. Chuck raises his eyebrows, stammering.
"Wr...Write all of what?"
"Everything you left out of the books." Dean grabs pen from out of the mess Chuck's created around the living room and taps the paper insistently with his forefinger. He glares at Chuck, a warning sharp in his gaze. "Every last detail that you skipped over because it was too boring or didn’t fit in with the story you wanted to tell. Everything you couldn't get published. Write it."
Chuck sputters, half-flabbergasted and half in the bag.
"I...I can't. It doesn’t work that way."
"Then how does it work?" Dean snaps. "You dream it, you write it. Pretty straight forward. Except the part where you edit out the crap you don't like."
"Exactly, Dean. I let that stuff go. It's not like I keep a file around with discarded story ideas-"
"They're not ideas, they're our lives!" Dean exclaims, turning away in frustration and just as quickly turning back. Chuck fidgets on the lumpy couch, fixing his bathrobe nervously. "And don't tell me you don't remember, because I know you do. You know every single thing that Sam and I have done and while 90% of the time that annoys the crap outta me, the other 10% of the time it's kinda necessary all right?"
"What is it that you want to know?" Chuck looks up at him, eyes bloodshot and watery. "Because you might think you wanna know it, Dean, but you don't. You and Sam-"
"That's it, Chuck, there is no 'me and Sam'. Not anymore." Dean stops pacing, using his hands to mark the definitive separation between him and his brother. "And I can't handle that. I need to fix this."
"Can't you just talk to him?" Chuck shakes his head in disbelief. "The amount of dialogue I've had to write because of Sam and his talks-"
"It's past that point now, man. A little heart-to-heart is not gonna make it better."
"You'd be surprised what a simple chat can do, Dean. The first step to healing is acknowledging-"
"Stop watching Oprah, Chuck." Dean interrupts. Television networks had gone off the air except for emergency broadcasts, but Chuck had scrounged up an old Oprah DVD set from their current squat. That woman's loud voice has pretty much been constant background noise for the past week straight. "Write."
"I don't want to." Chuck puts his head in his hands for a moment and then peeks at Dean, eyes searching. "You should really leave it alone, man."
"I've left it alone. Look where it got us." Dean gestures around the dilapidated house, falling to pieces around them. The world outside is in a far worse state.
Dean picks up the pen again and holds it for Chuck to take.
"Write."
9.
Sam doesn't ask anyone for help. Dean hadn't even known he was hurt. He walked into the bathroom, looking for something to wash the taste of stale beer from his mouth and instead found Sam stitching the gash in his side with fishing wire and a hook.
He's bruised and battered and Dean thinks he should have noticed the blood, the black eye, the swollen split lip when Sam stumbled in, but it had been dark. It had been late. Dean was halfway to drunk, ink from Chuck's pages smeared all over his hands, and he hadn't looked his brother in the face for days.
When he stands and stares rather than giving Sam his privacy, Sam spits blood into the sink and collects his things quickly, then awkwardly pushes past him to go down the hall to his room.
Moments after it should have, it occurs to Dean to follow, questioning and then demanding answers when Sam does not respond. Sam's door only shuts halfway and even though Dean figures Sam probably meant for it to close, he lets himself in.
Sam ignores him and sits down gingerly on the bed, setting up shop on the night side table. In the dim light his body looks shadowed with bruises and streaked with blood.
Dean retreats to the bathroom and wets a washcloth with shaking hands. He needs a moment to collect himself before venturing back into Sam’s bedroom.
He sits down on the mattress as gently as possible, makes his friendly intentions clear, but Sam still shifts away like a wounded and frightened animal. He winces as he pulls his new stitches tight but swallows his pain silently, trying to hide it.
The line of Sam's shoulders is tense and defensive and he avoids Dean's questioning gaze like his life depends on it.
Dean sets a hand on Sam’s shoulder and asks him who gave him his stylish new accessories, but Sam doesn't answer. He abandons the supplies he'd brought with him and goes back to the bathroom, shuts the door. The lock clicks definitively into place.
Dean waits for an hour, sitting on the floor outside the door, before giving up and allowing Sam his space.
Jo tells him later that a bunch of hunters cornered Sam in an alley on his way back from town, beat him to a bloody pulp between the dumpster and a broken ice machine.
Dean wonders if Sam even bothered to fight back.
10.
