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[He huffs a breath, teetering on a laugh.

It's easy enough to slip into their carefully maintained status quo from years back:]

... It's Sam.

[It reminds him too much of the first time he'd died. That moment when he'd crumpled into Dean's arms after Jake had stabbed him in the back — and then... then that moment he'd rushed into the room after he woke up, crushing him into an embrace as his back throbbed painfully. Life and death? No, it's death and life. The correct order, for a Winchester.

His body stiffens as his ribs twinge suddenly, biting his lip to cut off the sound of wince.]

[ The laugh is strained, choked out into Sam's shoulder as Dean grips his brother far too tightly for someone with aching ribs.

But he can't let go - it's not dissimilar to when Dean first showed up here and couldn't keep a hand off his brother's shoulder; he wasn't sure any of it was real.

That's kind of like now. Dean knows, logically (or illogically, because the system here simply makes no sense), that Sam is back, that he is right here in front of Dean's face. Sam is warm and solid, risen from the grave (again, he thinks), and he's faced with the same predicament - the terrifying uncertainty if any of this is real.

It sure feels real, though. Sam's too skinny body that stiffens under Dean's crushing embrace feels pretty damn real, and he loosens his hold in favor of resting his hands on his brother's shoulder's and pulling back to get a better look at him. ]

Sorry, sorry - I'm just glad to see you up and around. [ It's about now that he gets a good look at Sam's face, and his expression turns from relief to confusion to anger. ] The hell happened to you?

[Sam shakes his head — which kind of makes him stumble, because he’s actually not all that good on his feet right now. But he’s got Dean as a crutch, and he figures that one hand on either of Dean’s arms right now will give him a little leeway.]

... Nothing I didn’t have coming, Dean.

Doesn’t matter. It’s done.

[He just needs to clean up, accept the cuts and bruises like he does any of their particularly bad hunts, and move on. He’s had plenty of injuries over the years; this doesn’t have to be any different.]

Careful.

[ He's got you, he's got you. Dean grips his elbow, carefully guiding him into his little rustic cabin, towards the little rickety table and chairs in his kitchen. ]

C'mon, sit. Got you a drink and a few pears, some chick named Ariadne grows them. You can tell me who smashed your face in.

Dean....

[The sound of discontent, there. But he allows Dean to help him get to a chair, because he’s honestly dead tired and hot to the touch, and he would sleep forever and a day right about now. The idea of eating is... not nice. Even more so than usual.

More important things to address:]

I’ve learned to it go, Dean.

You should this time, too.

[ He sets a pear in front of Sam. His brother doesn't have to drink the whiskey, but he should probably eat a little something. A pear seems pretty nonoffensive and it's probably the most palatable thing Sam would eat that Dean has in his house. ]

Would you say the same, if I showed up at your place lookin' like that?

[ Because if yes, rude, but he feels like Sam would probably be pretty mad if someone smashed Dean's face in over something he couldn't really control. ]

[Sam very maturely plays with his food instead, rolling it around slowly with his hand. The idea of eating right now is kind of scary, so he opts to hold off as long as Dean lets him.

His gaze turns downward, eyes shadowed.]

This wasn’t a bar fight after a pool game, Dean. I killed people. Good people who had trusted me.

[His fingers twitch, as memories hit him — one, two, three, like punches to his gut. He closes his eye tight, a familiar old panic making his chest tight.]

Think one was a kid. She wasn’t even out of school yet.

She was just trying to protect someone else, and I...

No. Wrong, do not pass go, don't collect 200 bucks.

[ Dean settles across from Sam, picking up the glass he'd poured for himself, gesturing at Sam with it as he fixes him with a sharp gaze before taking a long, deep swig.

It burns all the way down, settling in his stomach like fire. ]

Lucifer. Lucifer killed people. Not you.

I said yes. Everything else, it doesn’t matter; I said yes, and I broke the seal, and I lied and lied and turned into what I did, and this is what happened.

