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Rating: T
Genre: Angst, family, h/c
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers for 3.16. AU after that.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: This is the sequel to "One Hundred Nine Hours and Thirteen Minutes." I'd recommend reading that first if you haven't. Also, this was written in the summer and was completed before Season 4 ever aired. (Also written without ever looking at any spoilers for Season 4.) Partly journal, partly third person POV.
Notes the second: This is the end! And no, I'm not planning on writing a sequel. (Although I'm never one to deny the muse when it hits me.)
Summary: The path to recovery is more like a winding mountain road. Post 3.16, AU Season 4.
( Day 1 ) | ( Day 6 ) | ( Day 15 ) | ( Day 19 ) | ( Day 26 ) | ( Day 39 ) | ( Day 51 ) | ( Day 52 )
“We are here to help each other get through this thing, whatever it is.”
-Mark Vonnegut
We need to talk, Sammy.
Seriously.
First off… I told you this was a diary. Freak. I’m surprised you didn’t write down what clothes I was wearing each day or something equally girly.
Seriously, though, dude. Don’t you ever think anything that’s happened to us was your fault. Especially with what happened at the house. ‘Cuz, dude, hate to break it to ya, but I can still see when a demon’s possessing someone. And that Amanda chick? She wasn’t possessed when we first started the gig. Not by a demon, anyway. So it must’ve happened when we were torching the bones.
In any case, it wasn’t your fault. And don’t ever, ever, EVER think I regret what I did last year. ‘Cuz I don’t – never have, never will. Got it? You’re the only thing that’s been keeping me sane through all this.
And yeah… we’ve obviously been keeping stuff from each other. We’re gonna have to talk about that. Especially about why you didn’t tell me what happened to you when you got me out of Hell. Don’t ever keep stuff like that from me again. ‘Cuz that didn’t turn out so well, now, did it?
And about what that crazy chick said to me… yeah. We definitely need to talk about that.
But no matter what, you better get this through your thick skull – we’re family. You’re my brother, and no amount of demon blood or visions or premonitions or even Hell is gonna change that, you hear me?
Yeah, dude. Face it. We still got work to do. There’re a lot of demons out there that need a serious ass-kicking. And we’re gonna be the ones to do it. You’re stuck with me through the long haul. Hope you’re ready to deal with that.
Dean hunched his shoulders as he strode down the street, trying to block the cool breeze blowing against his back. His hair was still a little damp from his earlier shower, which made the cool air feel even colder. He yanked a hand out of his pocket and flipped up the leather collar before shoving his hand back into his jacket.
He wished he could block out the thoughts as easily as the chill.
“How sure are you that what you brought back is one hundred percent pure Sam?”
The plastic bag swinging from Dean’s left forearm rustled a bit as it nudged his leg. He shifted his weight slightly as he walked, and the bag swung freely again. There had been fresh-picked apples from a local orchard for sale just outside the store, and Dean had picked up a dozen, along with a couple containers of strawberries as a sort of peace offering for Sam. There was a mini-fridge in their room to store it in, and Dean figured between the two of them they’d finish the fruit off pretty quickly. Just because he made fun of Sam for liking salad over a cheeseburger didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate a good apple every once in a while.
“You’re still losing him.”
Dean swallowed, kicking at a loose pebble on the sidewalk in front of him. He’d stormed out of the motel room in a desperate effort to not think about what the demon had told him the day before.
It wasn’t working. Everything she had told him was still running through his head.
“You can see the truth now, can’t you? You’re still losing him. Your brother’s even more tainted than you are. You can see it – the shadow always around him. It’s nothing new, really. It’s been there since your mother died – for him, don’t forget. Your mommy’s dead because of your little baby brother. So is your dad. And I doubt I have to remind you of your own deal. Your entire family suffered because of the Boy Who Would Be King. It’s all. His. Fault.”
Dean licked his lips and chewed on the bottom one. He had wanted to deny it, to say that nothing that had happened was Sam’s fault – because it really wasn’t, he knew that – but Sam had started the exorcism before he’d had the chance to defend his brother. The feel of knives twisting in his chest had driven any kind of reply out of his mind.
But the sickening part was that some of it was true. Dean could see the shadow around Sam now – and to be honest, it freaked him out.
“How sure are you that what you brought back is one hundred percent pure Sam?”
