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Of Guilt and Redemption 2/2

December 16th, 2006 (06:47 pm)

feeling: amused

See part one for notes and disclaimers.

Of Guilt and Redemption 2/2


Sam stopped seizing before the ambulance got there, but then he was so still that Dean had to keep his hand on his pulse just to make sure it was still there.

The paramedics were efficient and professional, and their words were clipped and to the point. They were next to Sam, looking at Sam, looking up at him, asking questions.

He didn't remember talking, didn't remember what he said, didn't even know what the word seizure meant anymore.

They rolled Sam onto a backboard and situated him on a gurney. They flashed lights in Sam’s eyes and tested his reflexes and frowned at the response. Sam was still through it all; his face slack when the positioned the oxygen over his face, his arm malleable as they started the IV. It was almost like Sam wasn’t there anymore and that scared Dean more than anything else.

When they took Sam out, Dean followed. His eyes never left Sam, not in the morning light, not in the ambulance as they made the bumping ride to the hospital.


The paramedic talked fast, faster than Dean could keep up with. He heard something about a 23-year-old male and seizure and brother but that was about it. He kept his attention on Sam, who was still unnervingly unmoving.

He didn’t even notice entering the trauma room, but when he looked up again, there was a team of people moving around him and Sam was being moved from one gurney to another.

"What happened?"

They were hooking Sam up to new monitors, checking things and prodding at his brother. Then Dean realized they were talking to him.

"What happened?"

"He had a headache," Dean said, his mind racing. "He just had a headache and then he went down."

"Seizure," the paramedic filled in, collecting his things.

The doctor nodded absently as he went about checking Sam’s motor reflexes. "Has he had any other symptoms? Any other behavior out of the ordinary?"

Dean blanked. Out of the ordinary? Like what? Getting attacked by malevolent spirits? Killer scarecrows? Not that those were actually out of the ordinary, but—

"You say he had a headache—for how long? Sensitivity to light? Sleepiness?"

Dean snapped back to attention. "Yeah, he’s had all those. For about four days."

Surprise registered on the doctor’s face and he moved in with a penlight toward Sam. Deftly he lifted each lid, checking their response before commenting quietly to a nurse.

"What?" Dean demanded.

The doctor looked up again, smiling wanly at Dean. "His optic nerve is swollen."

"What does that mean?"

The paramedics were packed and leaving and now a small team of nurses was milling about, checking monitors and leads. The doctor had his stethoscope on Sam’s exposed chest. "It’s suggestive of increased pressure of the brain."

Dean’s eyes widened in concern. "What are you talking about?"

The doctor signed a chart, shrugging somewhat noncommittally. "It’s hard to say at this point. His vitals are stable for now. We’re going to get him a CT and run some blood work, and we should know more then."

Dean wanted to ask more, to say something, but his voice wouldn’t work.

"Would someone please show him to the waiting room?"

He didn’t want to, but a force he couldn’t control that led him gently from the room. There was a moment of dejavu as he felt himself pull away from Sam, watching his brother, standing in the middle of a roadway, watching him leaving.

It hadn’t felt right to leave then; it didn’t feel right to leave now; but Dean followed orders, and left anyway.


The waiting room was cold, and Dean shivered in his t-shirt, wondering absently why he hadn’t thought to bring his jacket. But he supposed that making sure your little brother was alive trumped personal comfort.

But he was cold—his hair stood up all along his arms. Why weren’t they telling him anything?

He filled out the forms with distractedly. As quickly as he could, he slapped down his fake medical insurance and resumed his waiting.

He recognized the doctor from the trauma room. Now Dean could see that he was a middle-aged man, slightly balding with a baby face. His eyes were soft and soulful, and Dean imagined he had given a puppy dog look or two in his day. When he turned them on Dean, they were sympathetic, and Dean's heart fluttered.

"How is he?"

"Mr. Lyons, my name is Dr. Hootman. I was the one treating your brother, Sam."

"How is he?" Dean asked again, ignoring the formalities.

"Sam is still deeply unconscious, which isn’t uncommon after a seizure of the scale Sam experienced. However, we are worried about the cause of the seizure—we’re noting an increase in the pressure in his brain and it’s at a level that warrants our concern."

"Will he be okay?"

The doctor looked pensive, his voice softening. "Sam’s red blood cell count was low. Our tests have ruled out infection, which meant he was probably anemic because of a bleed. With the swelling of the optic nerve and the seizure, we did a head CT that revealed the source of a hemorrhage in Sam’s brain. We’ve already called down neurology to consult on your brother’s case. Sam will most likely then be redlined to surgery to correct the hemorrhage."

