So maybe I've been writing again
I think I haven't updated this particular journal in nigh on two and a half years. Maybe more, at this point. It's been a long time, anyway. But this has always sort of been my writing and fandom journal and lately, well, I've been having more writing and fandom type thoughts. So in that vein, SPN finale coda fic, anyone?
Title: Wisdom to the Mighty, Succour to the Brave
Rating: PG-13
Genre and/or Pairing: Sam, Dean
Spoilers: Post 4.22 (spoilers for the finale)
Warnings: A bit of language
Summary: It's the end of the world as they know it, but Sam's not feeling fine. (Post the finale, the Brothers Winchester have a needed conversation and probably would do better with some alcohol.)
Dean kept peering out the windows. Every few minutes he would return back in the same spot, glancing down and out at the highway as if expecting to see the armies of Hell - or perhaps Heaven - there and at the ready. His face was tight, shadowed, lips pursed and eyes dark, and even as he kept being drawn back to the glass to stare out at the night, Sam couldn't quite help but to watch his older brother. He couldn't look for long though, had to keep shifting his focus away because it was all just too damned much.
The final Seal had been broken. Lucifer was free.
On the bed furthest from the door, Sam sat with his fingers twisted together in his lap as he struggled not to throw up. He still had blood caked under his nails and he picked at it, unable to work up the energy to go shower while nausea roiled in his gut at the sight. Truthfully, it had been there ever since Ruby had turned to him with wide, exultant eyes and he'd suddenly realized that something was very, very wrong.
Dean drummed his fingers against the window pane. He didn't look angry, just pensive and watchful. Nervous, maybe. He hadn't said much of anything since they'd escaped, but then there hadn't been much to say.
He'd said it all before, anyway. The memory of his recorded voice slipped through Sam's mind, harsh and unyielding.
Monster. Vampire.
The truth always hurt. He'd swallowed so many simple, eager lies that he'd forgotten just how much it did.
Sam wasn't even sure why Dean was even still there, why he hadn't turned Ruby's knife on him as soon as her body had hit the floor like he'd promised he would. Sam deserved it. Right now, he wouldn't even fight back.
He had a headache and the room was too cold and he felt twitchy, energy thrumming and pent up and if he could stand, he'd be pacing, or running. Sitting this still was torture, just like it had become recently when coming down off a high. It had been close to six hours since his last hit (since Ruby had smiled up at him, fingers curled around a goblet that held nothing but blood, the steady drip-drip of the remnants in the background thudding against the dirt) and the it was wearing off. The sensation would grow worse soon, would start digging through his veins like spiders crawling up his skin from the inside, but that was okay. That was fine.
He deserved that too.
He looked up at his brother's profile again, watched him tilt his chin up to better scout out the land and the flash of his throat, shockingly pale against the dim light, caught Sam by surprise.
It was pure masochism that made him look for them. They were almost lost from sight, slender slightly darkened marks against Dean's skin, now only barely visible. Almost gone, but Sam knew that even if the bruises were long healed, he would have been able to state exactly where they had been, would see them just as clear and bright as if they were painted across Dean's throat. Would have been able to find them again in the dark, the places where his hands had gripped and just squeezed.
Sensory memory caught him off guard for a second and he quickly looked away again. Sam's right hand twitched and he curled it into a fist, tight enough so that his nails cut into the flesh.
Out of sight, he heard Dean heave a small sigh and finally step away from the window again, back into the motel room proper. There was a whisper as the curtain fell shut, followed by the sounds of footsteps muffled by cheap carpet and the squeak of bedsprings as Dean fell down on the other bed.
They should turn on the news, Sam thought. The end would be starting soon. This was his fault, God, it was all his fault and he should at least have the decency to look at the mess he'd made. To watch it all fall apart. To watch the world burn.
He felt his brother's skin giving way against his fingers again, felt the pulse of a heartbeat fluttering under his thumb. Sam swiped his palm down his pant leg roughly, trying to erase the phantom sensation.
His stomach turned over again and he wanted to be sick. Wanted it desperately, so much that he could almost taste it on the back of his tongue. He forced it down regardless. What right did he have, to feel like this now? What had he said to Dean back then? Boo hoo.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean pull out his cell phone, flip it open. Sam couldn't help but feel a frisson of discomfort at that, a searing strike of pain that stabs right through the abject misery he's drenched in. He didn't want the reminder of what his brother really thought of him. He could never make that right either. God only knew how much more he'd fuck things up by trying.
"Eight missed calls," Dean said. He had a touched of forced amusement to his voice, the tone he got when he was trying to be clever in a situation that didn't usually deserve it. "Bobby is going to kill me."
Sam glanced over at him briefly at that, curious despite himself. He didn't know how Dean had gotten to the church. The Impala had been nowhere to be seen when they'd ran, so they'd been forced to cramp themselves down into Ruby's stolen car to make their break. Dean hadn't bothered to explain anything at the time, completely caught up in just driving, white lipped and eyes wild, and looking in the rear view almost more than the road ahead.