[He slumps on his elbows, runs his hands over his stringy hair. The slur in his voice seems more pronounced. Probably because he’d just recently gotten his head punched in.

It’s hard to — to control his thoughts.

Everything just... spills out.]

Stop acting like this isn’t my fault. It’s his fault, but it’s my fault, and now people have died; he made sure I saw every second so I wouldn’t forget it, and he made sure it wasn’t quick; I begged him not to, but that’s never worked, and then you showed up and — I just couldn’t do it again, Dean.

I had to do it. I’m sorry, I...

[Looking at his hands, he chokes out:]

God, I’m going crazy all over again.

You said yes because I left you no choice. I threw you to the damn wolves, let hunter after hunter find you, until you didn't think you had any other alternative. If anyone's to blame here, it's me. We know that. This is on me. I told us to pick a hemisphere, I left you, I didn't let you back in.

[ He exhales, shaky, because the words spilling out haven't really been voiced. Not to anyone corporeal. He's screamed at God, the angels, but no one ever listened. Not then, not now. ]

We should've worked this out together. You never should have faced any of that shit alone. I should've been there.

[ He has no idea if this is shit his brother needs to hear, but there it is. Laid bare, on the table, all his cards. ]

I am so sorry. I dunno what I can do to fix what I did, but I swear, I'm gonna keep tryin'.

[Sam huffs a breath.]

You wouldn’t have had to ditch me if I weren’t the world’s worst brother... and the world’s worst shot at stopping an apocalypse. Kind of matters in context.

[He rubs a knuckle under his eye, sits quietly while the air around them relaxes. It’s good to just say it all; it’s easier to breathe when he has Dean to talk to and not a motel room wall, or the devil.]

You thought you were doing the right thing. You couldn’t have known. I didn’t want you to know some of what went down. Didn’t want you to feel some kind of obligation —

[He stops, swallows hard.]

Or maybe I was scared I screwed up so much, you wouldn’t feel much of anything at all. I don’t know.

Edited 2021-04-16 01:26 (UTC)

[ It's all the things they've wanted to say for the last five years, but didn't - and then couldn't. It's cathartic to get them off his chest now. ]

Shut up, Sam. [ It's said with affection, but also - he means it. No more of that. ] You aren't the world's worst brother. You made mistakes. Like really...really big demon fucking mistakes, but I mean...hell, so have I. [ less demon fucking, more breaking the first seal AMONG MANY OTHERS, but. you know. Now isn't the time to name them off individually. ]

We both have.

[ God, they've just ruined the damn world, haven't they. He reaches for the bottle, pours himself a refill, and he points at the pear. Eat it. It's full of liquidy good things. Just don't barf it on his table. ]

It is my obligation, but that ain't a bad thing, Sammy. I've been looking out for you my whole life and the second it got hard, I...what, walked off? Bailed? Nah. That was wrong. I was wrong. We're family, and that means something to me.

[ He'd been, so wrong. And even if Dean wishes he'd said yes to Michael, he...wishes he'd called Sam back, more. They could've fought back. The other Sam is evidence of that. ]

I want to put this crap behind us.

Edited 2021-04-16 01:52 (UTC)

The angels and demons probably deserve a little blame... Probably more than us, right?

[That’s a fucking breakthrough, okay. Blaming someone other than himself. He picks up the pear and frowns at it like it has personally slighted him.]

... I just wanted to go to college, man.

[It’s kind of funny, in that, uh... dark way their lives are. Looking up at Dean, he smiles weakly. Split lip and all.]

... Thanks for letting me know.

That it’s not all — too late now.

I guess.

Y’might have to have this talk with me again, if this spell actually works. I won’t remember any of this... so I hope you’re not out of sharing and caring after this.

Oh, hell yeah. They're literally the whole damn reason any of this happened to us in the first place. Using us as vessels, what the hell is that kind of crap? Where's the free will humans are supposed to have?

[ Stupid. It's all stupid. Angels suck. Lucifer sucks. Demons suck. ]

It's not too late, man. At least, I don't think so - and hell, ifwe can forgive each other, I think we might have a shot.

