Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean had lost count of how many beers he’d ingested while staring at the brown paper package on the passenger seat of the Impala. He’d driven straight from the post office to the bar and from the bar to a nearby Gas-n-Sip. That’s where Dean stayed; keys in the ignition, Baby still in park, and his hand curled around a quickly warming beer. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from that goddamn box. It was nothing special. It was oddly shaped like someone had stepped on it one too many times and the wrapping was clumsy at best. An address was scrawled across the top in slanted, barely-legible printing. Sam’s printing. Dean’s chest clenched painfully as images of his little brother flashed before his eyes: Sam’s head resting against that window right there, Sam complaining about how little leg room he had after growing to an almost ridiculous height, Sam insulting Dean’s music. How many times had his little brother sat in that passenger seat over the years? Dean took another long swig from his beer. The silence and emptiness was painful. Instead of Sam in that passenger seat, there was only a mangled shoebox.

It took at least two more beers and a few shots of whiskey before Dean forced himself to rip the rough brown paper off the package. Even so, he made sure to keep the section with Sam’s writing intact and placed it in the glove compartment. Don’t be such a little bitch, Winchester, Dean chastised himself as he stared at the unopened shoebox. With a strong exhale, he quickly tore it open. He hadn’t known what to expect. As far as he knew, Sam hadn’t owned anything apart from what he’d left at his dorm after… Dean almost choked. He grabbed a hold of the whiskey in the back seat yet again as memories of men in suits offering hollow condolences and papers to sign floated into the forefront of his mind. He shoved the rising emotions back down and drank straight from the bottle. The box held 5 tapes. Dean felt another wave of emotion as he remembered Sam making fun of Dean’s cassette tape collection.

“Black Sabbath? Motorhead? Metallica? It’s the greatest hits of mullet rock.” Sam says, holding up individual tapes and raising his eyebrows questioningly.

“House rules, Sammy,” Dean says, pulling the box off his lap and popping in AC/DC, “driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.”

Fuck . Dean tips the bottle back again, screwing his eyes shut to try and stop the memories from surfacing. He pulls out the tape labeled ‘1’. Dean flips it over and over in sweaty hands before summoning the courage to put it in the tape player. His hands shake against the steering wheel as he grips it. Dean knows he’s in no condition to drive and thinks about crashing at the next motel on the road. He shifts the Impala into reverse to pull out of his parking spot when the sound of the tape starting stops him cold.

Hey, Dean.

“Im- fucking- possible.” Dean whispers, sliding his hands back down onto his lap. That was Sammy’s voice coming out of the speakers.

I know this isn’t how you wanted to hear from me. Sam scoffs hollowly. I know you’re probably mad at me right now and I understand if you don’t want to listen to these right now. Sam takes a deep, shaky breath. I really do. But- uh- there’s a lot you don’t know about the past few years and it’s not fair to keep you in the dark like this. You probably have a million questions, most of all the big one : ‘why?’.

Damn right Dean had a lot of questions. He and Sam hadn’t exactly been two peas in a pod for the last two years, but they were still brothers and had been built-in best friends since childhood.  Why, indeed, Dean thought bitterly. Why hadn’t Sam called to tell him he was on antidepressants? Why, when Dean had visited him at Stanford while on a ‘job’, had Sam failed to mention that the meds weren’t working and he wasn’t okay? Why had Sam locked him out when he needed his older brother the most? Dean felt the overwhelming urge to hit something.

I’ll try to answer as best I can. The first thing I want to say, though, is that I’m sorry. I’m sorry I lied to you. I was never honest about Stanford because I didn’t want you or Dad thinking I couldn’t handle myself. He laughs hollowly again. I guess you were right, huh?

Dean clenched and unclenched his fists. He would have done anything to help Sam! Surely his little nerd of a brother should have known that by now. Sam should have been able to tell Dean anything. Dean scrubbed his hands over his face wondering what he had ever done to make his little brother think he couldn’t talk to him anymore.

I know you blame yourself and I want you to know it’s not your fault. That’s why I made these. I need you to know exactly why I pulled that trigger and realize that you were the only one holding me back. You were the only thing that made it a hard decision. It might not feel like it right now, but this is for the best in the long run.

Dean’s palms stung and he realized his nails had pierced through the skin. Sam killing himself wasn’t better ! He’d turned Dean’s life upside-down and hollowed out his heart. None of that was better ! Dean couldn’t sleep at night without waking up crying when he realized Sammy was no longer a phone call or a few hours’ drive away, but was gone for good. A piece of Dean broke every time he sat in his car or rented a motel room or put on a shirt that Sam had pulled out of his brother’s stuff and worn by accident as a kid.

If everything went as I planned, you received this a few days after my… uh… my funeral. God, that’s weird to say out loud… Anyways, Sam clears his throat,  I left all the boxes on my bed when I left. I also left a note instructing what to do with them.

All the boxes? Dean had only gotten one…

The copy with your name on it has an introduction tape just for you. You’re listening to that right now, I guess. The rest is the same for everyone else who received a box. There are four tapes, eight sides, and eight reasons why I did what I did. Dean, you’re number eight. I know you’ll listen to them all. I don’t want you thinking you’re more involved than you are. Everything you hear in tapes 1-7 have nothing to do with you, I want you to know that.

“Yeah - fucking - right they have nothing to do with me.” Dean choked quietly, shaking his head. He tried to slow his breathing. Hearing Sam’s voice again… It felt like everything was back to how it was supposed to be except when he turned to look at the passenger seat all that stared back at him was a crushed cardboard box.

At the bottom of the box, there’s a map. I knew you’d be around California after… you know. I made sure every place was driving distance. I even timed it out. You’ll find the locations labelled ‘A’ through ‘J’. They’re all significant, the last few especially. There’s a sheet underneath instructing when you should reach each location.

Dean dug around the box and, sure enough, and old and faded roadmap was at the bottom. A few circles and numbers lay around California and the rest were scattered on the way to Lawrence, Kansas. Dammit, Sammy, that’s a 27-hour drive. Sam had even made notes of where to stop for gas or coffee or - Dean’s heart dropped when he read it - pie.   Dean leaned his head heavily against the headrest. This hadn’t been a sudden, spur-of-the-moment decision. Sam had been planning this for months. Dean’s stomach churned uncomfortably.

There is absolutely nothing else you could have done for me, Dean. You did everything I could have ever asked for and more. Nothing you could have said or done would have undone what happened to me. Feeling guilty won’t change anything and wanting revenge won’t help either one of us. Whatever you hear, I want you to let go of it. It’s not for you to fix. It’s over. I’m at peace now and I want you to be at peace too. Please, once this is all over, don’t try to rectify what happened to me. That’s not what I want. I want you to be happy, Dean, and I promise you that chasing the other seven people down will not make you happy.

Dean’s chest tightened. Whatever these tapes contained, it was bad. Sam would never have warned Dean against revenge otherwise. They both knew how revenge could ruin a life. In fact, Dean knew better than anyone. His protective side bristled as his imagination went wild. Where was that protective instinct when you needed it, boy? A disapproving voice that sounded suspiciously similar to John Winchester questioned in Dean’s head.

I know you say you hate chick-flick moments, but here it goes anyway. You were the best brother I could ever have hoped for. You took care of me growing up. I love you, Dean. Sometimes it might not have seemed that way and I regret that now, but I’ll always love you because you’re my brother. Sam’s voice breaks. I’m sorry I have to cause you pain like this, but eventually you’ll thank me. I’m a curse, Dean. Everything around me turns to shit. You’ll figure that out soon. So I guess this is it. This is the last tape I’m recording. End of the line. Sam sounds shaky and nervous but clears his throat and continues. Bye, jerk.

“Bye, bitch.” Dean replied automatically. He wiped at his face to find it wet. He hadn’t even realized he was crying. Dean went back inside the Gas-n-Sip on shaky legs and got an extra large coffee and road snacks. Halfway through gathering his provisions, he went to turn to Sam and ask if they were missing anything, just to find himself alone. A shudder ran through Dean’s body and his knees almost gave out under him.

“Sir, are you alright?” A young man asked from behind the counter.

“Except for my dead brother I’m just dandy, thanks for asking.” Dean said, forcing a smile. The man paled and stuttered a little before Dean silenced him with a look and finished paying with loose fingers.

“Do you need me to call a cab?” The clerk asked, concern etched across his face.

“I’m good.” Dean answered. He took a sip of his coffee and forced his mind not to make connections to his caffeine-addicted brother. Not now, Dean thought as his head swam with painful images. Man, he needed something stronger than coffee.

“No. You need to drive.” Dean convinced himself, staring at his reflection in the glass door of the Gas-n-Sip.

“Sir?” Came the concerned voice once again.

“Shut up!” Dean shouted. “I’m fine!” He shoved past a woman on his way back to the Impala, ignoring her small cry of protest.

Dean sat in the Impala with the keys in his hand for the longest time. Putting the first tape in had been easy. He hadn’t been expecting Sam’s voice to come out of his speakers. He hadn’t expected to hear about why his little brother decided to blow his brains out. His hands wouldn’t let him eject the introduction tape. Part of him didn’t want to finish these cassettes because after this, there was nothing. When these tapes ran out, Dean would be left with ghosts and memories and old recordings to re-play when he needed to remind himself what his little Sammy had sounded like. A single tear fell on his lap. Dean wiped it away angrily.

“This is what Sam wanted.” Dean coaxed himself into ejecting the tape. He flipped the next one over in his hands before putting it into the player. Dean put the keys in Baby and turned on the ignition, shifting into reverse. He shifted the gear into first and eased onto the main road.

Dean pressed ‘play’.

Chapter Text

Dean ignored his phone. He stopped counting how many times it rang. There were two missed calls from Dad, no doubt about some jobs scattered here and there that he wanted Dean to pick up. There was one from Bobby, probably just the old man checking on him. He knew all the others were from Cas. Dean turned his phone off at five missed calls from the persistent little bastard. All he wanted to think about now was Sam.

Dean reached Sam’s residence building and realized his mouth was dry. Dean had been asked to come here and pick up Sammy’s things. He could still feel how stunned he’d been on the drive down and upon seeing the somehow neat chaos that was Sam’s dorm room. Everything had its place, just sometimes that place was a stacked pile on the corner of the desk or some haphazard pile of books next to the bed. He’d fully expected to see Sam hunched over one of them and sit up, surprised to see Dean visiting. Dean shivered as he parked the Impala. It was strange that this was the place where Sam had lived for two years. Dean didn’t belong here with all these young, intelligent, ambitious people. God, he hadn’t even graduated high school. He’d only been here twice, both times he’d felt awkward and out of place. Today was no different. He pressed play.

If you followed the map, you should now be at Florence Moore Hall. Not all of you got the same map; however, so if it’s not on yours that’s okay. This is where I spent my years of study at Stanford. I met some of my closest friends in this hall during my first year.  Most of them lived here, too, including my girlfriend Jess.

Shit. Jess. Dean had almost completely forgotten about Jess and how much her death had destroyed Sam. Of course he wasn’t okay when Dean had visited over the next few days! Of course he’d been lying through his teeth. Dean had known, but he thought Sam needed a little time. No, you got a call from dad and thought that fixing some douchebag’s car was more important than helping Sam. Dean clenched his jaw against the voice in his head, grinding his teeth to try and drown it out. That wasn’t it. That wasn’t it at all. He’d done everything he could to try to help Sam after Jess died but the stubborn kid wouldn’t accept that he wasn’t okay. He said he didn’t need Dean so Dean had left when he got the call from John. He’d called again a few days later to check up on him… hadn’t he? Dean felt guilt rise in his throat like bile.

But I’m not at FloMo to talk about Jess, not now anyway. This is where I met a junior named Nick during my freshman year. You might also know him as Lucifer. I was too naive to know that a nickname of that degree was a red flag, but I eventually recognized how fitting it was. I met Lucifer at a party. It was an ordinary party. I went out with Jess and Luis when we should have been working on any of the numerous papers we’d been assigned. I still remember bitching about our professors after a few drinks and making arrangements to get back to our dorms okay. I insisted Jess not walk back alone at night with heavily intoxicated boys all around and she made a drunken joke about chivalry not being dead. Sam laughed sadly but continued. I drank a lot more than I’d planned to that night. I’d gotten a phone call from my dad earlier that had fueled me to keep going when I normally would have called it quits and gone home.

Dean briefly wondered when this was. He didn’t remember Dad making any late-night phone calls to Sam, or any phone calls to Sam for that matter. As far as Dean knew, they hadn’t spoken since Sam had left for Stanford. It left Dean with a bad feeling. How little did he really know about his little brother’s last two years?

I almost passed out on the couch and next thing I knew a junior was helping me up and offering to walk me back to my dorm room. Usually I would have declined, but I had no idea how to get back in my condition. Besides, what does someone of my size really have to fear when another guy offers to walk you home, right? I still don’t remember much after leaving the party. Actually, I don’t even remember leaving at all. All I know is that a few hours later I woke up next to the dumpsters behind the cafeteria, naked.

Fuck. Dean had to press pause. He breathed heavily, watching students passing by on the sidewalk, laughing and talking. How many of them knew? He wondered if some of the people walking by him right now knew what that asshole had done to Sammy and never said anything. Maybe some of them had been his friends at one point. Anger bubbled up inside him but he forced himself to press play again.

My clothes had been cut off with a knife. I tried to get up but was in so much pain I could barely move. I soon realized I was bleeding from exactly where you would guess. I didn’t think I’d ever know what happens when one man rapes another (unconscious) man with no preparation, but unfortunately I learned the unpleasant truth that night. A few other boys from one of my classes found me lying half-conscious, bleeding and shaking behind a dumpster and brought me to a hospital. I don’t remember that either, but I remember waking up in a hospital room in unbelievable pain and feeling… dirty. Not only was I covered in blood and semen - both mine and someone else’s because it would seem my unconscious self responded without my permission - but I was covered in dirt with leaves and grass in my hair and clothes and stuck to my skin. No matter how many times I showered, though, that feeling never went away.

Dean shudders as he imagines it. He wants to track down this fucking bastard and beat his face into a pulp.

The police took pictures and filed a report and asked all sorts of ridiculously personal questions about my sexual activities, history and orientation. All the while I could hardly think straight. I wasn’t a small guy. I wasn’t ‘easy prey’ by any stretch of the imagination. Nobody would go out of their way to tell me to be careful walking home at night. In fact, they would probably tell others to watch out for me.  Sam laughed bitterly, his voice rough. I didn’t know how important my stature and sex was to what happened until I wanted to press charges. Since I had no hard evidence proving it was Lucifer who’d raped me and not another boy at the party due to my lack of consciousness during the entire ordeal, I found it impossible to get anyone on my side. When I told people, they laughed and said there was no way someone had overpowered and raped a guy my size. Some said I just had a drunk gay hookup and was trying to cover it up because I had a girlfriend. The most popular opinion was that Nick Lambert was completely innocent.

That son of a bitch! Dean’s hands shook  with pent-up anger even thinking about it. He imagined Sam, alone and scared and questioned by everyone. Had he thought Dean would laugh at him and call him weak? Is that why he never told him? What if Sam had told him? Dean formulates scenario over scenario in his head, trying to figure out what his reaction would have been. Meanwhile, Sammy’s voice continued on the Impala’s speakers.

… began to think I was going crazy. Maybe I had made up the whole thing and no one had done anything to me. Then I looked at the photos and saw the dirt and blood all over me, my clothes cut apart, my hair matted and streaked with God-only-knew what. Jess was the only one I could talk to. She was the only one who had seen Lucifer coming on strong and half-carrying me out of the party. She convinced me to go through with pressing charges. And try I did. Turns out Nick Lambert wasn’t an ordinary student. He was captain of the rowing team and had Dr. Chuck Lambert as a father. Dr. Lambert was filthy rich and an important friend to the university. Around Stanford, he was practically God. Not to mention Lucifer had his equally if not more impressive brothers Michael and Gabriel. I never got an apology or even an acknowledgement that I had indeed been molested by a classmate. Once Dr. Lambert’s lawyers learned I had no memory of that night, the story became unrecognizable. The facts were twisted to make it seem like I was a delinquent who had pressured Nick into drinking and coming home with me. They brought up my dad and brother’s criminal records and the fact that I was only at Stanford on scholarship to convince people that I was a crooked publicity whore trying to make some money from a big lawsuit against a rich family.

Dean was crying. It surprised him but he let it happen. Something told him he was going to cry a lot more before these tapes were over. Why hadn’t Sam told him? He could have defended him or at least supported his little brother. He understood why Dad was never involved but Dean? Maybe they’d drifted farther than Dean had thought. His heart was heavy as he continued listening and every part of him wanted to turn it off and pretend he’d never heard it, but he owed it to Sam.

To this day, I don’t know how people believed that crap, given that I wasn’t asking for compensation of any kind, though I probably should have. The stress of the process interrupted my entire life. I could barely eat or sleep, I was constantly humiliated and scared to be recognized as the Stanford Rape Victim, or worse, the Criminal Trying to Scam the Lamberts. Jess pushed me to get out of bed, eat breakfast, go to class, study, everything I would normally do without a second thought. I had panic attacks every time we’d go to a party at night or walk home from class in the dark with someone following nearby. I had to basically be walked through every part of my everyday life like a little kid again because I didn’t have the motivation to do anything for myself.

This part sounded familiar to Dean. He sometimes had to take care of Sammy like that when he was little. Sam would forget to sleep or neglect eating until Dean sat him down with a hot plate of whatever he could whip up ready to go or literally forced his stubborn ass to bed . Again, his throat constricted and he couldn’t breathe because Dean should have been there. Taking care of Sam was his job. It had always been his job. If Sam had let him… He wiped away another angry tear.

If your aim was to degrade me in the worst possible way, Lucifer, you succeeded. I don’t think you even realized how much you succeeded. My grades slipped and I almost lost my scholarship because of you. Of course, I did lose it, but that wasn’t directly your fault. That happened much later.

Wait, what? When did Sam lose his scholarship?

I dropped the charges because I wanted it to be over and to go on with my normal life. I would have been happy with a private apology at that point. Obviously I wanted you expelled and even put in jail, but nothing was going my way and I was too tired for it to continue. I wished I’d just kept it to myself like I’d originally planned. It would have caused a lot less stress, disappointment, and humiliation.

There was a pretty long pause and Dean had to double-check that the tape was still playing. Sure enough, it was. Sam soon started again with a shaky breath.

But even the lawsuit was nothing compared to seeing you around school. I saw you continuing on your merry way, being a star athlete and pupil and showing off your famous name. I saw you having no problem going out at night or never having to put double the effort into your schoolwork to keep it up to standard because your motivation was quickly slipping. You were doing fine. I was a mess because of what you did but you were fine. I hope you’re listening to this and realizing what you did. I hope you feel as miserable as I did.

Dean knew for sure that this Lucifer kid didn’t. The guy was probably proud of himself for avoiding expulsion or jail time. He was thankful for his dad’s connections and money and Sam dropping the charges. If the son of a bitch was anything, it certainly wasn’t miserable. Dean was miserable. He was figuring out that his brother was slowly falling apart half a country away and Dean had no idea. Dean, who was supposed to protect him, had done absolutely nothing to help. He wanted to punch himself. He also wanted to thank Jess for helping Sam, if only he could.

Then it all got worse. You know what you did, you fucking jerk. You started following me. You and your dick brother Michael followed me to my classes and when Jess and I would go out. You approached me and talked to me and tried to be friends . Sam scoffed. Like you could just rape someone and drag their name through the dirt and put them through hell and then want to be best buds. I still don’t know what the hell you were thinking, but I don’t regret punching you at the bowling alley. In fact, I wish I could have gotten a lot more hits in before Michael intervened and I got kicked out. But you didn’t stop there. You sent me threatening cryptic messages, you hacked into my computer, you broke into my dorm and left a little stuffed Devil on my bedside table. I don’t know what the fuck your endgame was, but… Sam breaks off and huffs in annoyance. Jess and I tried talking to you, we tried offering you something to leave us alone. You didn’t want money, God knows you had plenty of that. I was starting to think that tormenting me was what you really wanted. I wonder if you endgame was to make me pull that trigger. Maybe you’re somewhere out there smiling like the Devil you are, proud of yourself.

Dean couldn’t breathe. This guy… He never wanted to hurt someone more. He had hurt plenty of stupid kids who messed with Sam throughout the years, whether they bullied him for his shyness or ill-fitting hand-me-down clothes. Dean was always there to kick their asses, no matter if Sam wanted him to or not. But this one was worse than all of them combined. A hundred times worse than Dirk the Jerk. This guy was a fucking psycho that made Dean’s skin crawl.