He must have caught the question in Sam's eyes because the tips of his ears flushed a bit like it always did when he was about to broach a topic he didn't really want to get into and then he coughed and looked away. "We, uh. We had a bit of a falling out."
Sam cleared his throat. "About what?"
There was a slight pause before his brother spoke, a half hesitation that told him exactly what the fight had been about even before the words came out of Dean's mouth.
"About what we had to do next. About what we needed to do."
About Sam is what Dean meant. He fought with Bobby about what he needed to do about his demon brother and how best to take care of him. He could almost picture it in his mind, crystal clear, as though it were a vision like years ago: Dean sitting, head bowed and shoulders shaking in anger as he tried to convince Bobby of the creature Sam had become, Bobby trying in turn to convince him that it couldn't possibly be so bad.
Bobby would have refused to believe it, Sam knew. The older hunter was gruff and had little patience, but family didn't end with blood and even though Sam had his blood on his hands as well, he never would have imagined what Sam had become. He might have accused Sam of doing some warped things before, but he wouldn't have believed this.
(Memory teased at the back of his mind, of a day that wouldn't end over a year ago now, and Bobby's shocked, horrified face demanding that if it had to be anyone, it should be him. How easy it had been to accept the proffered sacrifice, if it meant that he'd get Dean back. How nothing mattered except for that.)
If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, Dean would never have believed it either. He hadn't believed it when Sam had lied to him, over and over again. When he'd raised a tired face to him and just asked that Sam respected him enough to not treat him like an idiot and Sam had looked back and pretended not to know what he was talking about. Not even when Sam had accused him of holding him back, of being weak.
Dean hadn't believed it until Sam had tried to kill him.
Sam cut his eyes away again and swallowed hard against the lump in his throat and the pricks in his eyes that he didn't deserve to feel.
"He didn't go with you?" He had to force himself to speak. Sam didn't particularly want to force the conversation along to its inevitable conclusion, wanted instead to let the accusing silence keep hold because at least he only had to imagine the recriminations and didn't have to hear them. But these were the first words Dean had spoken to him since they ran from the convent (almost the first since he had called out, voice broken from the floor, that if Sam left, he should never come back) and he couldn't quite give up on hearing his brother's voice just for a bit longer, the dumb marvel that came because Dean's tone so far held no hint of accusation or I told you so jeers.
"Didn't get the chance, more like. I turned around and I wasn't there anymore. Got touched by an angel again, or beamed up by Scottie, and let me tell you, there was no Uhura there to greet me."
"What?"
The false levity was gone from Dean's voice and he sounded far more strained than he had before when he next spoke. "The angels, man. Zachariah. He wanted me to-"
He cut off but again Sam's mind filled in the rest of the words. Zachariah had wanted Dean to stop Sam. Save the Seal. The angels had been right all along and it wasn't Sam, had never been Sam. So many months of work and effort and strife, all because Sam had been so damned lost in his own delusions of grandeur that he'd gladly believed a demon's words.
The idea came unbidden to him, morbidly curious, of whether Dean had spoken to Zachariah before he'd tried to call. If Sam'd had any hope left of fixing this before the angels had condemned him and explained to Dean what exactly would happen if he succeeded in killing Lilith or if Dean had given up even before that. If it had been when they'd told Dean about what he was destined to accomplish.
There was a flicker of fury in his gut all of a sudden, a wrenching knot of anger that knotted itself neatly into place. An old friend, one that had been near constant with him these past several weeks. It snaked up through his blood, heated his face, until his jaw clenched from the rush of it. He wanted to blame the blood on this, but oh, this one had been a companion long before he'd ever met Ruby.
Sam had just ended the world. He had no right to be angry just because the angels had chosen Dean (when Sam had believed, when he had prayed every day, when Dean had scoffed at the concept of "good" and had seen nothing but chaos and violence and lies and nothing worthy of faith at all) but that didn't stop the sensation from sliding under his skin, raw and empty and powerful, leaving him aching.
It was hard to breathe. He had to press his eyes shut, the pulse of his own heartbeat suddenly throbbing against his temple, the full measure of what he had done, how greatly he had failed, how very much he'd done in this past year sliding onto his shoulders once more, causing self loathing to mingle with fury until the one was the other and he didn't know what he felt.
Losing Dean had felt like this.
That nurse had screamed. No voluntary sacrifice like Bobby had been, she had begged for her life the entire way to the convent. Her hoarse cries had slowly died off into sobs, broken and abandoned and alone, just whimpers of "Why are you doing this?" that had rattled through the car. He'd so wanted her to shut up, hadn't been able to stand listening to her tears.
He didn't even know her name. He'd let Ruby kill her, slice her throat open, had just moaned about the noise she was making and he didn't even know her name. She had said it, he thought. He was almost certain she had told him who she was, had said many things besides, but Sam hadn't listened. He hadn't wanted to hear. Instead, he'd tried to block out as much of it as possible, because she had to be a sacrifice for the greater good and if Sam had allowed her to become real he never could have managed it.
