Forgive Us Our Trespasses

Author's Note: What?! A TAG story from Silver Kitten?! It's unheard of! It's unnecessary! It's…it's…completely inevitable. Spoilers for Crossroad Blues. This story is inspired entirely by the end scene, with Sam's expression and Dean's…well, everything. Also, I'm trying a new POV for myself…it's late, I'm tired, and this is one long stream of emotion written directly after watching the show. I tried to not write it, tried getting into bed since I work in...oh, five hours. But the tag bunny that bit me gave me tag rabies or something…I'll just call it "taggies". And so like a zombie I got up, turned the computer on…and typed.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but a sick obsession for the show (and tagging it…apparently). Maybe someone should just tranquilize me after the episode airs…that way this won't happen.

Warnings and otherwise: I'm sorry. This literally just happened (took me over). Mild cursing ensues. Pretty angst, a little snark, and a lot of the pretty Sam musing about his pretty brother. I sincerely hope you like it.


He turns the music up. This is your answer, your fear come true. You're losing him as he's losing himself.

You shift your body so you're facing the window. He couldn't look at you after you asked the question, and so you can't look at him as he remains silent. But still, you catch his soft reflection in the car window, between the trees and the lights.

It's quiet. It's uncomfortable. You're kind of pissed he won't talk to you. You have to say something brash, something to grab his attention. You want to open his eyes so he can face his own absurdity, because that's what his rants were becoming.

"If I was dying, would you let me? Or would you fight for me? I mean, say it's my time to go. But there are hoodoo abusing preacher wives and deals with devils…what would you do?" You ask him abruptly, gently. You know you have no right to. You know it's the most unfair thing you could ask, and maybe that's why you do. Maybe you hope you already know what he'll say, and maybe he'll be a hypocrite, thinking it's not so insane to give your life for someone else's. That way, he can stop sulking and be your brother again. But also, you're scared of what he might say. Scared he wouldn't fight for you, as you fought for him when doctors told you a week, maybe two, that his heart was failing, but you refused to let it stop beating.

You quickly shake your thoughts away, thinking, he won't answer you anyways. He'll just turn the music up even louder. You let out a partial sigh when you see his hand heading for the volume knob.

You let out a small whimper, louder than you wished you had, when he turns the music off. You cough, clear your throat, and stare ahead.

Dean's eyes are on the road, hands on the wheel again. But there's something radiating from him- rage, hatred, or even sadness. You can't tell but you imagine when he opens his mouth, there'll be an explosion of yelled words and bitter remarks. And maybe you deserve to be yelled at. After all, you did ask.

You rather he yell, scream, fight with you…than keep silence or wedge the space between you with livid guitar riffs.

As you wait for the dynamite to fall from his lips, ignite the quiet space between you, you almost laugh when you feel yourself shaking. Scared of your own brother? Now, how is that okay?

But when it comes, it's hardly even a whisper. Calm, firm, but fragile all the same.

"How could you ask me that?"

There's a strong swelling of regret in your throat and you swallow it down, lower your eyes, and mentally kick yourself. Hard. Many times. And then once more for good measure.

"Dean," You say, and pause. "Do you hear yourself, these things you say? You care so much for our family, say you'd do anything—literally anything—for us. But we do something for you…and it's a freakin' mistake?"

He leans closer to his side of the car, grips the steering wheel tighter. Doesn't say anything. And you start talking before you can stop yourself.

"When you love someone…is it so wrong to do anything in your power to save them? And can you blame someone else for doing just that? Dad did what he did because he loves you. Why is that so hard to accept?" You ask, your voice becoming stronger, louder unintentionally, as you realize how upset you really are about the blatant disapproval of his life.

"Jesus, Sam," Dean bites out. "I've tried accepting it. But every time I think of him…his life…he just threw it away so the world could beat me up a little more? He's a coward. Not the man I thought he was…"

"Don't say that, Dean," you stammer defensively, facing him directly now. "He's not a coward to die for who he loves, for his family. In fact, that's probably the bravest thing he ever did."

"Shut up," Dean takes his eyes off the road and glances at you. You shiver. "Until someone trades an eternity in Hell for you to have a lifetime only to die anyways…don't talk to me about this. Please…" He says, he begs. His voice not so much angry as it is distant, detached. But you don't relent because you have to reach him. Have to pull him back.

"So, it's an uneven trade, is that what the problem is? Think you're not worth such a mighty sacrifice?"

"Shut up!" He growls, dangerous and foreboding…and if you open your mouth, speak one more word of this…you know you're trespassing on territory you shouldn't be on.

That's why you keep talking. Maybe he'll follow you off the private property he's on, wake up and realize he's not alone, he's alive, and he's worth so much more than he believes.

"No! I'm sorry things happened the way they have. But I am not sorry you're alive."

"Damn it," Dean curses, nearly breaks the steering wheel as he slams a fist on the rim of it. "Don't you feel angry about this at all? How he just…up and left us. You think I'd be used to it but…fuck, Sam…he's gone. Did he even think about who he was leaving behind? Did he think about us, in the big scheme of things? Maybe I live, but he dies…and we're left without him. It's not fair to us…not fair to you."

His questions are legit, rational, and saddening. You bite your lip before taking in a deep breath and letting out a heavy one. And your voice is eerily sincere.

