Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

What a fucking life they’d lived.

What a miserable, bitter, agonizing life.

Scars twisted up every surface of flesh whether that be bullet holes or claws or burns. Most from enemies, some self inflicted. They all hurt the same.

Insides rotted and battered from the decayed failure that was their wilted souls. Stained from the start with legacy.

Joints ached in the early morning, head already hurting from the sheer magnitude of horrors it had the job of preserving. Heart already clenched in anticipation for more loss. Fists already shaking from adrenaline that seemed to flow as common as blood.

It was an odd conversation that transpired in the car. One of many that made the long roads feel shorter. Though this wasn’t a debate over the best number of pickles per burger, it was delicate and serious. A long series of half truths and buried meanings that reached a conclusion in a language only shared between the two brothers.

They were tired.

Tired like they’d never slept a day in their life.

Tired like each bone was built with exhaustion.

Tired in such an intimate, personal way that no sleep could come close to healing it. Not anymore.

What they needed wasn’t a nap or a shower or a pause on the highway to watch the stars. It was a secluded bubble away from life. A pocket dimension where only they existed and nothing bumped in the closet at night or crept in the shadows.

The cabin rolled into view after a minute or so on a dirt road. Sam watched the thick trees move past and forced his thoughts away from what could be lurking within. He found it much more pleasant to wonder what nests had been built there instead.

Dean took his time parking. Sam noted the way his eyes flicked from the rearview to over his shoulder, the way his hand turned the wheel patiently and calculated. There was the silent understanding in the air that this is how it felt to have time. Normal people took these extra steps when parking because normal people didn’t have lives on the line every time they did so.

The place wasn’t big and glamorous or sleazy and cheap. It was beautiful in its simplicity.

The porch was small with short railings covering the perimeter and shielding the twin plastic chairs within. The door illuminated by a decorative lantern hung off the wall beside the frame.

Sam felt the unpolished wood beneath his fingers and smiled at the rawness of it all. This wood was unprotected, new, and easily damaged. A few rainstorms down the line it could be rotted away. It had the carelessness he used to wish to have in life. To be able to throw together a quick railing just for aesthetics sake and not melt his brain over logistics and preparation.

Dean tossed him the key which he caught in a practiced motion. The first thing he noticed once inside the walls was the smell. Pure pine.

Second was the walls were all the same stacked logs. Smooth and uneven when Sam ran his hand over the curve. He wondered pointlessly how many trees it must’ve taken to construct.

He left his shoes by the door, knocking some grit from their last adventures over the welcome mat.

Dean pushed past him and headed straight for the mini fridge. He unloaded the single grocery bag they stocked, eyes examining the surroundings as he did so. Sam smiled when their gaze accidentally aligned and Dean returned it however faintly.

There was a main area which held the kitchen and a recliner that then split off to a hallway.

Wandering farther in, Sam took in the paintings hung along the walls. Portraits of wooded fields and family’s of deers grazing. The whole place almost comedically on theme.

The bedroom was small, a king size bed and a round table beside it filling the space. An intricate carpet decorated the floor, swirling patterns of maroon and gold. Neatly tucked sheets with forestry detailing and dark green pillow cases. All lit up by the pulled back curtains of the window over the bed.

A mischievous grin opened his mouth to shout “Dibs!” While quickly shedding his flannel outer layer to toss on the bed, claiming it as his own.

“Give me a sec would’ja? You don’t go calling dibs before we’ve both seen it.” Deans gruff rebuttal made the air lift comfortably, now full of their combined presence.

“That’s not how dibs work” Sam exited his room to peek at the rest of the setup. The door next to his led to the bathroom and just across the hall was a matching bedroom, the difference being in the designs. Deans room was mainly navy blue with daffodils on the pillows and repeated flowers on the sheets.

He smirked imagining how Dean would respond to having the ‘girly’ room and withheld the notion that he actually quite liked the flowery look.

Unpacking was a short process. They had very little to their names that went beyond disguises and weapons. What they had they cherished. Sam saw it in the way Dean near worshipped that silly little necklace he’d gifted him all those years back.

Sam had his flannels, however stupid it sounded in his head. He basked in the shred of identity it gave him. Flannels were his thing, his style, a recognizable part of Sam the boy, not the damned.

He used for think a lot about what he would like to have if he was allowed. He’d go back and forth with Dean about it.

“Sunglasses. Tons of em.” Dean had raised his hand in emphasis, eyes staying on the road. “All shapes and sizes.”

“I’d like a library” Sam was leaned against the glass, long legs folded, supported by the dashboard.

“Yeah I bet you would” he laughed to himself, subtly shaking his head with amusement. “Does it ever get tiring being such a geek?”

“Call me names all you want but I mean it. Not these old textbooks, I’m talking novels. Biographies. Hell, maybe comics.“

“Comics are good. I like comics.”

“I always wanted to finish Narnia” Sam caught the sadness that flickered in his brother’s expression and he decided to stop his train of thought from leaving his lips. It did no good recounting what little he remembered and how invested he’d been in such a fantastical world. It did no good wanting.

All it ever seemed to bring were fights and loss and the upset he loathed to see painting his brothers expression.

Sam snapped his mind back to the cabin. He sighed while he snatched up his limp bag from the backseat. Weird how his whole home was packed into such a small thing it didn’t even fill it up.

Glancing back at the open door and catching no sign of his brother he took his bag too. Dropping it with a thud once he was within the threshold.

“Thanks Sammy” Dean had taken up the recliner, beer bottle in hand but unsipped. A little tradition of theirs to start a drink at the same time.

Sam nudged the mini fridge open with his foot, fingers wrapping around the chilled condensation on the glass. He raised it to the counter to pop open.

“Only one chair?”

“Snooze ya’ lose.” Dean exaggerated his relaxation with obnoxious sighs and readjusting into the dull green fabric. Sam rolled his eyes and tipped the glass back.

The day was quiet. Sam scrolled articles on sheep- a weird rabbit hole he’d fallen down-in his bed. Dean watched reruns of old classics and fought his twitching hands not to grab a knife and utilize the time to sharpen them.

When commercials came on he made it his goal to sing along loud enough to disturb his roommate. Beating against the chair’s armrests like a drum kit before upgrading to knock against the wall.

Much to his delight he got a retort shouted back, “Do you want attention, Dean?”

“What! I’m just jamming”

“Jam quieter!”

He snickered and settled back into the cushions.

“You could’ve been a choir boy” Sam had said once on the road when the silence between songs gave opportunity.

Dean shot him a look.

“Okay maybe not choir, but you know what I mean. You could sing”

“What am I, a girl?” He scoffed, glancing away to hide his embarrassing bashfulness.