One woman against the lives of six billion and only ten hours ago, that deal had seemed worth it.
The need to be sick rose up again, stronger, and he took several fast quick breaths to try and keep his stomach under control.
He didn't notice that Dean had moved until he felt the hand touch down cautiously against his shoulder, fingers falling lightly against the fabric of his jacket but the heat of them burning his skin.
"Hey. Hey, Sammy, look at me."
God, he couldn't take this. Couldn't bear to have Dean sound like that, false concern in his voice, and the idea that it could possible be real, that Dean might could still care, was even worse. That Dean could somehow accept this, this fucking atrocity that Sam had committed and God, oh, God, what had he done?
"Sam, it's not your fault."
The words froze in Sam's ears, echoing there. Not his fault. Not- What?
"Sam, look at me. It wasn't you, okay? It wasn't your fault."
Something cracked inside him. Knocking Dean's hand from his shoulder, Sam surged to his feet, stumbling forward a couple of steps before spinning around to face his brother again. Rage and loathing coated every fiber of his being, blocked out the sick hot wrong that had blanketed his every thought and caused the words he'd tried so hard to block out for so long to tumble out from him like so many stones, each one hot and terrible and fiery, loud in his throat and impossible to hold back.
"Not my fault? Dean, what the hell-" he almost choked, the word catching for a moment,"-are you talking about? Of course this is my fault! I don't know where you've been, but I just doomed the entire world. I just broke the last Seal. Lucifer is running free and it's all me. I did this. All of it. It was all my damn choices. How can you possibly say this isn't my fault?"
He stared down at Dean but he didn't really see him, his vision darkening at the corners. Sam's fists clenched tight again, shoulders heaving to try and get enough air. The room felt too hot and too cold, all at once, ice running down his arms while his chest felt like it was on fire, burning like Mom had. Like Jess. There wasn't enough air in the room, he couldn't breathe, couldn't catch his breath.
"You can put this one off on a demon this time, okay? I wasn't possessed and it's the whole planet this time, not just Steve Wandell. You can't just stomp on a hard drive and wipe our prints down and expect that this will go away."
He trailed off for a moment, voice thickening, quieter. "Ruby said. She told me, right before you came in, that the demon blood, it didn't mean anything. That it was me all along." A laugh escaped, he couldn't hold it back. "She fooled me, man. Made me think that Lilith was going to break the Seal and I thought that I could stop her, but God, Dean, I was wrong. I did this. Exactly what Lilith and Azazel wanted me to do, what they've planned since before I was born to do, and I fell right into it. It's all my fault."
Sam had more to say. It bubbled up against his lips, straining for an escape, but then his brain realized what his eyes were seeing and all words froze.
Dean watched him, hand pulled back again to rest with the other on his lap, pose defensive, and his face tight and expressionless and tense. His eyes were more black than green, like stone, with nothing showing through. He looked wary.
Sam knew that look, had seen it before, God, countless times. Dean wore it when he didn't know what to expect aside from a blow, when he was preparing himself to get smacked down.
The anger sizzled out again and its sudden absence left Sam reeling. His ass hit the other bed, Dean's bed, knees suddenly too watery to hold himself up and he cradled his face in his hands, needing to block out the sight.
This time, Dean didn't touch him when he spoke.
"Look. I'm not going to argue that you've done some stupid things, Sammy. Really fucking stupid things. I mean, this is big. But I meant it when I said it wasn't your fault."
"How can you say that?" His voice was barely more than a whisper but Dean must heard him just fine because he went on, voice flat and toneless.
"I know it's not your fault because you would never have broken the last Seal if I hadn't broken the first one."
Sam's breath really did freeze at that. He raised his eyes to stare incredulously at his brother, but this time it was Dean who couldn't match his gaze, who was looking away, fingers tapping out a steady tattoo against one thigh.
"What? How?"
Dean's eyes flickered shut, eyelashes dark against his skin. "When I was in Hell, Sam. When I first got off the rack. I didn't know until that clusterfuck with Alistair a couple of months back. He told me what I had done."
The image of Dean right after that flickered through Sam's mind, how he hadn't even been able to get Dean to talk to him, how utterly crushed he'd seemed. How broken Dean had looked in that hospital bed, refusing even to look at him. He'd thought that was just the shock of meeting Alistair, at failing to get the information needed, or maybe even just being physically smashed down again, but this? It seemed impossible.
"You're lying. Or he was." There was no possible way that-
"'And so it is written,'" Dean recited, eyes still tightly closed, "'That the first Seal shall fall when a Righteous Man sheds blood in Hell.' That's what he told me. I asked Cas and he confirmed it." He swallowed visibly. "So it wasn't you, Sam. It was never you. That's why the angels were after me, okay? It's not because I deserved to be saved or any bull like that. It's because I fucked this up and I needed to set it right. What I did... There's no forgiving that. But Lilith - that one's not your fault, okay?"
"Why didn't you tell me?" He couldn't quite keep the hurt from tinging his voice. It wasn't something Dean should ever have had to bear alone. He could have trusted Sam to help, to wear that yoke with him.