"What is this?"
Dean snaps to attention at the surprising sound of Sam's voice directed toward him.
Sam's standing in the doorway to the living room, the bent, curled and coffee-stained handwritten pages of Chuck's unpublished stories clutched in his hands. He looks as if someone has sucker punched him in the gut.
"Dean, what is this?" Sam repeats. Dean sits up straight and swallows hard. Sam flips through the thick stack of pages again, eyes racing to read over the chicken-scratched words. "Where did you get this?"
"Chuck," Dean states and then coughs to clear his throat. He climbs up from the couch, springs squeaking. He adjusts his loose jeans and takes an unsure step toward his brother. He can't tell yet if Sam is angry or just shocked.
"I’ve never read any of this before."
"But you lived it," Dean replies. Sam lifts his gaze from the pages to Dean's face and Dean is almost stunned by meeting Sam's eyes for the first time in months. They've forgotten how to see each other. "I asked Chuck to write it down."
"I...why would you...?" Sam closes his eyes for a moment, shaking his head. "Dean...I can explain." He forces his eyes back open but he's biting his lip, clearly worried.
"No, Sam, that's not..." Dean starts toward Sam and then stops, cringing when he sees his brother reflexively step away. "You don't have to explain. That's why I asked Chuck in the first place. I wanted to know, but I didn't want this."
"This?"
"This." He waves his hands to the space between them. "You looking at me like you think I'm going to hit you or...It's like you're scared of me, Sam-"
"I'm scared of you?" Something close to a spark lights inside Sam, Dean's words tearing a pained chuckle from the back of his throat. He sets the papers down on the table in the hallway, freeing his hands to push his hair back from his forehead. "You're the one who thinks I'm a monster."
"Sam, I don't-"
"You should see the way you look at me, Dean." Sam's voice strains, earnest and pleading. "You do think I'm a monster. And I am."
He leans against the doorframe, body sagging in defeat.
Dean stays quiet, not sure what to say. Protests seem useless and hollow. He can tell Sam again that he didn't mean it, but there's no taking that back. It will be there between them forever and it will always be partially true.
He is scared of Sam. And for Sam.
"You should've just killed me when you had the chance. Then none of this would've happened." Sam looks down at his hands, twining his fingers for a second before letting go and turning away from his brother.
"I could never do that, Sammy." Dean states quietly. Even now, even knowing that Sam set Lucifer free...he wouldn't have been able to pull the trigger.
"You said you would. Been wondering for months why you haven't." Sam mutters the last words like a private thought to himself but Dean hears him clearly.
"What are you talking about." Dean asks flatly, confused. Sam glances at him sideways, eyebrows furrowing.
"You practically promised to put me down, Dean. Like it was going to be your life's mission. I wish you had." Sam crosses to the window, pushing back the curtains and peering outside. "Be better than living like this."
"I never said anything like that." His face twists in puzzlement and Sam turns to stare at him like he can't believe Dean is daring to pretend he’s forgotten.
"The message, Dean. The night I opened the gate." Sam pulls his phone from his pocket when Dean continues to stare at him in bewilderment. "Do you really need a reminder?"
"Yeah, I must, because I remember the message I left you that night and that's not what I said."
Sam holds out his cell, already dialing voicemail. His despair and self-loathing seem to have lifted for a minute, replaced by resentful anger. Sam thinks he's playing dumb, feigning ignorance. He's not. He remembers that call to Sam, remembers his apology and his plea going unanswered.
But those words are not the words he hears when Sam hands him the phone and he presses it to his ear. That's his voice - cold, hateful, determined - and those are things he'd never said.
His eyes widen. Sam's narrow.
"What the...” He presses the button, listens to it again. How many times has Sam done the same? Why would he even keep such a wretched, horrible... "That's not me, Sammy."
He doesn't know how he'll make Sam believe it.
"That is not me." He snaps the phone closed. "I don't know what the hell happened - if it was those piss ant angels or if it was that bitch Ruby - but that is not the message I left you."
It's clear Sam doesn't believe it. He’s impassive, blank-faced, as if what Dean is saying no longer matters.
"I said...I said I was sorry, Sam. That I was wrong."
Sam flinches slightly then like Dean's words are causing pain, his stony expression faltering.