The buried truth was he liked the idea of a rockstar life. Sometimes when his fists collided with faces he would think about a better life where it could be sticks against drums instead. Or when feeling the calloused skin of his hands he wondered if that other world had a guitar to blame.

His duty had always been first and foremost, he learned quickly not to think of anything besides that. But damn did Sammy make it hard. Always tugging his sleeve and forcing him into innocent conversations full of hope and wide eyed wonder about the future. He couldn’t deny, it was nice to indulge.

The little scamp would go on and on about justice and fancy suits, a safe way to protect people. He’d tell Dean defiantly how “I’m still saving people! No lying, no killing, and best of all with paychecks. How’s that a bad thing?”

It hurt his tiny heart to argue with his brother, to fight on huntings behalf when his gut told him otherwise. Their father wasn’t as kind as he, Dean knew he had to scare those rebellious ideas away before they got too big and caused real damage. Now thirty years old he wished he could go back and ruffle that short hair one more time, telling him to go for it.

Clicking his tongue and shaking the tug of regret Dean focused his attention back to the television. Second guessing got him nowhere. Sam was here, not in court. No going back on it now.

—

When Sam came out of his den hours later to toss the empty bottle he saw Dean, head lolled and snoring. A gentle fondness lifted his lips, mind scouring memory to locate any spare blankets. Dean would throw a fit if his freshly tucked bed was disturbed so Sam tugged his own top layer off.

The dark green swallowed his older brother’s figure, softening his image and making him look small. Unable to help himself, Sam took a picture on his phone and cackled to himself as he wandered away once more. Payback for the hundreds of terrible photos Dean had snagged over the years.

The shower was slow to heat and Sam stood with his back to the mirror. He scrubbed fast and feverishly, skin turning pink. He hated showers because he hated himself. This disgusting body that was never his to begin with and has done nothing but betray him all his life. He punished it whenever he could.

As long as he didn’t look he could pretend his body was his own. Smiling with twisted satisfaction when the burning water pierced sensitive slashes of fresh scarring.

The soft, over-worn tshirt was like a hug around his scarred torso, pants delicate like a breeze. At night, hidden and enclosed with Dean, he felt safe. No need for the layers that fruitlessly attempted to keep him protected. All he needed was comfort.

—

Offset by an unexpected nap left Dean awake at the odd hour of 1:42. The tv was turned down to a whisper and he was warm all over. Rolling his eyes at the gesture Dean tossed the blanket aside. Knowing his kid brother this was definitely his and the cold of the forest could not be treating him well without it.

He balled it up and caught a flash of white in his peripheral. As expected, a sliver of salt was lining the windowsill. He didn’t have to turn to know it was by the door too.

One less thing he had to do. Thanks Sam.

The drive took it out of him- hence the slump-so he hadn’t gotten a good chance to actually look around.

In the moonlight he saw the shadowy shape of Sam curled beneath a thin sheet. Dean moved silently, extra careful not to wake him. It wasn’t often he was up when the other wasn’t given how horrendous both their sleep schedule tended to be. He basked in the peace and covered him tenderly.

It felt like old times, late night hunts to a motel room where Sam had passed out all alone hours prior. Dean would tuck him in as a meager apology for leaving at all. As if to say, ‘I’m here now. I got you.’

His own room was annoyingly feminine and coated head to toe in flowers. Served him right for taking too long calling dibs. He didn’t really feel tired anymore but nothing was open this late.

The door closed with a faint creak he prayed didn’t wake his brother. The air was crisp and raised the hairs on his arm with a sweeping chill. He bundled in his old hoodie and sat with the moths in the porch-light.

The sky was visible from way out here, stars waving down at him and flickering through faces of people he once loved.

He called Cas.

Cas answered.

They talked the moon out of the sky.

Chapter Text

Shitty coffee was a constant since far too young. The thick smell and light steam warming new life back into their wary features each morning. The hard chairs were mildly uncomfortable, both brothers shifting every few moments to find that sweet spot once more. The trees filtered the steadily rising sun.

Sam complained about the mattress and Dean complained about the recliner and they laughed at each other’s misery while basking in how good it felt to bicker meaninglessly.

“Oh hey I picked up something while I was out.” Dean patted the bag leaned against the chair-leg and faked nonchalance. “For you.”

He tried not to smile at the wonder lighting up in Sams puppy dog eyes when he clarified.

“Why’d you do that?” Sam pulled the plastic onto his lap, avoiding the balanced half empty carton of muffins.

“Cuz I’m the best.”

Sam’s heart did a funny swoop when he revealed The Magicians Nephew and The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. A lopsided grin overtaking his face. “Dude no way! How’d you even remember that?”

He turned them over in his hands with barely concealed giddiness, feeling the slight lifts in material where the letters bulged.

Dean shrugged “They were by the checkout is all, don’t get your panties soaked.”

Sam didn’t even spare him the eye-roll or the obvious fact that theres no way they were at a gas station checkout. He just gave him a genuine thanks and continued inspecting.

He owned these now. They were his. They would fill the space in his bag and rattle on the floor of Baby. Dozens of hotels down the line they’d be banged up and stained and have his name sharpie’d on the inside cover.

Dean took the last muffin just in case his image was too tarnished by mushiness. They were here for a week, he didn’t want Sam getting restless is all.

—

The birds were loud and active, giving credit to Sams theory that a nest was nearby. Occasionally one would stop at the bird feeder out back and stay awhile.

Sun beamed through the panes and over the furniture. It spotlighted their simplicity as if questioning how they’d ended up here.

The orange glow misleading, brisk air stirring shortened hair with its breath. Dean buried his hands in his jean pockets and followed the well trodden path. The trees were kind, the ferns waved good morning. He had time to think. To reflect.

This is what people did right? They jogged to keep up appearances and hiked for the love of sight seeing? The cabin had a brochure of all the nearby trails and this one was right outside their current property. Seemed like a decent, ‘normal’, way to keep in shape.

It wasn’t bad for planning he supposed.

Not a lot else to do but think. He should’ve borrowed Sam’s headphones.

He liked…this.

The lack of responsibility, the lack of purpose. His sole duty was to come home alive and nothing beyond. For one week the world wasn’t ending and it wasn’t their responsibility.

He kicked a rock down the trail and watched it bounce off a root back towards him.

He liked having a room. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had that. Every night spent in a recolored version of the same space. Two beds side by side with a desk in the middle and a bathroom in the corner. Cheap. Routine. Familiarity. Comfortably open. Comfortably inconspicuous.

Yet, he wouldn’t mind a change like this.