But I won that one, I think. I couldn’t get your ass in jail, but I guess someone felt bad enough to give me a restraining order against you. It wasn’t much, given that we went to the same university, but it was enough to get you to stop ruining mine and Jess’ lives. I wondered if you moved onto someone else afterwards and did it again and needed your family to cover for you yet another time. I wondered how you could live with yourself. But I figured it out. You can live with yourself because you’re a monster. You don’t care about anyone and no one cares about you. Your family puts up with you because they have to and your so-called friends because they’re scared of the Lambert name. I feel bad for you sometimes, Lucifer, I really do. I hope you think about me, about what you did to me, right before you bite it.

Jesus Christ, Sammy… Dean shivered listening to his brother’s words. He didn’t think he would be so… Dean didn’t even know what to call it. The pure venom in his voice didn’t sound like Sam. It didn’t sound like the emotional kid who wouldn’t hurt a fly. His Sammy had a wicked dark side like frickin’ Jekyll and Hyde. Why had Dean never seen that? He thought back through the years, bracing himself for the onslaught of painful memories. He had seen it before, snippets of it with Sam’s stubbornness and quick bouts of anger, but had never heard such pure hatred come out of his brother, not even directed at Dad. Dad. Shit.

Dean turned his phone back on with shaking fingers, painfully aware of the silence in the Impala as side A came to an end. Three more missed calls. Two from Dad, one from Cas. There were a few text messages from Cas as well, telling Dean to call and that he was worried, as well as another with a string of strange emojis that Dean couldn’t really make sense of. He sent a quick text back saying that he was taking care of some things in California and wouldn’t be back for a while. Then he figured he should call Dad. He’d want to know why Dean was taking so long to get to Seattle, where he knew they had jobs for at least a few weeks. Dean reminded himself to warn Cas about that too, when he got the chance. Keeping up with a travelling mechanic was hard, but Castiel handled it like a champ. If Dean wasn’t so fucked up he’d think they had a chance at making this last but his baggage was too much to dump on Cas. He couldn’t do that to the poor kid.

“Dean? Where the hell are you?” John Winchester’s voice sliced through the air even over the phone and Dean instinctively curled his shoulders in on himself.

“I’m still in California.” He started the engine and checked Sam’s map and instructions, looking for the place corresponding with side B.

“Why?” Dad demanded.

“Because of Sam.” Dean said. He was unsure what else to say.

“Sam is dead, Dean.” His voice had softened a little, but the tone he used was still far too harsh. Dean bristled at his bluntness and felt his entire body tense.

“You don’t think I know that?” Dean growled hoarsely. He couldn’t keep his eyes from gravitating towards the box in Sam’s seat. The emptiness in his heart grew every time he looked to where his little brother should have been sitting.

“Watch the attitude, boy.” Dad scolded. Dean’s fists clenched. Your son is dead and you’re worried about my attitude ? Dean’s tongue itched to say something nasty that would make John Winchester feel something akin to the hollowness that threatened to swallow Dean from the inside out. Fear of his father kept his mouth glued shut.

“Yes, sir.” Dean said. He couldn’t help but picture the look Sam would probably shoot him and felt immediately ashamed.

“I need you here in Seattle. I have customers set up for you. All you have to do is drive your ass over here.” Dad said. There was some rustling and faint voices on the other line signifying that John was distracted. This gave Dean time to find a suitable excuse. He was too good of a mechanic to cry car failure, not to mention that would bring his father speeding out of Seattle like a bat out of Hell to take care of Baby. Dean almost laughed. He’d drop everything for a car but had never bothered to visit his own son at college. If the ‘67 Impala crashed he would probably be sadder than he was at Sam’s funeral. No he wouldn’t, Dean, you’re starting to sound like your brother . Dean let out a sigh. John Winchester grieved in his own way. If he got hold of these tapes, that ‘way’ would probably include putting a bullet in Nick Lambert’s skull.

“I can’t.” Dean said. There was a pause on the other line. It was painfully long and Dean shuddered.

“What did you just say?”

“I said I couldn’t.” Dean exhaled heavily into the phone. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.

“It wasn’t a question, Dean.” John said. “I need you here. Now.”

“Sam left me something, okay! I need to do this. For him.”

“ Sam doesn’t have a time limit. You can do this ‘something’ later.” Dad sounded stressed and it almost made Dean take the next exit that would lead him towards Washington. Sam’s box forced him to stay on the road leading to the next marked location.

“I can’t, Dad, I have to do it now.” He hung up with trembling hands and turned the phone completely off. Sam would have been proud. A smile ghosted across Dean’s features when he saw Sam’s grin flash across his mind’s eye. Dean knew he would get it when he eventually got to Seattle, but he didn’t care quite yet. He ejected the tape and flipped it over, steeling his nerves with a deep breath before putting it back in. Dean was dreading hearing what else he’d missed in Sammy’s life, but it was the last time he would hear his little brother’s voice again so it was well worth it.

Dean pressed ‘play’.

Chapter Text

Dean pulled into the parking lot of what looked like a dive bar. Why Sammy chose to bring him here when he had another 26 and a half hours to drive, Dean had no clue. The instruction sheet had mentioned that a portable cassette player would come in handy if he was to fully follow the map. Dean had immediately found the closest thrift shop and picked up some old clunky piece of technology that was small enough to carry into a store or restaurant without looking like a total dumbass. That said, the people in Clint’s Bar still gave him strange looks when he carried in an outdated tape player and equally outdated headphones. It would probably get a small laugh out of Sam if he were here, or at least a smile. That reminded Dean of why he was here at Clint’s in the first place.

Dean ordered a beer and sat where Sam had instructed; third stool closest to the small, dark stage. It wasn’t karaoke night, but the band that was playing wasn’t much better than a few drunk amateurs. Maybe Sam had brought him here so he could spice up the joint. He entertained the thought of going on the stage later, singing as loudly and off-key as he possibly could, picturing the mortified look Sam would be wearing if he were here watching his brother making a total ass out of himself. After the tape, maybe. Yeah, after the tape he would do it. Dean pressed play again. He’d had to stop Sam mid-sentence earlier when he pulled up to the bar.

… freedom. I guess I’d always liked being independent and out on my own, no one to answer to but myself. I hotwired a car and took a drive. I know that’s illegal, but hey, it doesn’t matter now. Besides, I returned it afterwards. I drove until I found a place that felt familiar. If you followed the map, you should now find yourself at Clint’s Bar. It’s a little run-down and maybe even a bit sketchy to some of you. Dean and I had been to our fair share of places like this through our summer road trips, testing out our fake IDs wherever possible (sorry, Dad).

So Sammy was homesick? Dean felt guilty about the flutter of happiness in his stomach. At least this way he knew he hadn’t been the only one.

Anyway, I sat on the third bar stool closest to the stage, drinking my beer in peace. Getting served while being underage had become a breeze once my growth spurt had hit and the bartender didn’t look twice at my ID. I was relishing my new-found quasi-adulthood when I saw her. Jess. She was a tall, pretty blonde who swayed a little on the stage on karaoke night. She’d drank a bit (okay, maybe more than a bit) too much and a friend pressured her to go up there and sing. Everyone else who’d sung that night had almost made my ears bleed and I nearly left when I saw her get up there, thinking I couldn’t take any more. But, God was I glad I didn’t. I couldn’t listen to ‘Hey Jude’ the same way after that night. It was like she somehow knew that it was my mom’s favourite song. She’d sung it to Dean and I as kids, or so he’d told me. Dean said it was her version of a lullaby. Sam laughed.

Dean smiled when he heard the fondness in Sam’s voice. It was tinged with sadness but Dean could still tell that this Jess girl had been something special. She’d also been cool by the sound of it, unlike pretty much every other girl that had ever wanted to date Sam.

I couldn’t help but stare the whole time. It was like one of those cheesy meet-cutes from a movie and it was perfect. I bought her a drink afterwards and learned that she was also going to Stanford and stopping here along the way. If you go to the single-stall restroom on the left of the bar…

God, Sammy! Seriously? Dean couldn’t help but laugh, earning even more strange looks from the other people in the bar. He laughed harder just to get on their nerves. His brother had gotten on that fast. Dean approved wholeheartedly.

We started meeting up more and more afterwards. Soon we were official. Then it had been two months, then three. It all went by so fast. We basically lived at each other’s dorms and made plans to get an apartment together in second year. I know you probably don’t care and aren’t seeing how this has anything to do with what I did, but trust me, it’s important. We never exactly talked about it, but we knew we would eventually get married. We would have kids and a dog and a house somewhere in California.

Dean could picture it; Sam in a flannel shirt holding a little boy in his too-big hands and putting a band-aid on his scraped knee, a dog sniffing around the backyard of their cute little house, and Jess coming over and kissing the top of Sam’s head. It was so vivid it hurt.

Jess was amazing. She put up with everything from the family I didn’t talk about to the way I would become impatient and reclusive while working on a particularly difficult paper.

Dean felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He didn’t feel like he and Sammy had been on such bad terms that he could barely talk to Jess about him. This kid was just full of surprises.

It wasn’t really a shocker to learn that she had ex-boyfriends. Plural. I had ex-girlfriends too, but none that followed me all the way to California because they were still attached to me and couldn’t see me with someone else. It’s pretty clear where I’m going with this, isn’t it? His name was Tyson Brady. Jess and I had been together for almost six months at this point. She was my everything. Brady had enrolled in pre-med at Stanford and integrated himself into our friend group. He was a nice guy at first, or maybe just a great liar.

Dean finished his beer at nearly record speed. He was a terrible brother. He hadn’t kept up with Sam’s life at all while he was at Stanford. He had no idea Sam had even had a ‘friend group’, let alone known their names or anything about them. Maybe if he’d visited more and Sam had introduced him he would have seen this Brady guy for the snake he was. Dean’s douche detector had always been more accurate than Sam’s.

I knew something was wrong when he started hanging around a little too much. It was in the middle of the Lambert fiasco and Jess and I were stressed beyond belief and not in the best place in our relationship. Brady would come by to ‘help Jess help me’ and keep her company whenever I left for a meeting with my lawyer or the police. When I saw him reach for her hand at the first trial, I realized something else was going on.

Son of a bitch! Was Stanford full to the brim with assholes? Jesus Christ. Dean scrubbed his face with his hands and ordered another beer.

Jess often complained about you being back in her life, Brady, so I knew she wasn’t cheating on me. Sometime between being stalked by Lucifer and trying to keep my grades afloat, I found the time to watch you. I started analyzing the way you looked at her, like she was your property. I started noticing the hesitations before your fake laughs and smiles at my friends who were supposedly yours too. I was always good at noticing things in other people and I soon saw exactly what you wanted. You thought that if you couldn’t have Jess, no one could.

This was exactly why Dean had tried to avoid relationships. They were messy. There were too many commitments and unsaid promises that could be broken. One wrong move and you had a psycho serial killer on your ass.

I caught you one night when you were spying on her. You had binoculars and were crouched in the bushes outside my dorm window. I came out and told you to leave us alone or next time I would fuck you up. I meant it too. I didn’t know how much you saw that night, but voyeurism was a whole new level of creepy that I never thought you’d stoop to.

Dean almost choked on his beer. Jess’ crazy ex was a stalker and a peeping Tom? Maybe her going for Sammy made a little more sense than I thought . He chuckled at his own joke but the laughter quickly died in his throat. Dean felt an itching feeling at the back of his neck like someone was watching him. He checked his shoulder to see if anyone was staring again. He saw a couple giving him the stink eye, but most people were piss-drunk and didn’t give Dean a second glance. Nevertheless, he packed up and got back into the Impala, not wanting to down another few beers and crash the car or something before finishing the tapes. He continued the cassette in the car.

When the whole Lucifer thing had blown over, Jess and I convinced our friends that you weren’t to be trusted. Do you remember what you did when we confronted you about your fucked up night time activities? Oh right… You said I was schizo and seeing things. I wanted to thank you for that. There was literally nothing else you could have said that would have fully confirmed my story, at least not to Jess and Luis and the others. I thought we were done with you for good. Within the next few weeks, you dropped out of pre-med and said you were leaving Stanford, transferring and even moving away from California. Jess and I continued our lives as we previously had been and I was truly happy for another month or two. That is, until I saw you when I went out to breakfast with Luis one day. I wasn’t 100% sure it was you, so I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to seem like I was losing my mind and I was sure you’d moved back to Idaho or wherever the hell it was you came from.

Dean got the feeling that Brady might have been more right than he’d thought. Maybe Sam had been so paranoid he started seeing Nick and Brady where they weren’t supposed to be. Maybe his little brother had started to go crazy. Dean got on the next road to his right, heading in the direction of the next red circle. He stopped for coffee at a Gas-n-Sip but apart from that kept driving non-stop. It reminded Dean of when he and Sam would take the Impala for a few days and go on their own little road trip when Dad left them for weeks at the motel alone when he worked. For years, John had thought there was something wrong with the mileage calculator. That brought another short laugh out of Dean.

I brought your photo around the area, asking people if they’d seen you around, just to make sure. Call me desperate, but when some creep spies on you and your girlfriend having sex, you don’t want them coming back. Turns out you were still in town and lied about leaving. I didn’t tell Jess because I didn’t want to freak her out. I will regret that forever. If I still have my memories in the afterlife I’m sure I’ll regret it even then. Jess, if you can hear me, I’m so sorry. I don’t really know how this whole ‘dead’ thing works so maybe I’ll be able to tell you in person soon. But anyway, I should have told you I’d seen him and let you know never to let him in or talk to him or… anything. Sam sighs heavily . I should have warned you and made you promise to call me the second you caught a whiff of the bastard. If I had, then…

Dean’s heart breaks as Sam’s voice hitches and he breaks off. Jess died in a fire, didn’t she? The police had ruled it an accident caused by a gas pipe problem that ignited when Jess lit her bong. Dean wasn’t oblivious to what Sam and Jess had been up to during their time at college. He’d stumbled across a rather impressive collection in Sammy’s dorm room. He’d been a little surprised at his hippie baby brother and made sure to let him know exactly how hilarious he found it. He’d left Sam a mixtape of Bob Marley and some flowers when he left. Sam had called him the next day, pissy and asking Dean not to tell John. He also hadn’t appreciated Dean’s gifts. Dean hummed in amusement as he played the phone call over in his head. He could still remember Sam’s unimpressed tone and could almost hear his bitchface over the phone. God, Sammy .

When I got your text it was too late. Far too late. You asked me to come to your dorm because Brady had stopped by and said he needed to talk to me. I don’t know if that was his sick idea of tipping me off, letting you give me some time to get back to the dorm so I could blame myself for not making it there on time. I wouldn’t put it past him, to be honest. I almost made it, too, and that just made it so much worse. I ran faster than I’d ever ran in my entire life. I was almost surprised I wasn’t asked to join track by some of the teachers who watched me race across campus. When I got to your dorm room you were tied to a chair, crying and you were bleeding from your abdomen. I can’t even count how many times I’ve woken up sweating with that image in my head, with you screaming my name before the whole room caught fire. I wanted to die then. I wanted to hold you and burn with you, but someone pulled me out. I only later learned it was Lucifer’s brother, Gabriel. You might want to remember that.

Dean was shocked. So far, he’d learned his baby brother had been raped at college and his girlfriend had been murdered. Why had he never bothered to tell Dean? Those seemed like pretty major fucking events to be keeping to himself. Dean wouldn’t have judged him or laughed at him or whatever other reaction Sam was scared of. Taking care of Sammy had been Dean’s primary responsibility ever since he was a kid. Had he really done that piss-poor of a job that his idiot little brother hadn’t trusted him anymore? He would have done absolutely anything in his power to save Sammy from himself and those fuckers at Stanford. He wished he could have shaken some sense into the younger Winchester, told him he didn’t have to go through it alone. Dean would have been there in a heartbeat if he’d known what was really happening.

I was released from the hospital near the end of the school year, having suffered some pretty serious burns. I got an automatic ‘A’ after Jess’ murder, not that I needed it because my grades were already good despite everything. No one believed that Brady had anything to do with Jess’ death. Her text message wasn’t enough to place him at the scene since he had people in Idaho saying he’d been living there for months. I became obsessed with proving him guilty, but found absolutely no hard evidence that would even open an investigation. One of my teachers got me to see a campus psychiatrist and they decided that the past year’s stress had ‘deeply affected my psyche’ or something. Right. Sam’s voice was bitter and dripping with sarcasm. They thought it would be best for me to take a year off. My scholarship would still be offered when I came back, but I wouldn’t be enrolled in any classes for an entire year and wouldn’t be allowed to live on campus during my time as a non-student. I agreed to it. I couldn’t live there anymore anyways, where I’d lived with the love of my life just a few short weeks earlier. I saw Jess everywhere and would have a near breakdown every time I found more of her stuff in my dorm.

Dean’s stomach twisted as he listened to his brother. Sammy knew how it felt, yet he still did it to Dean. Did he even realize it was the same feeling? Dean could barely even drive Baby anymore without seeing tiny reminders of his little brother. The army man stuck in the back door ashtray and the rattling Legos in the AC unit reduced Dean to a shaking, nostalgic mess. Sam had broken Dean’s heart just as Tyson Brady had broken his.

Leaving Stanford, I had nowhere to go. I had no money, being a student relying on scholarship to even attend school. I couldn’t go back to Dean and my dad. No way.

Yes. Yes, you could have you dumbass. For a smart kid, Sam really knew nothing. Dean felt tears of frustration welling up in his eyes and did his best to ignore them. He could always come home. Part of Dean always wished he would, even when he thought Sam was having the time of his life in California. He’d always felt a little guilty about being so selfish, but now Dean realized that it could have been his instincts. He should have trusted his gut.

Even if Dad hadn’t told me to ‘stay gone’, I wouldn’t have even known where they were.

Phones exist, Sam.

There was no way I was attempting to explain on the phone, either, and beg for Dad’s forgiveness. That wasn’t going to happen.

Sam had always been stubborn. Dean knew that since he was a kid. He wouldn’t stay home or get in the car or even turn off the TV without knowing exactly why . If he didn’t get his answer, he wouldn’t do it. Simple as that. If he made his mind up about something, it was nearly impossible to change it. Once he decided to go to college, he was going to college. That was it. Once he decided he was never coming home, Sam wasn’t going within ten feet of Dad even if he had a gun to his head . Shit. Dean felt his stomach churn as he realized what he’d just said. Way too soon, you insensitive bastard. He was a terrible person.

I decided to leave California. It was like I had an itch under my skin that wouldn’t be relieved unless I left and went as far as I could possibly go. I had to get away from these people. Some of them had been my closest friends, but now they were nothing but an excruciating reminder of a time when I’d been truly happy and how it all went to shit. I stole a car and just drove.

Maybe Sam had been more like his family than he’d originally thought. That itch was exactly what kept Dean and John moving around. If you never stayed too long, you never got attached. It was easier that way. If it went sour, you’d just pack up and get the hell out of there. It was ingrained in the Winchesters since they were no more than toddlers. It shouldn’t have been surprising to see Sam falling back into their old patterns, no matter how hard he’d tried to fight the Winchester way his whole life. Yet somehow Dean had expected Sammy to crave deep roots and that apple-pie life more than anything. He had never thought that his little brother would live the same way whether Dean and John were in his life or not.

Dean checked the map and took the next exit. It led to the small town of Auburn, California. Sam’s map took him to a narrow downtown street. Even in the quickly-intensifying darkness, Dean saw that it was clean and picturesque. There was no way he and Sam had ever stayed here and Sam sure as hell couldn’t have afforded living here on his own. Following the instructions, Dean switched the tapes into the portable player and stepped out of the Impala. He followed the numbers until he got to 2370, the number scribbled on the map next to the circle.

Auburn, California. I passed through as I wandered around for a while before deciding in which direction to go. I stayed in a motel near a gold rush museum for a night, though I couldn’t really afford it. The following morning I took a walk downtown to clear my head. It’s a beautiful town. I hope you all followed the map and found yourselves here. If you followed it even more in detail and are now standing in front of building 2370, you deserve a lot of congratulations. I had never expected all of you to follow my maps, but obviously part of me hoped you would.

