Set Post ELAC and Telepathic Trauma
Dean silently watched his brother kneeling in the broken glass from the car windows he'd broken. Careful not to grab open wounds, he pulled his brother to his feet. "Out of the glass, Sammy.
"I could have stopped it, Dean." This time when Sam's eyes met his brother's, they were full of tears. "I could have stopped all of it if I'd known."
"We could have stopped a lot of shit if we'd known a lot of shit, Sam. Problem is we don't know and we have to figure it out." He succeeded in pulling Sam to his feet, but then lost his grip when Sam pulled away.
"I could have saved them! I didn't know it was real. I could have saved Jess, I could have…. I could have saved Dad, Dean. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry." Finally losing his strength, Sam put his hands on the trunk of a car and leaned on it.
"You…." Dean knew there was more to this, but for a moment all he could do was stand there and watch his brother cry. For the first time since John's death, he reached up and put his hand on the back of Sam's neck. "Sammy, I know you would have saved Jess and Dad if you could have. So why don't you tell me what you're talking about."
Bobby approached them with some towels to wrap Sam's arms. He was glad the boys were finally talking, but the amount of blood Sam was losing wasn't good.
Not lifting his head, Sam sighed. "Bobby, there's a black composition book by that red truck."
By the time Bobby returned with it Dean was wrapping towels around his brother's arms.
"Let's get you inside. I'm gonna have to stitch a few of these. Probably got glass in your knees, now, too. Right?"
Sam shrugged, but he thought Dean was right. He allowed the older Winchester to lead him inside and to the kitchen table. The first aid kit was already out, thanks to Bobby, so Dean put Sam in a chair and began to clean the cuts and pull glass from his brother's skin. "Good job, Sammy. More glass in your skin then in the frames out there."
"Read the book, Dean." Sam's voice was strained.
"Need to stitch you up first, Dude."
"Read the god damned book, Dean."
"If you pass out, I'm kicking your ass, Sammy. Sit still."
"And shut up. I know the drill. Bobby, you read it. He'll listen to you."
Hearing the resigned tone in his brother's whisper, Dean knew he'd won. At first he worked on Sam's arm, efficiently removing glass and deciding which cuts needed stitches. But after almost fifteen minutes of nothing more than quiet, pained, almost-whimpers from Sam, he realized the damage went far beyond blood loss.
"Dean?" Bobby's voice was low. "Sam's right. You need to read this."
Taking the book from Bobby, Dean leaned back and started to read. "A dream journal from when you were 12?" He actually snorted and laughed a few times at the beginning pages. Random, yet perfectly normal bad dreams of embarrassment more than anything else amused him. "Jesus, Sam. Out there much?"
"Stops being funny real quick." Bobby sat at the table and waited with Sam for Dean to finish.
Both men knew when Dean had hit the pages that were marked closer to November 2nd. He was stunned when he read about the hunt he'd been on with John that went bad. "Dad never told you about that black dog, did he?"
"Check the date, Dean. That hunt was after, I'm almost positive."
"Who can remember that, Sam?" He read more, getting to a dream about their coach in high school having sexual thoughts about Sam. "I remember that asshole. Prick was the word I used when…." Green eyes lifted from the book and met Sam's when he read about the coach having yellow eyes in the dream. "What the fuck?"
When Dean finished the last entries, where Sam had suffered dreams of Jessica burning on the ceiling and their father being possessed years before either happened, he threw the book across the room. "God Dammit, Sam. You were having dreams about the yellow eyed demon and never told me or Dad? What the fuck was wrong with you? You knew Dad was hunting-"
"I didn't know SHIT, Dean! You and Dad had your little secret hunter's club and Sammy wasn't invited, remember?"
"Poor Sammy, he was so mistreated and abused that he tried to hide the fact that he was dreaming about the fucking demon we spent our lives looking for!" Dean glared at his brother. "I can't fucking believe this. How long, Sam? How long were you dreaming about him?"
"I told you what I knew. A few days before Jess died I had that same dream. But I swear, I don't remember having it before then."
"Yeah, 'cause you're so fucking honest."
Sam stood up so fast he knocked over his chair. "What the fuck does that mean?"
"It means that you never wanted to be here, you've always been half out the fucking door, so you only told us what you absolutely had to." Standing to face him, Dean stepped closer. "Nothing's changed, Sam."
"I don't believe this." Sam headed for the door.
"That's right, Sammy. Hit the road. It's what you do best. Gonna be another two years before I see you?" Dean's voice was loud, but Bobby could see the hurt hiding underneath.
Sam stopped at the door. "What the fuck, Dean? I'm going outside for some air." He thought about it and his voice shook on his next statement. "You want me to leave, don't you."
"Better than waiting around for you to find a better gig. Maybe you'd better find somebody you actually trust enough to tell the truth."
Bobby watched Sam run up the stairs. Turning to Dean, he tried to control his temper. "You know what? I've never seen a bigger display of stupid in my life. You just talked your brother into leaving. You don't want him to go, and he sure as hell don't want to go, so what the fuck was that?"
"You were sitting there. You read that god damned journal. He was dreaming about the yellow eyed demon when he was twelve and never bothered to say a word about it. He was still having dreams when he came back. He just didn't want to tell me."
Bobby knew that Dean was too angry and hurt to discuss any of it at that moment. Quickly he went up the stairs, not surprised to find Sam hastily stuffing his meager belongings into his duffle.
"Give him time, Sam. You know your brother."
"I think maybe what he needs is space." He kept his back to Bobby, not wanting the other man to see how much Dean's words had hurt him. "From me."
Hearing the way Sam's voice cracked from emotion, Bobby wasn't sure what to do. He knew Sam would rebuff any attempt at comfort from him. Dean was the only one he'd accept any kind of gesture from at this point. "You don't want to leave."