The facts didn’t compute. "A hemorrhage? But—how? He hasn’t hit his head."

"Not all hemorrhages are caused by an external trauma."

"So what then? Sam’s brain just randomly started to bleed?"

"Not exactly. There are a variety of other things that can cause a brain hemorrhage?"


The doctor sighed a little before continuing. "Well, for example, it could be a ruptured aneurysm. It’s not common but it happens, and such bleeds are known to cause strokes from time to time."

Dean recoiled. "You’re saying Sam’s had a stroke?"

"Not exactly."

"Sam’s 23 years old!" Dean exploded. "Things like this don’t just happen."

The doctor remained calm. "They’re not common," he agreed. "And I can’t say exactly why it happened, but just that it has happened. The CT has located the bleed in the cerebrum. We need to correct it right away in order to prevent further pressure build up. If it goes on much longer, it could cause more serious complications."

"Such as?"

There was a pause and the doctor took a breath. "It could lead to some permanent impairment with his speech or his ability to swallow—maybe even partial paralysis. In worst-case scenarios, it can lead to cognitive impairment, possibly even death."

The words felt like blows and Dean felt himself wavering. "He could die?"

Dr. Hootman’s hand gently rested on Dean’s shoulder. "Don’t get ahead of yourself, son," he comforted. "Sam is critical, but with treatment, he could make a full recovery. Neurology will be down to assess him and then we’ll figure out his treatment. Until then, you need to stay optimistic. Okay?"

Dean must have nodded, must have agreed, because the doctor was smiling slightly at him, telling him that he’d talk to him when he knew more.

Then Dean was alone again, standing in a half filled waiting room, wondering how the hell this turned out so badly.


The neurologist was a petite Asian woman in her 40s who spoke in a perfunctory and short fashion. She waved a form at Dean, and tried to get him to sign. "The surgery is his only chance. In Sam’s case, with an ICH so severe, this won’t correct itself. We need to stop the hemorrhage and drain the excess fluid off Sam’s brain in order to give him a fighting chance."

Dean wanted odds, wanted to know that Sam would be okay.

"The brain is a tricky thing," she said with a half smile. "There are many possible complications. But Sam’s chances get worse the longer we wait. I need you to sign."

And Dean signed without feeling the pen in his hands.


Dean wasn't good at being alone.

He supposed that was why he was so angry at Sam to begin with. He needed Sam, and Sam left; instead of admitting his own need, he lashed out at the one person he needed for being the person needed.

Not that Dean would ever admit that, because he was Dean, big brother, fearless, snarky, smooth talker. Nothing fazed him.

Well, nothing but waiting rooms. He could have turned his charm on to the girl across the way—20-sometihng, long brown hair, tight blue dress. She didn't even look sad, just kind of bored, alternating between filing her nails and reading a magazine.

But Dean didn't want to, not at all, because all he wanted was his brother. He wanted Sam. He didn't care if Sam brooded, sulked, or ignored him--hell, he didn't care if Sam shot him, he just wanted his brother.

How the hell had they ended up here anyway? 23 year olds don't just develop bleeds in the brain, no matter what the doctor tells him.

No, it had to be something else. Something...supernatural.

Sam's visions?

But he hadn't had one in a long time, so that didn't seem likely.

Had Sam hit his head during their stint apart?

That didn't seem probable either--the doctor had seen no sign of trauma. Sam had barely been involved in the scarecrow case. That just left the asylum.

Dean suppressed a shudder.

He did not want to remember the asylum. He didn't want to remember those deranged patients, those stupid kids, that psychotic doctor--

But despite all of it, it had turned out okay. Right?

Dean's mind screamed denial and for a moment he felt the electricity of Ellicott's hands burning through his skull with a clarity that made him nauseous.

No. It wasn't possible. The damage had been reversed. Dean had burned the bones and Sam had been normal again--his same old complaining, defiant self.

So this had to be coincidence.

There was simply no other explanation.

His mind raced. 

Sam, holding the shotgun.

Sam, spewing words of hatred.

Sam, his nose dripping blood.

Dean's stomach roiled.

He had only received a small dose—which had been bad enough—but Ellicott had given Sam the supernatural equivalent of a lobotomy. While clearly the supernatural impetus was gone, did that mean the damage was gone too? Could it have had longstanding physical side effects?