At first, he had tried to deny it. The shadow had appeared around the same time he’d started having hallucinations before the hell hounds came. It wasn’t much at first – just an odd shadow on Sam’s face while they were sitting in a diner. Dean had chalked it up to exhaustion and bad fluorescent lighting.
But the closer it got to midnight, the darker the shadow around Sam grew, and it wasn’t just on his face, either. His entire body seemed to be shrouded in an odd shadow. It was especially bad any time Ruby brought up the idea of Sam releasing his “gifts” to save Dean. That was when Dean decided it was another hallucination, something to try and break him before the hell hounds had even touched him. Demons lie, after all.
Unless the truth was more painful. Dean knew that better than anyone. After all, it was how ol’ Yellow Eyes was nearly able to break him in that cabin years ago – spouting off everything Dean had ever believed about his role in the Winchester family, and wearing his father’s face to boot. The mangling of his insides and the semi smashing into the Impala were just icing on the angst-filled cake.
Once Dean had come down from the euphoria of being out of Hell, he had realized the demons hadn’t been messing with him as much as he had hoped. The shadow still hung around Sam like an ominous fog, and Dean had been forced to face the reality of the situation. The night his deal came due, Bobby had told him he was “piercing the veil” when he realized he could see the demons possessing people. Apparently, that was a “gift” he hadn’t lost after Sam had brought him back. He could still see the shadow around Sam, and he’d seen the demon possessing Amanda at the house, too – that demon hadn’t shown up until after they’d already salted and burned the bones.
In any case, Dean figured he understood Sam a little better now – they both had “gifts” they really didn’t want.
The only consolation had been that the darkness around Sam wasn’t as dark as it had been before, and Dean was able to ignore it – most of the time. There were occasional moments where the darkness around his brother spiked. Like back at the house. When the demon attacked them, the shadows around Sam had darkened almost to the point where Dean could hardly recognize his brother. Between that and the effect the exorcism had on him, Dean was seriously starting to doubt himself and his ability to continue in this “profession” of theirs.
Dean’s shoulders curved even more as he paused at a crosswalk. He watched the lazy flow of traffic absentmindedly as thoughts swirled in his head until his mind landed on one solid idea.
What kind of hunter was he if he was affected by the same words that drove out demons?
And what about Sam? Dean had been keeping as close of an eye on his brother as he could, and for all intents and purposes, Sam was… Sam. For the most part, anyway. Some of the changes in Sam’s behavior, like the angsty over-protectiveness and the extreme urge for chick-flick moments, were understandable and expected – Dean felt much the same, to be honest. Not that he’d ever admit it or submit himself to such tendencies.
But Sam was definitely keeping things from Dean – more than he ever had before, even after Jessica’s death – and it was starting to drive the older brother mad. Sam had secrets before, but he wasn’t usually so good about hiding them. Dean wouldn’t have figured Sam was hiding something big – and didn’t at first – if he hadn’t seen Sam scribbling things down in his journal nearly every single day, sometimes for longer periods than other days. Oftentimes the darkness would flare up a bit when he was writing. It took all of Dean’s self-control not to grab the thing and see if he could figure out the puzzle that was Sam.
“You’re still losing him.”
Dean chewed his lip as he crossed the street. Was he? Despite everything, was he still going to loose Sam to his “destiny”? Was Sam still going to go Dark Side despite all of their efforts to keep him from becoming that?
Dean paused in the parking lot, laying one hand on the cool black metal of the Impala. He smiled faintly as he traced the curve of the hood.
“You frickin’ walk whenever you can when you could just as easily drive.”
Dean paused mid-motion as Sam’s frustrated voice rang through his head. Sam had nailed it on the head when he accused Dean of being far less than fine. And he had been avoiding Sam – but not because of what the demon said. Well, at least, not in the way Sam was thinking. Dean wasn’t avoiding Sam because he was afraid of him, but because he was afraid for him. He feared what Sam might become only because that would mean he would loose his little brother – the only thing in the world that really mattered to him any more. But he wasn’t sure how to tell that to Sam – at least, not without turning it into some gigantic sap-fest.
Dean glanced up from the car to look at the curtained motel room window before lowering his gaze back to the car again – specifically, through the windshield to Sam’s seat inside. That was the real reason Dean hadn’t been driving anywhere lately – he wasn’t up to talking to Sam yet (which would inevitably happen if they started driving for long periods of time), and if he went by himself, the seat would be empty.