Dean felt like too much of a shit person in the first place to feel any sort of satisfaction at surpassing his little brother’s expectations. Sam had always had a too-low view of himself and thought people were a lot less attached than they were. Dean briefly wondered how many of Sam’s Stanford friends felt something akin to Dean’s distress. That Luis guy he mentioned, he lost both his best friends in a few months. Sam probably left a trail of sad people without even realizing it. He probably thought he did them a favour . How fucked up was that? Dean shuddered. Sam had said as much in his introduction tape and it made Dean’s blood boil.

The first thing I thought when I saw this place was how much Jess would have loved it. We always wanted an apartment downtown. I could see her walking down that street, stopping at that coffee shop with me. I imagined us cuddling on the couch binge-watching TV shows in front of that window.

Dean looked up into the apartment directly above him. Sure enough, there was a couple sitting on a cozy-looking couch watching what looked like Prison Break. It was so eerie that Dean shivered through his jacket.

The fact that someone else lives there, happy, living the life we deserved to live together… It kills me, Jess. That was supposed to be us up there.

Dean saw the woman of the couple turn her head at a sharp noise and get up, disappearing from his view. She came back momentarily with a baby. Her boyfriend lit up when his son came into view. He was tall like Sam, and took the little boy in his arms. Dean felt a sharp pang. If anyone deserved that perfect little life, it was Sammy.

I wanted nothing more than to have that downtown apartment, a kid or two, a steady job, and you by my side when I woke up every morning. Eventually we would have moved into a house. We could have gotten a dog. We both always wanted a dog. I could never have one because my family moved around so much, and your family had lived in an apartment far too small for a pet that high-maintenance. It would have been our reward for working our asses off our entire lives. We could have finally lain back and seen that it was all worth it. Sam’s voice cracked.

Dean found his legs to be shaking. If God was up there, it seemed He didn’t give a rat’s ass about his little brother. He was a good kid. He didn’t deserve all this shit. And he sure as hell hadn’t deserved to die so young. Dean’s jaw clenched involuntarily at the unfairness of it all. He delivered a strong kick to a trash can on the curb. Why did it always have to be the Winchesters? Why did whatever was up there always have to shit on them ? It just could never be someone else, could it? He was breathing heavily when he got back in the Impala, and he realized he’d tuned out Sam’s continuing monologue.

… kept going until I hit Winnemucca, Nevada. That’s where I’ll continue next time I guess because I can’t talk about Winnemucca without talking about Ruby, and man, do I have a lot to say about you .

Sam’s voice was surprisingly venomous and Dean’s dread for the next tape grew exponentially. He didn’t know how much more of the same he could handle. They seemed to be going from bad to worse. If this one had only been second, Dean wasn’t sure he wanted to find out what was next. Most of all, he wondered what the hell he’d done that was so bad to merit the last spot.

He got an extra large coffee with a triple espresso shot at the next gas station and picked up a piece of cherry pie for old time’s sake. He could almost hear Sam scoff in amusement and disgust as he read the ingredients on the back, saying something about how Dean was practically ingesting diabetes.

“Here’s to you, bitch.” Dean said as he took the first bite. He looked over at the box in the passenger seat. He would have sold his soul to see Sam smirking back at him and replying with his customary ‘jerk’. He blinked away tears before convincing himself not to be a sentimental pansy. Dean put the Impala into gear and followed the road leading to Nevada. He switched the tapes and placed the old one back into the box.

Dean pressed ‘play’.

Chapter Text

Winnemucca, Nevada was a place right in the Winchesters’ wheelhouse. It was a dusty desert town filled to the brim with cheap motels, pubs, diners, and strip clubs. At this time of night, Dean could tell just how plebeian this place was. He heard numerous hookers ask him to take them home as he drove through downtown. Drug addicts and homeless people gathered outside the bars along the street, giving Dean dirty looks as he passed. The fact that most of them were wearing plaid almost made Dean laugh. Sam would have probably fit in during the day. Not so much at night. He wasn’t made for this kind of nightlife. It was a scene that Dean had become used to over the years, but it had never appealed to Sammy.

He put Sam on pause to turn his phone back on. He owed Cas a phone call. The man would be worried sick. Dean didn’t know if the fact that Cas was the worrying type was endearing or extremely frustrating. Maybe both. He unlocked the first screen as quickly as he could, trying not to look at the angry texts from John. He knew that he might read something that would convince him to head to Seattle, but he also knew he couldn’t do that. Not yet. He dialed Cas’ number and parked at a diner off the main road. It was close enough to Sam’s next location. He could walk the rest of the way.

Dean heard a muffled groan when the line picked up.

“Cas?” He asked.

“Hrmm. Hello, Dean.” Cas greeted groggily. “What is it?”

“I’m returning your calls.” Dean said.

“At two in the morning?” A sleepy Cas asked. Dean immediately felt guilty.

“Oh shit. I didn’t realize. Sorry, Cas.” He went to hang up.

“It’s okay.” Was Cas’ gravelly response. His voice was even deeper and rougher when he was tired. “What do you need?”

“I- I mostly just wanted to let you know I was okay.”

“That’s not why you’re calling, Dean.” Cas said. Dean could almost hear his eyebrows furrowing and his mouth drawing into a frown. He could never bullshit Cas.

“Sam...uh…” He was unsure how to continue. “Sam left me these tapes. I’ve been listening to them and… God, they’re awful, Cas. They’re fucking terrible.”

“What do you mean? Is it music?”

“No! Uh...no. No. I mean, that would probably be terrible too.” Dean ran a hand over the back of his neck. “He’s talking about the past two years. When he was at Stanford. It’s the reasons why he… you know. But so much shit happened that I didn’t know about and I don’t… I don’t know what to make of it! I mean, Sam, he… Sam lied about everything. ” There was a long pause on Castiel’s end.

“He probably thought he was protecting you, Dean.” He finally said.

“Protecting me? He was the one that needed protection! You didn’t hear this stuff, Cas! My baby brother was raped and his girlfriend was burned alive in her fucking dorm room!” Cas seemed strangely unsurprised by the news as he sighed into the phone.

“Sam must have known you’d react like this and find a way to blame yourself like you always do.” Cas said.

“That’s so not what I want to hear right now.” Dean chuckled sourly, shaking his head.

“...what do you want to hear?” Cas asked.

“I don’t know, man! The usual bullshit about how everything’s okay and Sammy’s in a better place! That no matter what shit he went through it won’t touch him now and I’ll eventually get over it! Maybe that I did everything I could! I don’t know what I want to hear, Cas, just not that Sam was protecting me. I was supposed to protect him and I failed.” Once Dean started, he found it hard to stop. The words just fell out of him, growing increasingly aggressive. “I want to hear that all those assholes are gonna get what’s coming to them and just… Sam didn’t deserve to die over this shit, okay? He just didn’t.” There was another long pause on Cas’ end, his breathing hard and unsure.

“Everything is going to be okay, Dean.”

“God, Cas! I don’t want to hear it anymore . I wanted to hear it before .”

“But you said-”

“It’s not the same now that I told you and I know you don’t mean it.” Dean sighed and scrubbed a hand over his hair. Cas could be hard to handle sometimes. Dean knew about his placement on the Autism spectrum, but it didn’t make it any easier.

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

“Don’t- don’t be sorry. I’m just stressed out, okay. It’s not your fault.”

“Okay.” Was Cas’ awkward response. Dean struggled to find something to say so he just sighed yet again. This was a frustrating night indeed.

“Sam loved you a lot.” Castiel finally said. “I wished my siblings were like that. He wouldn’t have given you those tapes to hurt you. He gave you the reasons why it wasn’t your fault. They weren’t meant to make you feel worse, they were meant to help you heal.”

Dean took a moment to process. That’s what Sam had said in the introduction tape, that these were meant to make Dean stop blaming himself. But how could he keep from feeling guilty when he hadn’t known about any of this, when he hadn’t done anything to help?

“But I had no idea what kind of hell Sammy was going through. I could have said something - anything - to stop him, but I didn’t. I let my brother die on my watch! How the fuck is that not my fault?” Dean felt bad for raising his voice at Cas, because he really didn’t need Dean’s problems on top of his own, but his anger took over.

“Sam was an adult, Dean. He wasn’t a child anymore and you weren’t his father.” Cas said. Dean scoffed. He was more of a father to Sammy than John had been.

“I still could have-”

“You couldn’t have stopped him. No one could. It’s a mental illness, Dean. He made up his mind a long time ago, long before anyone saw it coming.”

“Illnesses can be cured, Cas. I could have made him see Pamela! She’s helped him before.”

“Maybe it was just his time to go.” Cas sounded deflated and exhausted.

“If you say something about ‘God’s fucking plan’ I’m going to hang up right now, so help me-”

“God is the reason Sam was in your life in the first place, Dean. Sometimes people just can’t handle the darkness of the world and it’s best that-”

“ Don’t you dare . Don’t you dare say this was for the fucking best.” Dean’s hands shook and his voice was dangerously low.

“Not for you, Dean, for Sam . You said it yourself, he was going through hell. It wouldn’t be fair to ask him to keep going.”

“There’s always another way! Suicide doesn’t fix the problem, it just makes sure things never get better.” Not to mention it made everyone who knew Sam’s lives that much worse.

“Sometimes things never get better, Dean.”

“You know what, Cas? He wasn’t your fucking brother! You probably didn’t even care!”

“Dean-”

“No. You don’t get to tell me this shit about how Sammy being gone is a good thing. He wasn’t your baby brother, he was mine . And if God and his dumbass plans are out there, then fuck him. Fuck him and all his angels. His ‘plan’ should be to make His world good, not make people want to kill themselves!”

“If He stepped in to fix all our problems, it wouldn’t be free will-”

“AND MY LITTLE BROTHER WOULDN’T BE DEAD! Do you think I give a shit about free will right now? I don’t! I just want my Sammy back.” Dean choked. Tears were flowing freely down his face but he couldn’t find it in himself to care anymore. He fought to catch his breath, air coming out shakily and sporadically. Castiel didn’t speak for a while.

“I understand that-”

“Stop. Cas. Please.” Dean said quietly. He rested his head on Baby’s steering wheel, squeezing his eyes shut so he couldn’t see the glaringly empty shotgun seat with that goddamn box where Sam should be. They both sat in silence on either side of the line for a long time.

“I’m so sorry, Dean.” Cas almost whispered. A corner of Dean’s lips tugged upwards in a sad half-smile.

“I have to go. I still have a full night of driving ahead of me.” Dean’s voice was hollow, distant. He couldn’t talk about this anymore. Cas sighed on the other line. Dean knew all these emotions must have overwhelmed him.

“Goodbye, Dean.” He said heavily. Dean hung up and leaned against the headrest. He shouldn’t have told Cas. He already knew he’d side with Sam, even when he wasn’t here. They thought alike, those two. Maybe that was something Dean liked about Castiel. He was awkward and nerdy too, just like his brother had been. Son of a bitch. He’d replaced the Sam-shaped hole in his life with Cas, hadn’t he? He tried to swallow the lump in his throat that tasted a whole lot like self-loathing as he transferred the third tape to the portable player.

The air outside was cooler than he’d expected. Dean shivered a little in his flannel and thin jacket. He passed a huddle of junkies around a trashcan fire and instinctively sped up a little.

I don’t even know why I made this map, to be honest. Most of you won’t waste almost two days wandering around the West tracing my life. I don’t know why I bothered. Doesn’t matter anymore, though. It’s not like it’ll change anything.

Dean resolved to go to every single location on that goddamn map. It matters to me. No matter how small or far away, Dean would go. Sam deserved that much.

At the corner of Gould and Melarkey, you'll find a small drugstore. It's closed for the night right around 12:00. Depending on when you get this, it's already shut its doors and lights and you're outside staring at a closed-down store in the cold. Alone. Good. This will help you understand. I spent all the money I had just getting this far. I'd already stolen two cars since leaving Stanford and there was no way I was stealing money too. My moral compass may have gotten skewed a little, but it was still there.

Dean realized just how cold it was. Damn, it cooled down fast at night out here. He pulled his jacket tighter around himself and imagined Sam doing the same thing almost a year ago.

There were pubs open, I knew that, but I also knew I couldn't buy anything and it would just make me feel even worse about myself. So why did I come to a closed drugstore then? Good question. I can't really answer it properly myself. I don’t really know how I came across this place. Maybe since it's positioned right between a few bars. I was glad I did, though, because warm air still blows from the vent in the back even when the place is closed.

Dean went looking for the vent, and sure enough, there it was. Two men wrapped in dirty blankets already occupied the space and looked at Dean and smiled slightly. The younger one of the pair nodded in acknowledgement.

“Cold one, i'nnit?” He said. Dean huffed in agreement.

“Yeah.” Dean blew into his hands and rubbed them up and down his jeans.

So yeah, I slept on a vent. Sue me. Sam laughed lightly . God, things happen fast. It had only been a few weeks since I left Stanford, but it felt like another life. The first thing I did coming to Winnemucca was apply for jobs. I don’t know where I was trying to go, but I certainly didn’t plan on sticking around Nevada. Funny how things work out, though. A few nights later, right here, I met someone who would play a vital role in the year that followed. Hello, Ruby, if you’re listening. You didn’t think I’d leave you out, did you?

How long was Sam here? Did he ever go back to school or did he lie about that too? Dean felt suffocating guilt swell in his chest. What had Dean been doing while all this was going on? Fixing cars and being Dad’s bitch . Dean’s inner voice sounded suspiciously similar to the one on the tape.

Finding a job when you’re new to a town is a hell of a lot harder than it looks in movies. Hell, if I walked into a diner with a ‘now hiring’ sign and got the job on the spot I would have probably cried with joy. No, it’s a lot harder than that. People already don’t trust drifters and you still need interviews and all that, and after that might still get turned down because you're "overqualified". All in all, the process can take about a week. Except when your money ran out, waiting a week before eating or sleeping isn’t exactly an option. I stole some stuff the second day, all the while hating myself for it. I’d promised I wouldn’t, but… you know… desperate times. Sam scoffs quietly.

Dean was familiar with that struggle. John Winchester had seemed to think that leaving an eight-year-old and a four-year-old alone for a week in a motel was a good idea when they were growing up. More often than not, money ran out well before Dad got home. Dean had gotten used to the budgeting, rationing and Houdini-ing his way out of seemingly bleak situations. Sam hadn’t, though. This was all new to him. He didn’t have Dean anymore. He would have if he’d picked up a fucking phone. Dean clenched and unclenched his fists. That was Dean’s responsibility, the money worrying and fretting over rent and food. Sam should never have had to go through that on his own. If you’d done your fucking job… God, did that ever sound like John Winchester. Dean massaged his temples to relieve some of the building pressure.

Nearing the one-week mark things got bad. I was living in the car I stole to come down here, but it was still freezing at night and I got sick. Really sick. That’s when I met Ruby. I was feverish and delusional, shivering behind this fucking drugstore right here. She made the understandable mistake of thinking I was 'junk sick', in withdrawal. I don’t know why, but she felt bad enough to bring me back to her place. It wasn’t really hers, the house was always full of other people coming and going. She tried to bring me back to health, giving me food and water and soup and whatnot.

Dean remembered his mom making tomato rice soup when he’d been sick and briefly wondered which kind this Ruby girl had made. Maybe he would feel less like a terrible brother if she made the same sort.

She gave me some of your heroin pills to try and counteract my ‘withdrawal symptoms’, not knowing that my condition was only caused by the cold and my severe sleep deprivation. I don’t hold that against you, Ruby. You tried, which is more than anyone else would have done. It’s not like you went to med school and knew the difference. I knew I looked like a junkie after living in my car eating nothing but canned pasta for a week so it could easily be deceiving. Besides, there was no way for you to know how bad the addiction would become.

No. No. No. Not Sammy. There had to be some sort of mistake. Sam was the brother that had his shit together. He was a good, innocent little college boy with his nose in books who wanted to help people. That was Sam Winchester. He was the kid who wanted to settle down with a nice girl and get married and have a white-picket fence and a dog. He wasn’t… he wasn’t this.

It felt good the first time so we did it again. Ruby was happy that I wanted to. She seemed a little lonely. I wasn’t addicted right away like you’d probably expect (again, TV shows and movies got that all wrong), but somewhere throughout the casual usage of pills, a switch got flipped and it wasn't casual anymore, it became a necessary part of my everyday life. The first time she injected me, I threw up. It was a hell of a lot stronger. Then I got used to that. Then I needed more. Heroin provided a way to run from what was in my head. I could just float away and forget everything that had happened in the past year or however long it had been since my life had turned to shit. To me, that was worth more than any amount of nausea or skin infections. Surprised? Some of you probably are. Sam sighed sadly. Ruby and I soon had an arrangement. We started a romantic relationship and she would give me what I needed.

That bitch! Who just takes advantage of someone like that? Dean’s blood boiled and he kicked the brick wall of the drugstore, earning strange looks from the men on the vent and an awful stinging sensation in his toes.

Soon Ruby was all that mattered. Her and what she would put in my veins. We would lie together and just… be. There was no Jess when I was with her, no memories of Lucifer, no nightmares from my childhood. Nothing. Just me and Ruby and pure bliss and numbness. We didn’t care about anything else. My phone’s contract ran out, but I didn’t think twice about it. I had no money for stuff like that and I didn’t keep contact with anyone anymore. Looking back, I regret that.

Dean knew Sam’s phone had been disconnected, but he’d never known why. He’d felt betrayed when he’d heard that message after attempting to reach his baby brother. He hadn’t received a new number or any mention of this change. At least now that was starting to make sense.

I didn’t find out how toxic our lives had become until much later. I got so skinny I could count my ribs. Our shower didn’t even work and the fact that we didn’t realize for weeks gave an indication of just how bad it got. When we weren’t high or having sex (there are positive side effects to heroin, after all), I stole things and pawned them and Ruby went to a few motels around town and gave blowjobs to interested parties. I was oblivious to the moral wrongness of it all, or maybe I just didn't care anymore. In any case, I thought I was doing it for the right reasons. This was me staying the hell out of everyone’s way. No one else would have to die because of me, and best of all, I didn’t have to live with the guilt of what I did. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t anything like the life I’d pictured for myself, as long as Jess… Sam’s voice grew hoarse with emotion. As long as nothing like what happened with Jess or Mom ever repeated itself.

Fuck, Sammy. Dean sank to the floor, leaning against the wall of the drugstore and bringing his knees to his chest. Sam was a good kid. He’d always been a good kid. He was a fragile kid, too, in his own way. God knows Sam had lived through his own sort of hell, but he always found a way to keep going, even if it destroyed him inside. Dean just hadn’t gotten his head out of his own ass soon enough to realize that there was no getting past it this time. Watching Jess die had been it, the brick that sent the whole wall crashing down. Without Dean there to rebuild it, Sam had fallen apart from the inside out. Dean had failed in every way that counted and the realization crushed his rib cage and made breathing nearly impossible.

Ruby’s place was always full of other people like us, ones with so much shit they wanted to run away from that they just… escaped for a while. It was strange to me how these people who had nothing but the crap we pumped into our veins were some of the kindest I’d ever met. They accepted me despite everything so evidently wrong with me. I wasn’t a freak who had to lie and hide my past and my real self, I was just Sam. Sam the junkie, maybe, but no one expected me to act or be a certain way. If I wanted to cry, I could cry. If I wanted to ride down the hill on Faraday St. in a grocery cart and laugh until my stomach cramped up, I could do that too.

Dean remembered doing something similar with Sammy in a Wal-Mart parking lot in Texas. Dean had put Sam in a grocery cart and ran down the smooth slope until the cart picked up enough speed to send Sam flying across the lot. He’d almost hit a car and had jumped out and scraped both his knees and palms on the pavement, but had been laughing so hard he barely noticed. Dean smiled sadly at the memory. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen such a big, carefree smile on his Sammy’s face. God, I miss you. Dean scrubbed at his face and wished he had a beer or some whiskey to slow down the flow of sudden emotions that hit him like a freight train.

No one expected me to act like I was okay. I wasn’t the Stanford Rape Victim or the kid who watched his girlfriend get burned alive, or even the scholarship student who had to prove he had the right to be at an Ivy League school. At that point, that was all I wanted, to get away from all the pain I’d caused, all the hurt and disappointment I left behind wherever I went.

