grianchloch | You Gave Away The Things You Loved And One Of Them Was Me

Title: You Gave Away The Things You Loved, And One Of Them Was Me
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: R for language
Word Count: 2096 (1048 x 2)
Disclaimer: Sadly, they aren't mine, I'm just playing with them for a while.
Betas:

seleneheart
Notes: A coda for Sympathy for the Devil told twice, once from Sam’s POV and once from Dean’s. Takes place immediately after Dean tells Sam how he feels right at the end of the episode. It was written before I saw Good God Y’all, so is based on how I imagined the boys to be feeling right at that moment.
Summary: After everything that’s happened and everything that’s been said, is there any way forward from here?

You Gave Away The Things You Loved …

It itches.

Under Sam’s skin, the brand on his ribs itches as he stands and watches Dean walk away from him.

Sam doesn’t even know why he follows, after several long moments of indecision, and gets into the Impala. If Dean’s given up on them, on him, he’s not sure there’s a point in sticking around. Sure, they’ve still got Lucifer to deal with, but if Dean can’t even consider the possibility of them fixing this, maybe they’d be better off going their separate ways.

Sam’s fingers involuntarily rub his chest through his shirt, searching for the outlines Castiel left there. He wonders if he’s so different now, if the demon blood changed him so much, that a gift from whatever Cas is now doesn’t sit right in his body. He hasn’t noticed Dean having the same problem. His brother is staring ahead, not looking at anything but the road, especially not looking at Sam.

He presses harder, and he thinks he feels the edge of something that wasn’t there before, scored into the bone, so he moves his fingers around, tracing the design where he can, wishing he could see it, see the marks he carries. He guesses it doesn’t matter, that he carries more than scars left behind by his entanglement with demons, but he’s curious, and it beats going over Dean’s words again.

If he’s honest with himself, he knows why he didn’t take off, why he won’t unless Dean tells him to go. It’s his penance. Because of him, the world is on the verge of ending. There is no limit to the misery he deserves to feel for what he’s done, but it’s not that he feels the need to suffer for to do penance for. Sam’s fingers are scratching his skin unconsciously now through the soft worn cotton.

He did betray Dean, did pick Ruby over him. His own betrayal, being manipulated into thinking he was doing the right thing, doesn’t matter. The bitch is dead now, but the damage is done, and she was right. He had choices, all along he had choices, but he chose the wrong path.

The blood made him feel strong, invincible, a better hunter than Dean. He convinced himself that he was looking for revenge for Dean, but now he has to face up to the fact that he did it for himself. He didn’t see it until the last day, until he’d lost Dean again. Until there wasn’t anything left but the hollow goal of that revenge. Until he drank a nurse dry after she’d begged for her life.

His fingernails dig through the fabric now, pressing painfully into this skin, as if subconsciously, he’s trying to dig the sigils off his ribs. They might be protective, but they weren’t asked for. He’s not sure he deserves to be protected.

“Quit it.” Dean’s voice over the low rumble of the Impala’s engine shocks him.

“What?”

“Quit scratching. It doesn’t stop the itching.” Dean’s curt.

As Sam glances at his brother, Dean grimaces and rubs at his own chest. Seeing proof that Dean feels it too, that it’s not a reaction of his tainted body is a relief to Sam and he drops his hand, wedging it between his thigh and the warm leather of the seat so he doesn’t start scratching again involuntarily.

“Guess not.” He doesn’t try to start a conversation, frankly he wouldn’t know how right now, and that hurts, but he bears it as best he can.

The motel’s near the hospital, so it’s only another couple of minutes until they reach it. Soon as they’re inside, Sam puts the laptop on the table by the window and sits down on one of the uncomfortable chairs. He starts to research. Anything and everything he can think of to help them find Lucifer before he touches down in some poor bastard and they are royally screwed.

“I’m going out.” Dean informs him curtly.

Sam doesn’t glance up as Dean leaves, knows there’s not much point but at least Dean doesn’t slam the door behind him.

By the time Dean gets back half an hour later, Sam’s still got squat. He rubs a hand over his eyes and goes back to staring at the screen. Dean’s brought pizza with him, Sam can smell it, and his stomach grumbles. He guesses he should head out soon himself, pick something up to eat. He puts his hand on the top edge of the laptop lid to close it, but the open pizza box slides across the table towards him, and nudges the laptop.

He looks up. Dean glances at him, just for a second, and nods towards the box.

Sam swallows uncertainly, but reaches out and takes a slice. He stills before it gets anywhere near his mouth and looks at what else is on the table. Two sodas, one that Dean’s already cracked open and is drinking deeply from, and two pieces of pie.

It’s the pie that gets to him. He can feel himself tearing up for a whole different pile of reasons than he did when Bobby disowned him. He bites the tears back and takes a bite of the pizza, chewing quietly. He looks intently at the screen, as if the meaning of life has suddenly revealed itself to him, but he’s not seeing a thing.

Dean finishes eating, washing his pie down with the last of his soda as Sam eats his, one small forkful at a time, making it last. If Dean notices, he doesn’t comment on why Sam is nibbling at it when he’d usually be wolfing it down. Instead, he goes to bed, the one closest to the door, stripping down to his boxers and slipping between the sheets.

