#chatrp

Sam's brain takes a little break.  Just a little one, while he stares down at Dean on the couch, and at some point, he must have sat on autopilot, because when he blinks at Dean again, they are at eye-level with each other.  His mouth feels dry.  "But.  That was my dream."  He feels dumb.

Dean is reconsidering.  Wants to shut this train down before it leaves the station because clearly this isn't going to go over well. Dean's already stunned the kid stupid and he hasn't even got to the best fucked up parts yet.

Worst. Idea. Ever.

"Yeah. Um. Fuck this. You know, bet there's a game or something on right now."

And he's really hoping Sam goes along with plan B, although there's really zero chance of that.

Sam shakes his head.  "No.  No, Dean.  I don't -- What do you mean you were hunting an arachne?  I mean, did you.  Did you maybe tell me, text me what your hunt was?  And I dreamed about it?"

Dean sighs. "No. I didn't." He perks up suddenly. "Did you maybe...talk to Bobby? I mean, before the dream? Did you talk to him?"

Sam perks up when Dean does, but his face falls again when he hears the suggestion.  "No," he says morosely.  "Last time I talked to him, it was... No.  What does this mean?  It's a coincidence, right?"

"Christ. I hope so. But look, your dream kinda explains..." Dean shifts uncomfortably. "It started out as a missing person's thing. Five people missing. Only one we actually found in the lair was half wrapped in web and the guy's stomach was just...gone. Front to back. Like, the whole cavity. So...there's that."  He picks up the bottle and takes a shot (or so) right from the mouth of it.

"God."  Sam blinks.  God.  "Just like."  He nods.  "But you're not dead.  You hunted it and you're fine, and Dad's fine and him and Bobby still hate each other, so.  Coincidence.  Right?"

"Okay, so. Yes, I'm still alive. We found a roomful of spider babies. And by babies I mean they were the size of...like...wiener dogs. We cut through a bunch, torched the room, and got the hell out. Made sure the scene was clean. But we weren't done because we hadn't found the bitch spider thing that started the mess. So. Job was finished, but the case is still open." Dean takes a breath. "I'm supposed to be hunting for leads. That's my cover while I'm here. Dad wants to take out the Queen bitch."

Sam's eyes go wide.  He breathes out a huff of alcohol breath and pours himself another shot.  "Well you can't go.  You.  Can't."  He shrugs like it's obvious.  "Maybe.  This dream thing was a ... sign.  Saying.  You shouldn't be hunting spiders.  Or anything.  Yeah."  He nods to himself.  "I'm cancelling the little ghost we were gonna take care of.  Yeah."

Yep. Worst idea ever. Confirmed.  "Sam...you sure you've never had like...other dreams like this? Think for a second." Dean grabs the bottle. "And Holy Christ, if you keep drinking like me we're gonna end up..." Completely shitfaced. And maybe we can drink this away?

Sam frowns as the bottle is whisked from his hand.  "I don't know.  I've dreamed about you on hunts, but."  He shrugs.  "How would I have known?  The one time I called Dad, he didn't pick up and I had to call you and pretend I just wanted to shoot the breeze or something just to know he was still alive.  But you didn't mention a hunt going almost bad and.  I don't know, Dean.  What are you saying?  Are you saying like.  Maybe I'm dreaming about... What are you saying?"

"I don't know what I'm saying, okay? Christ. I don't know." But then I get here, not more than six hours after burning clothes covered in spider goop, and you're fucking catatonic and I'm dead.

He's not going to say this.

"Maybe you could help me research this fucking spider thing so I don't become spider chum?"

"Maybe you just don't go, Dean."

Christ.

"Maybe the fucking sun will rise in the fucking west and Dad'll see the logic, Sam."

"You can't tell him," Sam says immediately.  "I mean, don't bother with logic.  Let's just call Uncle Bobby and send someone else after it."

"Clearly not thinking this through." Dean takes a drink and then hands the bottle back to Sam, because, fuck it. Going down in a blaze of glory.

"You think about that. I call Bobby. Bobby Singer. And I tell him, on the quiet, to get someone to do this job that I'm supposed to be doing for Dad."