He traced Sam's behaviors since they'd left the asylum. Sam had been irritable, moody--but he was always that way.

But he'd also been distant, spacing off--

Dean's heart almost stopped. Absence seizures.

The nosebleeds, the headaches, the sensitivity to light. They'd all appeared in the days since they'd left Rockford. And now, seizure, bleed in the brain, possibility of long term damage--

It all added up. And the answer wasn’t good.

Ellicott had screwed with Sam's head. Dean may have stopped it from continuing, but the trauma was still the same.

Sam had been supernaturally altered and Dean hadn’t picked up on it for four days—he’d been too busy resenting Sam to realize that something was seriously wrong with his kid brother.

And now here they were. In a hospital, Sam unconscious with a brain hemorrhage, and Dean left with nothing but an empty feeling growing in the pit of his stomach.


Sam’s doctor looked exhausted, and Dean couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad thing.

"First of all, Sam pulled through surgery. He’s still in recovery, but we hope to extubate him and transfer him to ICU within the hour," she began. She paused, gauging Dean carefully.

"And?" Dean prompted. He was tired of waiting. He wanted answer. "How did the surgery go?"

"I closed off the base of the aneurysm with clamps to prevent the flow of blood through the aneurysm. Then I performed a ventriculostomy to drain off the accumulated fluids and placed a shunt," she said, motioning behind her ear. "He has slipped into a coma, but it’s not as heavy as it could be. We’ll need to monitor his intracranial pressure and watch for possible hypertension or irregular breathing patterns, but we’ll just have to wait and see how he does."

The doctor’s monologue had subdued Dean, made him feel meek, and he listened without question, his eyes falling steadily to the floor. He may not have understood the details, but he got the gist well enough. This woman had dug around in Sam’s brain and put his little brother back together and now all they could do was wait and see if it worked.

"Once he's settled, you can see him," she concluded.

Dean had nothing to do be nod his understanding, even though he didn’t get it—why they were here, how they’d ended up like this—no, he didn’t get it at all.


The ICU was on the third floor. The nurse had pointed him to the elevator and Dean had walked inside numbly, his body moving, but his mind detached.

The hospital was busy, and the elevator was full. Dean watched the people crowding in, grim faces, downcast eyes. One was holding a bundle of balloons. A man in a business suit checked his watch and chewed his lip.

The hospital was old, probably in need of funds. The doors squeaked to a close and it lurched as it began its upward journey.

Someone sneezed. Someone else muttered, "Bless you."

But Dean couldn't hear them. Couldn't see them. Because Sam was in the ICU, in a coma, with a shunt in his head, recovering from brain surgery.

The elevator stuttered to a stop and for a second, Dean thought he would lose his lunch. He nudged passed the other occupants and took a step into the hallway, trying to breathe deep, to keep breathing, just to keep going.


Sam was stretched out on the bed, wires and tubing stringing from his body, attached to machines and monitors. The room hummed so loudly that Dean was certain he could feel it rattling inside of him.

But Sam was still, motionless on the bed, eyes closed in sleep.

Not sleep.

Sam never slept like that. So straight, so still--it looked unnatural.

Dean reminded himself that it was unnatural. Sam was in a coma, after all.

He shuffled toward the bed, leaning heavily on the bedrail. For a moment, he tried to smile, tried to offer some semblance of strength.

But the monitors beeped and Sam didn't move, and Dean had no one to comfort except himself.


Hours passed, long and undefined. He was ushered to and from Sam's room as visitor's privileges applied. The nurses liked him though, and smiled sympathetically as they let him linger longer by Sam's side.

Sam wasn't much company, though, as the coma remained constant.

Dean found ways to pass the time though. He was nothing if not inventive.

After a day, Dean had studied all the equipment—he had peppered the nurses with questions on it, and now knew what every device did, what every monitor was telling him.

Not that it did him any good, because none of them told him anything except that Sam wasn’t awake yet.

He had counted off the size of Sam’s room by paces and knew how many ceiling tiles went across the room.

He had even memorized the way Sam’s hair curled, even dirty, the way the strands fell haphazardly over his head.

The doctors said that Sam was holding his own, that the pressure was down, that they’d just have to wait and see. They kept their optimism guarded, but heralded it as optimism nonetheless.

But none of it mattered, because Sam didn't move, stayed so still that he could have been lying in a casket just as easily as a hospital bed.