Dean doesn’t trust him, and Sam gets that, gets why, even though it hurt worse than Zach breaking his legs to hear it. Dean feels betrayed and Sam understands that too, he’d feel the same if it were the other way round.

But now he knows that one thing hasn’t changed. Through all the anger and hurt, through everything they’ve been through, he’s still Dean’s brother. The proof of that is sitting on a plate in front of him and he savors every last crumb.

Dean brought him pie.

… And One Of Them Was Me

It aches.

Dean’s heart clenches in his chest and he resists the urge to rub his ribs, to soothe it through who knows what Cas branded them with for life.

He stares straight ahead, hands ready on the steering wheel but he waits until a shadow looms over the passenger door, until Sam opens it and silently gets inside the car. He didn’t know if he would, but all their stuff is back at the motel, so Dean faces the fact Sam might leave when they get there, and fires up the Impala’s engine.

He can’t take the words back. He doesn’t want to take them back. All the betrayal, all the lies cut too deep, deeper than physical wounds or invisible brands. He really doesn’t think they can ever go back.

Not a word is spoken as they set off for the motel. Dean doesn’t even glance at Sam. He doesn’t have to. He knows that he’ll see the desolation on Sam’s face that he put there, the dejected resignation and he wishes more than anything that he could take it away, but he can’t.

It hurts so damned much, the rejection and the way Sam sided with a demon over his own brother. And he knows he’s not blameless himself. If he’d handled some things differently, maybe …

But knowing that doesn’t take away the hurt, the fucking heartache. He wants to rage at Sam, scream until his lungs are sore. He wants to lay into Sam until he’s bruised and bleeding, to let everything he’s holding inside spill out, all the ugly, nasty feelings that are caught in his throat.

But he can’t.

He saw the look on Sam’s face when Bobby disowned him, the way he crumpled and shrunk in front of Dean’s eyes. He can’t do that. He may have hurt Sam with what he did say, but it’s nothing compared to how Sam would feel if he really let loose.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see movement as Sam claws at his chest. Dean knows it won’t help. There’s been an annoying and constant irritation under his skin since Castiel branded them, but scratching only makes it worse.

“Quit it.” Dean’s voice over the low rumble of the Impala’s engine shocks him.

“What?”

“Quit scratching. It doesn’t stop the itching.”

“Guess not.” Sam agrees, and then shuts up.

Dean grimaces and rubs at his own chest. Fucking Cas would never have thought to ask before marking them for life, but Dean had never been more thankful to see anyone before. Dean’s brow furrows a little. He knows that’s not true. It was seeing Sammy alive and bitching at him after he made the deal with the crossroads demon. Pisses him off that even when he’s beyond angry at the kid, everything always leads back to Sam.

Dean’s thankful Sam doesn’t try to start a conversation. There’s nothing he wants to say right now that wouldn’t come out wrong. It hurts again, that physical ache deep in his chest because he misses how easy it used to be between them. He misses the long rambling conversations that filled the gaps between hunts as they drove for hours, for days, stuck in the Impala with only each other for company. The snarking, the bitching, the bad jokes, the research. He wants it back so badly, but he can’t hope for the impossible, not anymore.

He’d rather make do with what they have now. Together, but not. Brothers, but not. No promises of what could be, no false hope, just this.

A few minutes later, they’re back at the motel, and Dean dumps his bag on the bed nearest the door. He hasn’t eaten for hours, and his stomach reminds him of that.

"I'm going out." Dean leaves without another word.

There's nothing to say, really, and he knows Sam won't try to apologize again. That's good, because that's not what he wants. He wants to go back in time, wants to shake Sam and make him understand how dangerous, how fucked up it was, playing with the power inside him like that. But he can’t ever get what he wants so he tries to push thoughts of what was and what could have been away.

He wanders into the pizza place, too tired to want to spend time in a bar. Drinking won't help, and he doesn't think there's any point in picking up a girl. He's too numb to care, and that's saying something.

He orders automatically. The largest they’ve got with pepperoni and extra black olives. Two sodas, two pieces of pie. Black olives are Sam's favorite. Dean sighs and turns to look out of the window while he waits for his order. Some things are too much a part of him to change.

When he gets back, Sam's still sitting at the table, staring at the screen. Dean sits down and opens the pizza box. Sam keeps his head down and two slices later, Dean notices that Sam’s not eating. Then it hits him. Sam thinks it's Dean's pizza, and Dean wonders if he's even seen the soda or the pie.

He pushes the box until it nudges the laptop, and Sam looks up, warily. Dean nods towards the box and after a moment’s hesitation, Sam takes a slice and begins to eat. His eyes flick to the soda and then to the pie, and they widen just a little. Dean has to look away. There's a sliver of hope in Sam's eyes, small and weak, but it's there.

Dean didn't want to give him hope, because he doesn't know if there is any.

He's mad at Sam, so mad he doesn't want to let it out. Better to be cold, clinical. Less chance that everything will spill out then, on both sides. But Sam will always be his brother, nothing can change that. They can't go back, that's a given, so the only way is forward and Dean doesn't know where they'll end up. So he can't give Sam any hope, but he'll never let him starve. So no, they aren't what they were, but Dean will always love Sam, even if right now he hates him a little too.

And he'll always bring him pie.