"Dean wants me to."
"The hell he does." Bobby decided that in the best interest of his boys he was going to put his foot right smack in the middle of them. "Whether he can say it or not, you're all he has left, boy. Same goes for you."
Sam shook his head not turning around. "He wants Dad. I can't give him that."
"Like you don't? Dean's been stomping around here like he's pissed off at everything, and don't think I haven't noticed that's included you. You've moped around here trying to be invisible. I've stayed out of it 'cause I thought you two would get your head out of your asses and figure things out. But no, you two had to go and let everything blow up to the point you're packing your shit and Dean's just watching you."
"Look at me." When Sam turned, Bobby wasn't surprised to see that younger man was crying. "You and your brother are so fucked up when it comes to talking, and that's on your Dad. But if you two call it quits now and never speak again, that's on me. Not gonna fucking happen. You hear me?" Bobby's voice had risen with each word and was now echoing through the house. "Get your ass downstairs. Now!"
Having only heard Bobby that pissed off at his father before, Sam moved down the stairs and stopped when he reached the kitchen.
Dean equally stunned eyes met his. "He doesn't have a shotgun, does he?"
"I heard that, and don't think I won't go get it! Now both of you, shut up and plant your asses in a chair!"
It was a struggle for Bobby to not show the boys how shocked he was that they followed his order silently. He lowered his voice. "Now, you're Dad's gone, and I'm sorry. But it's time for you," Bobby pointed to Dean. "to stop acting like the sound of your brother breathing is offensive. And you," his attention turned to Sam. "to stop moping around here like if you let Dean kick you enough everything will fix itself."
"He doesn't want to be here."
"He doesn't want me here."
Both voices overlapped each other and Bobby slammed his hands down on the table hard enough to bounce half the first aid kit and a beer bottle to the ground. "If everything comin' outta both of your mouths is gonna be that stupid, just shut up. If Sam wanted to be gone, he would be gone. You know him well enough for that. The way you've been treatin' him? I'd kicked your ass a week ago and packed my shit. If Dean wanted you gone, he wouldn't mix words and he'd tell you to go out the door and not come back, just like your Daddy did. That journal of Sam's scared the shit out of both of you. Deal with it, and not by calling each other names and throwing accusations like you're in your teens and not your twenties."
Both Winchesters stared at Bobby with their mouths open.
"Now, I'm gonna go buy a bra for the tits you two made me grow. You two are going to fucking talk to each other."
After Bobby stormed out of the house, the brothers stared at each other in silence for a moment. Sighing, Sam went to the fridge and grabbed two beers. He handed one to Dean and sat down. "Thought Bobby was gonna fill our asses with rock salt."
"He still might." Dean stared at the door.
An awkward silence followed. Finally Sam decided to bite the bullet. "I can tell you I'm here because I want to be. I can tell you that I honest to God had no idea I was dreaming about the demon. I can tell you I didn't remember the dreams until I saw that book. I just don't know how to convince you I'm telling the truth."
"What about the dreams about Jess? Not the ones you had at 12, the ones you had just before-….. " Dean was trying to make a point, not throw salt in Sam's raw wounds.
No longer interested in defending himself, Sam met Dean's eyes evenly. "I had no idea what it meant, I had no idea how you would react, and I couldn't deal with the fact that I could have saved her." His voice broke, tears filled his eyes, but the younger man refused to let his eyes waver from his brothers. "And I told you as soon as I realized the dream about our old house might mean something. And I gave you the journal as soon as I read it." He wiped his eyes and looked down at the table.
Sighing, Dean ran his hands through his hair. "Wish you'd stop beating yourself up over that, Sammy. I guess I should have asked you more about your dreams when you were a kid."
It was as close to an apology as Sam was going to get, and he was more than willing to let Dean know it was enough for him. "Dean, you were just starting to hunt with Dad when I did that. You were busy."
His tone was flat, but Dean had skimmed over the page where Sam had written how much Dean had disappeared from his younger brother's life. He knew he'd hurt Sam. "I'm going to say this one time. Bobby's right. We're all that's left, and we both need to remember that. I've been a dick. I believe you didn't know about the dreams, but that you want to be here and you'll stick around? Have to wait and see on that one, Sammy. That's the best I can give you." Standing, Dean moved to the door. "Now I have to go tell Bobby to buy two fuckin' bras."
Alone in the kitchen, Sam finally smiled. At least he'd escaped being accused of needing a bra of his own, for once. His arms hurt like a bitch, and he still needed to see how much glass he'd managed to imbed in knees, but he knew that Dean was at least going to give him the chance to prove himself.
The door opened again, but Sam didn't turn. He was surprised when something hit him in the head from behind. Turning, he saw a black lace bra with pink trim on the floor that had most likely been in the pile of shit Dean had pulled from under the back seat of the Impala. So much for escaping.
"Might look as good on you as it did Katie. Carrie, Candice, whatever the fuck her name was."
Turning to his brother, Sam flashed him a smug grin. "Her name was Lynn, and I was the one that got it off of her." He kneeled to get the first aid kit, but winced as his weight hit the cuts and glass in his knees.
Gently, Dean took his brother's upper arm and led him to a chair. "Makes sense. You always were the sentimental bitch that needed to keep souvenirs." With a satisfied laugh, he looked at Sam's knees. "Few tears in the jeans. Take 'em off or cut 'em?"
Sam sighed. He couldn't win, but he was grateful for the effort Dean making. Standing, he fought with his jeans briefly before they hit the ground. Any other day he would have fought with his older brother that he could do it himself. But, today, he too relieved to have Dean in front of him ready to help him. Sam hoped the older man needed it as much as he did at that moment.