Dean's fingers slipped down to worry at the cheap bedspread, tugging at threads. He shrugged but didn't answer. Thinking back to that time, Sam thought he might be able to hazard a guess. He hadn't exactly been the world's best confidant. Boo hoo.
Even if it were true though, it didn't really matter. If Dean had broken the first Seal (something Sam couldn't help but reject, the repercussions of it were too huge, even if Dean seemed to believe it), it had only been after thirty years of torture. The concept of that span still seemed too large to be contained in Sam's mind, outside of comprehension. Thirty years. Sam had just fallen to his own damned pride and to a demon's silver tongue and it had only taken him a few months.
He must have said it aloud because Dean snorted suddenly and shook his head once, decisive and hard.
"Anyway, you were set up."
Sam couldn't help but to huff at that. "What, by Ruby, you mean? You were right about her all along, but I didn't listen, I just-"
Dean cut him off before he could say anything else. "No. The angels, Sam. Zachariah. They wanted you to do it. They wanted the world to burn."
Sam wrenched his eyes back up to Dean's face, searching for any sign of falsehood, any clue that this was just an attempt to absolve Sam of his sins, but Dean was looking back by then, green gaze open enough to be tired and heavy but without a hint of deceit within them.
"God, why?" Sam whispered. "Are they all like Uriel?"
Dean shook his head. "No. They wanted Lucifer free so that he could be killed, I guess. Or bound more tightly. Something, hell if I know what. They didn't exactly keep me in the loop. It was the full on Revelation deal, you know? Mine eyes have seen the glory. We have broken every rule, so sound the freaking horn and release the grapes of wrath."
"I don't think that's how the song goes." Sam couldn't help but to point out and was rewarded by a something that might have, on a very good day, resembled a glare. "So how did you get there?"
"I talked to Castiel. He came to see things from my point of view and sprung us both." Dean shrugged, as though convincing an angel to go against the will of Heaven was nothing unusual. "We found out where you were and he teleported me there, used his angel mojo. And that was that. You know the rest."
Silence fell again for a moment, but it felt far less oppressive than it had before. Again, it was Sam to break it, unable to let this end too soon. Dean hadn't actually said he'd changed his mind or that the angels had a plan, but Sam hadn't always needed the actual words and this sounded like something that could possibly be salvageable. Undeserved, certainly, and more a ghost of a chance than anything solid, but maybe there was a chance and he had to scout the land out, find out more.
"So what do we do now?"
"What we always do, Sam." Dean's lips quirked up slightly, a shadow of a grin peeking through. "We fix things. We put things back to rights. I know I screwed up, but we're still here, aren't we? That means we've still got a chance."
"It's still my fault." Sam said quietly. He couldn't give himself the out that Dean was offering, just as Dean had offered time and time again when they were kids to cover for whatever mistakes Sam had made. For the first time, he didn't want to, wanted to clutch his responsibility for this tight to his chest, wanted to shout it out for the whole damned world to see. He couldn't let Dean hold the blame for this one all on his shoulders, even if it might take some time to convince his brother of that.
He couldn't stop hearing Ruby's voice crowing about how awesome she was, how proud she had been. Couldn't stop feeling the cool touch of her fingers or remembering the excited, hopeful look to her eyes as she whispered about rewards and how he'd be so grateful and how Sam had done it, how it could only have been Sam.
"You did what you could, Sam. We'll figure the rest out." Dean's smile faded until he just looked a bit uncomfortable, shoulders still hunched over and folded in on himself. The realization hit that this was the first major thing Dean had shared with him in nearly half a year, the first secret he'd spilled since before the debacle with the Siren. Dean hadn't been able to tell him about the first Seal when he found out, but he was trusting Sam with it now. He swallowed hard.
"We kind of owe it to the world to try, don't you think?" Dean fell quiet again, looking over towards the window, and it wasn't more than a few seconds before he was up and restlessly moving back towards it, pulling the curtain aside to stare out again.
Maybe it was because he couldn't look at Sam or maybe it was because he really was just keeping watch, but that didn't change the truth of what he had said. Sam did owe it to the world to at least try. Maybe there was still a chance to make things right, in more than one way.
The air between them was thick with secrets kept over the past year and change. They sat heavy, unavoidable and unforgettable.
Unforgivable.
But that was okay. Even if Dean believed Sam was a monster (and he must, the voicemail didn't exactly hold anything back and no matter what hope Sam had read into this conversation, Dean still hadn't even been able to touch him since they left the church nor look at him for longer than a few seconds at a time) and things Weren't Right between them, Sam needed to make sure it would be okay again, someday.
The fury and despair he'd been feeling had faded. Still there, in the back of his mind, lurking and threatening to volley forth at any time. Sam didn't think they would ever leave, but what Dean was offering was enough to allow a tiny flickering feel of something else to light up in his chest. He needed to believe that maybe that chance wasn't as dead as he'd thought this morning. He hadn't thought he'd have the opportunity, hadn't even believed that he'd be alive to even consider it, and so he was at an utter loss for what to do next.