"If you were gone…I'd unravel, man. Completely. Dad and I…there were things left unsaid between us. There was a relationship broken that I'll never get to fix. But he gave us the best life he could. And when he gave up his life for yours, he gave me the best goodbye he could have, because he brought you back. I don't know about you…but I don't want things left unsaid with us. I don't want us broken, Dean. I miss you."

You only stop talking because you hear your voice break. You feel the warm moisture filling your eyes, that irritating burn behind them.

"I haven't gone anywhere."

"Then stop pushing me away." You tell him forcefully.

"What, so you can stumble in my dark, woe-is-me world along with me?" He says, concluding the idiocy of the notion with his flat tone. "I don't think so, Sam. This is something I need to get through—and I'll get through it—but it can't just happen overnight. You can't just snap your fingers and expect me to bounce back. I'm sorry but it doesn't work that way."

"Fine," You surrender a little. "You're right…I know I can't just expect you to forgive and forget. But just…I'm worried for you, okay? It scares the hell out of me when I wonder if I can trust you, because in this entire world you're the only one I trust."

"Good," Dean nearly smiles. "Because I'm the only one you need to trust."

You roll your eyes, command your lips not to grin.

"See? And what would I do without you, then?" You interject playfully, but seriously. Dean glances again at you and this time you don't shiver.

"Probably…start some Emo alternative pop band and whine your way to the Grammy's with that ridiculous puppy face of yours."

You try not to laugh, but a light chuckle surfaces for air.

"Yeah, whatever," You wave your hand dismissively. "Just…promise me, instead of being stubborn and getting through this all on your own, that when the time comes and you need to talk, you'll talk to me? Maybe even let me help? Not lock me out?"

Dean laughs this time, short and quietly, then licks his lips and sighs.

"I couldn't lock you out if I tried. You're one hell of a lock picker, Sammy."

"Learn from the best."

A beat of silence, and he says what you've wanted to hear.

"I promise. You can help me when I can help myself. When I know I won't pull you under while trying to catch my own breath, buried in this mess. Deal?"

"No deals, Dean. You don't owe me anything. I just want you to be okay."

"I'll be okay. But…isn't it also okay for me to be mad about what happened? Isn't it okay for me to want him back?"

You're more surprised by his asking than by the actual question. You nod sympathetically.

"As long as no one is hurt—including yourself, then that's okay, too."

He seems to take in what you're saying with gratitude and acceptance, but then a puzzling look etches across his face. He turns briefly to look at you, study you curiously, and your eyes dodge around the road wondering if maybe something went by that you didn't see.

"What the hell?" Dean mutters, looks back to the road and then back to you again. You shrug your shoulders.

"What? What is it?"

"How is it when I say shut up, I don't want to talk to you…somehow, we have a whole conversation?" He demands, honestly interested. You laugh out loud this time, and Dean smirks. "What's so funny, huh, Sam?"

"You. Us." You answer simply.

Dean approves, his expression light and relaxed. And then he narrows his eyes, raises an eyebrow and looks at you with reprimand.

"Wait a second…you didn't just mind-rape me, did you? To get me to talk?"

"No!" You shout defensively. "And thanks for that visual."

"Just making sure. And yes, that would be awkward."

Another beat of silence.

"I think it's time for some music again, don't you?"

Dean smiles curtly. His answer is to turn the radio back on and blast the volume. High.


Sometime later, you arrive at some motel rest stop. You get a room, get changed into more comfortable attire. You and Dean each lay in your respective beds until your eyes drift shut and the shadows welcome you to their depths.

Your eyes are closed but you're awake. You think of everything that's happened, your whole life, but mostly the past few weeks. You think of how close you've come to losing Dean before…by monsters, doctors, demons, other hunters. Your greatest fear is losing Dean to himself because he isn't someone you could fight and win.

And you pray to God that your brother knows whatever dark abyss he's in, you'll be waiting for him when he gets out. But you'll cross into the abyss when need be, if it's too long before light is seen. You'll keep crossing in and testing the waters, trespassing, until he kicks you out, until he wordlessly invites you back in…until finally he leaves with you.

It may have been an hour or so of just thinking, wondering, waiting. You hear him rustle under his covers. He stands up, walks to the window. In your head, you can picture him staring out into the night. You wonder if he thinks of demons and monsters, or of angels and starlight. Can something so vast as time ever be pleasant for him, or will it always be dark, always be hunting, always be so sad and quiet?

You turn over inadvertently to a more comfortable position and you feel his eyes on you, watching. But you say nothing, move no more, even your breaths and pretend consciousness is just a dream right now.

And then, moments later, as sleep still struggles in the tug-of-war with your ceaseless musings, you hear his whisper fill the room.

"I wouldn't let you die, Sammy. I'd fight for you. Always, I'll fight for you."

There's a glimmer of light in his voice and you embrace it. You smile into the darkness. It can't have him, it won't keep him. You'll make sure of it because you're a fighter, too.

And as such, you believe that when the time comes to leave this world, it'll be when you'll go out fighting…for each other.


There it is. It's been a while since a story kind of took me over. I hope it was worth the while to read. And for those who may be reading Grayscale, I'm working on the next part this weekend.

Thanks for all your interest and reading this.

May the next few weeks (heaven forbid months) we are absent of our Supernatural-new-episode fix be easy on you. We shall band together, cry, eat cookies, cry, read fanfiction, cry, watch reruns, and…cry. But together, we'll be strong…and cry.

Silver Kitten