He just wanted Sam to wake up. He wanted to see the kid smile, see the dimples light up his face, see the plaintive puppy dog look in his eyes.

He would even take Sam shooting at him, telling him that he hated him--

Dean clenched his teeth. Sam's words at the asylum were still so fresh, so real, so painful. It didn't matter that he'd baited Sam. Didn't even matter that Sam hadn't been in control of himself. Those words came from inside his brother, just as surely as Sam's anger and frustration had boiled over in the car to Indiana. They were real.

Sam thought he was weak. Sam resented the way he followed orders. Sam wanted him to be different. Sam hated him.

No, Sam didn't hate him. In all of Sam's ranting, he had never once said that he hated him. Dean had tried to put those words in Sam’s mouth, had chosen to believe Sam’s finger on the trigger was enough. But deep down, past the tight place where nothing but pain dwelled, he knew the truth.

Sam could never hate him, anymore than Dean could ever hate Sam.

They could be mad, frustrated, annoyed, aggravated, and even ready to hit each other, but they could never hate.

And, truth be told, Dean knew there was plenty of reason for them to be mad, frustrated, annoyed and aggravated. Both of them.

There were a lot of things Sam didn't get. Like why it was so important to hunt. Why bow hunting was more important than soccer. Why their dad had to kick him out instead of plead for him to stay. Why Dean, the big, strong, capable brother that he was, showed up on Sam's doorstep asking for help.

"I can't do this alone."

"Yes, you can."

"Yeah, but I don't want to."

And Sam had come. Sam had given up everything and come with him. Even before his "normal" life had gone up in flames, before he’d lost everything he’d left for in the first place, Sam had gone with him. He hadn’t intended to stay with Dean—he was still committed to Jess and law school and whatever the future had in store for him. But he had gone with Dean when Dean had asked.

When all was said and done, they’d both paid a price they’d never expected to pay for that reunion, for that display of love and brotherhood.

And Sam would never probably understand that while Dean hated that Jessica had to die, he was so very grateful to have his brother back.

Dean scoffed. It was a wonder Sam didn't hate him.

Because Sam had lost everything for this. And Dean had always been sympathetic to the loss of Jessica, but he'd never been sympathetic to Sam's loss of a dream.

Sam wanted more. He wanted a life beyond hunting. He wanted normal, college, an 8-5 job, a wife, a house, two kids. Those were Sam's dreams and Dean had never taken them seriously. Not when Sam walked away for them. Not when Sam stayed away for them. Not when they were nothing more than smoke and charred remains.

"It's a two-way street."

Sam had been crying out for understanding since he was a kid, and all Dean could do was throw Dad's rules at them. Even when Sam was vulnerable and hurting, all Dean could see was how Sam could have made life much easier if he'd just been happy with hunting, if he'd just played along, if he'd just been the good little soldier--

If he'd just been like Dean.

He sighed, letting his head drop to his chest. He'd messed this up so badly. If only he'd never followed Dad's orders. If only he'd been more leery of the coordinates, if only he'd given Sam's desire to head to California more merit--he could have prevented all of this.

Why would anyone expect Sam to stay in a family that never listened to him?

Dean felt like he was going to be sick, and he swallowed hard against it. Part of him wanted to touch his brother, to reach out to him, to make Sam feel less alone.

But he had never done it when Sam was awake, so why should he do it now when it would be more for him than it was for Sam?

How much time had he spent angry at Sam? Wishing that Sam was on the same page? Wishing that Sam hadn’t pulled that trigger and confirmed all Dean’s greatest fears? There was a rift between them now, one that Dean felt growing wider and deeper, no matter how hard he tried, and no matter how he tried, the blame kept shifting back to him.

When Sam pulled the trigger, it had been Ellicott's meddling that made him do it.

When Dean ripped his brother's heart to shreds, he had no angry spirit to blame.

And he called Sam selfish.

They were both selfish. They both wanted their own thing, their own way, and were narrow-minded in their pursuit of it. For Sam, maybe that was normalcy, something beyond the hunt. For Dean, it was family, loyalty. They had opposing worldviews but were bound together by an inexplicable love that defied it all. It was why Sam came back for him in Indiana. Because having each other was more important than being right.

That's what Sam had showed him.

Or was trying to show him when Dean pushed him away.

He’d messed this up so badly. He’d been the one who wanted to go to Rockford. He’d been the one who wanted to split up. And then he’d been the one to tell Sam that he didn’t want to talk about it, to push it aside and let it fester, unchecked between them.