But if Dean was willing to keep him around, then maybe he could get a chance to make things better. Even if he had to save the world in the process.
Title: Wisdom to the Mighty, Succour to the Brave
Rating: PG-13
Genre and/or Pairing: Sam, Dean
Spoilers: Post 4.22 (spoilers for the finale)
Warnings: A bit of language
Summary: It's the end of the world as they know it, but Sam's not feeling fine. (Post the finale, the Brothers Winchester have a needed conversation and probably would do better with some alcohol.)
Dean kept peering out the windows. Every few minutes he would return back in the same spot, glancing down and out at the highway as if expecting to see the armies of Hell - or perhaps Heaven - there and at the ready. His face was tight, shadowed, lips pursed and eyes dark, and even as he kept being drawn back to the glass to stare out at the night, Sam couldn't quite help but to watch his older brother. He couldn't look for long though, had to keep shifting his focus away because it was all just too damned much.
The final Seal had been broken. Lucifer was free.
On the bed furthest from the door, Sam sat with his fingers twisted together in his lap as he struggled not to throw up. He still had blood caked under his nails and he picked at it, unable to work up the energy to go shower while nausea roiled in his gut at the sight. Truthfully, it had been there ever since Ruby had turned to him with wide, exultant eyes and he'd suddenly realized that something was very, very wrong.
Dean drummed his fingers against the window pane. He didn't look angry, just pensive and watchful. Nervous, maybe. He hadn't said much of anything since they'd escaped, but then there hadn't been much to say.
He'd said it all before, anyway. The memory of his recorded voice slipped through Sam's mind, harsh and unyielding.
Monster. Vampire.
The truth always hurt. He'd swallowed so many simple, eager lies that he'd forgotten just how much it did.
Sam wasn't even sure why Dean was even still there, why he hadn't turned Ruby's knife on him as soon as her body had hit the floor like he'd promised he would. Sam deserved it. Right now, he wouldn't even fight back.
He had a headache and the room was too cold and he felt twitchy, energy thrumming and pent up and if he could stand, he'd be pacing, or running. Sitting this still was torture, just like it had become recently when coming down off a high. It had been close to six hours since his last hit (since Ruby had smiled up at him, fingers curled around a goblet that held nothing but blood, the steady drip-drip of the remnants in the background thudding against the dirt) and the it was wearing off. The sensation would grow worse soon, would start digging through his veins like spiders crawling up his skin from the inside, but that was okay. That was fine.
He deserved that too.
He looked up at his brother's profile again, watched him tilt his chin up to better scout out the land and the flash of his throat, shockingly pale against the dim light, caught Sam by surprise.
It was pure masochism that made him look for them. They were almost lost from sight, slender slightly darkened marks against Dean's skin, now only barely visible. Almost gone, but Sam knew that even if the bruises were long healed, he would have been able to state exactly where they had been, would see them just as clear and bright as if they were painted across Dean's throat. Would have been able to find them again in the dark, the places where his hands had gripped and just squeezed.
Sensory memory caught him off guard for a second and he quickly looked away again. Sam's right hand twitched and he curled it into a fist, tight enough so that his nails cut into the flesh.
Out of sight, he heard Dean heave a small sigh and finally step away from the window again, back into the motel room proper. There was a whisper as the curtain fell shut, followed by the sounds of footsteps muffled by cheap carpet and the squeak of bedsprings as Dean fell down on the other bed.
They should turn on the news, Sam thought. The end would be starting soon. This was his fault, God, it was all his fault and he should at least have the decency to look at the mess he'd made. To watch it all fall apart. To watch the world burn.
He felt his brother's skin giving way against his fingers again, felt the pulse of a heartbeat fluttering under his thumb. Sam swiped his palm down his pant leg roughly, trying to erase the phantom sensation.
His stomach turned over again and he wanted to be sick. Wanted it desperately, so much that he could almost taste it on the back of his tongue. He forced it down regardless. What right did he have, to feel like this now? What had he said to Dean back then? Boo hoo.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean pull out his cell phone, flip it open. Sam couldn't help but feel a frisson of discomfort at that, a searing strike of pain that stabs right through the abject misery he's drenched in. He didn't want the reminder of what his brother really thought of him. He could never make that right either. God only knew how much more he'd fuck things up by trying.
"Eight missed calls," Dean said. He had a touched of forced amusement to his voice, the tone he got when he was trying to be clever in a situation that didn't usually deserve it. "Bobby is going to kill me."
Sam glanced over at him briefly at that, curious despite himself. He didn't know how Dean had gotten to the church. The Impala had been nowhere to be seen when they'd ran, so they'd been forced to cramp themselves down into Ruby's stolen car to make their break. Dean hadn't bothered to explain anything at the time, completely caught up in just driving, white lipped and eyes wild, and looking in the rear view almost more than the road ahead.
He must have caught the question in Sam's eyes because the tips of his ears flushed a bit like it always did when he was about to broach a topic he didn't really want to get into and then he coughed and looked away. "We, uh. We had a bit of a falling out."
