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Dean looks at him.
Sam was expecting the anger. But not the disgust.
You knew he was gonna be pissed, Sam reminds himself. You knew. Ruby was right about Dean finding out and he probably should have listened to her about getting ahead of it but, well. Too late now.
Damn if it doesn’t still sting, though. More than his face.
This scenario wasn’t exactly ideal but Sam thought he was prepared. They’d argue. Dean would pull the, “What was the one thing I asked you not to do?” card. Then Sam would explain how he was saving people and--
“If I didn’t know you... I would want to hunt you.”
That... was not in any of the scenarios he planned for.
He thought for sure saving people was the one thing they’d agree on. Saving people was a good thing. That was the whole point of what they did, right? And his numbers don’t lie. But his pride (and he’s aware enough to admit it is pride) shrinks away from Dean’s vitriol and outright shrivels and dies at the revelation of the angel Castiel’s warning.
He thought his great sin was lying about what he was doing. Apparently not the case.
To Sam’s great horror, his eyes well up. He’s a goddamn adult. He can’t start crying just because his big brother hurt his feelings. But the burning in his vision doesn’t stop as his emotions wreak havoc on his sinuses and suddenly he’s eight or nine all over again and Dean’s yelling at him because Dad yelled at Dean and he’s quite sure his brother hates him. That Dean’s eyes are wet as well doesn’t ease the nauseating despair building up inside him one bit.
Travis’s call is a godsend. He takes the lifeline and runs with it.
*~*
It’s not a lifeline.
Sam hasn’t had to deal with Dean treating him like an idiot since the eighth grade and started helping Dean with his math homework. Not like this. It hurts. It hurts that Dean thinks he can’t do the damn job. That he thinks that Sam would let his own feelings, his own problems, get in the way of doing the right thing. As if he’d stand by and let people die just because he felt sorry for the man. He can remain objective. He can do what needs to be done.
But Dean doesn’t get it. He never has. And that’s not new, not really. Dean’s had that look on his face before, the there’s something not quite right with that kid look. It didn’t start with Dean catching him with Ruby. The first time wasn’t when he came back from the dead or when Dean found out about his visions.
It didn’t start when he was eighteen and preparing to get kicked out by their father.
Or sixteen and he refused to go on a hunt because he had a science project to finish.
Nor at fourteen and made himself sick with fears of getting behind after changing schools for the fifth time in a year.
And not when he was twelve and Dean saw he was still lugging around his stolen 1991 copy of American College Guide.
All of those times, yes, but none were the first time he saw the word freak in his brother’s eyes.
He’s ten. Dad’s gone, of course. Dean interrogates Sam about the kids at school, wants to know names and faces, who’s a dick and who’s not. Sam mentions Carla Fleinhardt had asked him over for dinner that night. Dean needles him, demanding to know why he’s here when he could be with a cute girl right now. Maybe he could, you know, score. Sam’s confused. Why would he want to hang out with some girl, he asks, instead of coming home to Dean?
And Dean gives him a look.
(The next time a girl asked him over for a meal, Sam said yes. When he got back from Thanksgiving at Stephanie’s house, Dean was waiting for him with the exact same look on his face.)
Dean cracked after two days of Sam being dead. Sam had to cope with hundreds of days with no respite or solution in sight. There was only the ugliness in his blood and a desperate desire to do good to keep him going. Dean doesn’t know the high wire Sam’s been walking since he had to figure out the best way to keep organs in a shredded body (can’t get guts on the seats ‘cuz Dean would never forgive him). Dean didn’t last two days.
Sam doesn’t think Dean will ever get it.
*~*
Sam ends up torching Jack Montgomery alive to save Dean. He’s not even really surprised.
*~*
Dean thinks he’s won. Sam supposes he has, in a way--getting what he wants with little more than a paper-thin apology and a look. It would be infuriating if Sam wasn’t so tired.
“Don't thank me,” Sam says. “I'm not doing it for you. Or for the angels or for anybody. This is my choice.”
He can tell by the laxness of Dean’s shoulders and the smug twist in the corner of his mouth that Dean doesn’t believe him. Fine. Let him think what he wants. It’s better than fighting. It’s better than trying to explain himself, again. He’s not some ten-year-old kid, torn up inside because his brother thinks he’s weird. He can move past this.