"You have to know that's not me. How could you think-" Dean stops short. He knows exactly how Sam could think it. And from the look on Sam's face right now, he can tell that is exactly what Sam had thought. "Sam."
"It doesn't matter, Dean," Sam says quietly, not with relief or understanding in his voice but the resigned calm of someone who has long given up.
"I would never..."
"We both said and did a lot of things we shouldn't have. We can't take them back. We just...gotta move on."
He says that like he knows it's an impossibility. This is something they will never move on from. It's not a broken bone that will mend, but a cancer that’s destroyed them from the inside out.
Dean takes a cautious step toward his brother. Sam folds his arms across his chest and adjusts his stance, pushing himself closer to the window like if he tries hard enough he'll slip through the wall like a ghost.
"Sam, if I didn't listen to Dad on this one, you gotta know, I'm not listenin' to anyone else. Whatever happens, it's you and me. If we're going down, we're going down together."
Sam meets Dean's eyes and gives him a sad, weak smile.
"Yeah. Together," he murmurs. There's not an ounce of trust in his voice - only doubt and disbelief lying flat and lifeless under a blanket of despair.
Dean thinks about closing the space between them - putting a hand on Sam's shoulder, giving him a hug - but it's too awkward. The years of comfortably living in one another's space are gone. Now it feels strange to even be in the same room.
He shoves his hands in his pockets and Sam fidgets slightly. His gaze flits toward the door.
"I'm gonna get some air." He pushes off the wall and heads for the hallway. When he brushes past Dean, without thinking Dean reaches out and grabs his arm.
"Sam."
Sam stops immediately. Dean hates that there's a bit of panic in his brother's eyes, like he's unsure what Dean is going to do and he just needs to get out. Sam's skin is warm under his palm and Dean realizes it's been weeks since he's touched anyone at all.
He wants to ask Sam to stay. Not to run away. He can't get the words out.
He lets go.
"Nothing. Nevermind."
He's left alone in the empty room with only the sound of the screen door snapping shut breaking the silence.
11.
It's not a conversation he wants to have in front of all these people. It's not something to discuss with Jo and Ellen watching or with Bobby waiting for a decision.
But Castiel stares at him expectantly, wanting an answer.
He sees the desperation in the angel's eyes and he recognizes the powerlessness there. It's an echo of himself, a mirror of years spent wound the same way. He wonders if Castiel's chest is tight and his stomach twisting, if he's feeling the fear that only love and the prospect of loss can cause. He wonders if Castiel is feeling exactly the same as he's feeling now - like the world is ending and not at all because Lucifer is threatening the apocalypse.
It's strange to have someone else have such a stake in Sam's survival. But it's still a choice that's his to make and Castiel can only wait and see what they're all going to do.
Every instinct he has is compelling him toward the door. The need is innate - go after Sam - but rational thought is dictating a more careful and less emotional plan of action.
Lucifer is on the move. There are signs, omens, and talk amongst the demons they’ve captured and exorcised. They know where he's going to be and when.
He's going to set Death free and he has to be stopped. They have the Colt and they have their chance and they have to take it.
The only problem is that the other hunters in the area are otherwise occupied.
Occupied with Sam.
A ragtag band of fifteen or so men are holding him captive somewhere near the point of no return. Dean doesn't know how, but they've discovered that Michael wants Dean’s body as his meat suit and that Dean complying is the quickest and surest way to stop the devil from destroying them all.
Sam's their bargaining chip. He lives if Dean concedes.
They aren't interested in Plan B.
Things would be different if Castiel still had control of his powers. Things would be different even if Sam still had control of his powers and for a brief moment Dean actually wishes that he did.
Dean knows then that he's losing it.
He locks and loads and makes a decision. It feels like a betrayal of his heart and his soul but he knows it's right.
Castiel goes after Sam on his own and Dean sees the irony.
Dean saves the world and the angel saves Sam Winchester.
It's not how it's supposed to be.
They're down two people when they leave but the Impala is riding heavy and low with the weight of their collective guilt.
Dean doesn't look in the rearview mirror the whole drive cross state. One look back would be all it took and he'd turn the car around.
No one speaks for five hundred miles but they all may as well be screaming.
12.
"How is he?" Dean asks, tired and wrecked. His body aches and even the faint light causes the pain behind his eyes to renew itself and throb incessantly. It hurts to breathe but most of the pain is emotionally wrought, not physical.