Sam cleared his throat. "About what?"
There was a slight pause before his brother spoke, a half hesitation that told him exactly what the fight had been about even before the words came out of Dean's mouth.
"About what we had to do next. About what we needed to do."
About Sam is what Dean meant. He fought with Bobby about what he needed to do about his demon brother and how best to take care of him. He could almost picture it in his mind, crystal clear, as though it were a vision like years ago: Dean sitting, head bowed and shoulders shaking in anger as he tried to convince Bobby of the creature Sam had become, Bobby trying in turn to convince him that it couldn't possibly be so bad.
Bobby would have refused to believe it, Sam knew. The older hunter was gruff and had little patience, but family didn't end with blood and even though Sam had his blood on his hands as well, he never would have imagined what Sam had become. He might have accused Sam of doing some warped things before, but he wouldn't have believed this.
(Memory teased at the back of his mind, of a day that wouldn't end over a year ago now, and Bobby's shocked, horrified face demanding that if it had to be anyone, it should be him. How easy it had been to accept the proffered sacrifice, if it meant that he'd get Dean back. How nothing mattered except for that.)
If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, Dean would never have believed it either. He hadn't believed it when Sam had lied to him, over and over again. When he'd raised a tired face to him and just asked that Sam respected him enough to not treat him like an idiot and Sam had looked back and pretended not to know what he was talking about. Not even when Sam had accused him of holding him back, of being weak.
Dean hadn't believed it until Sam had tried to kill him.
Sam cut his eyes away again and swallowed hard against the lump in his throat and the pricks in his eyes that he didn't deserve to feel.
"He didn't go with you?" He had to force himself to speak. Sam didn't particularly want to force the conversation along to its inevitable conclusion, wanted instead to let the accusing silence keep hold because at least he only had to imagine the recriminations and didn't have to hear them. But these were the first words Dean had spoken to him since they ran from the convent (almost the first since he had called out, voice broken from the floor, that if Sam left, he should never come back) and he couldn't quite give up on hearing his brother's voice just for a bit longer, the dumb marvel that came because Dean's tone so far held no hint of accusation or I told you so jeers.
"Didn't get the chance, more like. I turned around and I wasn't there anymore. Got touched by an angel again, or beamed up by Scottie, and let me tell you, there was no Uhura there to greet me."
"What?"
The false levity was gone from Dean's voice and he sounded far more strained than he had before when he next spoke. "The angels, man. Zachariah. He wanted me to-"
He cut off but again Sam's mind filled in the rest of the words. Zachariah had wanted Dean to stop Sam. Save the Seal. The angels had been right all along and it wasn't Sam, had never been Sam. So many months of work and effort and strife, all because Sam had been so damned lost in his own delusions of grandeur that he'd gladly believed a demon's words.
The idea came unbidden to him, morbidly curious, of whether Dean had spoken to Zachariah before he'd tried to call. If Sam'd had any hope left of fixing this before the angels had condemned him and explained to Dean what exactly would happen if he succeeded in killing Lilith or if Dean had given up even before that. If it had been when they'd told Dean about what he was destined to accomplish.
There was a flicker of fury in his gut all of a sudden, a wrenching knot of anger that knotted itself neatly into place. An old friend, one that had been near constant with him these past several weeks. It snaked up through his blood, heated his face, until his jaw clenched from the rush of it. He wanted to blame the blood on this, but oh, this one had been a companion long before he'd ever met Ruby.
Sam had just ended the world. He had no right to be angry just because the angels had chosen Dean (when Sam had believed, when he had prayed every day, when Dean had scoffed at the concept of "good" and had seen nothing but chaos and violence and lies and nothing worthy of faith at all) but that didn't stop the sensation from sliding under his skin, raw and empty and powerful, leaving him aching.
It was hard to breathe. He had to press his eyes shut, the pulse of his own heartbeat suddenly throbbing against his temple, the full measure of what he had done, how greatly he had failed, how very much he'd done in this past year sliding onto his shoulders once more, causing self loathing to mingle with fury until the one was the other and he didn't know what he felt.
Losing Dean had felt like this.
That nurse had screamed. No voluntary sacrifice like Bobby had been, she had begged for her life the entire way to the convent. Her hoarse cries had slowly died off into sobs, broken and abandoned and alone, just whimpers of "Why are you doing this?" that had rattled through the car. He'd so wanted her to shut up, hadn't been able to stand listening to her tears.
He didn't even know her name. He'd let Ruby kill her, slice her throat open, had just moaned about the noise she was making and he didn't even know her name. She had said it, he thought. He was almost certain she had told him who she was, had said many things besides, but Sam hadn't listened. He hadn't wanted to hear. Instead, he'd tried to block out as much of it as possible, because she had to be a sacrifice for the greater good and if Sam had allowed her to become real he never could have managed it.
One woman against the lives of six billion and only ten hours ago, that deal had seemed worth it.
The need to be sick rose up again, stronger, and he took several fast quick breaths to try and keep his stomach under control.