"I'll call Bobby," Sam says.  "I'll call him, and I'll tell him I found a hunt I think and he should send someone out after it.  And you'll be here, way too far away to be the obvious choice."

"Great. Except I don't have any actual leads yet. You wanna help with that?"

Sam licks his lips in thought, turns his head to regard Dean, check him for honesty.  "If I help you find leads, we can call Bobby to get someone else to take the hunt?"

"How the hell is this gonna get by Dad? Answer? It's not, Sam." Dean feels really heavy on the couch now.

Dad. Fucking...just... And he had left abruptly. Getting permission was so iffy. And Dad hasn't been doing so hot.

"Christ. What if Dad jumps the gun and goes after this thing and no one's there?"

"Dad wouldn't be that stupid, Dean.  He's not gonna go in without backup."  Sam thinks for a second.  They're trapped, really.  All Dad has to do is call and tell Dean they're going after this thing, and Dean's going to go, and then he's going to die, and -- Sam shakes his head.  He feels a little dizzy.

"Dad's not stupid, but he goes into crap alone all the time anyway,"  Dean reminds his brother.

Yeah. And he'd been worried about how Sam was going to take this. Suddenly Dean thinks about how he hasn't called Dad, like, at all today. Hasn't sent him a message.

Panic starts to rise like the tide. Dean's in one of those showers with the door, and it's filling up with water, mostly slowly, but the door isn't opening. He doesn't think he's going to die. Not yet. Because the water's filling slowly, right? And there's a gap at the top. And he can swim mostly. So, there's time before he drowns...

"Sam..."

But when he turns to his brother he sees a different story. And Sam's trapped in the shower and he's banging on the walls but no one can hear him because of water...

Dean takes a gulp of air for both of them. Needs to stop drinking.

"Hey, hey!" He shakes Sam. "I'm not gonna die, okay? I'm not."

Sam blinks at the motion, he stares at Dean, he feels dizzy and unpleasantly drunk.  "You are if you go on this hunt, I can feel it somehow, Dean you can't go, please. Please."

When Sam says he can feel it somehow, Dean shivers. He shivers because what the fuck? What are they even talking about anymore? Are they saying that Sam has dreams about the fucking future? That's just. No. That can't be right. But then why? Because Sam was awake and thought Dean was dead.

I'm not gonna fucking die!

But then he thinks about it. And he's getting pretty close to drunk, so all the thoughts are crowding his head. And he's thinking about Sam smashing coffee tables and, hey, a world without Dean Winchester. Two fucking people may care about that.

I'm not gonna die.

Dean slaps Sam's face between his hands.

"Hey. You listenin' to me? I'm not. Too good for that, Sammy. Keep tellin' you that."

"You're too good for that?  After the number of times I've stitched you up after a fight?  After one wrong move and you'd have been dead and that's with Dad and me watching your back.  Dean.  I have news for you man.  That line?  You're too good to get killed?  It hasn't worked on me since I was twelve.  Accidents happen.  Bad hunts happen, Dean.  And you know it."

Dean can't look at this face all messy and wet eyes.

Okay, fuck. Might be drunk.

"First of all. You're blowin' it out of proportion. Those times. It's danger. Dangerous. But I sure as hell am not gonna go out on a damn dream. Because...it's messed up. Why? Huh? Why would you be dreaming this kind of crap? How? It's. I don't know. And hey. How come you never believe me anymore? You used ta. How come on that, Sammy?"

Sam shrugs, more violently than he means to, drops his jaw comically because his brother was just really dumb.  "Uh, because you're not immortal Dean, and now I -- I lost -- And I can't."  And his brain has stuttered to a stop, lost in a train of thought.  "Because I'm not a kid anymore," he decides.  "Dean."  He grabs onto Dean's shirt and shakes him a little, like that will get him to understand.  "Dean, you could die.  You could die.  What."  He pronounces it carefully.  "What am I supposed to do then?"

Dean's eyebrows furrow and his gaze hardens. Because Sam. Because goddamn.