He didn’t think he could handle that at the moment. The Impala never felt quite right whenever that seat was empty and he was driving.
Dean sighed. As much as he hated it, he realized the need to sit and talk with Sam. He just hoped he could keep the conversation focused on Sam and his problems, not on Dean. After all, Sam’s problems were more pressing. He was worth more than Dean ever was, even with these new darker tendencies. Even before he was born, Sam’s needs had always come before Dean’s – just because they had both been to Hell and back didn’t mean things had changed.
Dean took a bracing breath as he laid a hand on the doorknob, his mouth twisting in a slight frown as a wave of tension suddenly clenched his gut. After a moment he twisted the knob and strode in, trying to keep his voice forceful and the apprehension suppressed.
“Look, Sam, before you start, I think we need-”
The words faded as the hunter took in the sight of the disarrayed room. All of the blankets on his own bed had been ripped to the floor, except for one corner, which was wrapped around Sam’s feet. Sam was sprawled on his bed, his feet and left arm hanging off the edge. His head was tipped slightly over the side of the mattress, and his right hand was resting on top of his journal, a pen still trapped in his lax fingers.
The sight that caught Dean’s attention, though, was the growing bloodstain across Sam’s lower back, nearly hidden and yet blatantly obvious beneath the swirling shadow above it.
“Sam!”
His brain dimly registered the thud of fruit bouncing off the floor as he took two long strides across the small motel room, practically leaping onto the bed next to his brother. Sam’s body rocked with the movement of the bed, his head sliding further off the mattress. “Sammy? Sam!” Dean called, grabbing his brother by both shoulders and pulling him further onto the bed. The vise grip around his chest lessened slightly when he felt the twitch of a steady, if somewhat quick, pulse beneath Sam’s too-warm skin.
“You can wake up any time now, man,” he whispered, moving his hands so one gently shook Sam’s shoulders while the other hovered just above the wound. He swallowed as he watched the shadows undulate over the cloth-covered wound. “This is already gonna be awkward enough as it is without me having to strip you.”
There was no response – no annoyed huff, no roll of the eyes, no slight smile quirking his younger brother’s lips, not even a moan. Only silence and the tangy scent of blood and sweat hung in the air, making it all too easy for Dean’s mind to wander back to a mud-hole of a town in the middle of nowhere with Sam’s head limp against his shoulder-
No. That was not happening again. Not if Dean had anything to say about it.
In one swift move, Dean had snagged one of the pillows from the head of Sam’s bed with one hand and tugged his brother’s loose polo up with the other. The fabric clung to the bloody wound for a brief moment before coming free, and Dean only saw a glimpse of the actual wound before he was pressing down with the pillow, trying to stop the bleeding. From what he saw, the wound didn’t seem to be as life-threatening as it was the first time, but any blood coming out of Sam was still too much, in Dean’s opinion. Sam groaned and bucked weakly beneath Dean’s hands.
“Sam? Sammy, you with me?” Dean called, twisting his back so he could get a closer look at Sam’s face. “Come on, dude, wake up,” he added, moving one hand to tap at Sam’s cheek. He saw his brother’s eyelids flicker for a moment before his body went limp again.
“Sam! Sammy, come on, this isn’t funny anymore. You can sleep later,” Dean barked, his voice cracking slightly as he tapped Sam’s cheek again. Sam moaned, facial muscles twitching in response, but he still didn’t wake. Dean moved to check his brother’s pulse again. It was still too fast for Dean’s liking but it seemed a bit stronger than before.
As he increased the pressure on the pillow, Dean’s eyes flicked up, doing a quick survey of the room. Other than the blankets on the beds, nothing seemed too out of place. His eyes narrowed when he caught sight of an upturned chair by the window, but as far as he could tell, there was no sign of forced entry or fighting back, which meant Sam had been alone. He glanced down at the polo bunched in the middle of Sam’s back and stretched it out with a hand. There was no tear in the cloth, only blood, and Dean’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. Whatever had made Sam’s back start bleeding again hadn’t gone through his shirt. That narrowed the weapon field to… none.
Nothing natural, anyway.
