Checking Out
Summary: Sam asks Dean to spar, and leaves some of his feelings on the table. Spoilers up to 10x18.
************
They aren’t having a good week. Not after the book burning thing. Not after Dean’s been brushing off Sam’s attempts to talk about it all.
Sue him, he doesn’t wanna fucking talk about it.
“Let’s spar.”
Dean’s in the middle of scrolling through news articles on recent animal maulings or strange murders when Sam says it, body taut with some sort of anxiousness and offense that makes the Mark thrum very faintly on his arm; Dean doesn’t want Sam to know, but sometimes Sam says something snappish or tightens his jaw a certain way, and Dean can feel the hum of bloodthirst, faint, faint, like the crackle of nerve endings in the back of someone’s neck. It’s nothing he can’t handle, though. Sam just stares at him like he knows something Dean doesn’t.
The moves are fluid, and they both stay on their game, dodging left and right, Dean compensating for Sam’s arm-length and speed and Sam compensating for Dean’s heavier muscle and tolerance for punches. Eventually Dean zones out and has Sam pinned under him, fist spackled with blood. Sam’s got a split lip and Dean freezes, and then Sam flips him over onto his back and pins him instead. It’s only then that Dean realizes why Sam did this, why he was silently rigid earlier. He’s quietly afraid; it’s in the back of his eyes, a hunter’s trait to handle the fear. Because it’s stupid not to fear what’s out there. You just have to manage it.
Which is what Sam’s doing now. He puts his knee on Dean’s chest and holds him tight to the spot, red plip-plopping on his Led Zeppelin shirt.
“You see this??” Sam pants, anger burning with the fear. “This is just us, you and me. What’s gonna happen when it’s not you, Dean?”
“Shut up,” he huffs, trying to shove Sam off, the Mark thrumming even more loudly. Sam doesn’t budge. “Shut up, Sam, you think I don’t get it - ”
“You fucking don’t!! You don’t get how unfair you’re being!” Sam’s voice crackles, power behind it. Sam’s always had a strong voice. Deep and commanding if he ever used it more often for that sort of thing. He’s a lot different from Dad and Dean, in that respect. Always with the soft. Now he looks intimidating, even if he’s all angles and bony and needing to actually eat some fucking sandwiches. Has he always been this scrawny? “Your solution to losing to the Mark is fucking unfair.”
“Don’t you even tell me about unfair, after how you acted back - ”
“No, you listen,” Sam spits. “If we don’t fix you, what do you think’s gonna happen? You’re gonna turn, Dean, and me and Cas and Charlie, everyone around you, they’ll be targets. You almost smashed my head in with a hammer last time, and now you’re talking about it like you expect me to just chain you up for an eternity? How is any of that fair? No,” Sam continues, and cuts him off. “No, you didn’t think of what it was like fixing you the first time, Dean. You didn’t think of what you could do the second time around. I can’t kill you. And apparently I can’t cure you, not for very long.”
He finally shoves off Dean, turning his back to him. He wipes the blood off his upper lip.
“I can’t… That’s not even the most unfair part.”
Dean sighs, sitting up silently. “Sam, what? What do you want from me? Do you want me to admit I fucked up? Look, maybe we shouldn’t have burned the book, but I’m not gonna let something shitty happen because of that thing. We’re already up the creek here, and if something goes south-”
“Like what?” Sam says quietly. “Like turning into a demon? Like killing people, Dean? Living for centuries until you become Cain?”
Dean glares, but it’s an aborted gesture, because he suddenly feels tired. And guilty, maybe. He doesn’t fucking know. Okay, so maybe leaving Sam to clean up after the Mark would be fucked up. Maybe that’s a crossed line in and of itself, expecting that from his brother. Because Dean wasn’t willing to do that himself, either, back when the tables were turned. He closes his eyes and holds up his hands. “I get it. Fine.”
“No.” Sam rubs his eyes, standing up. Ready to leave. Always ready to find an escape. He rubs his arm, though, and looks completely lost in his own home for a moment. “It’s not fair, because you kept me in this place - you’re the one who said my reason for being alive was to help you fight. And you throw that shit back in my face, because I wasn’t willing to shove an angel down your throat… But now suddenly, after all that, after bringing me back to this… you just check out? What reason will I have to be alive then? This is what I have now. I couldn’t have a normal life, and I couldn’t die, so I have this. And I have to…”
“… Sam.” Dean stops there, because the word is like a roadblock. He doesn’t want to think about all this. He doesn’t want to face this. He wants Sam to just accept that he’s gonna crash and burn and… well, it’s not like that all doesn’t make sense to him, because now it does, and he doesn’t want to face it. He knows he’s a coward when it comes to these talks. He knows he skirts around them. He knows, he knows, he knows. “Just - you’re tired. Go get some sleep. You’ve been cashing in how many hours?”
Sam shrugs, licking his swollen lip, neither of them willing to mention how easily it had gotten there.
They part ways, Dean all too aware he’s left Sam’s bowl empty in the exchange.