"What're you supposed to do?" Dean's just hit a wall. It's a familiar pain that doesn't ever go away and Sam just rips scabs open whenever because, why not? "You'll do whatever you goddamn want to do, Sam." Dean pulls himself free of Sam's hands and no, you don't get to make this kind of face, the face of his Sam, right now with those words. Okay? "You... you don't get to ask that question." He pulls himself off the couch. Fuck. "I got one fucking job. It's done." He points crudely around the room. "You got a tv, a bed, a place, a fuckton of books and some kind of future without me anyway. Jesus. What're you supposed to do? Fucking burn my corpse and then go make lots and lots of legit money. That's what you're supposed to do."

"Furniture?  Books?  Money?  Who the--"  Sam stops, gets his breathing under control, his voice which is shaking with rage.  He hasn't felt this pissed since Dad.  His attempt to calm himself doesn't quite work.  Or more accurately, doesn't work at all.  "Who the hell do you think I am, Dean?  How could you think it would do anything to me other than -- If you -- How could you think so little of me, Dean?"  He flexes his hands into fists.  The one hurts, bad, but right now all he wants to do is hit something until it breaks, or he breaks.

Dean’s done with the walking on eggshells crap.  It’s a nerve that sits and waits for this shit, and he can’t make it heal.

"Every choice. Like...God. Every choice...you've been trying to be the one to make them since you were old enough. Just wanted to make things go your way. Hey, man. What am I supposed to say? You wanted out. You got out. I was put on the sidelines with no say. You're the smart one, Sam. You make the grade. Fuck. I'd frame your goddamn report card and show it off. It got you where you wanted." He sucks in a breath and says finally: "Sam, it fucking sucks ass that you left." Dean throws the heel of his palm into his forehead to shut himself up. Because he's going to break down and it won't be good. This is a stupid fight. And they've already had it. He's not good at seeing Sam for a day or two and then driving away.

Sam shuts his mouth with a clack of teeth.  This fight again?  He's shaking his head.  "It sucks that I left?  It sucks that you didn't come with me.  It sucks that you hide it from Dad when you visit.  It sucks that if he calls, you go, no questions, no goodbye even, sometimes.  It sucks that when he told me to never come back, I thought you'd--"  Sam breaks off.  He's looking up at the stained ceiling, blinking carefully, sniffing.  "I thought it was you and me.  But it was you and him.  It was always you and him.  It was never you and me."

Dean punches the back of the couch. "Both of you...you do this shit to me. Both of you. No matter what I say, where I go, what I do, I'm a fucking piss poor brother or a piss poor son. Do you even get that, Sam? Do you? We only ever get one fucking Dad, Sam. One. And he ain't perfect, but he does a lotta good and he's out there putting it on the line, and yeah, if he needs me, then I gotta go. Because my fucking baby brother is supposed to be doing nothing dangerous around here like hunting. Supposed to be all buried in his books so at least I got one less person to worry about. And now all that's blown to hell because all the shit that makes my life dangerous and horrible is just creeping back up on you. And now I'm not here. And then you make me choose and fuck. Why? Why do I gotta choose? We were a family once."

"I didn't break up the family, Dean.  Dad told me not to come back.  Do you even understand that I've been disowned?  I was counting on you to see that he was being ridiculous, and -- if you'd picked me, Dean.  He'd -- he'd have followed you, and he'd have taken it back because you made him.  Because he'd never let you go."  The anger drains out of Sam's shoulders, mostly because he just doesn't have the energy to keep it up.  He shrugs.  "It doesn't matter.  It's done.  I just.  Wanted it to be me and you.  And it wasn't.  It's nobody's fault.  Just the way it is."  He shakes his head.

Dean stares at Sam. And then he laughs fast and dry. A hurt thing. And he says: "That's it? That's how you judge it? On that fight? Not of the fucking 18 years of your life that I..."

But Dean's not so far gone that he's going to even say it. Because he would have died one thousand million times a million ways to save Sam. To protect him. And then the decision was made for him because Sam went off to a life that didn't require a caregiver or protector. But somehow he failed Sam anyway? Yeah. No fucking point in arguing with the smartest person in the room.

"You're right. That's just the way it is."

Dean sits heavily back on the couch. He finds the bottle. He's in for the long haul now.