“What happened, Sam? What’s going on with you?” Dean murmured, his eyes flicking from Sam’s slack face to the journal still trapped under his hand. A page fluttered slightly as the air conditioner kicked on with a few soft clangs. Dean’s nose wrinkled as the air movement wafted an acrid smell under his nostrils. One quick look towards his bed revealed what he smelled – vomit. Dean could see the edge of the disgusting puddle peeking out from under his bed. The cleaning lady’s so gonna love that.
Then a thought crossed his mind, and Dean focused his gaze back on Sam’s face. This time he could see the tell-tale crinkles of skin around Sam’s eyes and across the bridge of his nose as he squeezed his eyes shut instinctively to try and stop the pain, and Dean couldn’t help but curse softly under his breath.
A vision. Sam had a vision – his first one in over a year. And he had been alone.
That would explain the vomit and the mess of blankets on the floor. Sam was probably in no condition to clean either up – if he even realized the extent of the mess. It had been awhile, but Dean could remember all too clearly how disoriented Sam got after a particularly intense vision.
“Must’ve been a hell of a vision, eh, Sammy?” Dean muttered, gently pulling back the pillow to take a look at the wound. He frowned when he saw the small, neat row of stitches across Sam’s lower back below the swirling shadows, half of which were torn. There was no way Sam could’ve done those by himself, so that meant Bobby must’ve done it – which meant Bobby was hiding just as much from Dean as Sam was. Dean filed that tidbit away for later so he could be properly furious at the both of them – once Sam was better and back on his feet and being an all-around pain in the ass again.
Blood had started oozing out again from the torn stitches, and Dean quickly pressed the pillow down again – but not before he caught sight of the fresh scars on Sam’s sides. He frowned as he reapplied pressure, looking up towards Sam’s face. “What’s the deal, Sammy? Why hasn’t this one healed when the other ones have?”
No response.
Dean growled softly in the back of his throat, glancing over his shoulder towards his duffel bag and silently bemoaning the distance – he would have to get up and leave Sam for a moment to go and get the first aid kit out of it. A moment was too long when Sam was out.
The rustle of paper underneath Sam’s hand caught Dean’s attention and he looked at the journal, contemplating shoving the book off the bed when a sentence popped out at him.
My brother doesn’t want me back anymore.
“What the hell?” Dean croaked, his heart and stomach plummeting to somewhere below the bed. “What were you thinking, Sammy?” he wondered, adjusting his grip on the pillow so he could reach over and slide the book from underneath Sam’s lax fingers. His eyes widened when he saw the last few scrawled words.
Dean.
I’m sorry. Live
Lov
Dean licked his lips as his heart leaped up from under the bed and into his throat. He could read between the lines and recognized the scribbles for what they really were.
Goodbye.
“Oh, hell, no!” Dean barked, focusing his attention back on his brother. “You’re not getting off that easy, Sam! If you’re gonna say something like that, you say it to my face, got it?”
The air conditioner switched off again with a loud shudder, but there was still no response from Sam. “Damn it,” Dean hissed when he pulled the pillow back and saw blood still oozing. His head tilted when he noticed something else – the shadows moving in around the wound. “What the…” he murmured, reaching out with a hand to prod the area on Sam’s back. His eyes widened when the shadows moved away from his hands, leaving a few inches of clear space on Sam’s skin. When he moved his hand, the shadows moved with him, maintaining the distance from his fingers.
“Okay,” Dean drawled out softly, moving his hand to prod at the wound. With the shadows cleared away, Dean could see that the area was red and inflamed – except for a small black spot about an inch below the gash. Tilting his head, Dean probed at it. Sam’s body arched down into the bed and he cried out softly. Dean immediately pulled his hand away, and the shadows moved in again, swirling steadily around where the spot was now hidden.
Dean swallowed, instinctively applying pressure again with the pillow. Sam’s heavy breathing was becoming wheezier, and when Dean grabbed his limp wrist he could feel that Sam’s heart had sped up even more, and the pulse was growing fainter. What do I do, what do I do-
As his glance passed over the journal again, he paused, peering at the untidy scrawl at the beginning of the last entry.
I hate demons.
They took Mom. Dad. Jess. And they took Dean.
And they’re responsible for what’s happening to that wound on my back.
Dean’s jaw firmed. Demons. It was always demons. He glanced back at the wound, pulling the pillow away again and holding a hand just over Sam’s skin. The spot was darker and larger now. Somehow, Dean just knew that it was both the source of the shadows and the reason why that particular wound wasn’t healing.