But I'm gonna be honest, it's gonna be real hard to tell you all this again. We should've recorded it. [ A tiny, tiny little smile. ]

[Snerk.]

Dude, I don't have anything I need to forgive you for.

[Maybe forever ago, he would have quietly forgave that Dean sold his soul; it was easily one of the most hurtful, horrible things his brother could have ever done for him. Worse than walking away, worse than locking him up. Being brought back just to lose his only family left...? What was he supposed to do with that?

But that feels like... god, like a century ago. And it's not like he doesn't get it.]

... Make sure to get my good side.

[... Oh, right. He's gonna try to eat a pear when his jaw feels like it's about to fall off. He carefully takes a bite, chews so slowly that he feels ninety. The busted tooth in the back of his mouth is not exactly happy with him, right about now, and his stomach is already recoiling at food before any even reaches it. But if Dean wants him to eat right now, he's gonna damn well try.

(And then hurl later, out of Dean's view.)

... He winces, but not at the effort of chewing.]

Since we're on the topic of apologizing for things, I'm, uh. I'm sorry for putting you through that. In the — the forest. For hurting you — [He stops, for once self-aware, and says with effort-] For not stopping Lucifer from hurting you. Like that.

[ It had been done in desperation. Dean had gone to that demon expecting ten years, not one - but Sam was always the one who should have lived, not Dean. It made sense at the time, to try to give him that chance. ]

I'm sure you can think of something. [ That he needs forgiving for, anyway. Dean can probably fill up a notepad of shit he's done.

He swirls the glass absently on the table, watching the amber liquid slosh. ]

Hard to stop a friggin' archangel, Sammy. We both know that. You got him, in the end.

[He nods, watching the glass in Dean's hand.]

... If I'm being honest, I, uh. [Should he say this? Dean's been through the wringer with him, and it almost feels wrong to say. But maybe Sam at least deserves this one good thing. If anyone else will ever see it as one good thing, anyway.] I felt really good, finally being able to do it.

Killing the devil, I mean.

[He laughs weakly, so weakly that it hardly constitutes a laugh anymore, but there's a small smile on his face all the same.]

I didn't... banish him, or - or get him out of my body, but I killed him. And he was so angry I could do it. I shot the devil in the head, and there wasn't anything he could do about it, and it felt... good.

[The last word comes out guilty, despite himself.

Because he knows it wasn't... good. What happened was a nightmare.

But god, he killed him. He killed him. Makes him want to cry, honestly.]

[ It's...

Fucked up, a little, but Dean gets it, you know? He understands it, on a chemical level. Killing that yellowed eyed son of a bitch, God that had felt good. ]

Guess I was right. [ He takes a sip of his drink, a long one, letting it burn down his throat. ] The rules are different here.

[He nods, and looks stomach-churningly victorious in the way he beams, lip raw and swollen and tainting that usually toothy smile. Like everything's gonna be okay, for all the wrong reasons.]

Yeah. The colt works. Maybe even other weapons that wouldn't have before. It's better than nothing. [It's a little sliver of hope Sam doesn't usually allow himself. And it's also fucked up, in ways that are a little too clear. But give him this, alright?] Either way, Lucifer's weak right now. Baby bird weak.

... We've got time again.

Edited 2021-04-18 03:42 (UTC)

Good, good. [ Baby bird weak is a good thing, he guesses. At the expense of Sam's health and sanity, but. Sure. It's good.

God, this is so ridiculously fucked up; it makes Dean's stomach turn over on itself, bile rising in the back of his throat. He takes another drink, a smaller one, lets it wash the acid back down, whiskey settling warm in his belly. ]

There's five bullets left. [ Dean says, though he's not keen on letting Sam get his hands on the gun again - he's not sure he can go through that again and come out unscathed. ] But let's focus on that spell of yours, huh?