He pictured, as he walked, what that would look like full time. He could picture an open closet with a series of jackets lined up for consideration. Cheesy horror posters on the wall right next to magazine models. A desk for a laptop. Maybe he’d even get a mouse or something really dumb and nerdy like a mousepad. Black out curtains or blinds, personal decisions that meant nothing to anyone but him.

He could guess Sam’s room just as well. An overflowing bookshelf with colorful titles that weren’t all satanic. Lamps and cups full of pens next to a scattering of notebooks, all with different purposes.

Little paradises they could return too and feel whole within. Somewhere to dump all the little things that brought them joy once upon a time before every inch of mind had been overrun with horrors.

A tired sigh escaped him deep within the woods and miles from confrontation. A sudden wave of exhaustion had him sit down against bark and breathe in the nature.

Breaks were dangerous. More dangerous than any hunt. Because they gave them hope.

Maybe, Dean thought bitterly, we can live one day.

His green eyes dragged up to the clouds where he knew thousands of eyes were looking back and screaming demands to him.

He closed his eyes and dropped his head.

They’d be dead by the end of the month. With any luck they’ll be dead by the end of the year. Life wasn’t meant for them.

You have to be okay with that. Dean inhaled strongly and stood. You are okay with that.

—

Sam wasted no time burying his nose between pages. Sprawled on the bed like a kid, engrossed in the fairytale world. His memory sometimes clicked into place with a distant recollection of the sentence he was reading and a gasp would fill the silence. A gentle “right” releasing. Dean wasn’t here to poke fun at him so he could be as immature as he wanted.

Yeah, he talked a big game about wanting to be taken seriously. He meant it too. But the child he held dear remained. He never stopped clinging, stubborn as all hell.

“How was the great outdoor?” Sam asked when the door swung shut.

“Buggy.” Wasn’t a lie.

“We have bug spray”

“Just because they didn’t bite me doesn’t mean they weren’t in my face.” He held the keys up with a jangle “Lunch?”

Sam rolled over to yank a flannel off the floor. “You aren’t tuckered out?”

“No, I’m starving.”

—

Castiel ended up joining. Maybe Sam called him ahead of time just to see the way his brother’s face lit up, and maybe he enjoyed his company just as much, who’s asking?

The booth was mildly sticky, the table chipped on the edges and surface off-colored. Castiel examined it with the same curious concern he regarded everything with.

“This table is very dirty.”

“Thanks Sherlock” Dean glanced towards the waiter to see if she heard. “Let’s keep our opinions to ourselves, yeah?”

“I don’t think it’s safe to consume off of.” He continued anyway.

“Don’t we know it” Sam patted his shoulder and received a mix of uncertainty and concern.

Cas had a smoothie, Sam had a salad, Dean had the biggest burger on the menu. The following conversation went in all sorts of directions, mainly targeting the angel for kicks, from the weather to ancient torture rituals.

They had to keep each other distracted from eavesdropping on locals or skimming newspapers. They were off the clock.

Unable to break away from the conversation topic, they dragged their eldritch being into the backseat and down the country road too.

Dean liked the person he brought out in Sam. It was like a flip switched when Cas was around and suddenly he was radiating with questions about the world again. Hope igniting back in his long dead eyes. Cas made him young again.

Sam liked the person he brought out in Dean. It was like all his walls softened and signs of the person he knew so intently were revealed to the wider world. Sam thought Dean was the best humanity had to offer and for someone other than him to get the privilege of seeing it felt rewarding- validating.

As per usual, they received no farewell when he inevitably tired of the interaction and vanished.

“I hate when he does that” Sam scoffed. After everything, you’d think the guy would give them his attention at the very least.

“Wish I knew where he popped off to”

“Probably a cornfield.”

“He strikes me more as a desert kind of guy.”

“He’s probably lurking behind a tree as we speak”

“Probably scaring hitch hikers shitless”

They shared a giggle at the imagery and tossed a few more ideas out, riling the other up with increasing absurdity until they were both cackling.

Hours danced the sun down, night falling as they lay unaware in their respective rooms. Dean borrowed his computer, for what purposes Sam didn’t want to know.

He pulled one of his few belongings out- a spiral notebook that looked like it’d been ran through a meat grinder.

It wasn’t something he liked sharing with anyone because in truth it was embarrassing. Maybe it was because their dad had done it or maybe because it was a good way to track new information and cases of interest. He didn’t have a good answer. He just liked journaling.

He jotted down some loose ideas on new weaponry, sketched a ghoul for fun, commented on their lunch, knocked the pen against his palm several times to keep the ink flowing. All in all, a good day in his books. A great day, actually. One of the rarest.

His night shirt of choice was one of Bobbys, blue with a bulldog on it. He’d accidentally taken it with him after bloodying his own clothes while over. They weren’t too far out when he’d noticed and selfishly, he said nothing. It had become one of his favorite items, an object associated with kindness that he could hide his marred, ruined, body with.

John never let him near his closet even when he was growing too big to take Deans hand-me-downs. It was part of the gig to be resourceful, at least thats what he was told. Stealing never felt good so he just accepted the constriction until it became unbearable.

It crossed his mind frequently when he was at the old mans house; How much better life could’ve been if Bobby was his dad. He filled in the role neatly enough as is.

He sees it in the old mans eyes, the guilt. The bitter regret that read “I could’ve saved you.”

If he so much as breathed the prospect around Dean he’d get a full blown lecture and a glare that could shatter glass.

Whatever, Sam huddled into the pile of pillows. Doesn’t matter. I’ll be dead by the end of the month.

Chapter Text

A scream shattered the serene atmosphere. Cut off and mangled but too late to recall. Sam slammed both hands over his mouth and started the day as he always did with guilt weighing heavy on his chest.

When the door flew open Dean was already armed and frantic. His silhouette tense like a cat raising its hackles. Bathed in the moons fleeting embrace Sam gave him a helpless look brimmed with tears and a soft head shake.

Dropping the defensive stance he ran a hand over his face. “It’s five am.”

Sam dropped his hands to his lap. “Yeah, sorry. False alarm, go back to bed.”

“Wasn’t doing much sleeping before. Won’t start now.” He shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. The gun clicked into safety mode. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. Normal nightmare shit.” He waved dismissively.

“Right, because screaming yourself up is normal.”

Sam thought back to the way his bones had jerked and clicked, jaw snapping unnaturally open to contain a sickening light that singed his insides. Eyes rolling back and forcing his world into a dim, caged version. He shuddered at the violation he was all too familiar with.

The silence got suffocating like smoke filling the room. Afraid he’d loose Sam in this smog, Dean sat on the edge of his bed- joining him in the shreds of light. He hoped his presence was encouraging enough.