Dean swallowed again as an idea formed in his mind. If it was demonic in origin…
Dean’s resolve firmed. Tossing the pillow aside, he scrambled off the bed and raced for his duffel bag. He nearly tore the zipper off as he hurriedly pulled it open and snagged the flask of holy water glinting up at him. Then he practically leaped back onto the bed. Sam moaned softly as the bed bounced and jostled when Dean climbed back on.
Dean paused as he unscrewed the lid of the flask, chewing his lip softly. “Here goes everything,” he muttered, firmly placing his right hand in the middle of Sam’s back and flicking some of the holy water with his left.
The reaction was instantaneous. Sam cried out as his skin hissed and sizzled as the mass of shadows grew darker, and his body arched into the bed again, trying to get away from the pain. Dean shifted so he could trap Sam’s flailing legs and flicked a little more holy water, ignoring the faint tingle as some of the liquid splashed onto the skin of his right hand. “Just hang on, Sammy,” Dean grit out as Sam moaned again, the cry sounding faintly like “Deeee.” Bracing himself, Dean took a deep breath, the words flowing to his mouth out of instinct.
“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas-“
Sam’s body writhed more violently, and Dean had to force himself to keep going as pain erupted in his chest, his voice cracking more and more as he struggled not to curl in on himself, instead focusing on restraining Sam.
“-omnis incursio infernalis adversari, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, in nomine et virtute Domini Nostri Jesu Christi –”
Dean suddenly lurched backwards, falling onto his own bed as Sam’s body twisted violently. The older hunter gasped for breath, clenching at his ribs as he watched the shadows pull themselves into the spot. With wide eyes, he softly finished, pausing for breath every few words.
“-eradicare et effugare a Dei Ecclesia, ab animabus ad imaginem Dei conditis ac pretioso divini Agni sanguine redemptis.”
With one final arch of his body, Sam cried out, his eyes shooting open as he curled in on himself on top of the bed. The shadow shot up towards the ceiling, thin and coiling like a rope against the plaster before passing through the glass of the window. Sam’s body went limp again and his eyes slid closed as he gasped for air.
Immediately Dean scrambled back to Sam’s bed. “Sam? Sam!” he called, shaking Sam’s shoulder.
Sam groaned and cracked his eyes open, looking up at Dean through his sweaty bangs. “D-De?” he croaked, his gasps receding to deeper breaths.
Dean’s shoulders slumped forward in relief, his head dropping so it just brushed Sam’s temple, and he smiled faintly, sliding his hand over so he could gently squeeze Sam’s neck. “Yeah, Sammy. Right here.”
Sam’s eyes fluttered closed again. “Don’ feel so good.”
Dean couldn’t hold back a chuckle as he twisted Sam’s body over so he could look at his back. “I bet. Lemme fix ya up, okay?”
“M’kay,” Sam breathed, his body gradually going limp as he drifted off into sleep. Dean moved his hand to check his brother’s pulse and was relieved to feel it slowing down.
Half an hour later, Dean was tucking the blankets around Sam’s shoulders. Sam had awakened briefly when Dean was rinsing out the wound with holy water and peroxide, moaning softly as the peroxide sizzled. Dean’s shoulders had relaxed even more when the wound showed no reaction to the holy water. After re-stitching and re-bandaging the wound, Dean managed to rouse Sam enough to get him to change into another t-shirt and some sweatpants.
As Dean finished with the blankets, Sam stirred, nestling deeper into the bed. Dean sat on the edge of Sam’s bed and smiled faintly as he looked at his brother’s face. The only shadows on Sam’s features were the ones cast by the bedside lamp. “You’ll be okay, Sammy,” he whispered. “We’ll be okay.”
Sam grunted softly in his sleep before twisting and lying down on his left side.
After a moment, Dean got up and began straightening out the room, using some towels to sop up the pile of vomit as best as he could before grabbing the blankets to his own bed and straightening them out to the point where he’d be able to sleep under them when he was ready. He put away the first aid kit, picked the fruit up off the floor and put it in the fridge, and went to the bathroom to wash up and brush his teeth, glancing every few minutes at his brother.
Finally he sat on the edge of his own bed, eying the leather-bound journal resting on the end table between the two beds. With only a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed the journal and opened it. Sam would probably kill him later, but he could care less at the moment. He had to figure out just when his brother’s mind got so screwed up.
