and you never would have thought in the end

i won't always live in my regrets || 1561
PG
summary - coda to Faith. the boys don't discuss things. except when they do.
notes - this was the bunny that ate my brain. i was going to sleep one night and it unfolded itself right there and kept me awake and then flowed out onto the screen the next day.
much love to geminigrl11 for the speedy and encouraging beta.

this marks the break of my dry spell (hopefully).


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After Layla walked out the door Dean sat back on the bed, doing his best to get a hold of himself. He felt conflicted about seeing her again. Every time he was with her, the guilt pulled at him, heavily. But this time, it was almost like she’d absolved him. Almost. He couldn’t describe the way he felt. It was almost like…well. The guilt wasn’t gone. But it was less of a crushing weight, less debilitating.

Dean ran his hand over his face, thumb and finger against his eye sockets, pushing back the pressure of his headache. He shook his head in wonder.

Where did Sam get off calling her though? How was it any of his business? After all the pain and hurt they’d caused in this town, why had Sam stuck his nose in even further where it hadn’t belonged?

A rush of anger overtook him. It was time he and Sam talked about all this shit, and the lines Sam had crossed. He let the outrage carry him out into the hallway and down towards the room where the vending machines were.

All he found there was a girl, pimpled, pink-faced and no more than fourteen. Her eyes darted from him to the door, clouded with alarm. When she took an involuntary step backwards, her eyes wide like a cornered animal’s, Dean stopped and forced himself into a stance that didn’t scream ‘hunter.’ He sent her a smile, lips curved upwards in apology.

“I’m looking for my brother. Maybe you’ve seen him? A few inches taller than me, thin, dark floppy hair. Sorta funny looking.” He did his best to pull that look that came to Sam naturally - open, kind, innocent. The doubtful stare he got in response showed he was still hopeless at it.

“Uh. A tall guy, he was leaving when I came in. Headed towards the parking lot,” she said, her voice soft and low, the nervousness barely hidden underneath. She made eye contact for a fraction of a second before darting away again.

“Thanks. Have a good day,” He waited for her to look up at him again before flashing one of his smiles, the ones that usually got him either into a whole lot of trouble or a whole lot of fun. In an instant her pink complexion turned red, and he got a wobbly grin.

He turned back the way he came and stalked towards the parking lot. Heading down the hall, he was hit with the memory of taking the same path with Sam, that day when this whole mess had started. He pushed the thought away, refusing to dwell on the memory of cold and heavy limbs, and the ever-present heat of Sam, close, too close, ready to catch him before he fell.

The Impala was parked close to the room, a habit Sam had developed when dealing with a brother who had trouble with even the shortest distances. He could hear the murmur of Sam’s voice, even before he turned the last corner. The tone of it though, the tone was what hit him. It was weak, quiet.

He’d sounded more together when Dean had been in the hospital.

Dean crept closer, anger shelved as he tried to piece out what was going on. He stepped behind a pillar and saw Sam leaning against the side of the Impala, phone in one hand, the other raking through his hair distractedly. A can of soda had spilled across the lot and was puddling around Sam’s feet, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“…I just. I wanted you to know. Dean. He’s okay. He’s fine. I got a tip. From a contact of yours. And this thing in Nebraska. Well. It wasn’t what I thought. In fact, it was kind of the opposite. We had to put a stop to it.” Here Sam took a shuddering breath. “But Dean. He got healed. Before we realized it. Anyway. It’s done. And Dean’s safe. He’s alive.” Sam seemed to be trying to convince himself of that, instead of the person on the phone. “Dean’s alive and someone else died and I--I don’t think I would have done anything differently.” This last part was whispered harshly, and Dean had to strain to make it out. Sam’s voice was filled with both defiance and guilt.

“So Dad. I know you said it was dangerous. But uh. If you called. Later. And maybe just talked to him. For a minute? That would be…Well. That would be worth the risk. I think.” There was a significant pause, the air heavy with so many things that Sam obviously couldn’t say. “Bye Dad.” Sam ended the call and clutched the phone in both hands as he slid down the side of the car to the ground.

His head was bowed and he’d hunched in on himself, but Dean could still see the way Sam’s shoulders shook as he tried to keep his emotions in check. There was no sound save for the muffled breaths Sam couldn’t completely hold in.

Dean slipped away silently, going back to their room, thoughts spiraling as he tried to make sense of it all. Seeing Sam like that…was just so wrong. Even when they first found out, with the shock and the horror, and the immediate panic, Sam had been in control. Calm. Determined. He’d never once acted like he thought Dean was going to die. Dean had made peace with the fact and Sam has ignored it completely. But obviously, it had been a front.

One of the reasons Dean had been so accepting was because Sam had seemed so capable. Knowing that his brother could go on and survive without him had made death easier to swallow. But now. Now he saw that maybe Sam would have fallen to just as many pieces if Dean had died as Dean knew he would if Sam did. And he was hit with a sudden flood of fear. Of what might have happened to Sam if Dean had not gotten a second chance.

He’d underestimated Sam. Or maybe it was overestimated. Either way, it seemed as if Sam needed Dean as much as Dean needed him.

There was moisture clinging to his lashes and he brushed them away. He pulled out his duffle and began stuffing their clothes in haphazardly. He really wanted to get out of town. Make that get out of the whole damn state.

Soon most of the bags were full and he was checking around to make sure they hadn’t left anything behind. They simply couldn’t afford to.

The hoodie was balled up and hardly visible, pushed mostly under his bed in the far corner of the room. He held it up; shook it open. It was Sam’s. He’d brought it to Dean the second day he was in the hospital. Dean had never said anything, but Sam had obviously known that the limbs grew cold as the heart’s ability to pump decreased. It was the only time Dean had wanted to wear a hoodie. He wasn’t able to put it on, since he’d been hooked to machines, but he’d kept it near. It smelled of Sam. It’d been comforting, even as the sterile scent of the hospital clung to him. And it’d been very handy in the days after, once he’d checked himself out.

In a way, it represented everything they’d gone through in the last week and a half. Dean couldn’t decide if he wanted to keep it, or never look at it again.

He heard the door swing open and then Sam’s light tread as he stepped into the room. Dean’s back was to the door, the hoodie still clenched in his fists.

“Dean?” Sam asked tentatively, his voice carefully controlled to show concern but not betray all the other emotions he’d just been fighting. Dean heard them anyway.

“I hope you at least brought a soda back for me.” He murmured, referencing Sam’s lame excuse for vacating the room in the first place. He could feel Sam’s confusion in the air and gave up on the humor as he turned to him. His face must have been telling the secrets it usually kept, because Sam’s face went white and his eyes darted from the clothing in Dean’s hands up to his face and back again.

“Dean look. I uh. I just want to say that…” And Dean knew he was going to apologize again. Say something he probably didn’t mean, at least not in the way he thought Dean wanted, just to make things easier for his older brother.

Dean cut him off with a glance and stepped forward. Sam looked down at him, his emotions raw and open, the fear and pain and worry all warring with each other and spilling out over the surface. Dean let the hoodie fall to the floor and put his left hand on the juncture of Sam’s neck and shoulder. Unlike the last time he’d done this, Sam didn’t push away. He just looked down at him, eyes glinting brightly in the dim light of the room.

Dean pulled their foreheads together, and his eyes slid closed. The first time was a whisper, almost impossible to hear. But the second and third times were louder.

“Thank you,” he said brokenly, his voice deep and ragged. “Thank you, Sam.”

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