Sam didn’t really want to talk about it. He could picture the face Dean would make all too well, that overbearing worry that he knew was burying disgust. The reassurances he’d say that he knew were more for Dean than for him. The faith that would leave his eyes as the word Monster sprung to his teeth. He’d never say it but Sam felt it there anyway.

He was never that strong though.

“I said yes.” He whispered, eyes closing to trap the emotion building behind them. “Had no choice.” I never do stayed behind sealed lips.

No clarification was needed to know what he meant. He didn’t see the way Deans expression fell to a blank slate with eraser marks. A deep rooted anguish clawing up his chest and gnawing at his heart.

“That won’t happen. Not unless you say yes which we both know you won’t” He said it so confidently Sam almost believed he believed himself.

“It doesn’t matter what I want.” The vulnerability of shadows gave him the courage to speak. As the sun rose ever higher, the urges to snatch every syllable and choke them down grew stronger.

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want! My consent- it’s meaningless!” It was almost involuntary, body too exhausted to hold back while mind split in two. One begging to stay hidden and keep this pain off Deans shoulder and the other so beaten down it just wanted something else to help with the heavy lifting. “It always has been!”

“That’s not true.” Deans voice raised to a steadier gruff, forcing his rising panic down. “Lucifer-“ Sam flinches at the name “-can’t get you unless you say yes. That’s facts.”

“I say no to a lot of things and it’s never stopped anyone before.” That sucked the air right out of the room. Suddenly dead silent save for two rapid heart beats racing to see which can stop first.

A nauseating fear spread chills over Dean, a desperate prayer born; Please God don’t mean what I think you mean.

Orange kissed the glass, refracting in pools of warmth. Sam shrunk away from its revealing nature, clinging to the remnants of darkness. He said too much. He hurt Dean.

“I’m more tired than I thought” he laughed humorlessly “Forget it.”

“Don’t do that.”

Sam slipped out of bed on the side farthest from the light. “I think I need some fresh air. Sorry I woke you, Dean.”

Dean caught his shoulder as he made for the door and was met with a sharp wince. “Sam. You have a choice. Don’t go forgetting it because thats how they win.”

A shaky exhale ran through his chest. A small nod knocking his long hair. “Yeah. I know.”

—

Hiding was a lot harder when there was nothing around to hide behind. No case to swarm his attention with, no lead to run his legs tired.

Sam paced around the backyard restlessly. The chilly winds against his bare arms went unnoticed. His hands fidgeting until jolts of pain burst from the raw skin he’d dug up.

He didn’t need Dean to know any of this shit, he’d put him through enough already. His big brother would stop at nothing to try and make it right and in the end all this would cause is a serious derailing of priorities.

His body did not belong to him. It never did.

Simple as that.

Birthed for one purpose and passed around in the meantime to detach his spirit as much as humanly possible. His innocence, his purity, his free will, his death, his soul, down to his core Sam Winchester did not exist. He was a screaming voice in a choir with nowhere to go and nothing to call his own.

A hiss surprised him out of his thoughts, realizing the sound came from his own pained lips. Blood rolled down his hand as he looked in surprise at the claw marks his incessant scratching had caused down his thumb.

Good he thought. One more piece of damage inflicted on the demonic. One less part of him to steal, however small.

The pain was a constant in his life, however depressing the idea, pain was something that was his own. Even when Meg took his skin and wore it for fun, carving her mark into his forearm and forever branding him, the pain she caused went right to him.

Part of him wanted to keep on mangling. Sink into his soft flesh and pull until it all spilled out. The bloody knots of guts and the decayed husk beating in vain- pumping poison throughout his system and killing him slowly from the inside out- stark against the lawn.

He wanted to feel it writhe in his palms- his palms. The body they corrupted at his mercy.

He wanted to peel back the filthy skin and bleach the raw viscera cowering beneath.

Better yet, he could hear the rattle of the gun firing, the force pushing back in his fingers, the bullet kissing his lips. He could feel the hilt and the plunge, twisting and gushing, the shining reflection in the high sun.

Take me now he cried in his perfect world where he controlled how it all happened. Try to want me now when there is nothing left

But he couldn’t. Because this body was not his to purify and he would be selfish to damage it.

He’d begun the scratching again, harsher this time. The stains covered nearly his whole hand now, dripping down the wrist, like a child devouring a box of strawberries till they were sickly.

Sam looked towards the cabin and felt an intense wave of dread at encountering his brother in this state. God, what would Dean do if he knew the things Sam thought?

Part of him wanted to call out to the Devil just for the pleasure of saying no to him.

He had to fix it. He couldn’t let it keep bleeding out. For whose sake he wasn’t sure anymore. When he entered defeatedly he was met with Dean on the recliner, swiveled to face the television.

Sam was grateful for his inattentiveness as he rummaged the counter for a first aid kit. This box was white once upon a time when it was new and untarnished. Now it colored a muted yellow, all lettering wiped by the passage of time to scraps of forgotten red.

“What do you need that for?”

Damnit.

“Uhm..splinter” he winced at his own lousy excuse.

He didn’t have to turn to know that the following rustling came from Dean approaching. A heavy inhale and tsk of disbelief.

“Lose a fight with a squirrel?” Though he teased his green eyes were crinkled anxiously.

“They’re tricky bastards” he joked before weakly adding “I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay” His hand was lifted and lead beneath the faucet. Warm water running pink down the drain.

Dean fished for bandages in the unorganized box, free hand tossing a towel to his brother. Sam caught it and dabbed his injury clear with a deep guilt bleeding into his movements and slowing them.

Great so not only was he stressing Dean out but he was forcing him to take care of him too. I’m old enough now, I shouldn’t be burdening him like this anymore.

“Not to be cheesy,” Dean started in the way he did when he was preparing to be parental. Sam fought the eye roll, a buried ember of anger reigniting every time his brother did that. Anger at their late father for making them the way they were. “But you know I gotta bring it back up.”

“Dean-“

Rough fingertips held his wrist stable between them. “You woke up screaming and then literally beat yourself up over it. What’s going on?”

“Should be obvious, no? We’re both vessels and it sucks. End of story.” Soft material hugged his palm, wrapping gently around his hand. “Isn’t that overkill? It’s not deep”

Dean shot him a hardened look but didn’t comment on his pillowing wrap job. “Yeah it sucks but we get the final say. Only, you don’t seem to think saying no is enough.”

“It’s probably not!” He exasperated. “This is Lucifer we’re talking about!”

“Lucifer who follows rules just like any other monster.” Dean finished up and settled back against the counter. “You’d think if he could, he would’ve by now.”