Sam makes a sour face.  "Oh yeah, there it is.  The eighteen years you gave up to give me everything.  And don't think I don't appreciate it Dean, but it was always a project Dad gave you that just happened to coincide with you being willing to do it.  And I'm sorry, okay?  I'm sorry you got stuck with that.  But it doesn't change the facts.  You and Dad hunted, and I was the family freak, the project.  It's always been you and Dad, and then me.  But if it makes you feel better, I thought it was you and me right up until that moment.  I really did.  You think you're the only one who lost something that night?"

Dean listens as Sam goes on, pulling things out of context. Getting passionate about them. Chiseling them down, checking the tip, creating more weapons to blast him with. They'll be full of the same observations he's always had because they only have his point of view. He'll toss them with a sure arm, and Dean will bleed.

So what's the point?

Dean leans over his knees, trying not to hear. Trying not to feel how much it cut to be severed so easily when all he fucking wanted--

"You think that was it. At that moment two words from me would have fixed it? It's all so clear cut to you. So simple. But it wasn't and it isn't, Sam. So much more shit going on than just your hurt feelings. But whatever. You've fucking lumped me in with the 'enemy' and you don't ever fucking change your mind. You'll twist it all to fit your argument. Should be a fucking lawyer."

"My hurt feelings?  Every time you show up here, it's about how I left you, and no fucking thing I say seems to clue you in that you're not the only person who got hurt.  So sue me if I'm still trying to get you to see that, Dean.  That I never wanted to leave you."

Dean stops. Goddamn with the Jack. But nothing Sam says makes sense because--

"You went behind Dad's back, hell my back, and applied here. If it was you and me Sam, why'd you fucking hide it? And your mind was already made up. You didn't think about how I was supposed to live out here in coed land when I only know how to reliably do one fucking thing, and that's hunt. And if I stayed here, what would happen to Dad? I could never imagine you leaving, Sam. Before or since. Never thought it would come to this. Didn't believe it for months. Fuck. I still don't. Like, it's just one big longer-than-fuck fight with Dad but eventually you'll come home. And every month you don't it just feels more and more out of hand."

Sam bounces his broken fist on a knee, trying to feel it.  "Maybe I knew," he says, a little dully.  "Maybe I knew and didn't want you to confirm it.  You'd tell Dad, and Dad would stop me, and then I'd be trapped with him, and I'd know I was alone."  He's looking at some spot on the floor, shaking his head.  The fight's out of him now.  This Christmas is over, he's sure of that.  They don't know how to resolve this argument, they've never successfully done it before, they've never figured out how to just live with the hard truths, that Sam isn't going back, that Dean thinks Sam abandoned the family, that the situation isn't going to change.  He gets up and starts for the kitchen, wiping his face as casually as he can, because he just can't be like Dean or Dad and as soon as Dean can't see him, he can feel the tears fall.  "There's a present for you under the tree.  Take it before you go, if you want."

Dean's head drops into his hands. And there it is. Sam's exit line, and he's not exiting, no, because this time the line is for Dean.

And he can't believe it, just like he couldn't believe Sam would actually want to leave, but he's been fucking wrong. And now he has to face it.

Kicked out. Worse than walked out on. Dean gets it now. This is Sam's lesson. Fuck. His head hurts. He wipes at his face.

Somehow this is going down a lot different than it should. Like, with more yelling. But they did that. Maybe this is how it goes when two brothers get to a place where no one can yell anymore. Dean doesn't ever remember it happening with Dad around.

Heavily he stands. He finds his shirt, his jacket. Pats himself for keys. Probably shouldn't drive. Probably shouldn't have wrecked everything. Probably should have just let that shit go.

Why does this feel final? Is it because the yelling stopped? What's actually happening?

He looks over at the tree. A fucking tree. God. This was supposed to be...

"Keep it. Maybe next year I'll have earned it."

Dean thinks he's crying. This isn't how he deals, but maybe he's finally gone beyond drunk. He doesn't want to hit anything because he'd only have himself to hit.