Dean understood the need to run away more than anyone. It was all he’d ever done. Now, he didn’t know how to deal with something steady anymore. He was finding that out with Cas. Dean kept trying to push Castiel away. He didn’t want him to leave . No way. Cas was the only thing keeping Dean sane these days. He just didn’t know how to keep Cas from feeling the same never-ending loneliness that plagued Dean ever since his brother had left for college. Maybe if Dean just left and never came back, Cas still had a shot at happiness. Dean what the fuck are you saying? Do you even realize… Shit. That was what Sam said. He said he left so Dean could still be happy. That’s different, though… It’s Sam. Sam was what made Dean happy. He had been Dean’s purpose in life as long as he could remember, ever since he’d held that little blanketed bundle and made that promise to protect his baby brother. Man, how he’d botched that one.

We used other things too. Barbiturates soon snuck into our stash. They would make Ruby and I fall into a sort of calm lethargic trance, and then a deep, dreamless sleep. Between Nembutal and heroin, we spent more time nodding between wake and sleep than anything else. It was what I needed. I couldn’t think of Jess and her kind eyes or how she cried for me to save her as the flames engulfed the dorm. I couldn’t think of the pure disappointment that would be on Dean, Dad , or Bobby’s faces if they could see me now. I just wanted to exist in the peaceful limbo just below consciousness where I didn’t have to face my own mistakes.

It was good while it lasted. Then Alastair started playing his games. He’d cut off our supply and just watch. He’d watch us go into withdrawal and beg for a hit, anything for the pain to stop. I think the bastard enjoyed it. Soon, I realized Ruby did too. She liked waning me off, watching me spiral, and then bring me right back up. She liked the dependency it created. She liked control. Yeah, you fucking sadist, I noticed. I wasn’t that out of my mind. I loved you, you know. You were all I could think about. It wasn’t just the drugs for me. I knew you followed your sick boss’ lead, but I could tell you enjoyed it just as much as Alastair. My withdrawal hallucinations were the worst moments of my life on replay. You just held me and stroked my hair and said some bullshit about how it’s better now, but I knew better. I knew you’d cut me off until I hit my breaking point. You got off on it. You liked hearing me cry out in the middle of the night for people who would never come. You liked holding me while I shivered and clung to you like a lifeline and begged for it to stop. Then you’d let me shoot up again until my tolerance increased and repeated the cycle.

Had he cried out for Dean? Had Sammy sat curled up on a dirty mattress sobbing and begging Dean to come back and make it all go away? Had he thought Dean had forgotten about him? The older Winchester let horrible scenarios wash over his mind. He let the pain sink in as deep as it would go, tears spilling out from between his squeezed-shut eyelids. He deserved the blame. He deserved the cold guilt and sadness that took hold in his chest and grew like a cancer. He had abandoned Sammy and broken every promise he’d ever made to him. He’d left his brother alone when he needed Dean the most. He would give anything to rewind the clock, to go back to the last time he’d seen his baby brother. Dean would have done it all differently, he would never have left Sam alone.

Every time the cycle repeated, I would grow more attached and more dependent. Soon I cried out for you, begging you for that needle in my arm. I needed it more than I needed food or water. I needed you more than I needed to breathe, and that was your intention the whole damn time, wasn’t it? Sam let out a bitter laugh. Well played, Ruby, well played. I was yours to control and ‘take care of’ in your own twisted way. I would have done anything for you. I loved you with all my goddamn heart. I don’t know if what you felt even came close, maybe you did love me, maybe you didn’t. I couldn’t figure it out. What I did figure out, though, is that you and Alastair were dangerous. I knew that if I stayed with you I would die from an overdose or be killed by the barbiturate withdrawal. It was just a matter of time.

So I stole as much of your stash as I could find, took another car, and just drove. I drove until I hit Utah. I hadn’t been on my own in months. There’d always been someone at your place and the silence ate me alive. So I shot as much as I could before passing out. Then I woke up in a hospital in Heber City, Utah after I overdosed. I guess I was just as much of a danger to myself… Sam scoffed. This seems as good of a time as any to end this one. I just wanted you to know that you set the tone for the rest of my year. What happened next is all on you, so Ruby, I really hope you get through the rest of these tapes. I think you’ll find the next two particularly to your enjoyment. Sweet dreams.

Dean was shivering, and not just from the cold. He couldn’t breathe. This was just too much shit. So much he didn’t know, he’d never thought… He didn’t even remember where he’d been: South Carolina? Colorado? Arkansas? Who fucking knew. He was screwing around fixing cars for strangers thinking Sammy was at Stanford probably finding a new girl like Jess and slowly healing from his first year. He’d naively thought things had gotten better for Sam, that his friends had pulled him through it and he’d been stronger afterwards and didn’t need Dean anymore. He should have known, or at least been smart enough to realize something was wrong. He could see all the signals clearly now, but at the time… At the time he hadn’t seen a thing.

“You okay, man?” The older of the two men on the heat vent said, raising a concerned eyebrow under his ratty baseball cap.

“I’m fine.” Said Dean hoarsely, wrapping his coat tighter around himself.

“You cryin’?” Asked the younger one.

“No.” Dean lied.

“It’s okay, man, we’ve all been there.” Baseball Cap said, nodding to himself. His friend murmured in agreement. “Everything ends up okay in the end. Just remember that.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Dean all but growled. It wouldn’t be okay. Unless they could somehow bring Sammy back, it would never be okay again.

Dean flipped the tape and shoved it back in the player, stretching out his numb and uncooperative legs and heading in the direction of the parked Impala.

Dean pressed ‘play’.

Chapter Text

After Dean crossed the border between Nevada and Utah, he pulled over at one of Sam’s locations. It was a small diner off the main road. Something about it felt vaguely familiar, but Dean couldn’t quite put his finger on it. They hadn’t spent much time this far west. The rock formations were awesome to look at, but more in a tourist way than a home-like way. But Dean could have sworn he’d been here before. 

He got a seat in the corner and left the tape set in the Impala. The sun had begun to rise, the first fingers or sunlight spreading over the horizon. Dean’s all-nighter was starting to weigh on his eyelids. He held Sam’s instruction page in his shaking hands, folding and unfolding it.

“Hi there. What can I get ya?” A friendly-looking girl asked. Dean did his best to smile back, but it must have ended up shaky and pathetic at best.

“Coffee. And…” He glanced at the menu, but was too tired to make sense of it.

“It’s a little early, but we got the best pie in the state.” She said, shrugging. Then it hit Dean. He had been here! He and Sam had come to this very diner when they snuck off to Vegas for a weekend two summers before Sam left for Stanford. John had been picking up work in Salt Lake City. Man, that had been a hell of a trip. The beatings when they got home hadn’t been pretty, but it was worth it. He’d had to work double shifts for months to pay Dad back for the money they’d blown, too. How had he forgotten that? He leaned back and sighed at the bittersweet memories.

“Yeah, I’ll have some pie.”

“We got cherry, apple, pecan-”

“Surprise me, sweetheart.” Dean said. He sipped at the coffee.

“Anything else?”

“Uh yeah… Eggs, bacon, toast, and a shot of espresso in this bad boy.” He held up the coffee in his hand as indication. She nodded and wrote it down.

“Coming right up, sir.” She said. When had he grown old enough for people to call him ‘sir’? Dean frowned. He hadn’t thought she looked much older than him. His dad was a ‘sir’, middle aged guy thickening around the middle. Dean instinctively checked his body. He’d always been sturdily-built, strong. He maybe didn’t have the muscle mass of a few years ago, but he in no way looked like a ‘sir’. Damn kids. 

He checked Sam’s sheet. ‘Good coffee. Better pie. Stop here for breakfast before heading to Heber City.’ was written in Sam’s chicken scratch next to the name of the place, which was so illegible Dean didn’t even try to make sense of that mess. Dean poured another cup of coffee in one of the four mugs on the table and slid it across from him. Black with one sugar, the way he remembered Sam taking it. Maybe that had changed too.

 Dean had his breakfast in deafening silence. He’d gotten used to it when he and John were working separate jobs, but this felt different. The last time he’d been here had been one of he and his brother’s best trips together. Without him it felt… off.

 Sam had been right, though, the pie was amazing. The coffee was good, too. The waitress had given him a strange look upon seeing a full cup at the empty place setting across from him, but she didn’t say anything, to Dean’s relief. He didn’t think he would have the right words to explain it. He was almost surprised to see it still full after he finished eating. Sam would have drank that in under a minute, the caffeine-addicted bastard. Dean smiled fondly. He couldn’t force himself to dump it out either, or finish it off himself. Dean felt like maybe if he left it there long enough Sam would be coaxed out of the afterlife and would sit there and drink it and everything would go back to how it should be.

 “You’re an idiot, Winchester.” Dean said to himself, shaking his head. Fuck. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to go back to his car and listen to more of his dead brother telling his story. He didn’t need more reminders of just how badly he’d fucked up. Dean didn’t want Sam’s voice through his speakers, he wanted it right here, across from him. He wanted Sammy talking excitedly about something he’d read on the internet or heard God-only-knew where. He longed to hear the words ‘Hey Dean, did you know…’ followed by a useless fact or story. That kid had been a walking, talking Encyclopedia. He never thought he’d miss hearing about how a weasel could ride on a woodpecker, or how the majority of dead people found at the bottom of lakes were men with their flies down. There was a lot of shit Sammy did that Dean hadn’t realized he would miss like crazy until it was too late.

 Dean got up with a bitter taste in his mouth and left a pile of crumpled bills on the table. He thanked his waitress and nodded in acknowledgement to the cooks. They sure as hell made good pie. He thought of buying some to go, but decided against it.  Dean pulled back onto the main road and started up the second side of the third tape. He had to get it over with eventually, and driving this road without Sam’s voice was even more painful than whatever he was going to hear. He patted the box in the passenger seat.

 “Here we go, Sammy.” He said. “Next stop, Heber City, Utah.”

Heber City, Utah, home of mountains and rehab centers. Yeah, Ledgehill Addiction Center was my new home following my release from the hospital. It was nice, I have to admit. It was a clean, remodelled house from the 1940’s with a view from the mountains. It was far from everything but a few restaurants, diners and a hardware store so I couldn’t have gotten a hit even if I wanted to, which I most certainly did while detoxing. God, detox sucks. It was definitely the hardest part. My whole body was on fire and I’d get the shakes and hallucinations and just generally felt like complete shit for months. It took a ridiculously long time to safely get me off barbiturates without triggering the life-threatening part of the withdrawal. But the people at Ledgehill were actually great about it. I got through the heroin withdrawal and then I started the program right away. I didn’t have to pay for a thing, either, Sonny took care of it all.

Dean let out a breath. Had Sam’s luck finally turned around? Was this Sonny guy someone who’d had a positive impact on Sam’s life for once?

Support group. That’s where I met people who’d had it even worse than me. Especially the tall, quiet guy full of tattoos in the corner named Ezekiel. I never heard him share and it seemed like no one really expected him to, like they already knew everything he had to say. I was told to avoid him by a few of the others at the Center, warning me that he was an ex-con. He’d been here a lot longer than me, you could tell that much by how much body mass he’d regained. Ezekiel was a little intimidating to some I would imagine, with a sharp jaw and muscular, tattooed arms, but he had sad, kind eyes. I knew he wasn’t someone I should be scared of.

Everything about this guy Sam was describing screamed bad news. Dean wished he could grab his brother by his shoulders and shake him. Hard.

So I sat with you at meal times a few times. You seemed surprised and pleased. I figured not many people had been friendly. The more time we spent together, the more I realized you had more issues than even me. It was scary how heavily those secrets weighed on you. You never talked about anything at first, until I forced it out of you. It wasn’t fair that you knew my whole story through support group, from John to Jess, but I didn’t know anything about you, not even your real name. Yeah, that was the first thing you decided to let me in on. Ezekiel was an alias. His real name was Gadreel and he’d been involved in an outlaw biker gang that had gotten some really bad press of late. I understood why you used a fake name, after all, so did I. I was Sam Wesson, not Winchester, during my time at Ledgefield. I don’t know why I did that, because the people here knew every one of my dirty secrets, so my name was nothing in comparison. But there was something about a name that just made everything just a little too personal. This way, I could almost pretend I was someone different, an alternate Sam, and that the real Samuel Winchester was still at Stanford living the perfect life I’d only gotten a taste of.

Castiel had told Dean about that form of mental illness, when the brain makes a sort of split to protect itself. He hadn’t really been listening so had no idea if it even applied, but it sure as hell didn’t sound normal. Had the ‘real Samuel Winchester’ kept in touch with Dean, so Sam decided he didn’t have to? Is that why he pretended he’d stayed at school the whole time, because part of him still believed it? Dean’s head hurt. He could call Cas later and ask his opinion.

You made me feel better about my life. Yours had been worse on every count, yet you still saw the good in people. Your father had continuously sexually abused your younger brother, Abner, and made you watch. Later, he even made you do it yourself, promising he’d be much rougher if he had to intervene. He beat the shit out of both of you, too. We even compared scars and lopsided bones where they’d been broken and improperly healed. You won those by a long shot. I learned you were in jail for manslaughter. Your dad had mysteriously taken a tumble down the stairs of your apartment building. I envied you for having the courage I never had.

Jesus. Since when had Sammy wanted Dad dead ? He knew his little brother had never been a fan of the bloke, but wishing he could kill him? That was a little extreme… Unless Dean was as oblivious to his father’s life as he was to Sam’s. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

In prison, you met members of the gang your mother had left your father for. She had married one of the members and they offered you a spot, proud of the way you’d ganked your old man. So you joined, got the huge fallen angel tattooed on your back, and went all in. You found a girl, killed people, trafficked drugs, the whole nine yards. Then you got hooked on crystal meth. I hadn’t had many experiences with meth heads, but I knew it was the one drug to avoid at all costs. Ruby told me that much. After a long road of stuff so horrible you wouldn’t even talk about it, you ended up here. Why is all of that important? Well, Gadreel’s story made me feel like maybe I hadn’t screwed up my life all that bad if he could get out of that mess. I wanted to help him. We helped each other through the times when we just wanted one more hit to get rid of all the shit coming back to haunt us at night. It was difficult and immensely painful at times. Once you know the remedy is out there, it’s almost impossible to ignore, even when you know the cost.

You resolved to help me get clean and go back to school. I was going to help you stay sober so you could go back to your 5-year old daughter Rebekah and your little brother. You said you’d leave, take Rebekah, get a fake ID, and get as far from your old life as you could. I believed it was possible. I also believed that if you could do that, I could get back to Stanford and eventually reconnect with Dean.

Dean’s heart rate picked up. Was this when Sam had called? When he’d said everything was going fine and he was at school again? Dean felt a small bit of hope bubble up inside him. Maybe he’d found happiness again, for a little while at least. Dean would take it as a win at this point.

You convinced me to call all my loved ones, even the ones I thought wanted nothing to do with me. You told me how you wished you had someone to call and how I should cherish what I had. You only had Abner and Rebekah, both of whom were unreachable because someone might be listening. I didn’t realize how dangerous your choice to run away was until a lot later, I’d thought you were just paranoid so I convinced you to call Abner. I called Dean and almost cried because man was it ever good to hear his voice again. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him what really happened through the past year on the phone. I would tell him in person. It would be easier that way.

Except he never did… Dean felt his chest constrict. Sam hadn’t lasted that long. He’d never seen Sammy again or even had a conversation since that phone call. How long had that been? Eight months? Dean had to pull over and blink the tears out of his eyes and beat his fists against the dashboard. He was a fucking idiot, a naive fucking idiot.

Dean sounded so hopeful and proud and happy for me that I couldn’t do it to him. I had to see his face and be able to explain everything in detail. I guess, Dean, if you’re listening, this is me finally getting around to that. Sam scoffed in a bitter, self-deprecating way. If there’s anything I regret about our relationship, it’s how we drifted apart in my last two years.

My last two years. Dean felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Those weren’t just the past two years, they were Sammy’s last. No matter how many times he told himself that, it never sunk in. He still thought he could drive back to Stanford and find Sam in his dorm room and he’d laugh and say: ‘Tapes? What tapes? God, Dean, those were a school project! They’re not real! You must have been so freaked out!’ and then they’d laugh about it and tell their kids and grandkids about when Sam accidentally pulled the greatest and meanest practical joke of all time.

A few months later, when we were cleared from Ledgefield, we went out to celebrate our months being clean at our favourite restaurant in town. We toasted to our new lives and I wished I could have savoured that moment more. You were one of the best and most misunderstood people I had ever met. You weren’t just a street-hardened, emotionless ex-gang member, or a twisted psycho who killed his dad. Not to me, at least. I saw and understood all the pain you tried so hard to hide and how badly you just wanted to be accepted. I saw myself in you. I also saw what was waiting for me.

That restaurant we ate at probably has a memorial plaque for you now. I bet every single person who had a shift that night remembers what happened in vivid detail. I know I do. Two guys about your size came in with guns. I could see the tip of wings from their tattoos peeking out from under the sleeves of their shirts. That’s when I knew it was bad. So bad. You got up and begged them to leave and take it up with only you, outside where no one else could get hurt. You spoke in your same calm, well-spoken way and everyone in there was sure they’d agree. But one of them opened fire, bullets spraying into the counter. The other one did the same, his eyes never leaving yours. I saw one of the waiters drop and I still don’t know whether or not he survived the bullet wound. I guess they knew that was the way to hurt you the most, killing innocents. Then he shot you in the chest and left a fallen angel tarot card next to your head as you struggled for breath, the blood leaking from between your fingers.

Dean’s mouth gaped open and he couldn’t even think straight. So Sam’s only friend… he… Fuck. It didn’t seem real. None of it seemed real. He could picture Sam sitting at a table with this tall, handsome man, drinking their coffees and talking about their plans for the future, promising to keep in touch and keep each other updated. That part, Dean could see clearly. What he couldn’t picture was that man clutching his bloody chest and slowly dying as Sam watched and tried to slow the bleeding, his vision of a hopeful future and leaving the past behind shattered in an instant.

When the first responders came, you were still alive, which just made it worse. I begged them to save you, told them about little Rebekah. At first they wouldn’t even take you, saying they didn’t involve the hospital in biker gang business, but eventually they did. I didn’t see you die, but I saw the looks on the paramedics’ faces, that bleak look when they know it’s too late. There were six others injured and one killed instantly, a teenage boy who was celebrating his first job. I didn’t catch his name, but I still remember the black bag being zipped over his pale, child-like face. That’s when I realized that you can’t outrun your past. Those ghosts were a part of me now, Gadreel included, and I could never get rid of them. Sooner or later, they’d chase me down and ruin my life, no matter how far I ran.

Dean pulled into that very restaurant in Heber City. It was a little Italian place that didn’t look like much, especially not a murder site. His heart was heavy as he transferred the tapes and pushed the doors of the restaurant open. He almost expected to walk into the crime scene and see bloody bodies, injured people crying for help, and a sobbing Sammy. Seeing a pristine environment was somehow much stranger. Sam had been right, there was a memorial cabinet with pictures of two males.

I don’t know if those men found you because of the phone call you made to Abner, the one I all but forced you to make. If they did, I’m so sorry. I never thought it would turn out like that. I hadn’t realized how deep you were into that life. You could never just leave. The only way you could leave your mistakes behind was in a pine box. I guess it’s the same with me. I’ll always be that fucked up kid who could have had a great future, but turned everything he touched to shit. I might as well have killed you myself, and sent Rebekah to that foster home or to live with her junkie mom. I’m a time bomb, always have been. It might seem like I’m ruining people’s lives now, but I know I’ll do far worse one day. I can feel it.

Dean’s heart broke. If Sam had called again and said anything that gave Dean the slightest clue that he needed him, he would have hightailed it over to fuck-nowhere Utah in a heartbeat. He hadn’t ruined Dean’s life at all until he left it. He never could have.

Dean read the names under the pictures on the wall. One was a boy named George Campbell, a high school kid by the look of it. That must have been the one carried out in a body bag. The other was a small, weasley-looking guy wearing an employee’s apron named Ronald Foreman. Dean guessed he was the waiter. There wasn’t anyone who resembled this ‘Gadreel’ guy in the slightest. Dean hated that his mind automatically went to Sam having made him up.

“Can I help you, sir?” A hostess asked. She was middle-aged and sour-looking and crossed her arms as she surveyed Dean. He put Sam on pause and removed the headphones.

“Uhh. Yeah. Are these all the victims of the shooting last April?” He shifted from foot to foot. The hostess sighed impatiently.

“Yes. Who’s asking?”

“Dean… Wesson. I’m writing an article. My little brother was a witness.”

“Alright. Is that all you need to know?”

“Uh anything would be helpful. What do you remember about that guy going all Tony Montana and lighting up this joint?”

“Going… who?”