[Sam nods, relaxing in his chair a bit. He feels kind of... tired. Maybe sleep would be a bad idea right now, though; dad always did warn them excessively about head injuries. Never underestimate a concussion, and all of that.]

... Right. Spell. Other Sam, he's hopefully been working on it while I've been, uh... out of commission. We were gonna try to talk to Cynthia Sodder, since she'd possibly know how to read the language from this universe.

I'll get in touch with him.

[He makes a great effort to take another bite of pear, grimacing.

The thumping pain his jaw makes him think of Dean, though.

Not the Dean sitting in front of him, but the Dean slumped against a tree.

Bloody. Broken. Looking at him in panic.]

... You're okay, right? I — he hurt you pretty good back there, and...

[ He nods, because that's smart. Utilize the resources they have, and thing one and two are a good combination. They're fucking nerds obsessed with lore and whatnot, it's good to team them up. ]

I'm okay.

[ Okay as in..he's alive, Cas healed him, it's fine, everything is good.

Sort of.

Mentally, it's all another story, because Dean is fucked up ten ways from last Sunday, and he's a hair trigger from doing something stupid, just the slightest push, a whisper of air and he's gone.

He watches his brother, his baby brother, with the swollen face and the shut eye and he resolves to do something about it, fix it in other way he knows how, by figuring out who did it and fucking them up in return.

For now, he settles on getting up, grabbing a clean towel and dampening it a little, then coming over to slowly, gently, wipe his forehead. ]

Cas healed me, I'm good. I promise.

[Sam lets Dean do whatever he needs to without complaint. If he's honest, every reminder that his brother doesn't hate him, hasn't given up on him, it makes him a little stronger. A little more sure of himself. It may not have been strong enough to keep Lucifer from taking over inevitably, but it was strong enough for Sam to return long enough. Long enough to do what was right.

He doesn't regret that, not for a second. But he knows what it does to someone, to watch their brother die. Dean does, too, of course, but Sam... Sam's had to live with it for a long time. More than once.

He's buried Dean twice. Put him in a grave because his hands shook too much to start a lighter for a pyre. But the shovel, he just had to grip it hard enough to hurt. The touch when it comes to a Winchester tending to another Winchester's wounds can depend on their mood, on their grievances: a slap on some sutures after black dog clawmarks, an elbow to a pan-sized bruise from an angry poltergeist. But the care right now is careful and easy; reminds him of the kind of caution they'd all have with each other when they thought the other was done for. A relief that becomes something softer than a bunch of macho dudes in their grimy hotels.

Some of the softest scenes he's ever had with his father, that's for sure.

Wincing, gritting the aching teeth on an aching jaw, he sits patiently.]

... Cas doesn't heal everything.

[He says it quietly, guilty as charged.]

I know... I know this time I made the right choice.

But I'm — sorry for how it happened.

[ He gave up once and he's spent the last five years rotting without his brother. Dean won't make that mistake again. ]

I know you are. So am I.

[ Dean isn't a sappy guy, no chick flick moments; he isn't about to coo and pat Sam's head and tell him everything is okay, it's all fine. No, he knows Sam is sorry. They're both sorry as hell for a lot of things; things both avoidable and not.

He looks at the towel in his hand and makes a little face. ]

I got a first aid kit. Sit tight.

[ One of those things he'd picked up along the way, because that seems like the kind of thing you'd need around here, in a place like this. ]

[He hums tiredly at that, figures Dean'll know it translates to 'yeah yeah, I won't move'. Now that he's off his feet, the world isn't quite spinning so violently, so that's nice. While he's okay enough to do it, he quietly catalogues his injuries with his hands, which are... pretty much untouched; not a cut or bruise on them, because he hadn't so much as lifted a finger to stop Raleigh. Cut lip, gashed cheekbones, bruised ribs, no breaks (he thinks?) — ah, yeah broken nose. He hisses at the sharp ache, drops his hand.

... He may or may not abandon the pear in exchange for the whiskey.

It's one of those days.

It burns something awful, but the pain's not so bad. He's had worse.]

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