"I'm...gonna leave the med kit. But look." Dean feels a little fire back, and it's familiar and he holds onto it, points at his stupid crying brother. "You fucking stay away from hunts. You being safe here is the only way I sleep. I swear to God, I see one off thing, think you've done anymore 'tasks' and I'm going to fucking come back here, truss you up, and haul you back. Do you hear me, Sam? You fucking be careful and don't push me. You're still my little brother. I'm still bigger than you, and I still gotta make sure you outlive me. Whatever you think that is, love or duty or whatever the fuck, I don't give a shit. You do a hunt, that's an invitation for an ass beating, and I've got felony charges against my aliases so I don't mind adding kidnapping to that."

Don't tell me to leave. Don't wanna learn this lesson...

Sam shrugs up his shoulders where he stands at the kitchen sink, trying not to lose it in front of Dean.  So he is going.  Right.  Well, that was what Sam had figured.  It's a longish moment before he trusts himself to speak without just blubbering like an idiot.  He's an adult, and a Winchester, and neither of those things were permitted to cry.  He turns.  His breathing is under careful control, if a little fast, and he sets his shoulders in a tense line and his face is flat and he says:  "Beat my ass huh?  Well I'm doing a hunt in a couple of days, actually.  You should probably plan to stay in town."

Dean looks at Sam blankly. How much fucking Jack did he have to drink.

"What the hell, Sam. You want me to go or not? Seemed pretty clear you wanted me out two seconds ago. Now you're asking for a beating. Why do you gotta make me the bad guy all the time!"

Sam shakes his head, brows up.  "I didn't tell you to go.  You always go.  And look, now you're going again.  What'd I miss?"

Dean laughs morosely. Looks at the tree, back to his brother. "What'd you miss? Every part of everything where I said it's a fucking mess because I miss my little brother. Or was I not totally fucking clear on that? I don't want to go. You're a mess. And I'm not going to fucking stalk you from my car while you get yourself into trouble. If I'm gonna stalk you it'll be from inside your own damn apartment." Dean stops. Because that didn't sound right. "Whatever. You know what I mean."

Sam frowns, annoyed.  "I'm not a mess.  You're a... mess."

"I'm not a mess," Dean lies. Because he does that. "I'm totally smooth. You actually at a loss for words right now? Good. Then stay that way. Don't wanna go Sam." Dean plants his hands on the table, as if it can ground him here. Ground him in two convictions that can maybe work them through this. At least for now. "I don't wanna die and I don't wanna go."

Sam heaves breaths, watches Dean.  "Okay," he says slowly, like there's a trap in those words somewhere, even though Dean wouldn't do that.  Dad might do that.  Dean wouldn't.  "So we agree on like two things.  Great."

Dean warms to this. He's drunk, but he can get a handle on this idea. Sam looks two seconds from shaking apart. "Hey. I just need you to be safe, Sam."

"So you know how I feel."  Sam's still frowning.  Dean's looser, in that drunk way that makes him either funny and goofy, or just angry.  "You're really not going?"

Dean comes around the table. Takes a few steps towards his brother who’s watching him with a mix of hope and fear. I just need to know you still need me, Sam.

"Can you live with me for a week? Can ya even do that? I'm here less than 24 hours and we're wreckin' it."

Sam represses the instinct to say I didn't do anything, jerk, and nods.  "I can if you can."

"Awesome." Dean knocks a counter top. He looks down at his feet and then at Sam. "Sorry, Sam." He turns to go back to the couch.

With Dean's back turned, Sam takes the opportunity to wipe his sleeve over his eyes one more time, to get them good and dry.  Nothing has changed.  Nothing has been fixed.  But maybe they've figured out how to coexist for a little bit even with the argument unresolved.  And Dean, saying he's sorry?  Sam follows him after a moment.  Laughs a little.  "You sure you aren't a shifter or something?"

"Yeah I'm sure. You did the tests on me last night. Remember?" Dean picks up the bottle of Jack, stares at it, then morosely puts it down.

Last night.  Right.  Whatever levity had been starting back up in Sam is vaporized like fog under a blazing sun.  "Dean, I'm--"  He shakes his head.

Dean looks up at him. "Hey, Sam. I'm almost constantly a dick, but will you do what I say just once?" He glances at the tv. "Would turn on the game and watch it with me?" He scoots over.

Sam presses his lips together a moment, watching.  Then he shrugs, smiles, turns on the TV and flips through for the game.  "How about a beer?"