His posture was determined and strong, listening intently with too much concentrated concern for Sam to look straight at. He kept his head turned away and subconsciously went back to fidgeting with his fingers.

“If somebody wants in then they’re gonna get in.” The brand on his forearm burned faintly, the scrape of hundreds of binding ropes throughout the years rubbing against him. Searing pain against his lips and burning as fiercely as the hand running down his side. “Doesn’t matter what I- doesn’t matter. And he’s way stronger than…”

Knuckles paled, gripping the countertop so hard it threatened to cave in. Dean refused to interrupt though his mind was racing with questions and bile churning answers.

Steadying himself and ignoring the feeling of each and every follicle of filth on him, Sam mustered a pitiful shrug. It looked more like a shudder. “Anyway..I don’t want to talk about it. Thanks for patching me up.”

He turned to leave and was halted by an arm flying to trap him in startling his already unsteady mind. Sam found himself shrinking back in on himself. An old habit of making himself as small as possible that never died off despite his outrageous height.

“You’re implying some seriously scary shit, Sammy” Barely controlled emotions started slipping as Dean’s voice rose. “Just…please…tell me I’m wrong and I’ll let it go. I swear.”

He couldn’t because then he’d be a liar and they’d already gone through that enough for one lifetime. The face he gave him was carved from a tired old tree that couldn’t fall no matter how many times it was struck, every detail screaming ‘I’m sorry’ down to the tensing of his jaw and the wetness of his eyelashes and the parting of his lips which summed up the sickening tortured shrieks into a ghostly quiet “Sorry.”

…

When was the immediate thought that shattered the full stop silence. Deans chest ached with a suffocating pressure of rib cracking failure. He hadn’t noticed. He hadn’t been there to protect him. How? Why? Where the fuck was he?

“Don’t say anything” Sam breathed, begging his stomach to stay down when he felt it lurch. “Please. For my sake, forget you even know.”

“Sam that’s-” Dean ran a hand down his face and laughed bitterly so he wouldn’t sob. “No. Thats not something you can ask me to do. That’s not something you should do either.”

“Please.” He felt the disease in him squirming at the attention, basking in the desecration of the last shred of innocence Sam had to his name. Now the only person in the world that mattered knew he was ruined and he couldn’t take it back.

At a loss for words Dean just stared at him. Lights picking up the glistening in his eyes. The desperation to fight but the refusal to take this choice away from Sam conflicting. He was at a stalemate where nobody won either way.

“Okay.”

Sam smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. Body painfully tensed and posture huddled, arms crossed over his middle like they were the only defense he had.

“Okay Sammy.” Dean felt nauseous himself, moving past his brother with a gentle pat on the shoulder. “I’m gonna go grab coffees. It’s barely six.”

Sam nodded, forgetting he wasn’t visible. When the door closed he cracked.

He cried silently and tentatively, breathing only when absolutely necessary and with the smallest breaths he could muster. A trick he’d learned from his dear old daddy. He didn’t feel better having the truth- however non explicit-out. He felt worse.

He felt like he should be punished, like he’d done something wrong. Like he’d just added another colossal weight to the sinking ship that was his brother.

He felt another flower wilt in his chest. He felt another part blacken with screaming mold stretching and claiming his rotted body.

This body will never be mine. This body belongs to every hand thats ever violated it while I am forced to bear witness.

He scratched obsessively, trying to push back the prying hands by reclaiming the vessel as his own. As long as he felt the pain it was his.

—

The coffee was shitty but it helped his sore throat. Dean didn’t comment on his puffy face so he didn’t bring it up. Not that he would’ve anyhow. He also didn’t comment on the sudden layering, the collar of a flannel peaking out from the zipped up hood of the jacket.

It was cold, sure, but not triple layer cold. Dean had a guess.

The space was breathable, not particularly tense, but there was a general unease. It went against all of Deans nature to keep himself from demanding a list of every attacker and every accomplice and hell, anyone thats so much as looked at his brother wrong. A violent rage had been snarling in his ears all morning, begging for release.

Sam was in his room when Dean first returned and when he crawled out to retrieve the drink he was still holding the gifted novel. Finger marking his page.

Dean gave him the receipt to use as a bookmark and now the book sat in Sam’s lap.

“Bagel?” He offered the warm bread, a chunk of his own still in his mouth.

Sam shook his head “I’m not hungry.”

Dean felt his stomach knot with worry but he kept his demeanor unaffected. “I’ll put it in the fridge.”

“Thanks.”

An ad played out in the background while they drank together. Some of the earlier fear fading back to the shadows were it lay in wait until the next opportunity arose. It was unnatural to have time to process, especially when every chick-flick moment before was conveniently pushed aside in favor of firing a gun.

Dean knew that Sam knew it was only a matter of time before the downtime led one of them to detonate. And Dean knew that Sam knew that his fuse was already running low.

“Baby’s looking a little worse for wear. Spa day?” Sam gave a shy smile like he was nervous to ask.

Dean felt a defensive comment building but after a pause for consideration he decided it was much more worth it to see that shy smile brighten then dim. “Well if you’re offering, who would I be to say no?”

—

The first step led them to the supermarket where they filled the cart with pocket sized snacks, gum, soap, popcorn, and a decent restock of shampoo and toothpaste.

“What are you doing, take that out.” Dean smacked his brother’s hand away from the cart. He clutched the box to his chest, offended.

“We need more car snacks. They’re granola bars.”

“No dude those are dust bunnies. Get the ones that don’t explode when you open them.”

Sam rolled his eyes but went back to self searching regardless. He happened to like them, even if they were 90% crumbs.

Rolling back his several layers of sleeves, Sam soaked the rag in the bucket and drew up a sopping mess of suds. Dean on the other hand stripped to a tshirt and followed suite.

The radio was running though the engine was off, upbeat rock blasting from her windows.

Sam wiped the built up dust mechanically and evenly while Dean drew shapes and swirls on the hood. They didn’t speak, enjoying the presence alone, occasionally singing along when the lyrics were hitting. It was nice and routine. Something to do that wasn’t murderous or depressing.

Sam could ignore the devastating reality that the autonomy he’d clung to was useless after all and he was never meant to own himself.

Dean could ignore the relentless responsibilities thrown at him from every angle and chaining him down until he was cornered with one means of escape.

Having kneeled the wash the tire rims Sam pushed himself back to his feet and faltered. A rush of dizziness sent his vision blurring and his limbs feathery. He felt arms encircle his torso and panic sent his elbow lashing out.

“Hey! Sammy, it’s just me.” Dean loosened his hold to ghost around him instead of making physical contact. Bracing should he stumble again. “You good?”