He didn't notice that Dean had moved until he felt the hand touch down cautiously against his shoulder, fingers falling lightly against the fabric of his jacket but the heat of them burning his skin.
"Hey. Hey, Sammy, look at me."
God, he couldn't take this. Couldn't bear to have Dean sound like that, false concern in his voice, and the idea that it could possible be real, that Dean might could still care, was even worse. That Dean could somehow accept this, this fucking atrocity that Sam had committed and God, oh, God, what had he done?
"Sam, it's not your fault."
The words froze in Sam's ears, echoing there. Not his fault. Not- What?
"Sam, look at me. It wasn't you, okay? It wasn't your fault."
Something cracked inside him. Knocking Dean's hand from his shoulder, Sam surged to his feet, stumbling forward a couple of steps before spinning around to face his brother again. Rage and loathing coated every fiber of his being, blocked out the sick hot wrong that had blanketed his every thought and caused the words he'd tried so hard to block out for so long to tumble out from him like so many stones, each one hot and terrible and fiery, loud in his throat and impossible to hold back.
"Not my fault? Dean, what the hell-" he almost choked, the word catching for a moment,"-are you talking about? Of course this is my fault! I don't know where you've been, but I just doomed the entire world. I just broke the last Seal. Lucifer is running free and it's all me. I did this. All of it. It was all my damn choices. How can you possibly say this isn't my fault?"
He stared down at Dean but he didn't really see him, his vision darkening at the corners. Sam's fists clenched tight again, shoulders heaving to try and get enough air. The room felt too hot and too cold, all at once, ice running down his arms while his chest felt like it was on fire, burning like Mom had. Like Jess. There wasn't enough air in the room, he couldn't breathe, couldn't catch his breath.
"You can put this one off on a demon this time, okay? I wasn't possessed and it's the whole planet this time, not just Steve Wandell. You can't just stomp on a hard drive and wipe our prints down and expect that this will go away."
He trailed off for a moment, voice thickening, quieter. "Ruby said. She told me, right before you came in, that the demon blood, it didn't mean anything. That it was me all along." A laugh escaped, he couldn't hold it back. "She fooled me, man. Made me think that Lilith was going to break the Seal and I thought that I could stop her, but God, Dean, I was wrong. I did this. Exactly what Lilith and Azazel wanted me to do, what they've planned since before I was born to do, and I fell right into it. It's all my fault."
Sam had more to say. It bubbled up against his lips, straining for an escape, but then his brain realized what his eyes were seeing and all words froze.
Dean watched him, hand pulled back again to rest with the other on his lap, pose defensive, and his face tight and expressionless and tense. His eyes were more black than green, like stone, with nothing showing through. He looked wary.
Sam knew that look, had seen it before, God, countless times. Dean wore it when he didn't know what to expect aside from a blow, when he was preparing himself to get smacked down.
The anger sizzled out again and its sudden absence left Sam reeling. His ass hit the other bed, Dean's bed, knees suddenly too watery to hold himself up and he cradled his face in his hands, needing to block out the sight.
This time, Dean didn't touch him when he spoke.
"Look. I'm not going to argue that you've done some stupid things, Sammy. Really fucking stupid things. I mean, this is big. But I meant it when I said it wasn't your fault."
"How can you say that?" His voice was barely more than a whisper but Dean must heard him just fine because he went on, voice flat and toneless.
"I know it's not your fault because you would never have broken the last Seal if I hadn't broken the first one."
Sam's breath really did freeze at that. He raised his eyes to stare incredulously at his brother, but this time it was Dean who couldn't match his gaze, who was looking away, fingers tapping out a steady tattoo against one thigh.
"What? How?"
Dean's eyes flickered shut, eyelashes dark against his skin. "When I was in Hell, Sam. When I first got off the rack. I didn't know until that clusterfuck with Alistair a couple of months back. He told me what I had done."
The image of Dean right after that flickered through Sam's mind, how he hadn't even been able to get Dean to talk to him, how utterly crushed he'd seemed. How broken Dean had looked in that hospital bed, refusing even to look at him. He'd thought that was just the shock of meeting Alistair, at failing to get the information needed, or maybe even just being physically smashed down again, but this? It seemed impossible.
"You're lying. Or he was." There was no possible way that-
"'And so it is written,'" Dean recited, eyes still tightly closed, "'That the first Seal shall fall when a Righteous Man sheds blood in Hell.' That's what he told me. I asked Cas and he confirmed it." He swallowed visibly. "So it wasn't you, Sam. It was never you. That's why the angels were after me, okay? It's not because I deserved to be saved or any bull like that. It's because I fucked this up and I needed to set it right. What I did... There's no forgiving that. But Lilith - that one's not your fault, okay?"
"Why didn't you tell me?" He couldn't quite keep the hurt from tinging his voice. It wasn't something Dean should ever have had to bear alone. He could have trusted Sam to help, to wear that yoke with him.