“Tony Montana? Scarface? ‘Say hello to my little friend’?” Dean did his best impression and was rewarded with a blank stare. “Forget it.”

“Listen, Dean, I have better things to do with my time, so if you could just cut straight to it, that would be great.” She said shortly, her eyes narrowing.

“Okay, fine. That guy that they came for, that they shot in the chest, did he die afterwards?”

“The one with the angel on his back like the shooters? Abner’s brother?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. What happened to him?”

“Last I heard, Abner said he was bartending in Salt Lake City. Trashy little place called Crossover’s. If that’s everything, I really need to get back to work.” She made to push him aside, but Dean grabbed her arm.

“He’s not dead?” His heart was racing.

“I don’t know where the hell you’re from, but here in Utah, dead guys don’t tend bars.” She said. Her eyes were venom. “Now let me the fuck go before I call the cops.”

“Alright, alright. Got it.” He backed up, raising his hands in surrender. He made a face when she turned back around. Bitch.

His mind reeled as he got back in the Impala and put it in gear, speeding onto the road leading to Salt Lake City. He was alive? But Sam had watched him get shot, point blank, and had been sure he was dead. He’d even felt it was partially his fault. Fuck. This couldn’t be right. Gadreel was dead. His death was what set Sam back on his path of self-destruction. He was doing fine before… better than fine! He’d almost gone back to Stanford. He put the tape in the Impala and let Sam continue. Maybe he’d found out too…

I left right after that. I didn’t need to see you zipped up in a black bag to know you were gone. I knew I promised not to steal cars anymore, but I hotwired one and got the hell out of Heber City. I was right back to where I was almost nine months ago; alone, penniless, and driving a stolen car. Luckily, this time I found the owner’s wallet in the glove compartment. It had enough cash in it to get me pretty far. I was well into Wyoming before I felt that need once again. Finding heroin is easy once you’ve done it enough. You learn to spot people who can supply you. I only stayed around Casper for a few weeks. This time, using was different. I felt one hundred times worse about it knowing that I’d promised Gadreel I’d stay clean. I was practically spitting on his grave.

Dean wanted to scream at his brother over the speakers. He wasn’t even dead! There was no reason for Sammy to fall off the wagon again! He should have stayed and watched Gadreel pull through and then gone back to Stanford. If only the stupid kid had been patient enough to see it through and didn’t automatically think the worst. Goddamn it, Sammy! He hit the wheel in frustration.

I knew what I had to do this time. South Dakota was only a day’s drive away. I had gotten right back into my old habits, but this time I didn’t have Ruby keeping me tied down to one place. I could easily drive for a while and then stop in and empty parking lot for the night and shoot up, wait for it to wear off and the pain to come crashing back, and then I could drive again. I had no idea if Bobby would even let me stay. I was a far cry from the Sam I used to be, the Ivy League student with big-shot dreams. I couldn’t stand it if he laughed, told me I aimed too high, told me I wasn’t as high-and-mighty as I’d thought, the stuff Dad would say. I headed to Sioux Falls with the hope that there was a friendly face on the other side of that drive. Bobby, if you’re listening, I guess you already know that’s where the next tape leads.

Sam went to Bobby’s? Why hadn’t Bobby told him this stuff? Why hadn’t anyone told Dean anything? What the fuck ? He pressed down on the gas. The sooner he got to Salt Lake City, the sooner he could figure out if Sam had relapsed for a reason, or if he’d given up his last shot at Stanford and happiness for a guy who wasn’t even dead. He had to know, he just had to.

The hostess had been right. Crossover’s was a shithole outside of Salt Lake City. Dean had heard the city itself was gorgeous. Looks like he’d never find out for himself. He almost hit something when he saw a young blonde behind the bar rather than a muscular ex-con. Today was not the right day to fuck with him. He sat down at the bar and ordered whiskey. God knew he needed it. He kept an eye out for a tall, sharp-jawed man with tattoos. Having never seen the guy, Dean had no idea what to expect. That description fit a lot of the guys in this crappy bar.

He had almost given up when his eyes found a dark blond head bowed over what looked like a single piece of paper. He had large, outdated headphones over his ears, not unlike Dean’s own. Could he be listening to… No way.

Dean didn’t even think before sitting across from the man and putting his drink down loudly. The young man looked up, confused. He had a square jaw indeed. Dean could see the tips of the angel tattoo peeking out above his neckline and sleeves. This was the guy. His grey eyes were red-rimmed and puffy.

“I am on break. Natalie will refill your beverage for you.” He said, enunciating awkwardly well. Dean put a hand over the sheet of paper he was staring at, realizing his hand was shaking.

“I’m not here for that. I’m here to talk to you, Gadreel.” The man’s pupils dilated.

“Where did you hear that name?” Gadreel said in a low voice, looking around nervously.

“My brother. Sam Winchester.” He said, trying his darndest to keep from being overly hostile. “Or Wesson. You’d know him as Sam Wesson, wouldn’t you?”

“You’re... Dean ?” He asked, incredulous. He took the headphones off and pressed a button on an even shittier tape player than Dean’s. His face crumpled. “I’m so sorry about Samuel. He was a good man and a dear friend.”

“Save it. He started using again because of you.” Dean spat. Gadreel flinched back as if Dean had hit him, averting his eyes.

“I deserve your hatred, Dean Winchester.” He shook his head in shame. “I tried to find Sam and tell him I was still alive, but he used an alias. I could not locate him.” He curled in on himself, staring at his hands still wrapped around the tape player. He looked as if he expected Dean to punish him somehow. It was disconcerting.

“God, you’re impossible to be mad at.” Dean said, exhaling through his nose. He felt his anger slowly ebbing away. It was surprising to meet a guy this intimidating yet this submissive . It would have probably turned Dean on under different circumstances.

“I had not realized the gravity of my mistake until…” He broke off, cradling the cassette player in his thick arms. “I had no idea…”

“Join the fucking club.” Dean said. “You knew more than I did about his life and he was my goddamn brother.”

“We can only hope he is with the angels now.” He said sadly. Dean’s eyes landed on the cross tattoo on his bicep. Cas might get along with this guy.

“Angels don’t exist, and if they do, they’re probably nothing more than dicks with wings.” Dean said shortly. Gadreel shrank back slightly at the bite in Dean’s words and Dean was slowly seeing the truth in Sam’s story. This man was thoroughly fucked up.

“How did you find me?” He asked warily.

“A friend of Abner’s.” Dean said.

“Abner.” Gadreel shook his head and sighed. “I asked him to tell no one of my whereabouts.”

“Welcome to the life of an older brother. You can’t make them do shit if they don’t want to, no matter how much you think you can.” He finished his whiskey, and sat back in his chair. Gadreel was quiet, but radiated this sort of comforting presence. Dean was glad Sam had found him. His heart ached as he realized how easily things could have turned out differently.

“How’s your kid?” Dean asked. Gadreel looked alarmed for a moment before looking down at the tape in realization.

“We’re getting by.” He said with a small smile. He folded and unfolded his hands. The guy was clearly jonesing for something.

“You staying clean?” Dean asked, moving his head to meet Gadreel’s downcast gaze. He nodded slightly, like a guilty child. “Really?” Dean said, making his voice lower and harsher. It was the tone John always used when trying to force he or Sam to tell the truth. Gadreel’s hands shook a little harder and he somehow looked a lot younger and smaller than a guy of his stature should be able to. Dean couldn’t help but think of Sam. He’d done that too whenever he felt threatened, mostly when Dad was having a really bad day and Sammy knew putting up a fight would get him a full-on beating.

“Yes. It is the most difficult thing I have ever done… but I am doing it for Sam.” Gadreel said. Bullshit. Dean forcefully grabbed ahold of one of Gadreel’s forearms and flipped it over on the table, looking for track marks. What he saw were a mess of old scars and a few poorly-drawn prison-quality tattoos, but nothing fresh. Satisfied, he let go. Gadreel moved his hands into his lap instead, guiltily working his jaw.

“Don’t just do it for Sam, do it for your little girl. Rebekah needs a father, not an absentee junkie mess.” Dean said, collecting his drink and pushing off the table. He laid a hand on Gadreel’s shoulder, noticing how his whole body tensed up immediately. Goddamn. He looked down at the sheet of paper in front of him. It had Sam’s handwriting on it.

“If Sam thought you were dead, how did you get all this?” Dean asked, moving back a few steps.

“Abner.” Gadreel said quietly, still holding the tape to his chest like he was scared it would break apart any minute.

“You and Sam… were you together ?” Dean asked. Gadreel’s tongue darted out to moisten his lips. His hesitation told Dean enough.

“Your brother and I had a… complicated relationship.” He finally said.

“I can imagine.” Dean scoffed slightly. Two messed up individuals seeking comfort in each other never really ended in anything other than ‘complicated’. It reminded Dean of Castiel and himself.

“Hey, can you do me a favour?” Dean asked, forcing Gadreel to meet his eyes.

“What do you require of me?”

“Two things. First, call your brother. I wish I’d done it more so don’t make the same mistakes I did.” Gadreel nodded uncertainly. “Second, call this number.” He slid Pamela’s number in front of the young man. His jaw worked slightly, as if trying to figure out if it was a trick. “She’s amazing. I think she could help you. You might not think you need it, but… It would be better for Rebekah if you met her. Tell her I sent you, okay?” Dean scribbled his at the bottom, too, just in case.

“Why are you-”

“What? Not being an asshole? I don’t know. I came here with the intention of tearing you a new one because my brother felt guilty for your death and gave up his last chance at a good life because of it, but…” Dean shook his head, unsure of how to explain his own confusing thought process. “I guess it’s not what Sam would’ve wanted.” Gadreel shifted to meet Dean’s eyes. Sam had been right about that too, he had kind eyes. He was probably capable of being a downright scary son of a bitch when he wanted to, probably had used that to his advantage in the past before he broke, but right now Gadreel didn’t inspire anything but a weird kind of sympathy. Dean didn’t even know what he felt bad about, maybe it was just an aura (not that Dean really believed in all that stuff). He knew Sam must have felt it too.

“Thank you, Dean.” Gadreel said, turning the paper with Pamela’s number over in his long fingers.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” Dean said. Gadreel nodded and gave him a tiny ghost of a smile. He didn’t seem like much of a smiler but Dean bet it must have been a sight to behold when it made an appearance. Like Sam. Thinking of Sam’s smile made Dean’s chest constrict painfully.

He got back in the Impala and sank into the seat. Not only was he physically exhausted, but this tape business was emotionally draining. He took out tape 3 and replaced it with the fourth. Only two more to go. Jesus Christ. He didn’t want to think about what was in the next ones. This one was Bobby’s by the sound of it. Dean checked his map. South Dakota wasn’t on it. Too far it would seem. Sam had actually timed it out. It had been working perfectly until Dean messed up Sam’s calculations with his trip to Salt Lake City. Dean thought of Gadreel’s shaking hands and obvious need for a hit. Maybe he’d just helped someone out of a potentially horrible situation. It was about time he started evening out the scales. He’d caused enough shit. He pulled out of the run-down bar and got back on the road.

Dean pressed ‘play’.

Chapter Text

The decision to ignore Sam’s map was a hard one. Dean wanted to follow all of Sam’s carefully thought-out schedules and locations, but he had to go to South Dakota. Dean told himself that Sam would have probably put it on the map if he’d thought Dean would bother with the detour. The fact that Sammy hadn’t expected his brother to do that brought that sinking feeling back to Dean’s chest. Dean had promised to go to all the locations, hadn’t he? Even the ones Sam hadn’t bothered to write down. Besides, Dean felt a reunion with Bobby was far overdue. That, and another two days’ drive delayed his inevitable return to Seattle.

Hey, Bobby. This isn’t the same kind of tape as the last ones, don’t worry. You didn’t fuck up my future or die or do some other horrible thing I’d never had the guts to tell anyone while I was alive. If anything, this tape is about how I fucked up your life.

Dean hung his head as he drove. Shit. Sam had never really understood the concept of people doing kind things because they loved him . Dean taking care of Sam had never been a burden he wanted to get rid of, it was what made him who he was. Bobby was the same. Sam and Dean were Bobby’s boys because he’d taken them in while their Dad was on his benders. He’d wanted to. He loved it when the Winchester boys came to live with him, it didn’t ruin his fucking life. He imagined Bobby saying as much, in his own way. Why did Sam have such a hard time understanding that?

I came to you in a stolen car, tweaked out of my mind. I would have fully understood if you’d closed the door on my face at that point. I probably looked as bad as I felt. I seriously couldn’t remember the last time I’d taken a shower or cut my hair or even changed my clothes. I’d stopped a lot on the way to South Dakota, mostly when my stash ran out or I had a near-death experience on the road. That happened a lot more than it should have. All my clothes I brought with me from Stanford had become way too big, and I found myself poking extra holes in my belts and tucking and folding the backs of my shirts in like when I was a kid. I didn’t realize how pathetic any of that made me look until I got to Sioux Falls. I sat in my shitty-ass stolen car (which had probably been flagged by the police by now because I’d forgotten to switch the plates) for almost an hour down the street from Singer Salvage, wondering what the hell I was even doing there.

Dean hated how familiar this sounded, despite the fact it was kicked up a few notches. When Sam was in high school, he’d all but stop eating during exams. He’d stop sleeping, too. His addiction to coffee would become more than worrying and Dean would have to force the kid to take care of himself. More than once, Dean had to shut Sam’s books and drag his little brother to the bathroom to take a shower or just brush his damn hair. Dean had never been one to nag people over their appearance, but Sammy’s self-neglect was something he’d always had to keep an eye on.

I could have at least cleaned up a bit before coming to your door. I debated doing so for a long time. I also debated whether or not to say ‘screw it’ and turn the car around. I debated a lot of things while I was parked down the street. I imagined a million different scenarios, most of which ended with you turning me away. I imagined a few in which you called Dad, too. Those were even worse. I’d almost decided that I was going to go back to Nevada, when a rusty old pickup pulled up next to me and the driver asked if I was having car troubles. I would have recognized that voice anywhere. I had to make the decision fast before you figured out who I was. I guess I hesitated just long enough because next thing I knew, you’d parked your truck and come out to peer through my window. I’d wanted to die of embarrassment in that moment, thinking you’d laugh and tell me to stop joking around and go back to school or something.

If there was one thing Dean knew about Bobby Singer, it was that you couldn’t bullshit him. If you said you were ‘okay’ and weren’t, he would know. If you stole something and denied it, he would know. If you were scared and pretended you weren’t, Bobby would see through you in a second. There was no way in hell he would have misunderstood if Sam really needed his help.

I’ll always remember that moment when you leaned in to the window with that concerned crease between your eyebrows and said “Sam?”. Sam imitated Bobby’s accent to perfection. I don’t know why that made me break, but it did. I just lost it, right there in the crappy stolen car on some middle-of-nowhere road in Sioux Falls. All the tears I’d been holding in for Jess and Gadreel and Dean (whom I missed like crazy), and even Ruby, they all came out. I sobbed in that car for a good half an hour, unable to stop. Bobby just stayed by the window because I hadn’t unlocked the doors, not that he tried to force his way in at all. He knew that I’d unlock them if I needed to talk, but for right now I just needed to let it out and quiet down on my own. I hadn’t realized how much shit I’d held inside until it all came out. There were some memories that I didn’t even know had affected me at all, but sure enough, they’d fucked me up too. Then when I finally calmed, I needed another hit.

Dean could never forgive himself. He should have been there! Sammy had missed him, cried over him! And Dean had been - what? - having another argument with Dad about whether to rent a motel or an apartment? Sure he’d missed Sammy like nothing else, but he’d simply thought of it like that whole empty nest thing that middle aged ladies talk about when their youngest kid moves out. It was excruciating, sure, but he’d never needed Sam to pull him out of something he couldn’t handle. Dean had never been in a situation so bad that he would literally die without his brother there to help him. Sammy had, though. And that was Dean’s job as the oldest, look out for his baby brother and make sure he was never in so deep, and if he was, it was Dean’s fucking responsibility to haul his ass out of danger. He’d made a mess of that job, time and time again. He hadn’t known about Lucifer, had downplayed the situation with Jess, thought Sammy was at Stanford when he was really shooting up in some alley and overdosing… Fuck. God only knew what else he’d missed. He hadn’t found out about Gadreel until way too late to save Sam, and there were still 3 more tapes after this one. Dean knew one of them was his, and he was willing to bet that one of them was John’s, but who would be the third? Mom? No. Sam had been way too young when she died. The only things he knew about her were what he heard from Dean or Dad. If it’s another surprise guest, so help me… Dean shook his head and rubbed his hand behind his neck. Three more, only three more and this nightmare was over. Three more and you’ll never hear Sammy again. Now it was Dean’s turn to lose his shit in a car.

Bobby knew the car was stolen, but didn’t even give me shit about it. He just dropped it off behind a police station one night after wiping all my prints. I never thanked you for that, man, so this is me saying thanks for not getting me arrested. That was probably illegal, now that I think about it. I’d stopped caring about that for a while, but it wasn’t fair to you to bring you into my mess. I’d also been carrying a felony amount of illegal drugs on my person, so there was that… Those you took. I remember how pissed I’d been. I said a bunch of stuff I wish I could take back now, things that must have stung. I know how you hate being reminded that Dean and I aren’t your real sons, and I used that against you. I never got to apologize for that but God, Bobby, I fucked up. You did more for me in the few weeks after I drove to South Dakota than my dad did throughout my entire life. I don’t care what a DNA test says, I’d rather call you my father than John Winchester. I want you to know that, however too late it might be. For all I know, you might still be mad at me and threw these out and aren’t even listening. Oh well. If that’s the case, I don’t blame you. I deserve it.

It wasn’t the first time Dean wanted to hit his brother and knock some sense into him. Bobby would agree, that much Dean was sure about. He knew Bobby had put up with every mean thing that came out of Sammy’s mouth knowing he didn’t actually mean it. Sam said a lot of stuff he didn’t mean when he tried to get his way. Everyone close to him knew not to take it too seriously, everyone but Sam himself it would seem. And Dad. God, Dad had taken everything as a personal insult or a challenge to his authority when it came from Sam. To be honest, he was right most of the time since the younger Winchester had never been shy when it came to speaking his mind, but some of the most harmless comments would send John into a boiling rage. It had never been that way with Dean. For once, he let himself wonder why.

The first few days were the worst. I knew my heroin was somewhere in the house. I would basically trash the place looking for it while you were at work. You’d come home to find me a feverish, angry, shaking mess. The withdrawal nightmares were so bad that you had to handcuff me to a bed in the basement so I wouldn’t try to claw or bite my wrist open to kill myself. Now I see how necessary that was, even if I hated you for it at the time.  During the day, you locked me downstairs so I couldn’t tear your place apart looking for my drugs, but I still destroyed the basement out of spite. Sorry about that, too. You gave me books and I ripped the first ones apart to try and make you let me out. Obviously that just hardened your resolve, but you continued to give me books anyway. Half the time I was too sick to focus on anything, but I eventually started reading them. When the worst of the fever wore off, the restlessness and insomnia caused me to constantly pace the basement living room and eventually develop particular stair-climbing rhythms that I would follow at specific times of the night. That must have driven you nuts. I can’t even imagine how much of a burden it was to have a bratty junkie under your house.

Dean tried not to picture his brother this way. Even the image caused him unspeakable pain. He couldn’t even think about how hard it would have been for Bobby to see Sammy like that. If anyone could do it, it was Bobby. He was a tough son of a bitch. Dean still felt a prickle of anger remembering that no one had bothered to let him know about these events while Sam was alive. He could have helped! He knew he could have.

I wanted Dean. I asked you to call him every day. Every day you would tell me he couldn’t see me like this, that I would break his heart. You promised to call him when I got my shit together. I hated you for that, too, at the time. I cried and begged, then threw things when that didn’t work, and then just got angry.

Dean’s breath caught in his throat. Bobby had stopped Sam? He could have heard his little brother’s voice again and maybe kept him from killing himself but Bobby stopped Sam from calling him? Fuck. Dean pressed the gas pedal closer to the floor. Sioux Falls wasn’t that far away. He could cut almost a quarter of the time by going at this pace. He had to see Bobby now more than ever.