Sam had been the victim. Sam had been the one Ellicott had messed with. Dean had felt what Ellicott could do, and he'd done a whole lot worse to Sam.

Yet it was Dean who had broken Sam's spirit, Dean who had put the unloaded pistol in Sam's hand, Dean who had pushed Sam to fall in line then felt hurt when his brother followed orders.

That’s what Ellicott had really done to Sam. He'd stripped Sam of his ability to reason, to think, and left him with nothing more than raw and exposed emotions. Dean had easily manipulated Sam into doing what he'd wanted, getting him to pull the trigger if only to prove to himself that Sam really was the selfish one.

He'd manipulated Sam when Sam was compromised. He'd taken advantage of his brother and then had the audacity to be angry at Sam for his weakness.

There was no way Sam could have fought of Ellicott's suggestion. Seizures, coma, brain surgery and a shunt was all it took to prove that to Dean.

His head fell, and he felt the tears spike in his eyes. Next to him, Sam slept on, unchanged.

The apology caught in Dean's throat. It needed to be said, but Sam couldn't hear it right now anymore than Dean could speak it.


The doctors said Sam should be waking up soon, which was the good news.

They also said to expect some cognitive repercussions--lots of big words Dean didn't understand. But the gist of it was that Sam may be weak on his right side—maybe even paralyzed, Sam may have speech troubles, swallowing troubles—a host of difficulties that scared Dean, but the possibility that Sam might never wake up scared him more.

Sam still looked like crap—though he seemed to be moving more. Well, shifting some at least—tiny movements, nearly imperceptible really, but enough to keep Dean on the edge of his seat.

Dean was angry that they still made him leave, but the nurses, no matter how much they liked him, seemed to be sticklers for policy. When he sauntered in after morning rounds the third morning, he was greeted by Sam’s neurologist. "Good news," she said, a smile on her face. "Sam woke up."

Dean’s heart fluttered and he started to move passed her. She restrained him with a gentle hand on his arm. "We need to talk."

Dean’s momentary optimism plummeted. "He’s okay, right? I mean, he’s alright."

"He is alert and oriented and responds to verbal commands. However, his right side is weakened right now and he’s still having a little difficulty speaking. It’s likely that these problems will recede with time and minor therapy. However, you need to be aware of his condition. It’s not clear he remembers what happened—I explained it to him, but he seemed rather anxious to see you."

Nerves uncoiled in Dean’s chest. "So I can see him?"

Her smile was warm. "Yes. And talk to him, try to engage him. He probably won’t speak much, and try not to push him too much. Right now he still needs to rest."

Dean was barely listening and was already half way through the door by the time she finished.


The bed was slightly elevated and Sam was still splayed across it, mostly limp, his dark hair falling in untidy locks about his head. But his eyes were open and he was looking around the room tiredly.

"Hey," Dean said with an easy smile, moving toward the edge of the bed.

Sam’s eyes focused slowly on him and he looked like he wanted to speak.

"I’m sorry I wasn’t here," he said, pulling a chair up to the bed. "Rules, you know. But I’m here now."

Sam’s anxiety continued to skyrocket, and he shifted in the bed, struggling to swallow.

"Relax, Sam," he said softly, leaning in closer, letting his hand rest on Sam’s. "You’re going to be okay."

Sam looked confused, maybe a little scared, and he looked doubtfully into his brother’s eyes. His jaw worked, but the only sound that came out was cracked and raspy.

"Seriously, little brother," he said. "Things are going to be much better now."

Sam held his gaze, the panic receding, and a small smile tugging at his lips. "…p-p-prom…ise?"

Dean’s smile widened. "I promise."


Sam was going to be okay. The doctors were looking him in the eye again and the nurses were even a bit flirtatious. Sam was moved from ICU to his own room, and he was well on his way to recovery.

The speech therapist said that Sam would be fine, and already Sam’s speech had mostly corrected itself. He was now complaining thoroughly when his physical therapist made him work his right side—the exercises were weak, he said, but Dean could see that they wore Sam out, no matter how much he tried to hide it.

But his strength rapidly returned, and the light was back in his eyes, and Dean could feel the growing need for conversation running between them. The necessary optimism for Sam’s recovery had shielded it for awhile, but the relief was wearing somewhat thin, and the issues that led them there were lurking in the background.


In the end, it was Sam who broke the silence.

The doctors were talking about Sam’s release, and he was getting glowing reports all around. But the better Sam got, the more he withdrew, and Dean knew that physical recovery wasn’t the only thing they needed to overcome.