My brother doesn’t want me back anymore.
Dean flipped through the pages, glancing over his brother’s familiar writing. From what he could tell, Sam’s journal was set up a lot like Dad’s – personal stuff in the front, hunt stuff in the back. It may have been intentional, but knowing Sam, it probably wasn’t. Dean couldn’t help but smile at yet another reminder of the similarity between Sam and John. Those reminders didn’t hurt so much any more.
As Dean moved towards the beginning of the journal, he paused. Twenty pages in was an entry marked “Day 1”. “Do you have to be such a girl, Sammy?” Dean muttered, eyes flicking over to his sleeping brother before returning to the entry.
I got my brother back today.
I got my life back today.
Dean swallowed as he read the first entry. Yeah, Sam was definitely a girl – at least when it came to emotional stuff.
But… it was good to be reminded that the whole brother-protection-thing was mutual every once in a while.
Dean shifted on the bed, propping a pillow up against the headboard and stretching legs out on the bed as he started reading. Most of the entries were short, recording some mundane things they did each day – Dean figured it was a way for Sam to keep track of him and monitor his progress. He felt a mix of fond exasperation and amusement at the records – it was almost as if Sam was recording his first steps or something.
Which, in a way, it was… kinda. Still, Sam was gonna be hearing about this for a long time. Dean grinned at the thought of how much ammunition he was gonna pick up after reading through this stuff.
The grin faded a little when he thought about how much fun Sam and Jess would have had raising their kids and recording all of their firsts. He drove the thought from his mind and started reading again.
It lets me know that my big brother is somewhere inside that broken shell. And I don’t care how long it takes – I’m going to get as much of that big brother back as I can.
Images of your own father shouting how much he hates you and then reciting an exorcism and emptying a clip into you while your brother was screaming in the background would scar most people, I think.
As for my own nightmares… well. I’ll deal with them on my own. Dean’s higher priority right now.
Dean frowned as he read that entry. He could vaguely remember those first few days – lots of nightmares and panic attacks. He also remembered a comforting presence whenever he woke up; the gentle pressure of a hand on his head bringing back from the grip of a nightmare; the comforting yet needy looks Sam would send him, reminding him what he was supposed to be doing.
But now that he thought about it, Sam hadn’t been sleeping well then, either. Dean had thought it was because of him and his nightmares, but now that he had read Sam’s entries… he felt about ten different kinds of low for not picking up on Sam’s struggles.
For supposedly being the Sam Winchester expert, he was sure batting zero for a thousand lately.
As he continued to read, he could begin to see the pattern – Sam shoving aside his own needs to get Dean back to normal. While that wasn’t a surprising action in and of itself, it bothered Dean because that wasn’t how things were supposed to work. Sam was supposed to come first.
He of all people should know what it’s like to have to lose a best friend – a brother. But he can’t get it through his thick skull that he’s just as worthy for sacrifice as I am.
Dean never should have traded himself for me. The consequences of his stay in Hell… saving me just wasn’t worth what he went through.
Sometimes I wonder if he feels the same way. I mean… I guess I don’t see Dean acting like he feels that way, but I’m still a little worried. Does Dean still think it was worth it?
Sometimes I wish I wasn’t ever born. Then Dean and Dad could’ve had a chance at a normal life. And Mom and Jess would still be alive.
But even if Dean gets… “normal” again… I still don’t think it’s gonna be worth it. Not for what he went through. And definitely not for what he got out of the deal.
Any trace of humor was completely gone from Dean’s face now. He remembered that night all too clearly – that nightmare had been a doozy. Instead of him all strung up by himself, he had been able to see Sam in the same predicament and despite all of his struggles, Dean had been helpless, watching as Sam had been ripped apart.
The only thing that had pulled him from the throes of the dream had been Sam’s solid, reassuring presence behind him. He remembered telling Sam about his experiences while he was dead, and he even dropped the dreaded “l” word. And that, more than anything, should have clued Sam in to the fact that Dean needed Sam. The seventy or so hours he had experienced after Cold Oak and before the crossroads confirmed in his mind that there could be no Dean without Sam.
Dean’s eyes re-skimmed a few of the previous entries. He had thought there could be Sam without Dean. Maybe there could have, once upon a time – back when Sam was studying law and dating the girl of his dreams. But not anymore.