You called Pamela to come see me. I refused to talk to her. I didn’t want to talk to anyone but my brother. Sometimes I had nightmares about Dean coming to visit and saying horrible, heartbreaking things to me; like that I was a disappointment, that he wished I would have just died when I overdosed in Utah or that Mom’s death had been all my fault and he hated me for it too. My subconscious presented me with terrifying alternate realities and it just made me want the real thing even more. I wanted to see the real Dean and feel my real brother’s arms around me and hear his voice telling me it was going to be okay. When I wasn’t dreaming about Dean, I dreamt about heroin. I saw myself finding my drugs and inserting the needle in my vein, but the second before relief would come I would wake up handcuffed to a mattress in the basement once again.

To say they almost drove me nuts would be putting it lightly. I don’t remember most of it because I was too far out of my mind since Pamela had prescribed me sedatives. Bobby kept security cameras in the basement to make sure I wouldn’t hurt myself as I got used to dealing with my feelings without drugs. I watched the footage over when the effects of the withdrawal wore off and I started to get back to normal. Then I thanked God you chose not to call Dean. I could never have asked him to watch that footage, let alone deal with the real situation. He couldn’t have handled seeing me like that. I knew he would find some sort of way to trace it back to himself and try to take blame. It was my mistakes and nothing else that landed me in Bobby’s basement. No one forced me to put that needle back in my arm after rehab. That was all me.

Dean didn’t give a shit what Sam thought. He turned the tape off. Yes, it would have been awful for Dean. Even now, the images in his head almost burned his eyelids, but learning about all this now was so much worse. At least if Sammy had called him then, he might still be alive. He didn’t care if his little brother didn’t see it the same way, but it was Dean’s fault. A good brother would have known something was up after full radio silence for six months. If he’d really cared about Sam, Dean wouldn’t have brushed it off as the kid thinking he was too good for his high school dropout mechanic brother, he would have made damn sure it wasn’t anything dangerous. Why hadn’t he? Dean liked to think that he had called Sam’s service provider, friends, even the university to see what was going on. In Dean’s fantasy, he had found out about Sam’s contract running out, tracked him down, and done everything he could to stop the inevitable. This way, he could fool himself that it would have ended up the same way no matter what Dean had done. It scared Dean how easily he could believe his own lies.

The sign for Sioux Falls beckoned Dean and he pulled off the main road. It was strange to be in such a familiar place under such uncomfortable circumstances. He and Sam had so many memories around these parts from their time with Bobby. That forest on his left was where Sammy almost got shot when they went out with some of Bobby’s guns to shoot rabbits. God, Bobby had been pissed. Ah, that diner down the street was where Dean met Angie. She’d been a sweetheart with a really nice ass that Sam had a crush on. Dean naturally had to put his flag there first. What kind of older brother would he be otherwise? It was weird knowing how many girls he’d fooled around with before figuring out he swung the other way. He’d kissed a boy named Ansem under a willow tree in a field no more than a block away for a dare once. Only Bobby had realized it had been more than just a kiss to Dean. Bobby’d promised never to tell John about it until Dean gave him the go-ahead. Dean briefly wondered if he’d stuck to that over the years. It had been a hell of a long time. Dad still thought Castiel was just a friend. I guess I never found the nerve.

Singer Salvage Yard was the closest thing to home Dean could think of, second only to the Impala. He had learned a lot of the tricks of his trade in that yard. John and Bobby had taught him everything he knew about cars. The house had a full library that had basically swallowed up Sam every time they came over. The old wallpaper and mess of books and loose papers made Dean feel at ease. He snickered when he saw a certain rusty black car still perched on a mountain of scrap vehicles. Sammy had gotten locked in there for a day and a half when playing hide-and-go-seek, scared it would fall off if he tried to get out. It rocked precariously whenever there was no less than a strong wind blowing against it. Bobby had deemed it a hazard, but had left it at the same place nevertheless. He knew Sam wouldn’t be going near that car ever again anyways.

Dean’s hands shook when he knocked on the all-too-familiar door. Despite all his efforts to look about as betrayed and angry as he felt, Dean’s face broke into a smile as Bobby appeared in the open doorway.

“What’re you doing here, boy?” Bobby asked gruffly.

“Good to see you too.” Dean wrapped his arms around Bobby, slapping him into a manly embrace. Bobby smirked.

“You gonna tell me why you ain’t in Seattle?”

“Do I really need to?” Dean let himself in, settling into his favourite chair. There was still a faded stain on the armrest where Sam had spilled juice however many years ago.

“Nope. I got them, too.” Bobby inclined his head towards his desk, where an old cassette player sat atop some books. He frowned slightly. “Idjit got a lot of it wrong.”

“Yeah, he did.” Dean said. He leaned his elbows on his knees and sighed miserably. He traced his fingers over the lingering juice stain. Dammit, Sammy.

“So… What’re you up to these days, Dean?” Bobby said. Dean cleared his throat and shrugged. It was so evident to them both that they were awkwardly avoiding the impending conversation. They had to talk about Sam eventually, but neither of them wanted to bring it up.

“Y’know, Bobby. The same.” Dean rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. Except that my brother’s dead and I don’t know what to do now.

“You called your old man recently?”

“No. Did he call you?”

“Sure did. Drunk as a skunk and pissed. Whaddya do now?”

“I’ve been ignoring his calls.” Dean admitted. Bobby clicked his tongue.

“When are you idjits ever gonna learn?” He sighed, shaking his head. Dean noticed the familiar use of the plural tense with a pang. It must have shown on his face because Bobby stopped, too, before clearing his throat and averting his gaze. “John Winchester ain’t a guy you can ignore. Best get it done quick.”

“He wants me to go to Seattle.”

“Then go to Seattle!”

“But Sam’s tapes, Bobby!” Dean said. Bobby sighed again and nodded understandingly.

“Right. I wanted to follow the kid’s map, too, but life goes on. Sam would understand.”

“I was too busy for him when he was alive, I’m sure as hell not gonna be too busy for him when he’s dead. Not gonna happen. He deserves that much.” Dean rubbed his sweaty palms down his jeans, something Sam had often done. God, does it ever fucking stop?

Bobby put a large, rough hand on Dean’s shoulder. They sat in silence for a while, unanswered questions pressing hard on them both.

“How far have you gotten?” Dean asked. Bobby huffed a little.

“Tape 4. Second side. I started it, got about a minute in, but I need somethin’ stronger than what I got around here to get through that one.”

“Is that Dad’s?” Dean asked. Bobby nodded and Dean exhaled heavily.

“I’m almost done the first side of 4.” Dean said.

“I know what you’re gonna say, then.”

“Huh?”

“You’re gonna ask me why I stopped Sam from callin’ you, ain't cha?”

“Yeah.” Dean said. His voice was tight with rising anger. “That wasn’t your fucking decision to make!” Dean shoved Bobby against the desk, suddenly remembering why he was here in the first place.

“Wasn’t Sam’s either, son! He didn’t know what he wanted! He asked me to call John, too, except he didn’t tell you that part though, did he?”

“Why the fuck-”

“He wasn’t thinkin’ straight, Dean! Besides, it woulda broke your damn heart right in two.”

“You don’t think he already did that? He might as well have gone full Freddy Krueger on my fuckin’ heart!” Dean spat.

“You didn’t see it, Dean.” Bobby said softly. “I knew you wouldn’t want to, no matter how much you tell yourself you woulda. He was… He was barely even Sam.”

“Because I wasn’t there to protect-”

“Dean! Sam was his own person. Stubborn little sonofabitch, too. He made his own choices. They weren’t good ones, but they were his all the same.” Dean let that sink in. His mind raced to find a counter-argument, one that would cement Dean’s fault in all this.

“These tapes are the first I heard of him since Stanford, save one goddamn phone call.” Dean said quietly, breathing hard. “Do you really think I would’ve cared what he looked like, how he acted? He’s - was-” Dean’s throat constricted around the word, “my baby brother. I would have hightailed my ass over here like a bat outta hell if it meant I could’ve seen him again.”

“I know, son.” Bobby said heavily. He poured them both a glass of whiskey and settled into one of the chairs. Dean pretended he didn’t notice Bobby’s eyes linger on the small dark juice stain on Dean’s armrest.

“I want to see the footage.” Dean said. He turned the glass between his fingers. “The surveillance footage you took of Sam.”

“No, you don’t, boy. Don’t be stupid.” Bobby said, tipping the whiskey back and exhaling.

“Yeah, I do.” Dean said. “It might be the last time I can see him - something new of him - before I’ve already seen it all. I don’t… I don’t think I can-”

“Don’t think about it like that.” Bobby said. “You can’t. It’ll kill ya.”

“How the fuck else do I think about it?” Dean snapped. Bobby didn’t react to the sudden change in tone.

“Think about all of ‘em like memories. Good ones, bad ones, in-between ones, just memories. No last memories, or missed opportunities, just… what happened.”

“That’s even worse.” Dean said as images of Sammy through the years assaulted his mind’s eye.

“It’s still hard. It’s always gonna be hard, but you’ll get tougher, you’ll deal with it.”

“What if I don’t want to ‘deal with it’?” Dean’s voice got rougher.

“Sorry, princess, but you gotta.” Bobby said in his harsh but affectionate way. “We get what we get. Unless you got a genie or fairy godmother up your sleeve, I suggest you start tryin’ to make peace with that ‘cause nothin’s gonna change.”

“If I could’ve just-”

“You can’t now. That’s all that matters anymore. You know Sam would want you to move on.”

“I can’t move on, Bobby, it’s Sam, for God’s sake!” Dean stood up and paced, pouring himself another whiskey.

“I know you two were close. I always loved that about you boys, how you’d look out for each other.”

“I don’t think I can live without him, Bobby! I need him!” Dean cried, his voice cracking.

“I know it seems that way, son, but you can. And you have to.” Bobby’s own voice betrayed him, shaking slightly. That reminded Dean of how hard it was on him, too. Sam was like a son to the old man.

“I’m just… I’m just so fucking mad. ” Dean put his head in his hands. “Why does it have to be us all the time? Why can’t anything just go right for five goddamn minutes? Other people are out there with their picture-perfect little families and shit and going to college and having dogs…” Dean was surprised by the sob that wracked his body. “I just mean, why can’t we have any of that? Just one fucking time, I want-” He struggled to find the right words.

“... just one fucking time I want to be happy. I don’t know why that’s such an impossible dream, to have one day when I don’t have to get shit on by the Almighty!” Dean leaned his head back and let the tears come. He didn’t have it in him to care.

“I know, son.” Bobby sighed.

“I mean, Sammy… Sammy was a good kid. Why can’t assholes like Nick Lambert and Tyson Brady off themselves, why’s it always gotta be the good ones, huh?”

“I won’t pretend like I got all the answers, ‘cause I don’t. It ain’t fair, not one bit, but there’s nothin’ we can do about it.” Bobby finished his whiskey and leaned back in his armchair, visibly deflating. Dean delivered a kick to a spindly table covered in books. One of the legs snapped, sending everything crashing satisfyingly to the floor. Bobby gave him a little nod no doubt meaning: ‘go ahead, boy, do what you gotta do.’

“I always thought I’d go first, you know.” Dean muttered, more to himself than to Bobby. “He coulda lived without me, handled having me gone. He was the ‘independent’ one-”

“You sure about that, Dean?” Bobby was holding the tape player in his hands and Dean felt his breath catch.

“He wanted to leave! Ever since he was a fucking kid he wanted to run away! But me… Sammy was my everything, Bobby. He ripped my heart out when he left.” Dean wanted to stop the flow of words coming out of his mouth, he wanted to go back to pretending he had it all under control. He wiped tears from his eyes and kept his head down to hide it, though he knew Bobby wouldn’t care. “I never would’ve left him, ever . I always brought him back, tried to keep him close. I would’ve done it this time, too, if I’d figured out what was really going on.”

Bobby just nodded, still staring at the tape player. Dean kept talking to no one in particular.

“Sammy knew how much it would fuck me up… I can’t handle having him gone, man. Waking up and knowing he’s not doing the same wherever he is, I can’t do it.” Dean poured another drink and lowered his voice further. “Maybe he meant for me to follow him.”

“Dean Winchester, you goddamn idjit! Don’t you dare say that shit in my house!” Bobby shouted. Dean deflated under his gaze. “Sam didn’t want you to die , he wanted you to live a better life!”

“It’s not better!”

“I know it ain’t better! The kid was wrong about us, what we thought of him. I didn’t give two shits what he said to me in withdrawal, but it ate him alive. He thought you’d hate him if you found out about all this shit, or worse, that somethin’ would happen to you like it happened to Jess and that Gadriel kid.”

“Gadreel.” Dean corrected. “And he’s not dead.”

“What? He was shot-”

“I know. I didn’t believe it myself so I tracked him down. He’s in a shitty bar in Salt Lake City.” Dean finished his whiskey and slammed it down on the table, part of him wishing it had broken into a thousand pieces.

“I’ll be damned…”

“I didn’t think he had a snowball’s chance either. Shot in the chest, point-blank range? They must not have aimed for the heart and thought he’d bleed out.” Dean scrubbed his face. He had a few day’s worth of facial hair growing now and it felt rough under his touch.

“But Sam didn’t know?” Bobby sighed, taking off his cap, smoothing his hair, and putting it back on.

“Yeah… Had no fucking clue and blamed himself.” Dean’s hand itched to throw the glass, but he threw a book instead, hurling it towards the kitchen and letting out a frustrated shout.

“Well, that makes that…” Bobby let out a short breath. “Well, shit.”

“Yeah.” Dean agreed miserably. They sat in silence for another while.

Bobby agreed to let Dean take the security videos so he could watch them if he felt he needed to. After all the emotions of one conversation, neither of them could handle anything more. Dean stayed the night in his old room but barely slept. He and Sam had slept together in this bed countless times when his little brother would have nightmares. Even when he didn’t, they liked being close to each other. They had a hard time falling asleep without the other’s breathing after years of living in motels and sharing a double bed every night. It made Dean painfully aware of the silence. What he wouldn’t give to wake up to Sammy next to him, sleeping in a strangely uncomfortable-looking position and out like a light. As they got older, Dean had usually been the one to wake up first. Sam needed numerous alarms and promises of coffee to coax him out of bed. God, Dean missed the way Sammy’s hair would look like he’d been through the apocalypse in the morning. Dean smiled sadly to himself.

He left pretty soon after breakfast. Bobby had wanted him to work on a car for him, but Dean couldn’t handle being around so many reminders of his baby brother. It killed him. He was sure it did the same for Bobby. He’d loved that kid, too. Almost as much as Dean. Dean got back into the Impala with a promise to call soon and peeled out of Bobby’s driveway. He pressed ‘play’ and continued where he’d left off, heading towards Kansas.

I’d pretty much recovered after a month. The nightmares never went away, though, neither did the guilt or self-hatred. I learned to live with it, though. Nightmares were nothing new. I’d had them ever since I could remember. Yes, these were worse, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle. But I was soon reminded of another, bigger problem. I had spent all this time in and out of addiction and recovery, I had never re-registered for Stanford before the deadline. My scholarship was revoked. My acceptance still stood, but I didn’t exactly had 50 thousand dollars to spend on one year of school. I didn’t even have money for a goddamn car. I doubted I could even get a loan that big. Bobby offered to help, but I knew he didn’t have close to that amount of money. What now, then? I had no future anymore. My chance at becoming a lawyer and making something of myself was gone. I’d shot it up my fucking arm.

Dean sighed and leaned back in the Impala. Of course Sam missed the deadline… Of course he dodged a bullet with his addiction just to be fucked over by something else. Dean tilted his head back. He was really only looking at the top of the car, but if God existed, He was somewhere up there too. He was probably laughing, eating popcorn and watching the Winchesters like His daily guilty pleasure soap opera.

I didn’t know what to do with myself. I couldn’t afford to go to school anymore. Despite my scores, I wouldn’t be able to get a full ride somewhere else at this point to continue the other half of my degree. It just didn’t happen like that. Part of me didn’t even want to go back. So much had happened since I’d last been a student. I couldn’t honestly say I wanted to go re-insert myself into a place that my former self had enjoyed. There were too many ghosts and bad memories lurking around college campuses. I knew I had to leave that dream behind, as much as it hurt.

Dean couldn’t pretend to know what that was like. Sam had wanted to go to college since he was in elementary school, even though he knew what Dad thought about it. Dean couldn’t imagine the crushing disappointment that came from your childhood dream that you’d worked your ass off to achieve slipping through your grasping fingers.

Bobby offered to teach me how to work at the salvage yard, but that was too close to being a mechanic. There was no way in hell that after all this, I was doing what my father had wanted all along. I may have been desperate, but I would never have been that desperate. Bobby and I left on decent terms. I don’t know if you even remembered everything I said, but I did. Those conversations sometimes replayed in my head at night too, reminding me of how many people I did wrong. You didn’t deserve the shit I brought into your life. You’d been nothing but kind over the years, and I repaid you by trashing your house, insulting you in every possible way, and basically spitting on the hard work you’d done helping raise me and Dean. You didn’t owe me anything, especially not a job. I had to do this myself. I had to try and put my life back together on my own. No, I wasn’t entirely sure that was even possible, but I had to give it a shot.

If only Sam had been desperate enough to be a mechanic. He was good at it, too. He’d never liked it as much as Dean or Dad, but he hadn’t hated it nearly as much as he pretended to. Dean would have liked that, travelling around with his little brother just like the good old days. Even an unhappy Sammy in the passenger seat would beat this mangled shoebox by a landslide. Dean felt the overwhelming urge to throw the box out the goddamn window, but convinced himself to calm down.

The first decision was where to go. I got a new phone, but resolved not to call Dean until I got my life somewhat organized. Then I could meet up with him, see if he wanted to settle down somewhere for once. I could find work. I was handy with electronics, so I could do maintenance jobs or something. There would always be bartending and waiting tables, too. It wasn’t what I’d imagined myself doing, but it beat overdosing in an abandoned building. Maybe Dean and I could find someone to spend our lives with. Our kids could grow up together, go to the same school every year, have the childhood we never had. The more I pictured it, the more I made peace with my leaving school. Perhaps this was the world’s way of telling me I had my priorities all wrong.

Dean’s entire body hummed in contentment at the thought. He and Cas would adopt, Sam would meet another girl like Jess and have mini-Sammys running around. They would always have someone to play with, somewhere to go for the holidays. Their kids would never sit alone in a motel room wondering if their Dad was dead or passed out in a ditch somewhere. They would never have to lie about their age to get a job at eleven because their younger brother was starting to look far too skinny. They’d always have someone there for them when they needed it. If Sam had just held on a little longer…

Fullerton, Nebraska was where I stopped. I counted the fact that I was using one of Bobby’s cars instead of a stolen one as a win. Bobby gave me some money to keep me afloat until I found a job. Again, I can’t thank you enough. After everything I did, I didn’t deserve any of that. I promised I’d make it up to you, get myself back on track. I’d stay clean, I’d find work, I’d make a life for myself. I actually found a job within a week. It wasn’t much. It was a maintenance job for a company that serviced the whole town. The other guys were great, Andy and Bart. My boss, not so much. His name was ‘Dick’, so that should tell you enough, right there. Sam chuckles. I had to admit, things were starting to look better. I kept pictures of Jess, Mom, and Gadreel in my apartment. I still remembered what I did and it still hurt at night when I shut off the lights and was suffocated by the silence and the reminder of why it was so. Somehow, I found a way to live with it, though. I didn’t feel the need to use again.

Dean smiled a little to himself as he drove. Bobby had done it again. The old man had weird methods, but he always found a way to do what was best for the Winchester boys. It was easy to imagine that he could find Sammy there in Fullerton, waiting for Dean to get this far through the tapes to reveal the truth, that this was all a ploy to get he and Dean to settle down in some little town and have nice apple-pie lives. His heart ached with longing. He wished he could stop the tapes now. Something had to happen in the next two, something that shook up Sam’s newly found stability. Dean didn’t want to know. He didn’t have to know. He could stop the tapes now and go to Seattle, meet up with Dad and Cas and start talking about settling down somewhere. It would be easy. So, so fucking easy… His hand hesitated over the eject button.

How the fuck Dad found me, I don’t know. Bobby promised not to tell him I came by, let alone where I would go. Even I hadn’t known where I would go until I stopped for gas and decided not to keep moving. It might have been an accident. I mean, he was working and I was working and we could have ended up in the same town in Nebraska on our own, right? Yeah, that smelled like bullshit to me, too. I had gotten a new phone a few weeks prior, so if he got the number, he could have tracked it. To be honest, I hadn’t thought that was something I needed to worry about. Dad would have had to hire someone, and I hadn’t thought he cared that much about tracking me down. In fact, I was under the impression he didn’t give a single shit.