Dean had envisioned lots of ways this conversation would go, but he certainly didn’t expect it to start the way it did.

"I'm sorry."

Dean cocked his head. "You're sorry."

"For everything I said. I never should have...." Sam's voiced trailed off and he looked down. "I never should have said any of it. I know I told you I didn't mean it, but actions speak louder than words, huh?" Sam smiled ruefully, his eyes twinkling with sadness as he looked up again.

Dean felt his throat tighten. He couldn't speak.

Swallowing uncomfortably, Sam looked away again. "I just don't want anything to happen without you knowing."


"No, Dean, I have to--"

"No, Sam, stop--"

"Dean, we have to--"

Dean's patience shattered. "You have nothing to apologize for, okay?" he exploded.

Sam looked confused, his mouth gaping open. "But--" he tried. "I shot you."

"Ellicott whammied you. Completely and totally. You couldn't stop that."

Wide eyed, Sam sought for understanding. "Dean, I know it hurt you. The things I said. Then I pulled the trigger four times--"

"I know, okay?" Dean snapped. "We don't have to relive every detail."

"It's just--you didn't deserve that--any of it."

"Maybe, maybe not," Dean finally acquiesced. "But you didn’t deserve to have your head messed with by some freakin’ nutjob spirit. You didn’t deserve to have your girlfriend die. And you sure as hell didn’t deserve to spend your entire life feeling not good enough. There’s enough blame to share, little brother. There’s enough."

"But the things I said, the things I did—"

"Sam, it wasn't you," Dean interrupted it. He moved closer, almost touching his brother. His voice dropped to a whisper. "It wasn't you."

"But it--" Sam’s voice was pleading and desperate.

"But nothing." Dean was insistent.

Sam’s apologies gave way to frustration as his emotions overwhelmed him. "I shot you!"

Dean’s voice echoed Sam’s in intensity as he met his brother’s eyes. "And I told you to do it!"

Both truths stood, a testament to their equal betrayals and the ultimate irony.

Sam only wanted to define himself, but seemed to follow orders when it counted.

Dean was afraid of being alone, yet always seemed to be pushing people away.

They were both breathing hard, eyes shining, teeth clenched. Their eyes were locked, unyielding, waiting for the other to give.

Sam’s features quivered, then finally broke in a unrealized sob. He dropped his head and looked away. He laughed slightly. "I’m tired."

Dean wanted to say something, to prompt Sam for more, but Sam yawned and leaned back, letting his eyes rest closed.

"I just can’t sometimes…you know?" Sam asked, not opening his eyes.

Dean was shaking, but managed a smile. "Yeah. I know."

"I just need to sleep," Sam continued. Then he opened his eyes, meeting his brother’s. "You should look for a hunt for when I get out of here."

Dean’s throat constricted and his eyes burned. He nodded.

Sam sighed and closed his eyes again. "I’m still sorry," he said again, his voice already soft and far away.

Moving closer, Dean wanted to speak, but no words would come.

Sleep seemed to come quickly to Sam, whose breathing evened out and who seemed to relax more deeply against the bed.

With a sigh, Dean settled into the chair, looking wistfully into Sam’s face. For as sorry as Sam was, Dean knew he would always be sorrier.

After all, Sam had come back. And no matter what he doubted, that counted for more than Dean would ever understand. Because it was actions like that, choices like that, that spoke louder than anything. Louder than the words of hatred sprung from an evil doctor. Louder than the empty clicks of a gun with no bullets. Louder than all the doubt and fears in his head.

Sam came back. It was an apology and a promise, and it was enough.

Leaning forward, Dean reached a hand out, letting it rest on Sam’s bedrail. Sam had proven himself, and now Dean needed to prove it to him by being there for him too. He’d almost lost Sam because of his own resentfulness and one-sided anger. Sam deserved someone that would look out for him, be there for him.

More than that, Sam deserved someone who understood him, gave him the benefit of the doubt.

That’s what he owed Sam.

His fingers reached gently for Sam, touching his brother’s arm imperceptibly. "I’m sorry too, Sammy."


Posted by: do i dare or do i dare? (faye_dartmouth)
Posted at: June 30th, 2010 01:41 am (UTC)
the way we were

Wow, this amuses me that I'm like three and a half years overdue in replying. Clearly, I am made of fail.

But thank you nonetheless for the comment--I appreciate it even after three years :)

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