“Yeah..yeah sorry.” He patted Dean’s chest where he’d hit him apologetically.

“Yeah?” Dean gave him a once over before nodding towards the house. “Go get some food in you.”

Sam was sluggish on his feet but Dean knew better than to mother hen him all the way up to the door. If Sam felt he was being too coddled he’d assume it was something he was doing wrong and he’d get defensive and petty.

Shaking his head lightly he wondered what the hell he was supposed to do. Sam didn’t want to talk about it, fine. Sam didn’t want him to touch him in moments of disorientation, fine. Sam would wear a dozen layers to hide every hint of skin no matter the circumstances, sure. Sam would hurt himself when stressed and refuse food, absolutely not.

But he couldn’t approach those issues without circling back to the first one and he promised he’d let his brother keep that secret for himself.  It wasn’t like he could call Bobby or Cas because spilling Sam’s guts to everyone else close to them would be a betrayal like no other.

Sam returned with a bagel in one hand and a glass of water in the other. He sat criss cross in the grass while he ate a late breakfast to be near the music and nodded along.

“Good one Sammy. Ask to clean then skip out on all the work” Dean twisted the rag out and the water ran dirty brown. He flicked some of it at the bystander.

Sam shrugged in response, gesturing to the bagel and raising his hands in surrender.

“Yeah, yeah.”

—

You had to squint to see her in the yard. Her outer shell shining like brand new and reflecting the natural spotlight outwards like an explosion.

Sam had rejoined once the light headedness faded. Dean banished him to the ground, scrubbing the worst spots where mud splattered across.

“Was channel surfing this morning” Dean started, swiping his forehead of the sweat that’d built “There’s a Nightmare on Elm Street marathon going.”

“Oh jeez” Sam huffed his amusement. “None of them are even any good”

“They didn’t need to be good, they were scary.” When Sam scoffed Dean lit up and shoved his arm “You should know! Don’t think I forgot the nightmares they’d give you”

“Shut up! I was a kid”

“Oh man you would freak if you saw a striped sweater” he laughed. Delighting in the chance to reminisce.

Dean thought back to a familiar scene years back in which Sam had clutched his arm so fiercely he was wincing. The boys wild eyes scanning the street on the way back to the car.

“Quit it Sammy, nobody’s out to get you.”

“Yeah I know.” He answered with snark that was completely detached from his pale face.

“Sure you do.”

“I’m not dumb I know Freddy Krueger isn’t real”

“He’s not? Then…” Dean slowed his walk and pointed an exaggeratedly shaky finger “who’s behind that car?”

Sam bristled and pressed impossibly closer to Dean who could feel his little heart pounding in his chest.

The wide eye’d fright dropped to anger and Sam shoved away from his brother “Jerk!”

His laughter in response held the light word “Bitch”

“I doubt it lives up to my nine year old interpretation.” The deepened voice of adult Sam blended with his younger counterpart.

“We got popcorn and a six pack. Let’s go find out” Dean kicked the bucket and the grimy water seeped into the thirsty earth.

“I call recliner.” Sam grinned with a delight that made Dean groan.

“I do everything and for what? A spot on the floor?”

—

The stage was set. Recliner leaned back, forested blanket draped across it with one brunette spread comfortably beneath. A plastic lawn chair dragged from outside beside it with man-made cushions created from pillows taken from both rooms. Dean burrito’d himself in the flowery covers. A bowl and a set of beers between the chairs.

All the curtains were drawn shut, salt trails carefully inspected for any damage. The low glow of the tv acting as the only source of light.

Dean reached over at each tense scene and grabbed Sams leg which would invoke a startle and a small shriek. Despite the playful battings that’d hit his head he regretted nothing.

Popcorn got flicked back and forth when it got boring, dirtying the floor with each miss. A mini game birthed as they counted who could catch the most in their mouth continuously. Relentless commentary filling in every blank, critiquing accuracies and acting.

When the blanket wasn’t enough Sam gave Dean his jacket. When the sexual content was a little too prevalent Dean distracted Sam.

Three beers down on Dean’s side and two on Sam’s had them giggling loosely.

“That’s a disproportionate amount of blood” Sam commented as someone was mauled on the screen.

“It’s like they’ve never stabbed anyone before” Dean tsked his disapproval.

Neither of them slept early on a good day but the binge provided a nice use of that time that wasn’t spiraling.

Sitting still, distracted, and comfortable gave a clean transition into unconsciousness. Neither noticed when the other went under.

Chapter Text

Sleeping on a chair was always a stupid idea. Especially when you were as lanky as the boys were.

The sun couldn’t reach their eyes and the constant stream of noise produced had become standard. What inevitably ended up waking Dean was the need to relieve himself. Four beers will do that.

He felt every bone crack when he stood, a sharp ache most prominent in his side and neck. “Damn chair”

He checked his wrist watch in the bathroom and was bewildered to see 10:36 am. He’d never- we’re talking never- slept in that late. Not even when he was feverish. It didn’t make a lick of sense; the chairs were uncomfortable as hell, the movies were obnoxious, he wasn’t even drinking all that heavily!

A palm of cold water seeped into his skin as he ran it down his face. Droplets clinging to his eyelashes. The clock read the same.

They’d gone to sleep considerably early no less- what the hell? That was- I mean that had to be eleven hours of sleep minimum.

Dean almost laughed.

He stood over Sam with crossed arms and consideration on his face. Sam had curled up in his sleep, balling like he always had since he was little. He looked almost like a cat sleeping like that. It was impressive how small he could make himself.

No nightmares were twitching his fingers or darting his eyes. He was still save for the rise and fall of his chest.

Dean decided after a moment of staring that Sam deserved that peace. Even if he got mad later for sleeping away so much day, Dean wouldn’t take this from him.

Instead he padded away to the bathroom again and started a hot shower. Despite common belief, Hell was actually not hot. It was cold. Unbearably, incomprehensibly cold. So cold your blood solidified, your skin ripped, your bones splintered. Flames licking away at your body like thousands of tiny shards, confusing your reality and hurting your painfully tight brain to comprehend.

Intending to burn the thoughts out of his head he turned the water comfortably hot and waited in front of the mirror.

Sharp jawline, faded freckles, dim green eyes. He’d always hated his face. It was too revealing and too vulnerable and represented him. Your body changed over time, it fluctuated. Your face? That was you. That was always going to be you.

Too many people read him to filth using that face. Too many people deciphered his thoughts perfectly, sometimes even before he could, and used it against him. Or worse, against Sam.

Alternatively, his body was perfect. It was toned and muscular while still keeping that softness that chicks dug. As long as he had that, he was wanted. He was desirable.