Dean's fingers slipped down to worry at the cheap bedspread, tugging at threads. He shrugged but didn't answer. Thinking back to that time, Sam thought he might be able to hazard a guess. He hadn't exactly been the world's best confidant. Boo hoo.
Even if it were true though, it didn't really matter. If Dean had broken the first Seal (something Sam couldn't help but reject, the repercussions of it were too huge, even if Dean seemed to believe it), it had only been after thirty years of torture. The concept of that span still seemed too large to be contained in Sam's mind, outside of comprehension. Thirty years. Sam had just fallen to his own damned pride and to a demon's silver tongue and it had only taken him a few months.
He must have said it aloud because Dean snorted suddenly and shook his head once, decisive and hard.
"Anyway, you were set up."
Sam couldn't help but to huff at that. "What, by Ruby, you mean? You were right about her all along, but I didn't listen, I just-"
Dean cut him off before he could say anything else. "No. The angels, Sam. Zachariah. They wanted you to do it. They wanted the world to burn."
Sam wrenched his eyes back up to Dean's face, searching for any sign of falsehood, any clue that this was just an attempt to absolve Sam of his sins, but Dean was looking back by then, green gaze open enough to be tired and heavy but without a hint of deceit within them.
"God, why?" Sam whispered. "Are they all like Uriel?"
Dean shook his head. "No. They wanted Lucifer free so that he could be killed, I guess. Or bound more tightly. Something, hell if I know what. They didn't exactly keep me in the loop. It was the full on Revelation deal, you know? Mine eyes have seen the glory. We have broken every rule, so sound the freaking horn and release the grapes of wrath."
"I don't think that's how the song goes." Sam couldn't help but to point out and was rewarded by a something that might have, on a very good day, resembled a glare. "So how did you get there?"
"I talked to Castiel. He came to see things from my point of view and sprung us both." Dean shrugged, as though convincing an angel to go against the will of Heaven was nothing unusual. "We found out where you were and he teleported me there, used his angel mojo. And that was that. You know the rest."
Silence fell again for a moment, but it felt far less oppressive than it had before. Again, it was Sam to break it, unable to let this end too soon. Dean hadn't actually said he'd changed his mind or that the angels had a plan, but Sam hadn't always needed the actual words and this sounded like something that could possibly be salvageable. Undeserved, certainly, and more a ghost of a chance than anything solid, but maybe there was a chance and he had to scout the land out, find out more.
"So what do we do now?"
"What we always do, Sam." Dean's lips quirked up slightly, a shadow of a grin peeking through. "We fix things. We put things back to rights. I know I screwed up, but we're still here, aren't we? That means we've still got a chance."
"It's still my fault." Sam said quietly. He couldn't give himself the out that Dean was offering, just as Dean had offered time and time again when they were kids to cover for whatever mistakes Sam had made. For the first time, he didn't want to, wanted to clutch his responsibility for this tight to his chest, wanted to shout it out for the whole damned world to see. He couldn't let Dean hold the blame for this one all on his shoulders, even if it might take some time to convince his brother of that.
He couldn't stop hearing Ruby's voice crowing about how awesome she was, how proud she had been. Couldn't stop feeling the cool touch of her fingers or remembering the excited, hopeful look to her eyes as she whispered about rewards and how he'd be so grateful and how Sam had done it, how it could only have been Sam.
"You did what you could, Sam. We'll figure the rest out." Dean's smile faded until he just looked a bit uncomfortable, shoulders still hunched over and folded in on himself. The realization hit that this was the first major thing Dean had shared with him in nearly half a year, the first secret he'd spilled since before the debacle with the Siren. Dean hadn't been able to tell him about the first Seal when he found out, but he was trusting Sam with it now. He swallowed hard.
"We kind of owe it to the world to try, don't you think?" Dean fell quiet again, looking over towards the window, and it wasn't more than a few seconds before he was up and restlessly moving back towards it, pulling the curtain aside to stare out again.
Maybe it was because he couldn't look at Sam or maybe it was because he really was just keeping watch, but that didn't change the truth of what he had said. Sam did owe it to the world to at least try. Maybe there was still a chance to make things right, in more than one way.
The air between them was thick with secrets kept over the past year and change. They sat heavy, unavoidable and unforgettable.
Unforgivable.
But that was okay. Even if Dean believed Sam was a monster (and he must, the voicemail didn't exactly hold anything back and no matter what hope Sam had read into this conversation, Dean still hadn't even been able to touch him since they left the church nor look at him for longer than a few seconds at a time) and things Weren't Right between them, Sam needed to make sure it would be okay again, someday.
The fury and despair he'd been feeling had faded. Still there, in the back of his mind, lurking and threatening to volley forth at any time. Sam didn't think they would ever leave, but what Dean was offering was enough to allow a tiny flickering feel of something else to light up in his chest. He needed to believe that maybe that chance wasn't as dead as he'd thought this morning. He hadn't thought he'd have the opportunity, hadn't even believed that he'd be alive to even consider it, and so he was at an utter loss for what to do next.
But if Dean was willing to keep him around, then maybe he could get a chance to make things better. Even if he had to save the world in the process.