"Yeah. A beer. Sounds good. Get yourself some orange juice while you're at it." Dean feels bossy. But Sam is his kid still. Would always be and right now he wants to watch the kid drink some fucking orange juice and not the Winchester poison.

Sam stops, turns back, pouting.  "But I want a beer!"

"Cry about it. You're cut off til I say. Now let's go. And hey. Bring some chips or snacks too."

"Such a jerk," Sam mutters, heading to the kitchen.  But he pours himself some OJ and gets Dean a beer from the fridge, and chips and some ranch dip Dean had eaten all of last time they'd had it, in some motel in Nebraska.  And he gets to the side of the couch again and frowns.  "I really need a new coffee table.  This is stupid.  Here, take something."

"You know what. Screw this." Dean slides down to the floor. "This is how we used ta do this. On the floor we can spread our junk out and still sit together." He takes the chips and dip readily then pats the floor.

Sam grins and it's just like they're kids.  He drops beside Dean and hands him his beer, kicks back against the couch and elbows Dean for the chip dip while the game plays.  He doesn't even care who's playing, never has.  Knocks their shoulders together when a player makes a truly bone-headed move.  This is how it should be.

Because that in NO way was real. Nope. Very freaky, yes, but a dream. Just that.

"Dean?" Sam's on his feet almost before Dean is, prompted by the gasp and the way he's clutching at his stomach, and Sam's hands are reaching out to Dean's where they are on his stomach -- Dean had been on a hunt before speeding to Sam's, and Sam had been too out of it to ask if Dean had got out of that okay.  Just him breathing had been enough, but now he's worried Dean's been suffering some injury.  "Dean?"  And Dean is staring, clearly not fully aware of Sam's presence.  He presses on Dean's hands at his mid-section, maybe to pull them away, to check Dean is okay, to see it with his own eyes.  "You okay?"

"Yeah. Just. Yeah, okay. I guess I'm awake now." Dean laughs it off, but, Christ, talk about being an all-the-way wrong nightmare. In more ways than one. He half slaps, half pats Sam's hands. "I got this. I'm fine. I'm Dean Winchester. You're Sam Winchester. Everyone's alive and good."

Sam tilts his head, like Dean is a puzzle.  "Y...eah," he says slowly, watching Dean for signs of like, a concussion, maybe?  "I'm Sam.  You're Dean.  We're... all alive."  He narrows his eyes.  "I'm not so sure about 'good,' though."

Dean feels a little pale, but the last thing he needs to do is freak anyone out. Not when things were finally shifting to normal. Or, at least, as normal as it got for them.

"Nah. Totally good." He notices the dark TV and turns accusingly to Sam. "You watched it all, right? You didn't turn it off when I fell asleep and started homework, did you?"

Sam isn't convinced.  He's not even going to pretend to be convinced.  "I watched it.  What was that?"

"What was what? I had a fucked up dream. You don't have the market cornered on those yet." It's flippant and dismissive, and Dean thinks he's thirsty and that, at the very least, he requires a fucking beer. Now. He heads to the fridge.

Sam rears back a little at that.  Okay.  Okay, true, fine, right but.  He watches Dean push past him to the fridge and tries to formulate why Dean's answer doesn't ring true, or rather, it does but it's not -- and he thinks, the hands scrabbling over his stomach, the crazy split second of fear as he's leaping from the couch like -- "Did you have a dream about my dream?  Jesus.  Dean I'm -- I probably shouldn't have told you.  Like we haven't seen enough messed up crap--"

Dean's quiet as he gets the beer.  Fuck. Fuck you, Sam, for being so damn observant. Now what? Well, shit.

"Yeah, we've seen a lot of messed up crap. Which is why you can't take responsibility for the shit I dream about, okay? Christ." He pops the cap and takes a long pull as he tries to put the images out of his head. Of thousands and thousands of spiders crawling out of his hollowed out, mostly devoured, stomach.

Awesome.

And yeah. Yes. He'd usually have zero problem chucking this off to some kind of nightmare-by-proxy thing with Sam's nightmare except...there were already things that were not right about Sam's dream to start with.