Sex was freedom, it was confidence, it was something he could do effortlessly and feel good about. It was something that made others feel just as good.

To him, his body and head had always been detached.

His head was full of terror and anger and the want to slaughter, a face covering it with teeth that gnarled and eyes that glared. It was ugly to behold and worse to understand. It was nothing like the pleasure that came with the rest of him.

He admired the best parts of himself in the mirror and refused to acknowledge the home of the eyes seeing it.

When the water was ready he stepped in and enjoyed the cleansing process. He took his self care very seriously whether anybody believed that or not. What he did to his insides was irrelevant because his skin was flawless.

Hell gave him one parting gift for all the irreparable damage, it wiped his skate clean of scars. The only remaining mark was the hand print on his shoulder but he quite liked that one.

Soap fell feathery over his skin, steam clearing his sinuses of the aftertaste sleep left. He hummed a song that’d wormed into his thoughts and nodded along. He drummed the walls and swayed.

It was still so odd.

Looking back down memory lane he couldn’t think of another time he’d fallen asleep like that.

As children, anxiety ran him. Uncertainty in his abilities to protect. Worry about their father when he went on hunts alone. Worry about Sam when they ran low on food or worse- when the sun went down.

As teenagers, the stress only grew. Sam was growing and asking questions he barely figured out himself. He was losing his grasp on the little boy as he developed into his own person- so vastly different from Dean.

As adults, stress was all he knew. His dad was missing then gone, Sam was so close to freedom then damned forevermore, he felt weaker every passing day. He felt his control slipping as his world got bigger and bigger while he remained the same size.

Sleep was never a relief for any hunter, it was vulnerability. It was Russian roulette with the odds stacked against you. His last thoughts were always something along the lines of “don’t fall asleep” or “did I actually see that or is the wind moving the shadows”

Last night was new. He wasn’t thinking about the next hunt on the list, the route they’d have to drive, or the details they still needed to flesh out. He was thinking about how proud he was at catching that popcorn.

Sam probably had plenty of nights like that when he got away before he was dragged kicking and screaming back into the life. This probably wouldn’t make him think twice.

It was weird to be at peace, Dean decided. Too revealing for his liking. It gave too much leverage to the other team. Who was he to sleep to 10:36 like he had any right to that rest?

Dean toweled himself dry and drew a smiley face in the fogged up mirror just because he could.

He was mildly disappointed to find the chair empty when he returned. Sam was running the sink, a glass in hand.

“Morning sleepyhead” he announced his presence.

Sam turned around and paused, eyebrows furrowing. “That’s my shirt.”

Dean looked down at the tee he was sporting. “No it’s not.”

“Yes!” Sam laughed breathily “Unless you went to Stanford and bought a shirt, it’s definitely mine!”

Realizing his mistake Dean made haste to shift the blame “Don’t put your shit in my bag next time!”

Scoffing, he abandoned the cup and crossed his arms. “Maybe pack your own shit then.”

“I’m a busy guy!” he threw up his hands and stalked back to his room to change.

—

Dean was having himself a delicious breakfast consisting of barbecue chips and a large snickers bar. A beer already popped open on the counter alongside the array.

He mindlessly tapped away on his phone while he ate, the sound of flappy bird hitting a wall and dying eliciting a groan of frustration. His mind constantly flipped back to the day before. They had too much empty space, it made the temptation to fill it with something meaningful all too powerful.

“Hey Dean check it!” Sam stood in the hallway and shook a box in the air. “Found the game closet!”

“You wanna play a board game? What are we twelve?”

“We didn’t play board games when we were twelve” Sam countered. He set the box of Candy Land on the ground and crossed his legs beneath him. It was clear his mind was set.

Dean grabbed his snacks and settled across from him as he set up the game. “Candy Land? You’re kidding.”

“We are not playing monopoly.” Sam sorted the cards with way too much concentration and Dean rolled his eyes. “So yeah, Candy Land.”

Grabbing a handful of chips in one hand and his phone in the other he dialed an increasingly familiar number.

After several rings a very disgruntled angel picked up. “Have I not participated in enough of your vacation rituals?”

“Nope. Wanna play a board game?”

Contemplative silence bled into a defeated sigh. There was a ruffling of feathers and Sam jumped back at the figure suddenly an inch away from him.

Castiel clicked his phone shut and pocketed it. He sat between the brothers, posture pin straight as usual.

Sam handed him the sheet of rules with a smile “Good to see you, Cas”

“It is often irritating to see you.” He returned a soft smile nonetheless. “But I do enjoy being invited to your events, however meaningless.”

“I’m surprised you actually came” Dean said without any thought towards the chips filling his mouth. Crumbs fell down his chin when he spoke and Sam wrinkled his nose in disgust.

”I wasn’t making much progress” He shrugged.

The game was simple and enjoyable despite the constant bickering that went in all three directions.

“You shuffled these wrong.” Castiel decided with a huff.

“I second that” Dean pointed an accusatory finger which Sam scoffed at.

“I can’t hear you all the way at Princess Lollies place.” Sam dangled his player piece mockingly before placing it back on the board with a considerable lead.

”Better hope I don’t catch your ass in Princess Lollies land”

With Sam declared winner, a round two was started. Somewhere in it had turned into a drinking game. Every red card, Dean drank, for Sam it was green and for Castiel, purple. They passed the bottle around the circle as an indicator to keep track of turn order.

Castiel won the second round and Dean was considering smacking both of his opponents when they high fived.

“It’s a stupid game.”

“It’s that attitude that prevents you from ruling the candy kingdom.” Castiel placed a sincere hand on his shoulder and Sam laughed.

“Don’t feel bad. You can always be the candy princess”

Dean flipped him off.

They played at least five rounds, the rules slowly dissolving until it was pretty much a racing game based on bullshit logic and whoever had enough confidence to declare their action valid.

“I’m starving. We should go for lunch” Dean thought aloud. Sam shrugged and Castiel’s face fell.

“Yes. You should eat. I also must return to my work. I have been…slacking.”

“Relaxation is not the same as slacking” Sam corrected “You’re allowed some downtime.”

“Unlike you, I do not actually need rest.”

“Mental rest, not physical.”

“You’re always welcome to crash with us” Dean added “You’re our friend.”

“I appreciate it. Truly.” Without further debate he was gone.

“Asshole didn’t even offer to help put the game away.” Sam grumbled.

“If you think I will, think again” Dean patted his shoulder. “I’m gonna order pizza.”

Sam hummed, suddenly very focused on the game pieces. Dean frowned.

Okay. We’re addressing this.

—

The pizza couldn’t deliver straight to the cabin so Dean had to drive out a bit to get it. One large half pepperoni half pineapple- because Sam was weird.