Dad talked to Sam? He had never told Dean. A shiver ran down the older Winchester’s spine. Dad had barely spoken to Sam over the last few years before he left for Stanford, and he’d been the one to tell him never to come back if he left. Now, two years later, Dad was tracking his cell? It didn’t add up.

So, Bobby, before I end this, I’ll just reiterate what I told you in your introduction tape. Don’t get too angry about what you hear. It’s done. You can’t change what happened, so please don’t try.

Sam had told Dean something similar. Dean had wanted to bash in that Lucifer kid’s head, same with Tyson Brady. He would have killed Ruby, too, if she came anywhere near him. He’d been angry at Gadreel for a while too, until he realized the kid was almost as messed up by the whole thing as Dean. He knew Sam and Dad had never gotten along, but the stuff in the other tapes had probably been much worse than what John could have done. He was still their father, after all. Dean knew how much blood meant to him.

John Winchester, you’re next. You reap what you sow, so enjoy the harvest.

The coolness of Sam’s voice chilled Dean to the bone. He wasn’t sure what Sammy meant, but he was gonna find out soon. He flipped the tape as soon as it came out of the Impala’s cassette player and put it back in. He took a deep breath. It can’t be that bad.

Dean pressed ‘play’.

Chapter Text

Nebraska was called a fly-over state for a reason. It was nothing but fields and plains and the occasional hill that seemed like Everest in comparison to the rest of the flat-ass landscape. Dean usually enjoyed driving through these states; the roads were straight and endless and he could roll the windows down, blast the music and press the pedal as far as it would go. He said usually , because normally he would have Sam to keep him company on those boring drives. Annoying his little brother had been a fail-safe source of entertainment.

Dean stopped for coffee where instructed. It was a small diner with a bar next door where Dean had almost been arrested for putting up a huge fight when the bartender didn’t fall for Sammy’s fake I.D. Sam hadn’t hit his growth spurt yet and was far too small and skinny to pass for 21, though that hadn’t meant much to his brother. Dean had punched the man in the face. After being kicked out, he gave Sam his beer and made sure the bartender could see him drink it through the window. They drove out of there like bats out of hell when he made to call the cops, laughing until their stomachs cramped. Dad would've had their hides if they’d gotten a photo of the license plate and it somehow got back to him. It never did, though, and Dean and Sam would always share a look whenever they ordered drinks from then on.

Dean took Bobby’s earlier advice and picked up some whiskey at the next gas station. He’d drank surprisingly little on this trip. Dean usually took that whole ‘drinking and driving’ thing as more of a suggestion than a law, having driven drunk so many times it was almost like driving sober by now. Sam had given him a lot of shit over that throughout the years. For his brothers’ sake, Dean hoped he didn’t feel the need to crack that bottle open. He doubted he would. This was his dad . John Winchester had been Dean’s hero ever since he could remember. Dean would put on Dad’s old military uniform as a kid and play with his guns until Dad ripped them out of his hands. He deserved whatever punishment he got after that. Dean had been a pretty stupid kid, after all, and had almost shot Sammy by accident on numerous occasions.

I’d been having a very good day. I don’t remember much of what I did in the morning, if I’m completely honest. It’s like how some people who have traumatic experiences can hardly recall what happened ‘before’, they just remember that it was better than the terrible ‘after’. I was familiar enough with that. I think I was at Balthazar’s (or Bart, because he hated that name) with Andy and a few other guys from work. I vaguely recall a dog and some barbecue. There’d been a lot of beer and good food and I met a girl named Amelia. She seemed nice. Then I went home, feeling satisfied with the way I’d put myself back together. Of course, that was really just an illusion, because all I did was shove my problems in a closet and sooner or later they would break that door open. It was just a matter of time.

Dean couldn’t keep the image of a pack of zombies from the Walking Dead bursting through a closet door from popping into his mind. He wondered if Sam had the same mental picture when he said it. Maybe not. Dean had always been the brother with the most extensive media knowledge. Sam knew a lot more than Dean, he would never claim otherwise, but Dean took pride in his superior knowledge of movies and television. He broke himself out of his distracting thoughts and tuned back into Sam’s tapes.

I was watching a documentary on the TV in my tiny apartment when you knocked on the door. Being paranoid, I checked the peephole and my blood ran cold. I hadn’t seen you in years and all of a sudden you were checking up on me? Drunk? Without calling? I turned all my lights off and tried to pretend like I wasn’t home. This was far too familiar. I wasn’t gonna let you treat me like a kid anymore. I wasn’t going to put up with your shit like I did when I was younger. I could handle myself now. That’s the kind of bull I told myself, anyway.

I should have known you wouldn’t have made the trip if you didn’t have another way of getting into my place. That, and the fact that you taught me to pick locks when I was ten, should have been enough to convince me to get the hell out while I could. As soon as I stepped back, thinking you’d fallen for the light trick, the door burst open. I could smell the booze and stale cigarette smell coming off you in waves. Nothing good ever came with that smell.

Dean knew exactly the smell Sam was talking about. It was the post-bar stench that let the boys know to stay the hell away for the night. Sam seemed like he was making a little too big of a deal about it, though. It wasn’t like Dad had been truly life-threatening when he was drunk, just a grade-a asshole.

I was so surprised, you had the chance to get the upper hand. Once your fist connected, I knew I was fucked. It was just like the old days. You’d think someone like John fucking Winchester would come up with some better lines over the years, but no. It was the same, always the same. You blamed me for Mom’s death, and I get that. Dean said the doctors hadn’t seen the birth complication until far too late and couldn’t save her. She chose my life over hers and you wanted to kill me for it. Hurting me wouldn’t bring her back, you drunken dumbass. I knew that and you knew it too. After the first few times, I think you just started to enjoy beating your son bloody. Maybe it was the only way you could feel powerful anymore, what with having a shitty job and being out of the military and all. Sam's snorted. I bought your lines as a kid, thinking I truly was a demon child and had killed my own mother.

Woah, woah, what? Yeah, Mary Winchester had had a major complication after giving birth to Sammy, but she had lived three more days afterwards. No one had known until it was too late. It hadn’t been anyone’s decision. Dean knew Dad took it hard, but… Dean hated how easily things started to slip into place. He hadn’t seen it because he hadn’t wanted to see it. When Dean and Sam would bathe together as kids, Sam would have all sorts of strange stories to explain mysterious cuts, bruises and burn scars that should have never shown up on a young child’s body. Dean hadn’t believed his stupid childish excuses (mostly because they usually involved monsters or an imaginary friend), but had just shrugged it off.

At first, when you were sober, I think part of you hated yourself. I saw it in the way your lip would curl if you caught a glimpse of your handiwork if my shirt lifted up. You always made sure I wore plenty of layers when going to Bobby’s, anything to make sure no one knew just how much of a twisted fuck you were. The most twisted of all? I hadn’t realized there was anything wrong with what your were doing until middle school. I just assumed it was private and not to be mentioned, like basic bodily functions. I thought most other kids out there would stay up until early morning to wait for their drunk dad to come home so the beating would be quick and quiet and wouldn’t wake up his brother. I was under the impression that normal boys also sucked their dad off if asked forcefully enough.

Fuck. Dean pulled over. His hands were shaking and reaching for the whiskey before he even realized what he was doing. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Dean scrunched his eyes shut to keep from picturing his dad holding Sam’s head between his legs, his fingers pulling through the dishevelled brown hair. He tried not to visualize a young Sammy cleaning come off his chin and out of his hair before tending to the cuts on his back and shoulders where the skin split under John’s belt, all while Dean was asleep on the motel bed. It made it all so much worse… Fuck. Dean tried not to picture himself, oblivious and stupid, wrestling his little brother and calling him a pussy when he pulled back in pain. Dean wondered if Sam thought the same marks covered Dean’s body, or if Dad asked the same perverse favours of the older Winchester. If only he’d said something…

In the fifth grade, the soccer coach had caught a glimpse of a cigarette burn on my shoulder and called you in. I was so terrified I almost shit myself, but you told the principal you’d never seen it before, even acted believably appalled. You mentioned bullying and just like that, that was the new excuse for everything. Black eye? A bigger boy cornered me after school. Broken ribs? I picked a fight with a group of guys and they beat me up. Finger-shaped bruises around my neck? Man, teenagers are getting meaner these days. The belt marks were harder to excuse away, but you made it infinitely clear that no one was supposed to see them. You made what would happen if another teacher or even Dean got involved pretty crystal as well. I learned my lesson pretty damn quick after fifth grade. Lying to teachers was easy. I would change separately from others and say I had some religious issue with taking my shirt off in P.E. Lying to Dean proved the be a lot more difficult. He always wanted to know the bully’s name so he could track them down and beat them up, like any good older brother. Sometimes I made people up to get him off my back or blame someone I knew was a douchebag anyway. Dean probably beat up a lot of confused bullies through the years.

Dean had never felt like so much of an idiot in his entire life. He’d felt useless when people would ask him about college and he had to admit to never having graduated high school, but this was a whole other level. All that time he’d felt Sammy needed protection at school, the worst was really happening at home right under his nose. He’d beaten up kids that supposedly picked on his brother, feeling like he’d helped Sam out, but really he’d just played into his father’s hands. Dean’s protective side would bristle at the thought of Sammy being left alone at school for lunch, but he wouldn’t think twice about heading out with some new friends at night and leaving his brother with his true abuser.

The more you saw you could get away with it, the more you did it. Soon you didn’t have to be drunk to get me to pleasure you. You’d say you’d hurt Dean or make it a lot more painful if I didn’t cooperate, so I did. When we were alone in motels I’d let you do what you wanted. I made a special place in my mind where I would go while it was happening. It looked a lot like a library. Dean was there. We would talk and I would go over what I learned at school. It wasn’t much, not even believable actually, but it did the job. It was my secret headspace. I would use it sometimes when you pulled the belt out, but mostly it was reserved for the stuff that made me want to bury myself underground in shame. I later learned that was my brain’s way of coping with things it didn’t want to deal with: the humiliation, the guilt, the pain, the… really bad stuff. Sam’s voice was hoarse. Man, I don’t want to talk about this. This is the last thing I want to talk about during my last days on this god-forsaken planet, but I need to say it. I need Bobby to know who you really were, and that he was right not to trust you. I need to be honest with Dean for once, maybe then he’ll stop idolizing you and won’t drop everything good in his life to try to make you happy.

Dean’s image of his father was rapidly declining. More accurately, his opinion of John Winchester had just been decimated and then steamrolled. This whole time, the man he wanted to mirror had been a fucking child molester… of his own fucking child. Is that incest? That is incest, right… Does it fucking matter? His own father was a psycho. Who would… Who would ever do that stuff to a little kid? Dean wanted to puke. Instead, he took a long swig straight from the whiskey bottle. Bobby had been right. Dean leaned his head against the parked Impala’s headrest miserably. He couldn’t make himself start it again. Dean took his phone out and stared at the texts from his father. Most of them were angry, some pleading, all asking him to call. He knew what was on this tape. He'd wanted to get to Dean before he heard it. Son of a bitch . Dean shut his phone off again and blinked tears out of his eyes. How many lies had people told him about Sammy? What else didn't he know?

My last year of high school was the worst. You’d succeeded in keeping Dean close and obedient. He worshipped the ground you walked on and obeyed your commands like they were the word of God Himself. Sam lets out a bitter laugh. You were even more delusional than I thought if you ever imagined my story ending the same way. As soon as I realized my grades were good enough for a scholarship, I’d already made up my mind. I was going to Stanford and I was making a life for myself as far from you as I could get. When you found out, you tried to scare me into staying. Sober or drunk, alone or with Dean around, you made it worse than ever. It backfired, asshole, so hard. I wasn’t my brother. You couldn’t break me as easily as you did him. I didn't love you or even like you. The harder you went, the more you cemented my plans and the more joy you brought me when I finally got to California. God, there was never a sweeter thought than the promise of a life without John Winchester.

Dean almost wanted to cheer for his little brother. He would have if he was still alive. But Sam didn’t win. John was the one who had the last laugh. Shit, Dean, he’s still your father, you can’t- No. Dean drank more whiskey. John had given up his right to being their father when he’d forced his kid to… you know. Dean shuddered just thinking about it. The more he replayed the past in his mind, the more clearly Dean could see the signs. Fuck, he was stupid. He was stupid and blind and a terrible older brother. He had never protected Sam, even when he had thought he had. All Dean had ever done was make it worse. Sam had felt like he had to make up for Dean’s weak will, show Dad there was still someone who would fight him. How much more pain had that brought his baby brother? Dean didn’t even want to think about it…  

Apart from a few drunk, threatening phone calls, I didn’t hear from you for two years. Of course, those two years were still a mess, but at least you weren’t a part of it. I’d finally made peace with the fact that you were right about one thing, though. I was poisonous. I fucked up everything I touched. I was a demon. At least three good people would still be alive if it weren’t for me. You and Dean would have been a lot happier, too. You’d called it.

“How long until you ruin someone else’s life, huh? How long until you kill again?” You’d challenged. No matter how many times I promised myself the answer was ‘never’, I knew it wasn’t true. Throughout all the shit, you at least did one thing right.

Dean gritted his teeth. Sam was wrong, so wrong… He’d ruined Dean and Bobby’s lives by leaving! John Winchester had gotten that dead wrong, too. Sammy'd been the only good thing in Dean's life for the longest time, the only thing keeping him going. If he'd grown up around Dad without him... he couldn't have done it. He couldn't have handled the constant moving around, the loneliness, the late nights when John would come back ready to hit the first thing in his path. Not alone. Dean rubbed at his neck. Maybe Dean hadn't been as important to Sam's welfare as Sam had been to Dean's. Maybe the dependency just went one way... It scared Dean to think about that. Sam had gone through the hardest parts of his life on his own. The second something happened in Dean's life, however, the first thing he wanted to do was talk to his brother. Had their relationship really been so one-sided? Had Sammy always known Dean couldn't actually protect him from shit and just pretended to need him? Dean pressed his palms into his eyes until he saw white specs against the black of is eyelids.

“What do I do, Sammy?” Dean whispered to the box in the passenger seat. He laid a hand on it and leaned his head back, feeling so tired he could have passed out right then and there. A single tear squeezed its way out of his pressed-together eyelids. I can't do this. Dean shook his head to himself. I can't. I can't. I can't... A choked sob ripped out of his throat. Fuck. He couldn't stop it, any of it; not the crying like a little bitch, not the angry shutting off of the tape, not the removal of the gun from the glove compartment.

Dean pressed the Smith and Wesson to his temple so hard it hurt. The cold circle of the barrel made an indent in his skin. He couldn't live without Sam, not now. His whole life was crumbling around him. Dean couldn't go to Seattle. He couldn't stand to look at John now. He wouldn't have a job anymore, Dad would make sure of that. He couldn't go to Bobby... everything about him just reminded him of the Sam-shaped hole in his life. Fuck, everything reminded Dean of the empty, lonely space his brother had once occupied. The Impala suddenly seemed stifling. All he could think about was Sam: leaning against the side door, playing with a toy airplane out the window, kicking the seat when Dean sat shotgun...

“Fuck!” Dean shouted. He got out of the car and slammed the door shut, the gun still in his hand. The road was empty, but he wouldn't have cared if it wasn't. He emptied the clip into the woods, shooting blindly at trees and screaming his throat to shreds. Tears were streaming down his face now.

“Fuck you!” He wasn't sure who he was shouting at anymore. John? Sam? Himself? He pulled the trigger again and the gun clicked. He sank down to his knees, holding the unloaded gun to his chest and not giving a shit how loud his sobs were anymore. Dean's mind wasn't even making sense anymore. It was a mess of unsaid words, past arguments, flashes of Sammy's smile and fragments of memories swimming over top of each other and making Dean's head throb. The only thing that he could pick out was the pain. That was unmistakable. Everything hurt, deep inside. It hurt so much it was almost numb, like Dean's body was giving up and just letting it soak in until it killed him. At least that way he wouldn't have to do it himself. Sam had taken that option away from him. Dean couldn't do that to Bobby, to Cas, not even John... not after Sam. He balled his fists and released them over and over, making small half-moon indents in his palms.

Dean forced himself to stand up and pull it together. He wiped his face and nose on his sleeve and the inside of his collar, ignoring the uncomfortable wetness. Dean took another swig of whiskey and a deep breath before shifting the Impala into gear. He had to drive in silence for a while before building up the will power to turn the tape back on.

After you broke into my apartment, we fought. I was sober so it was a fair match, unlike when I was little. It felt good, seeing I could hurt you just as much as you could hurt me. You cut my side open with a broken bottle and I stabbed you in the arm with a kitchen knife. Punches and kicks flew. It was like all the anger of the past years was manifesting itself now. You channelled your hatred for me and my supposed murder of your wife. I simply wanted to cause you pain. God knows you deserved it. Maybe I even wanted to kill you for what you did to me as a kid. You'd fucked me up. What you did changed me inside and that made me hate you just as much as you hated me, probably more. I almost did it, too. I had the kitchen knife to your throat, having gained the upper hand as your stamina faded.

“Go ahead, boy.” You spat. I held the knife as steadily as I could as I caught my breath.

“I'll do it.” I growled. I pressed the blade a little harder, a few droplets of blood appearing on your skin. It was satisfying, somehow. The feeling terrified me.

“I always knew you would. Go ahead, kill me. Kill us all.” You smiled. It was bloody and lopsided from the fight, a few teeth missing. “ You killed Mary, you'll kill me... next thing you know, Dean's blood'll be on your hands, too. You're a fuckin' demon, Sam. Always knew it. I was just too weak to gank you when I had the chance.” You laughed, shaking your head.

“I wouldn't hurt Dean.” I hissed. “And you deserve this, after all the shit you did...” My voice cracked and I tightened my jaw and pressed the knife a little harder. No one would've been surprised if I'd left him behind a bar somewhere. Just another dumb drunk killed in a bar brawl... No one would ever know... Just a little more pressure and a few inches to the side and you would've bled out in no time. I shifted my sweaty hand on the handle.

“He'll deserve it too, one day. Him, someone else, someone else after that...” You chuckled darkly and gave me a little nod or encouragement, or maybe challenge. “You're not normal, Sam. There's somethin' evil in you, boy, and it'll come out. You can't stop it.” I shook my head defiantly.

“You made me this way.” I said. Tears started to blur my vision, but I didn't move the knife.

“I tried to help you.”

“Fuck you.”

“You had to-”

“Shut the fuck up or I swear to God I'll do it.” I lowered my voice and fear flickered in your eyes. You saw it then, that evil you'd tried to snuff out in your fucked up way. You saw it in my face at that moment and truly thought I would slide that knife across your throat and watch your blood sink into the rug. You didn't do anything after that, just stayed infinitely still. I had the power now, all of it.

“Samuel...” You pleaded in a hoarse whisper. How many times had I pleaded to you? Begged you not to hurt me? You hadn't given a shit. Why should I? The reversal made me smile. Somehow that seemed to scare you even more. My hand shook slightly, bringing more blood seeping through the skin of your thick neck. I steadied the blade with my other hand. We stayed like that for a while, father and son, one on the verge of murdering the other. You were barely breathing, trying to keep deathly still, your eyes locked on mine. I held the knife steady and chewed my bottom lip. I wanted to do it, I really did. I might have even gotten away with it. What would Dean think of you? That thought sobered me a little. Dean would never forgive me. He would look at me like I was a monster, the freak who killed his parents. If I killed John, I would just prove my father right. I lowered the knife, then. I want you to understand why. It wasn't because you asked me nicely. Sam laughed cooly. If anything, that made me want to do it even more. In your last moments, I want you to regret what you did, not be proud of it, thinking you were right. I stopped because of Dean, otherwise you'd be six feet under.

It was the first time Sam had written out an entire conversation, let alone described the happenings of an event in such detail. It didn't sit right with Dean. He knew it had been fairly recent, but obviously it had burned itself in Sam's mind. Dean could see it in his head, playing out like a movie. He saw the dangerous look in his brother's eyes as he held a knife to his father's throat. It wasn't a position in which he could have placed Sam if it weren't for the tape, never in a million years. A week ago, Dean would have nearly pissed himself laughing if someone told him his little Sammy would come within a hair of killing Dad. Dean gritted his teeth together. He was learning more and more about his own stupidity, it would seem.