Sam twists his mouth up to one side, shakes his head.  There isn't anything he can do if Dean doesn't want to talk.  And he's right, they've seen a lot.  They both had more nightmare fuel than was good for them.  But Dean's edgier than usual.  Sam's witnessed Dean nightmares before, and this is more agitation than Dean was usually willing to show, and all signs pointed to Dean not necessarily being willing, so -- "Come on.  You should talk about it.  I mean if you can tell anyone, it's me, right?"

Don't think you wanna know, little bro.

"Yeah. We care and share about this nightmare, and then you go off and sprout a new one. How's your hand feeling?"

"My hand feels fine, Dean."  Fine.  Whatever.  He shakes his head.  Looks around for his shoes.  "You know what.  I'm gonna go for a run."  He doesn't want to go for a run, but he's pulling on his running shoes anyway.  He ties them angrily.  His head is still pounding from drinking too much and from prescription painkiller hangover and he wishes he could remember every detail of their conversation from last night because he's not sure how much he told Dean and he doesn't want to risk giving him another night terror or something, and Dean doesn't have the friggin' market cornered on caring about his brother okay?  Which is what he should have said back when Dean blew off his nightmare in the first place.  "You don't have the friggin' market cornered on caring about your brother," he grouches aloud and surges up from the couch to grab his sweatshirt.

"Jesus, Sam. Really?" And here's that pattern again. That pattern that started when Sam was like, 14, and started going places to get away from Dad or piss him off or fill out applications for Stanford or whatever.

Yeah, whatever.

"Come on, Sammy. It's just a friggin'..."

Well, it might be. Just a frggin' dream.

"Uh huh.  Yeah.  Real convincing, the way you just trailed off there."

"Look," Dean slays the air with a swipe of his hand, "what are you now, the Sentence Police? gimmee a break."

Sam scoffs, shrugs into his sweatshirt.  Sentence Police?  Really?  Really Dean?  And after everything they've been through together, after Dad dragging them around and after counting only on each other, after waking up in Dean's arms to find out that Dean hadn't slept because he was watching out for Sam, after all of the shit all of the worry, Dean going off with Dad and Sam pacing holes in the motel rug hoping they'd come home safe, hoping Dad wouldn't come back without Dean, blood on his coat, saying Dean hadn't made it, come on we need to take care of his body -- after --

"I'll be back.  Just my morning run," he says and his voice is maybe a little panicky, but he's out the door before he can meet Dean's eye and change his mind.

Dean feels his forehead. His face. His hand drops away and he feels like shit because, no, he doesn't have the market cornered, but Sam just doesn't fucking know and it's true. It's true that ignorance is happier. Sam was happier before he knew about Dad. Before he knew about monsters. Confused, yeah, and wondering why they didn't have houses and how come he had no friends. Fuck. But, Christ, he could have been less terrified. If he would just stop asking questions all the damn time, Dean wouldn't have to keep destroying things...

Destroying.

Dean remembers that last hasty conversation with Dad and...

Fuck. Spiders. Just...just what in the hell, Sam? What in the hell?

Sam runs.  He hadn't lied; it is a morning ritual for him, something to exhaust his body while his brain spins.  Sometimes, he's just sorting through information he'll need for a test; sometimes he's sorting through some difficult bit of civilian life, dealing with people who don't care about him the way Dean and Dad do, figuring out how to blend in even though that's basically second nature.  Right now, he's sorting through his anger at Dean, how Dean won't talk to him, how they used to share everything, and it occurs to him that that might not actually be the case.  In fact, it comes clear as water that Dean has shielded him from whatever he can, that they've never shared everything as much as Sam wants to say that they did.

And there's the other big thing -- the more Sam thinks about it, the more uncertain he is about whether Dean will still be there when he gets back to the apartment.  When he'd left, he'd been pretty sure Dean would still be there, or else he wouldn't have been able to walk out the door.  But the farther he got from Dean, the less sure he was.  Dean leaves if Dad calls him in the middle of the night.  Dean leaves without saying anything.  Sam wakes up in the morning ready to make them both coffee to find the couch empty, maybe a little note saying "Take care of yourself, Sammy."  Dean says things like "I don't need this" and turns around and leaves the moment Sam's girly emotions are inconvenient.  Dean might be gone when Sam gets back.