He can't take much more but more is all they have. There's no light at the end of this tunnel.
Castiel stares at him with cold and unforgiving eyes, his mouth set in a stern frown. He stands at the entrance to the bedroom like a sentinel barring Dean entry.
“He is alive.” The No thanks to you. goes unsaid but Dean hears it all the same.
“It was Death. And the Devil. I thought you of all people would understand.” Dean glares darkly at Castiel. He doesn’t need the angel’s damnation and is frankly sick of how the tables have turned. “Year ago and you would've been telling me to get my priorities straight.”
“Things have changed.”
“And they just keep on changing, don’t they.” Dean mutters, running a hand through his dirty hair. There’s still ash and blood there. “Ellen and Jo are dead.”
“I am sorry.” Castiel states. It’s fact - he is sorry, but Dean wishes he would show a bit more emotion about the loss. His face twitches almost imperceptibly and then he moves on. “I am glad that you called for my help before the casualties grew.”
Dean wants to be grateful but right now it’s hard to remember why it’s a good thing to be alive. He fingers the gash on his temple and relishes the shock of pain that travels through his system. Nothing about this seems real, yet at the same time it’s too real, too much to think about all at once.
“Well there was nothing left to do but get the hell out of Dodge. All of that and for what? Lucifer raised Death. We stopped nothing.”
He turns away from Castiel, a hand running over his mouth in distress.
“We can’t win this thing, Cas. I might as well tell Michael to suit up now because that’s where this is all going.” Dean leans against the wall on the opposite side of the hallway and without looking knows Castiel is staring at him with that inscrutable expression on his face. He doesn’t care enough to be frustrated with the angel anymore.
He can’t fix this on his own. Hell, it can’t even be fixed. All he has now is the lesser of two evils. Michael destroying most of the earth has got to be better than Lucifer destroying all of it.
He knows it’s true but it’s against every fiber of his being to admit it. Millions of deaths are still millions of deaths. Millions of deaths that he will be alive to witness. Millions of deaths he will have a direct hand in causing.
“I believe myself to be in love with your brother.” Castiel says firmly, his voice calm and cool. Dean drops his hands and his eyes snap wide open. Apart from the fact he hadn’t expected that at all, he certainly hadn’t expected it at that precise moment.
“Excuse me?” He stands up straight; the end of the world momentarily set aside in favor of the matter at hand.
“Sam. I am in love with him.”
“Uh…o…kay.” Dean opens and closes his mouth a few more times before giving up on finding the right response. “I have no idea what I’m supposed to say to that.”
“I do not require you to say anything. I merely wish for you to understand. If you say yes to Michael, it will destroy Sam. If you say yes to Michael, he will say yes to Lucifer. I am not enough to stop him. It is this simple.”
“We’re both gonna say yes sooner or later. It hardly seems to matter who goes first,” Dean retorts cynically. He’s thought about it like that before; he doesn’t think he could stand watching Sam fall first. It’s his worst nightmare, having to stand idly by and watch Sam’s kind eyes turn hateful as Lucifer took possession.
He fears losing Sam more than the apocalypse itself and if that isn’t the most fucked up thing he’s ever discovered about himself, he doesn’t know what is. Those million lives outweighed by his little brother.
But when one person is your whole world…
“Sam will not let Lucifer in if you are here, Dean.” Castiel is completely assured of this. Dean can see it in his eyes as clear as day; there’s not an ounce of doubt.
“So…what. Sam and I just keep saying no forever? Lucifer burns through vessel after vessel and tears the world apart piece by piece rather than destroying it all at once? Doesn’t seem like a great solution.”
“It is not a solution. But it will buy us time to find another way.”
“There is no other way.”
“There is always another way. And together we will find it. All is not lost.”
Dean stares at Castiel for a long, hard moment. His jaw twitches.
He thinks of Sam and the last time they spoke. The last time they touched. The last time Sam smiled at him and he saw that ten-year-old kid brother again, hiding there in those deep dimples and hopeful eyes.
It seems a distant memory.
“It’s too late.” Dean’s voice cracks on the words. His eyes are tearing up and he blinks quickly and looks away.
Castiel sets a firm hand on his shoulder and Dean can feel forgiveness in the simple touch.
“It’s Sam. Where you are concerned…it is never too late.”
13.