Dean felt both disappointed and oddly relieved by that.
As long as it doesn’t get out of hand. I can only handle so much over-protective Dean.
Dean snorted, looking back towards his brother. “Dude, the feeling’s mutual,” he declared. Sam muttered something under his breath and rolled over so his back was facing Dean.
Dean grinned and went back to next few entries were back to corny progress. Dean could definitely tell how much of a difference that first hunt made in Sam’s outlook, although he had known that just by watching his brother. He didn’t have to read a pansy diary to figure it out.
Dean’s smile froze when he turned the page and saw the first line of the next entry.
I am such a screw-up.
And they were back to this – back to that damned house and that demon.
Dean won’t even look at me. Not that I blame him. If I were him, I wouldn’t want to look at me, either. Not when I screwed this up so badly.
I’m a little freaked. That wound on my back still hasn’t healed, and I don’t know what to do about it. I can’t really go to a doctor, and I can’t tell Dean or Bobby – Dean still doesn’t know – and I intend to keep it that way – and I think I’ve convinced Bobby that it’s pretty much all healed up by now. But it’s not. It always hurts, and now I’m starting to get premonitions again.
He never should have had to suffer what my existence has put him through. Without me, none of this would have happened.
What’s dead should stay dead. Dean never should have brought me back.
Dean groaned, closing his eyes and rubbing them with a fist. This was all his fault… if he had just talked to Sam instead of avoiding him, he could’ve prevented all of this self-doubt. He could’ve been there for his brother when he had his vision. He could’ve been there when Sam was dying on the bed…
But he wasn’t. He’d walked out when Sam had needed him most – left him by himself. Alone. Dean could practically smack himself in the head for his stupidity.
Yeah. Because Sam being alone always ended with such great results.
With a sigh, Dean thumbed the page over so he could read the last entry. Sam’s handwriting was messy to the point where it was almost unreadable – a stark contrast to the relatively neat script before – and a lot of words were missing. Dean figured Sam had probably written it after his vision.
Although… right now, maybe wouldn’t. It would be more of a relief, actually. Dean doesn’t really want to be around me, anyway.
I told Dean off for keeping secrets when I’m still keeping the biggest – that I’m more Demon than he is. That the thing that killed Mom practically made me his kid.
A soft thump echoed through the room as Dean leaned his head back against the headboard. When had things become so screwed up? Why? What had his family ever done to deserve any of this? When had Sam ever done anything to deserve this?
Dean’s head was practically swimming from reading all of his brother’s entries. Yeah, he’d wanted to find out what was bugging Sam… he just wasn’t expecting to find so much. Like Sam having ol’ Yellow Eyes’ blood in him?
Not that the blood itself mattered to Dean. Sam was his brother, his family, and nothing Sam or anyone else said would change that. Sam, though, obviously felt this information would change things between them; otherwise, he would’ve told Dean the minute he found out.
Dean sighed again, swinging his legs off the bed. He rested an elbow on one of his knees and propped his chin in his hand, contemplating as he watched Sam’s back shift when he breathed. Any reservations he had about talking openly with Sam had gone out the window a long time ago. Dean’s shoulders stiffened with resolve as he reached over and snagged the pen with the motel logo on it from the end table.
When Sam woke up, they would figure this out and move on – Dean would make sure of that. They could get past this. They had to. Dean was pretty sure there would be some hugging involved, and maybe some tears (on Sam’s part, of course) but if it got them back to where they had been before – or at least halfway back to that point – then it would be worth it.
Dean looked down at the blank page of Sam’s journal in front of him, pen poised in his hand. Tomorrow they would talk. Until then…
We need to talk, Sammy.
End.
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Very powerful stuff here! And although Sam didn't wake up for any of it, the h/c was superb.
*hugs*
P.S. I like the ending...it totally fits the whole arc.
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This was just ... just .... it was brilliant! Love the way you write Sam and Dean, you've written their voices perfectly, kept them in character.
This would have made a perfect episode!
*hugs you for this*
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Totally loved him finding out EVERYTHING. So now I have to go back and re-read the whole story so I can see what Dean just read. And I LOVED seeing Dean being the big brother again. Man, I've missed that this season. Even if Sam wasn't fully conscious he knew his brother was back on deck.
Totally awesome fic, totally!
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