But he wouldn't do that.  Not after last night.  Not after promising to put up with him for a week.  Sam doesn't really believe what he's feeding himself, but the optimistic part of him pushes him to run ten minutes more after the primal part of him begins screaming at him to turn around and run home right now, as fast as he can run.  Take that, primal fear of abandonment.  Suck it, panicked lizard brain.  He manages the extra ten minutes before heading back home at a dead sprint, heart pounding, takes every shortcut across people's backyards, sketchy back alleys, hurdling christmas lawn ornaments, and shows back up at the door bent over at the waist trying to catch his breath.

Dean uncocks his gun and stands down from the door. That tread, that pant, they check out on his "Sam Scanner." Which is good, because Dean doesn't want to really shoot anything or anyone right now. Forget explaining the mess to Sam, he had other more unpleasant things on his mind. Not the least of which was a fear that Sam would be gone for a long time. Would be gone until Dean had to get out and go look for him because something inexplicably bad had happened to him even in this place Sam had been living in, totally alive and relatively healthy, without Dean, for six months.

Sam composes himself as best he can before opening the door.  Thudding heart, breath fast, but Dean's car is still in the lot so he’s there, he’s there, he’s there -- Sam opens the door, tries to look bored, tries to muster the anger he'd had when he'd left, just so Dean doesn’t get to look smug about Sam racing back just to make sure Dean is still here.

Dean is back on the couch by the time Sam gets in. Yeah. It’s fine to act like he's been sitting here the whole time. Fine.  "So, how was your run?"

Sam frowns, still panting a little, but you know, running, so he doesn’t try to disguise that.  "S'good.  Yeah.  How was your... sitting around?"

"Awesome." But there’s no conviction in it. Why fake it? "Shower. Then we'll talk." Because, hell, a few more minutes of not talking about it hurt no one.

A little line appears between Sam's eyebrows.  Talk?  Maybe he'd been wrong about Dean, on both counts.  Maybe he is leaving, and maybe this time he is going to tell Sam first.  So, okay.  At least he’s going to get a reason.  Sam nods, hollow and loose and heads to the bathroom like it's a gallows.  And ten minutes later, he's standing at the dark mouth of the hallway that leads from the living room/kitchen back to the bathroom and bedroom and he's half-hoping Dean won't notice him, that he can just have Dean in his house for a few more minutes.

Dean pours a shot of Jack and swigs it. Shit like this should not happen entirely sober. Sewing up his little brother's hand? Yes. But not this. Or else he doesn't know if he can get it out. Right now he doesn't know what he's doing, and in a second that's going to require another shot.

"Dude. I'm not...mad at you, okay?"

Dean leans back into the couch and it feels a little heavier now, this weight. Manageable. At least until he opens his mouth.

"This fucked up dream. About me being dead. You gave me this slurry drunkSammy cliffnotes version last night. I want the long version. If you can remember it."

No. He's okay so far. This is the past. And it's probably...really nothing.

Sam lifts a brow, comes into the room out of the dark a step.  Okay.  So.  Dean's not leaving.  That's good.  But now he wants to talk?  "I don't know if that's a good idea..."

"It's NOT a good a idea. It's a fucking BAD idea. That's what I've been saying." Okay. Yes. Yeah. Need another shot. "But do you wanna know about what...about my dream or not?" Dean lifts the bottle. He's still actually measuring out shots into this little glass that was in Sam's cabinet, which means he’s still in the nearly mostly soberish range. "You wanna talk about this? Better hurry."

"What, because it's a time-limited offer?  Nice," Sam snaps.  But he bites back the rest, tilts his head and closes his eyes because holding back the defiance is a physical act for Sam, has been since he turned 12 and had been pulled out of one too many schools, his first serious fight with Dad.  He blows out a breath.  He hisses and massages his busted hand, the part of it that hasn't died down with the application of medical attention, and shakes his head.  "Pour me one of those, man."

Dean purses his lips.

Yeah, keep up the bitch face all the way through this shit and I'll count it a win.

Dean does not hesitate. The next one he pours is for Sam. He lifts it up and hands it to him. Fine. Why the hell beat around the bush?