“Foods here” he slapped it down on the counter and got right to lifting two slices onto one of the provided plates.

As he scarfed down the first slice his eyes kept darting to the hallway. When nobody came he got a pit in his stomach. He hated addressing things. He hated the exposure and the discomfort. He hated the pressure of saying the right thing and reacting the right way.

He wished it was one of those push down and go situations but this was active and in his face. Sam was hurting himself and Dean couldn’t bring himself to push that down.

He knocked on the door first and flung it open before hearing a response. “Hey, get up. We’re eating.”

Sam rolled away from his computer and hesitantly followed him back out to the kitchen. He made a plate and stared.

Dean swallowed the crust of a second slice and the pit deepened while Sam continued staring.

“Cmon man it doesn’t bite.”

Sam shot him a biting glare. Dean immediately felt bad.

“You gotta eat, man. Remember yesterday? Can’t have you passing out again.”

Sam looked like he had something to say but whatever it was he held it back with a tight jaw.

“I get it, right? The whole vessel thing? But Lucifer is not in you and he never will be. The only person you’re hurting is yourself.” Sam scowled and looked away. “If we’re gonna fight this then we have to be top of our game.”

“I’m not hungry” he lied weakly. In moments like these Dean wished he could just read his stupid brother’s dorky mind. What could he say? What could he do?

”Bullshit.” He pushed the plate towards him “You’re just making yourself sick.”

He muttered something that raised Deans eyebrow. “Come again?”

“Maybe thats a good thing!” All at once the calm shattered in thousands of splintering shards.

“I’m dangerous, Dean! I’m dangerous to myself, I’m dangerous to you, I’m-“ he laughed like a broken record, hollow and bitter “-I’m dangerous to the whole fucking world! Just being alive is going to wipe half the planet! I tried to lay low but then I got attacked by hunters and Lucifer found me so clearly that doesn’t work. But being around you is putting your life on the line so that doesn’t either!”

He was riling himself up, body shaking with explosive emotions bashing their heads in on his ribcage. He shoved the plate away like it personally wronged him and yanked his hand back like the paper burned to touch.

“I can’t go anywhere because I’m never safe! I can’t kill myself either because they’ll force me back! All I can do is starve and hope it’s good enough to stop me!” He was fully yelling by the end. A tornado of raw horror and violent anger wrecking his figure, vying for control over his expressions. In the end he just sat there panting.

There was so much to pick apart in everything he just spat, Dean was lost on where to start. This was too much. Dear God this was too much.

Dean wanted to keel over and cry until he passed out. Or scream until his lungs reached his lips. Or curse the heavens and hells alike until he couldn’t speak so much as a whisper.

He couldn’t do this.

He couldn’t handle this.

He couldn’t handle the weight his brother carried, he couldn’t comprehend its severity.

It was so disgustingly unfair, so twisted and cruel.

Sammy, the sweetest boy. Hair too long for his face, clothes too short for his awkward height. Features always soft despite the roughness of the world. Smile always sunny even when the rest of their life was a hurricane. Heart too big for his body to bear yet he carried it anyway because he was so goddamn committed to that kindness.

What had it got him?

Soul crushing loneliness, exile, torture, death, rape, mockery. He was so fucking young. He had so fucking much to offer. He would’ve made a damn good lawyer. A damn good husband. He should’ve had a good life.

Here he was on his last breath savoring it even if it was all smoke he was breathing in. Because he was Sam Winchester and he would never stop having faith. He was humanities best.

Dean realized his silence had stretched to a point where instead of heavy breathing there was only small, sniffling cries in the air between them. Sam wiped his face viscously but couldn’t contain the stream that poured out. He shook and hiccuped and curled instinctively in on himself.

Dean didn’t bother wiping his own face. If he was going to cry anyway then he might as well let it happen.

“Come here” he whispered. Hushed and gentle, his mind picturing a much younger version of his brother before him. Back when Freddy Krueger was all he had to cry about.

Sam accepted his outstretched arms and fell into the embrace. Dean held his head to his shoulder, hand scratching lightly at his scalp. The other held tight around his back. Sam’s returning grip was powerful on his shirt. His tears soaking into the fabric near instantly.

“It’s not fair” Dean breathed into his hair. He held him impossibly close, daring anything at all to try and take him away. He looked up towards the ceiling where he knew thousands of hidden watchers lay in wait and repeated the cracked curse “It’s not fair”

Sam couldn’t get a word out even though he tried. Dean heard it in the way he choked and coughed. His heart squeezed painfully when he heard a shattered “sorry” in the struggle.

“It’s okay” he shushed. “It’s okay, Sammy.”

He felt the bodies of hundreds of memories flash under his palms. Hundreds of versions of the same stubborn boy all clinging and all crying for hundreds of different reasons.

What had he done to deserve this fate? Dean wondered to the universe. Why was his love punished so severely?

‘Hope’s kind of the whole point’ he recalled Sam telling him once. A faraway content in his eyes as he said it. Sam had held that hope until it split his palm and bled him dry and yet, somewhere in the destruction his brother had been reduced to, Dean knew he was still holding on.

This is too much.

I can’t fix you. I can’t do anything to relieve you of this hurt. I failed you too many times and now you are out of reach. Oh god I failed you. I failed you, Sammy.

“It’s not your fault” He found himself saying. “None of it. You didn’t ask for this. You don’t deserve this.”

Sam shook his head to argue but Dean was having none of it. He pulled away, cupping Sam’s face as softly as he could. It was red and puffy and fully damp. A devastated look layering every feature yet that familiar wonder remained. He never lost his unwavering faith in Dean no matter how many years passed.

“This is not your fault. This is not your punishment. You didn’t do anything wrong. Do you hear me, Sammy?”

He heaved as a sob wracked his body, hand grasping pitifully at Deans wrists to pull him closer or pull him away- neither were sure.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” He repeated, daring him to object.

Sam didn’t seem convinced but he nodded anyway.

“Say it. I need you to say it.”

Even in his state Sam managed a weak eye roll. There he is Dean thought fondly.

“I mean it. Say it.”

”Dean-“

”Sam.”

He searched Dean’s expression for any cracks to slip through but found stern determination. With a sharp inhale he managed “I…I didn’t do anything- wrong.”

“Damn right.” Dean patted his face and pulled him back against him, not ready to let go just yet.

I will find a way out of this. I will save you. I will get you back to the good life you were so close to.

It was Sam who eventually let go first. He stood on weak legs and silently left, a parting look of pure gratitude which Dean took as all the thanks he needed. He heard the bedroom door shut quietly and let his gaze linger on the untouched plate of food.

I will save you.