The kitchen is dark save for the warm light coming from the open refrigerator. Sam is standing with the door propped against his hip as he takes a long drink directly from the gallon jug of water.
The clock reads four a.m. and Dean would be lying if he said he hadn’t been waiting for Sam to wake and stumble downstairs.
Dean pauses in the doorway, not wanting to startle his brother. He takes the moment to watch. Sam looks okay; banged and bruised but he’s seen Sam far worse. The few hours of uninterrupted sleep Castiel had insisted upon seem to have helped, hard as it was for Dean to let Sam have them. He’d never wanted to speak to Sam more.
Faced with Sam now though, Dean can’t think of the right thing to say.
After Sam swallows, Dean slowly enters the room and makes his presence known with a small cough and a nudge of his hip against of one of the old wooden chairs. The scrape of wood against linoleum is loud in the night quiet.
Sam snaps toward him, eyes are wide in the darkness, proof positive of how disconnected they’ve become. Time was Sam would’ve instinctively known Dean was there.
He makes a move to re-cap the water and put it away but Dean stops him before the fridge door falls closed.
Dean moves right beside him and he hears Sam inhale sharply and feels him tense up. Sam doesn’t move away though; he stands stock still as Dean digs through the bottom shelf. Glass bottles rattle and Dean grabs hold of two PBRs and then backs up.
He sits down at the kitchen table and sets one beer down in front of him, then twists the cap off the other and places it in front of the other chair.
Sam looks at him and Dean can see the unspoken question. His brother is perplexed, unsure of what Dean really wants him to do. Dean thought the offer clear but Sam is clearly waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Dean extends a leg and pushes the other chair out with his foot, nods his head toward it.
After a moment’s hesitation, Sam sits down gingerly. He wraps his hand around the bottle and moves it closer but he doesn’t take a drink.
Dean shifts in his chair and watches Sam’s fingers fidget against the label. It’s still baffling to him how someone so big and strong like Sam can seem so small and timid. It hurts to witness because he’s one of the people who made Sam feel this way.
“So, Cas says he’s in love with you.” Dean breaks the tense silence the only way he knows how. His smile is forced, his chuckle weak, but it’s something. “That’s a new one.”
Sam raises his gaze from the table to meet Dean’s eyes but only for a moment before he shrinks away.
Dean takes a deep breath and tries again.
“Are you…I mean, do you…you feel the same.” He started off asking a question but realizes that he already knows the answer. He knew as soon as Castiel first spoke of it.
“Yeah.” Sam’s voice is weak from under use and he has to cough and clear his throat in order to speak. “Yeah, I do.”
Dean turns the beer bottle in his hand a few times, a nervous gesture. He runs his other hand over his mouth and then nods once. There are too many emotions running through him so he takes a moment to carefully choose the right one to express. He bypasses disbelief, shock and jealousy and settles on relief and compassion.
“That’s…good,” He says quietly. “I’m glad that you…well I’m glad you have someone. That you’ve had someone.”
Sam visibly reacts to Dean’s words, sitting up straight and wrapping his arms around himself protectively.
“It’s not the same, Dean.” Sam replies and meets Dean’s gaze again, this time not wavering. “He’s not you.”
“Sam…I’m sorry.”
“I needed you.” It tumbles from Sam’s mouth like he’s been trying to hold it back for an eternity.
Without thinking about the repercussions, Dean attempts to reach across the table, just trying to touch Sam in some way. Sam gets up immediately and moves to put space back between them.
Dean follows Sam into the living room and manages to catch hold of his arm. He pulls Sam back toward him but Sam resists, struggling and spitting out a pained protest. He throws a weak punch that Dean stops with barely an effort.
Dean wraps his arms around Sam in a fierce hug, pinning his brother to him and holding him so tightly that any fight is pointless.
It only takes a moment for Sam to stop fighting him anyway and then he’s clutching Dean just as hard, his face buried against Dean’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry.” Dean repeats, desperate for Sam to understand how much he means it. He presses a kiss to Sam’s temple the way he used to when Sam was young and whispers his apology into the softness of Sam’s messy hair. “I’m sorry, Sammy.”
Sam mumbles his own apologies, fists tightly clenched in the folds of Dean’s plaid shirt.
“I miss you,” he murmurs and Dean closes his eyes, letting the three syllables wash over him again and again.
They feel like salvation.