Later in the night, Sam lays awake, listening to the sounds of Dean screaming for him.
************
They aren’t having a good week. Not after the book burning thing. Not after Dean’s been brushing off Sam’s attempts to talk about it all.
Sue him, he doesn’t wanna fucking talk about it.
“Let’s spar.”
Dean’s in the middle of scrolling through news articles on recent animal maulings or strange murders when Sam says it, body taut with some sort of anxiousness and offense that makes the Mark thrum very faintly on his arm; Dean doesn’t want Sam to know, but sometimes Sam says something snappish or tightens his jaw a certain way, and Dean can feel the hum of bloodthirst, faint, faint, like the crackle of nerve endings in the back of someone’s neck. It’s nothing he can’t handle, though. Sam just stares at him like he knows something Dean doesn’t.
The moves are fluid, and they both stay on their game, dodging left and right, Dean compensating for Sam’s arm-length and speed and Sam compensating for Dean’s heavier muscle and tolerance for punches. Eventually Dean zones out and has Sam pinned under him, fist spackled with blood. Sam’s got a split lip and Dean freezes, and then Sam flips him over onto his back and pins him instead. It’s only then that Dean realizes why Sam did this, why he was silently rigid earlier. He’s quietly afraid; it’s in the back of his eyes, a hunter’s trait to handle the fear. Because it’s stupid not to fear what’s out there. You just have to manage it.
Which is what Sam’s doing now. He puts his knee on Dean’s chest and holds him tight to the spot, red plip-plopping on his Led Zeppelin shirt.
“You see this??” Sam pants, anger burning with the fear. “This is just us, you and me. What’s gonna happen when it’s not you, Dean?”
“Shut up,” he huffs, trying to shove Sam off, the Mark thrumming even more loudly. Sam doesn’t budge. “Shut up, Sam, you think I don’t get it - ”
“You fucking don’t!! You don’t get how unfair you’re being!” Sam’s voice crackles, power behind it. Sam’s always had a strong voice. Deep and commanding if he ever used it more often for that sort of thing. He’s a lot different from Dad and Dean, in that respect. Always with the soft. Now he looks intimidating, even if he’s all angles and bony and needing to actually eat some fucking sandwiches. Has he always been this scrawny? “Your solution to losing to the Mark is fucking unfair.”
“Don’t you even tell me about unfair, after how you acted back - ”
“No, you listen,” Sam spits. “If we don’t fix you, what do you think’s gonna happen? You’re gonna turn, Dean, and me and Cas and Charlie, everyone around you, they’ll be targets. You almost smashed my head in with a hammer last time, and now you’re talking about it like you expect me to just chain you up for an eternity? How is any of that fair? No,” Sam continues, and cuts him off. “No, you didn’t think of what it was like fixing you the first time, Dean. You didn’t think of what you could do the second time around. I can’t kill you. And apparently I can’t cure you, not for very long.”
He finally shoves off Dean, turning his back to him. He wipes the blood off his upper lip.
“I can’t… That’s not even the most unfair part.”
Dean sighs, sitting up silently. “Sam, what? What do you want from me? Do you want me to admit I fucked up? Look, maybe we shouldn’t have burned the book, but I’m not gonna let something shitty happen because of that thing. We’re already up the creek here, and if something goes south-”
“Like what?” Sam says quietly. “Like turning into a demon? Like killing people, Dean? Living for centuries until you become Cain?”
Dean glares, but it’s an aborted gesture, because he suddenly feels tired. And guilty, maybe. He doesn’t fucking know. Okay, so maybe leaving Sam to clean up after the Mark would be fucked up. Maybe that’s a crossed line in and of itself, expecting that from his brother. Because Dean wasn’t willing to do that himself, either, back when the tables were turned. He closes his eyes and holds up his hands. “I get it. Fine.”
“No.” Sam rubs his eyes, standing up. Ready to leave. Always ready to find an escape. He rubs his arm, though, and looks completely lost in his own home for a moment. “It’s not fair, because you kept me in this place - you’re the one who said my reason for being alive was to help you fight. And you throw that shit back in my face, because I wasn’t willing to shove an angel down your throat… But now suddenly, after all that, after bringing me back to this… you just check out? What reason will I have to be alive then? This is what I have now. I couldn’t have a normal life, and I couldn’t die, so I have this. And I have to…”
“… Sam.” Dean stops there, because the word is like a roadblock. He doesn’t want to think about all this. He doesn’t want to face this. He wants Sam to just accept that he’s gonna crash and burn and… well, it’s not like that all doesn’t make sense to him, because now it does, and he doesn’t want to face it. He knows he’s a coward when it comes to these talks. He knows he skirts around them. He knows, he knows, he knows. “Just - you’re tired. Go get some sleep. You’ve been cashing in how many hours?”
Sam shrugs, licking his swollen lip, neither of them willing to mention how easily it had gotten there.
They part ways, Dean all too aware he’s left Sam’s bowl empty in the exchange.
Later in the night, Sam lays awake, listening to the sounds of Dean screaming for him.