His mouth goes dry and his tongue reflexively swipes over his lower lip. The bump of flesh where it split from Dean’s punch (did the first one do that or the second?) sticks out like a brand.
They’re halfway to Kentucky when Dean pulls off to bunk down (but not before stopping at a liquor store first). Sam wants nothing more than pass out so he doesn’t have to worry about what exactly he’s supposed to tell Ruby when she tries to contact him, but Dean cracks open a Corona and turns up the TV just this side of loud, so Sam joins in. It’s not like he has much of a choice. Besides, if he’s gonna be awake there’s no reason he has to be sober.
He’s four drinks in when Dean decides to speak, having single-handedly demolished the other six-pack. “I’m jus’ lookin’ out for you, ya know.”
Sam realizes too late Dean wants him--them--drunk. He grunts in reply but apparently, that’s not good enough.
“You get me?” Dean asks, trying to catch his eye. “It’s just... there are things people shouldn’t do. Lines you can’t cross, get me? You cross them and you can’t come back--”
“I get it, Dean,” Sam sighs.
“--not ever,” Dean continues, as if Sam hadn’t spoken at all. “It... it stains you.”
Out damned spot, Sam thinks. He can wash away the blood on his hands but how do you get rid of something that’s inside of you? You can’t. Dean’s little adventure back in time proved it. Hunter’s blood is in his veins just as surely as the demon’s. There was never stopping any of it. The line has already been crossed.
“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” Sam says, sounding more petulant than firm. He picks at the label of the bottle with his thumb for want of anything else to do.
“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean insists and Sam wants to hit him. Dean got his shot--why doesn’t Sam get his? But Sam doesn’t stop Dean when he nudges and knocks at his knees until they’re face to face. He finishes off his beer with a toss of his head then leans in conspiratorially close. “I need to know that you--”
“You hit me,” Sam blurts, then cringes at his whining. Hurt feelings. Pathetic. He might actually be drunker than Dean, for all that he’s bigger and behind on the count. Low tolerance. It’s embarrassing.
“Yeah. Sorry, Sam,” Dean murmurs, not sounding very sorry at all. He grasps Sam’s chin, squinting at his mouth. Sam tries to jerk away and can’t. He changes his mind--he doesn’t want to hit his brother. If Dean actually is less drunk than him, Sam will get laid out, no question. He’s afraid to stand.
“Yeah,” Dean repeats. Then he presses his thumb hard against Sam’s lower lip. Hard. Hard enough to make it split back open. Maybe on accident, maybe on purpose. No way of telling if it’s a mistake.
Then Sam makes what is definitely a mistake. He moans.
Dean withdraws but slowly. Sam’s blood stands out on his thumb like a beacon. They both stare as it slides down the curve of the joint, fascinated. Sam desperately wants Dean to put the thumb in his mouth but he doesn’t, instead wiping it on his jeans. Then, he looks at Sam.
That look.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Sam whispers. “You can’t just do something like that and then... you started it!”
Dean reaches towards his face again but stops short, his fingertips a hairsbreadth away from his lips. He thinks of opening his mouth wide and letting Dean shove his fingers down his throat. Maybe they can get rid of the stain that way. Viscerally. Chew it up and spit it out.
“I’m looking out for you,” Dean says helplessly.
“Don’t,” Sam says. “It’s always been in me.” He’s not sure if he’s talking about the demon blood or something else. He’s running out of secrets to keep from Dean. “I’m dealing. But you can’t just do things. Not like that. You can’t have it both ways.”
Dean’s hand hovers indecisively, not grabbing or prodding or taking, just waiting. Sam parts his mouth. Laps at the stain in the corner. The blood’s already dried. If he sinks his teeth in, he’ll make more.
Dean looks at him again. That look. Then he abruptly stands and wipes his hand on his jeans again. Turns on his heel.
“Go to bed,” he orders. He stomps his way into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Sam snaps off the lights and rolls over, knowing he’ll regret the taste in his mouth in the morning but also not caring right now.
There’s no telling splash of liquid hitting the bowl but the toilet flushes anyway, Sam notes. There goes the sink. Once. Twice.
Dean exits the restroom. Sam hears the thump of two boots hitting the floor. The silence.
He just wishes Dean would look at him.