I made sure you left me alone after that. I toyed with the idea of getting a restraining order, but decided it wasn't worth it. You wouldn't be coming around for a while. The thing about you was that you didn't really want anything to do with me, not if you couldn't push me around. It made me wonder what was going on in yours and Dean's relationship. Usually you'd only make contact if things were rough between you two. I tried to call Dean but hung up when the phone rang a few times and no one picked up, my nerves rising. How does someone start that conversation? 'Hey, I almost killed Dad yesterday and have been in and out of rehab for the past year and a half. Just thought you should know. What's up with you?' Yeah. That would fly well. I'd rehearsed a speech, a full explanation, but my resolve fell to shit when the other line rang. I guess part of me had hoped the number was disconnected. I dreaded a return call. I was only halfway disappointed when it never came.

Dean frantically wracked his brain, trying to remember a missed call from Sam. He always called his brother back. He especially would have called back after their record-breaking silence. Dean hadn't known Sam's new number, so maybe he'd ignored the call, thinking it was a telemarketer or yet another idiot calling the wrong number. It seemed unlikely. A travelling mechanic like Dean would never fail to answer his cell. The promise of a new job could be waiting on the other line. There was no way Dean had received that call. Maybe Sam had called a much older number than Dean thought, maybe one his backup cells that he didn't use anymore. A prickle of guilt made its way up his spine. Of course Sam had called one of his old numbers, he'd updated his main phone twice in the past three years, only keeping the others for specific calls from old contacts. Old contacts like Sam. Why the fuck hadn't Dean realized this before? At first, he thought he'd always carry his old phone with him, just in case. Afterwards, he decided to just check it periodically, since Sam hadn't called since Utah. The longer the silence on Sam's end, the more Dean lost hope. That old phone was probably in a dusty cabinet or at the bottom of a duffel bag. As if Dean's day couldn't get any worse...

I was fine for a while. I still had my maintenance job and my coworkers. We got along well, but more in that passing-by sort of way. I considered them good friends at work, but would usually get awkward and shut down a little if they asked me to hang out outside of job situations. The number of barbeques, backyard parties, and boys' nights out I actually attended dwindled by the week. That was alright with me at first. I'd always liked my independence. But the balance between independence and loneliness in a delicate one. Once loneliness sets in, that sweet feeling of independence is destroyed. What once brought you satisfaction now leaves nothing but a cold, desperate emptiness. Walking alone down the street becomes stifling rather than freeing and the silence in your empty apartment leaves you on edge instead of peaceful. It took less than two months for that feeling to make its home inside my chest. Being alone was terrifying, all of a sudden, because I knew it might never end. My work friends stopped extending invitations and I couldn't convince myself to instigate contact myself. My father's words always held me back: 'There's something evil in you, boy.' There was. I knew that now. But I didn't know the extent of it. I wasn't some psychopath who killed animals as a child and felt an urge to murder people or something, no way. So what did it mean? What was wrong with me?

Nothing. Sam was a kind soul. He would never hurt someone on purpose, not unless it was self-defence. Sam wasn't evil. That was pretty much the most bullshit thing Dean had ever heard. Unlucky, maybe, but not fucking evil.

The loneliness and self-hatred grew into depression. I wouldn't even leave my bed. All I could think about were different scenarios that ended up with everyone around me dead. I didn't kill Mom, Jess, or Gadreel on purpose, but it was still my fault. Maybe I wasn't the one that was going to murder people, maybe I would just cause it. Maybe I was cursed. There were plenty of folklore about cursed children, I'd read about it in Stanford's library at one point. I could be, I don't know, somehow calling on spirits to kill people? Except the annoying little facts that : A) that stuff didn't exist, and B) I wasn't even in control of it. I was relieved, actually, when I figured out that some weird supernatural shit wasn't an option. I even quickly looked into demonic influence, thinking maybe my father had known something, but none of the stuff I read seemed marginally plausible. So that only left me. I was the only problem. There was nothing unusual about Sam Winchester other than I had a strange ability to wind up killing the people closest to me. Maybe it was just luck, or someone up there had a major hard-on.

After a week of researching and desperately grasping at straws, I finally gave up. There were no magical answers. There was nothing. My so-called evil must have been something buried inside me. Maybe it would come out one day, maybe it wouldn't. I hadn't full-on killed anyone yet, hadn't pulled any triggers or slit any throats, but I'd come close. I didn't want to admit the rush I'd felt when I pressed my knife into my father's neck, or how my entire body hummed with a chorus of 'do it, Sam'. I mean, was that normal? Was that there before? Was it just because it was my Dad and I hated him? I didn't know. Maybe I would feel the same way about killing someone else, if I could justify it. 'He'll deserve it, too, one day. Him, someone else, then someone else after that...' Could John have been right? Those questions kept me up at night. For all I knew, I was a time bomb. Sooner or later I would go off, and there would be extensive collateral damage. I found myself becoming increasingly paranoid. I grew jumpy and on edge and stopped sleeping. If I closed my eyes, I would be assaulted with visions of death and destruction, all caused by me. After a while, I would see things when I was awake, too. It's terrifying, not trusting yourself.

Sam wasn't this person. When he and Dean had found an injured dog on the side of the road as kids, Sam had cried for three hours in the car when John refused to let them take it to a clinic. That wasn't a killer in the making or some shit. This wasn't Sam, this was all John. This was Dad getting in Sammy's head and making him believe his complete bullshit. Of course Sam had wanted to kill his father after what he did, the fact that he hadn't just proved how good of a kid he was. Sure, people had died around him, but it was never his fault. Mom had a birth complication. It was nothing more than that. Sam hadn't sucked out her life or something. It was an innocent albeit shitty accident. Jess had been murdered by a creepy psycho ex, not Sam. And Gadreel wasn't even dead! If he had been, though, it would have been no one's fault but that low-life who pulled the trigger's. Dean balled his fists. Sam should have called. If he'd only fucking called... If only you'd fucking answered, you mean. Dean swallowed hard.

I called in sick from work and took a few weeks personal time off and just laid in bed in my messy apartment. Getting up to find food was too much movement. Going to the bathroom took almost all my energy for the day. I would need someone else to get me out of this mess. Once again, I would fuck up somebody else's life because I couldn't keep my shit together. It would have been better for everyone if I wasn't around anymore. I ignored calls from Bart and Andy and my new friend Amelia. I didn't want anyone here. I needed to be alone. I couldn't shove my problems on them, they barely knew me. I felt myself longing for something. Release. At first, I didn't know what I was looking for, then I placed it. Heroin. Heroin would help. But I'd have to leave my bed... Leave my apartment... Go outside... See people...No. Even the thought sapped my energy. So there I was, alone in a filthy apartment lying in dirty bedsheets hoping for heroin to drop out of the sky. Pamela's number was in my phone. I could call... I didn't want to use again. I didn't want to go back down that road. But once again, I would be a burden on others. Come to think of it, when hadn't I been a burden on others? Dad, Dean, Bobby, Ruby, Jess, Sonny and the people at Ledgefield, even Gadreel... I'd been holding them all down at one time or another. I needed them to help me get out of situations, get back on my feet. How many times had I been through this? The thought made me want to throw up. What was wrong with me?

Everyone needs help. Dean had called Pamela a few times himself. When he and Castiel started a relationship he didn't need to as much. Having a psychiatrist boyfriend sometimes had perks, after all. Cas was a world-class listener. The drawbacks were extensive, though. Cas psychoanalyzed everything Dean did, giving him tidbits of diagnoses here and there. Dean sometimes thought Cas was oblivious to how awkward that was. A guy can't just tilt his head and look his boyfriend over and say in his psychiatrist voice: 'you don't think you deserve to be saved', it would weird anyone out no matter the relevance. It was a little cute, maybe, but also creepy as fuck, especially on a first date. Dean forced his thoughts back to the tape. He hated it when Sammy called himself a burden. How many times did Dean have to clarify that he'd never felt that way. He loved taking care of his brother. Did you ever tell him that? Fuck. Had he? Dean wracked his brain. He joked about hating it, more often than not, but Sam knew that was a joke... right? His mouth went dry at the realization. No, he hadn't told Sam. He'd told himself numerous times over and knew it was true, but he'd never really given his brother confirmation. But he should have known... It was obvious, in Dean's own way. The fond smiles, the way his protective side practically purred when Sam needed to sleep in his bed after a nightmare; it should have been obvious. Why, then, wasn't it? Dean thought for a while. He figured it must have been the same reason Dean hadn't realized the extent of John's abuse: he saw what he wanted to see. Sam wanted to blame himself for everything that had happened, so it was easy to pretend Dean had hated it when he needed him. It couldn't have been farther from the truth, but it was possible to get that impression by taking his words out of context.

What was one more disappointed person? What was one more who cursed my lack of self-control? Fuck it. I called Pamela.

Thank God! Finally a good decision! Dean hated himself for thinking that.

She said she would be here within the day. She'd been in contact with Bobby earlier. He'd warned her I might be needing her. I tried to pretend I wasn't hurt by how sure Bobby was that I'd relapse, or at least fuck up again in some other way. I wanted to clean up the apartment a little, but instead I just sank back into my pillows and slept for the first time in 72 hours. I couldn't even make myself get up, let alone clean.

Imagine my surprise when I heard a male voice at my door the next morning rather than Pam's. A deep male voice. I'd yelled at him to go away and leave whatever he had for me at the door, thinking it was a FedEx guy or a Jehovah's Witness. Maybe I should have yelled a little harder. Oh, you know who you are. I know you've been waiting for this. Didn't think I'd leave you out, did you?

Hello, Castiel.

Chapter Text

Dean's breath caught in his throat. Cas? Castiel had never mentioned... What the fuck? Dean's mind reeled and collecting his thoughts was like trying to catch a fish with his hands, they just slipped away from his grasping fingers. He held the whiskey bottle to his chest like a baby. No, not this. Dad was one thing... but Cas... Sam couldn't take this away too. Cas was the one good thing left in Dean's life. Sam was gone, his relationship with John was shattered in a million pieces, and now... what? Dean couldn't make himself put the tape in. He didn't want to know what Cas did. He wanted nothing to do with it. All Dean wanted anymore was to go back to wherever Castiel had an apartment now and forget he'd ever heard it. He could just tell him he shut John's off halfway through and destroyed it or something. If its content was that important, Cas would have told Dean already. He hadn't told you he'd known Sam, so how can you even trust what he says? Dean put his head in his hands as his vision blurred and tilted. But this is Cas, man, He argued to himself.

He'd all but forgotten Sam's map now. He knew the final location was Lawrence, Kansas, so he got on the fastest route there. Dean didn't want heartbreaking little reminders of places where they'd had good times. He didn't want the best apple pie in the fucking Midwest, he didn't deserve that. Dean didn't deserve to feel like Sammy was still out there somewhere, hoping for Dean to feel alright about all this. None of this was alright, nor would it ever be alright. Dean deserved to have Sam question where the fuck he was when all of this was happening, tell Dean he never protected him, just admit the fucking truth already. The fucking truth. Dean had to know. He couldn't live with not knowing. He pictured Castiel wandering around the apartment, nervous and guilty, wondering if Dean knew more than he let on. Maybe it was more like Bobby's tape than Dad's... Either way, he had to know, even if his whole body was telling him to throw tape 5 out the fucking window and roll over it. He put it in and pressed play, hoping to God he wouldn't regret it.

Oh, Castiel... Sam sighed. I've been waiting for this one, actually. I thought we had a pretty good story. The severely depressed guy and his amateur psychiatrist... Kind of sounds like the start of a gay Nicholas Sparks book, doesn't it? His laugh was dry and harsh. Let's start at the beginning for the others' sakes, how about that?

It took me at least ten minutes to get to the door. I hadn't wanted to answer it, knowing it wasn't Pam. I checked the peephole and didn't recognize the baby-faced man in a trench coat. I toyed with the idea of going back to bed and waiting for him to leave, but I didn't. He introduced himself as Dr. Castiel Novak, a co-worker of Pam's who was a lot closer geographically at the time. He offered me a deal. One conversation. If I still wanted Pamela instead afterwards, he would call her and arrange it. I gave you what you wanted, one short conversation in which you tried to convince me to trust you. I fell for it. Your story about your dysfunctional and distant family was an interesting one. So was your Asperger's diagnosis, which was unusual for a psychiatrist of all things, given that it affected the ability to empathize. The more I talked to you, though, the more I appreciated that. I didn't need you to understand, I just wanted to get it out. I didn't want sympathetic and pitying glances, either. I'd gotten enough of those through my recovery. Those looks that spelled out 'Wow, too bad. He would have had so much potential. What a tragedy'. Those kinds of glances were something I could go without for the rest of my life, thanks.

Dean agreed that Castiel wasn't the best at empathizing with others. He could read emotions well, though, and find patterns and reasons for any actions. It was a little creepy. Sam would have probably liked that about Cas, though. As much as Dean hated being psychoanalyzed every few minutes, having Cas' calming presence around was always... well, therapeutic. Maybe he was a better psychiatrist than Dean gave him credit for.

Before our real sessions started, you took it upon yourself to help me around the apartment. You made a pile of pre-made meals in Tupperware containers and put it in my pathetically empty fridge. They were marked with my name, what it was, and the date and time frame in which I was supposed to eat it. At first it made me feel like I was being babysat, and that made me irritable. But eventually I would get out of bed to eat my scheduled meals before retreating back to my dark corner of the apartment to watch TV. You were patient. You took the empty, dirty containers home and left me new ones.

You didn't talk unless I did so first, and you never pressed me for payment. I hadn't thought about that. I wasn't sure if I had a job anymore so there was no way I could even afford this. I assumed Pam or Bobby were taking care of that. That annoyed me, too. I didn't want to be that guy that relied on people's charity. So one day I left a few crumpled bills on the counter for you when you came to clean up a little. You didn't so much as glance at it. The next time, I put them in a more obvious location. Once again, they were all still there when you left. I cursed your name a little before putting the money back in my alarmingly thin wallet. I guess it was a good thing you hadn't taken my money. I questioned you about it a few days later. It was the first time I'd initiated a conversation after two weeks of quiet visits full of concerned glances and unsaid words. It was like a thick fog was being lifted. You seemed a little relieved, or maybe surprised. You probably thought we'd never talk again after our first conversation. We didn't say it, but it was understood that this was the beginning of our sessions.

I found you a surprisingly good listener. You didn't interject at awkward moments to make dumb-ass assessments and little comments. You listened, let me finish, then made a few observations and asked thought-provoking questions. It was actually quite effective, not gonna lie. You made me see a few things differently, ask myself why certain events had such a profound effect on me. I enjoyed our sessions a lot. Soon, though, I found myself getting a little annoyed by the fact that you knew everything about me, yet I didn't even know if you had a family of your own, or if you liked watching TV shows. I guess that's how our relationship started to get a little beyond doctor-patient boundaries, me asking questions. It didn't seem like anything more than evening out the playing field.

I learned you were not only single, but gay. I hadn't expected that one. I also learned that your media education was sorely lacking. You hadn't even seen Star Wars! I wasn't Dean-level into TV, but I knew that you was in dire need of culture. I invited you over outside of office hours to watch movies in my apartment. That's perfectly fine, right? A little unorthodox for a psychiatrist and his patient - a gay psychiatrist and his bisexual patient. The first time was a Star Wars marathon. You didn't seem to enjoy it all that much so I guessed you weren't really a sci-fi guy. That's why the next time was classic mobster movies like The Godfather and Goodfellas. Those you seemed to like. Pretty soon, it became a routine. Wednesdays and Fridays you and I would sit on my crappy couch, eat takeout and watch whatever I decided was necessary to make you a functioning member of society.

Dean felt a pang. He'd done the same thing a few times. There were a lot of movies and shows that Dean liked that Sam had missed. But Dean had noticed the fact that Castiel had watched most of his favourite films. That was because of Sam? It felt... weird. Like Dean had been robbed of something. He couldn't place the feeling.

It soon became weirdly domestic. You cooked a few times, saying I ate way too much takeout. I argued that I mostly picked the healthier options, but you just glared and started explaining the chemicals used in fast food. So I let you cook. That was another thing about Cas. He didn't just learn to like movies, he actually enjoyed my documentaries. Like, a lot. I thought I had an extensive knowledge of weird facts, but Castiel's actually surpassed mine.

Dean couldn't help but picture Sam and Cas nerding out in Sam's apartment, excitedly talking about those things that always left Dean wide-eyed and thoroughly confused. He placed the feeling, then. Jealousy. He was jealous of his dead brother. How fucked up is that? Dean needed a drink.

You especially liked documentaries about animals and insects, particularly honey bees. It grew into a sort of inside joke between us. We exchanged dumb bee puns and always smirked whenever someone talked about them, no doubt remembering when Cas and I got high and came back to my apartment declaring that he followed a honey bee and it was enlightening. Oh yeah, that was another thing. I started smoking weed to calm me down and found my psychiatrist to be a great companion. I know that's weird, but it just sort of happened. I needed it to stop thinking all the time and Cas... well- Sam started laughing. The guy was hardcore.

The small pit of jealousy in Dean's stomach was growing. He knew about Cas' relationship with marijuana, but it wasn't like Dean participated. He felt like a stalker looking through the window of a perfect couple. His boyfriend and his brother were that perfect couple. It twisted his stomach. All the things Dean didn't share with Cas or Sam they seemed to share with each other. It made him feel inadequate. Useless. Like he was the one that didn't belong to a special club population 2.

I think you have all figured out where this is heading. Yes, my psychiatrist and I started a romantic relationship. Laugh, judge, hate, whatever. It's not like I care anymore. We kissed in my apartment while watching re-runs of True Detective. It wasn't a big deal. It felt familiar almost, like it had been happening for weeks. We were both relatively inexperienced; I had only had one male partner and our relationship had been... complicated. Castiel had only had a few as well. He sheepishly admitted he didn't have the best luck picking up guys. He was the type to freeze up when talking to someone attractive. I didn't want to admit how much I actually liked that. It made me feel safer.

Dean felt disgusted with himself. Not only was Cas his brother's ex, but Sam might have even fallen in love with the little nerd... Dean hoped it wasn't going there. If Cas broke his little brother's heart... His protective side bristled, preparing for the worst.

You stopped being my doctor. We started seeing each other. It was more of the same, what we'd been doing before, except it happened ore often and I went to your place as well. It was a lot nicer than my cramped, sketchy apartment. I never did get my job back. That was when we started having problems. No job meant no money and no money meant no apartment. I was evicted about four days after we became official. You said I could live with you until I 'got back on my feet'. It seemed like I'd spent almost three years getting back on my fucking feet. I knew how you saw me. A post-depression ex-junkie with PTSD from my messed up past. Yeah. I was a goddamn train wreck. You knew what you signed up for. My depression crawled back a little after I was evicted. It wasn't nearly as bad as it had been a few months ago, but I still didn't do much but sit curled up on your sofa watching TV. I could tell it bothered you a little. You didn't know what to do anymore. You prescribed pills and I took them, but they did nothing. I was a failure. I was exactly what I'd spent my entire life trying not to become: jobless, prospectless, and homeless. I knew it was just an endless cycle. One step forward, two steps back. Like fucking Jack and Jill that hike all the way up the hill to get water just to come tumbling down and lose the water anyway. My life was poor, dumb Jack on replay. No pills or motivational quotes or whatever could change that.

That feeling was familiar to Dean. The constant shortcomings. That was all Dean's life was, a series of shortcomings. Dropping out of high school and settling for a GED, following his abusive father around like a lost puppy and forgetting to live his own life, abandoning his brother when he needed Dean most... They fueled his nightmares as well as his waking life. He couldn't even look in the mirror without his failures staring back at him. Sam had given him a necklace, an amulet, and he'd never taken it off as a kid. He'd stopped wearing it for a while, thinking it was lost somewhere. He'd found it again a few weeks before Sam... you know. Now it never came off. As painful as it was to see that reminder every day, he couldn't make himself remove it. He'd let Sam down in so many ways, he wouldn't do that again now that he was gone.

Our relationship continued, but was more strained than ever. It had started because of the ease we had together. We had so much in common and could talk for hours about pretty much nothing. But soon my issues became the elephant in the room. We couldn't talk and laugh about the weird mechanics of the squid reproduction we'd seen on Planet Earth when there was that little matter of me starting to close myself off from the world again occupying our minds. I tried to force myself to socialize, leave Cas' apartment, but I didn't make it past the front door. My energy had been all but sapped just chatting to the lady from 103 that had come in with her groceries. I hated myself even more for being like this.

You took my returning to old habits as proof of your supposed failure. You tried. You tried so hard. I know you did. I was the problem here. It couldn't be fixed. Our easygoing relationship was shattered by me being fucked up, as usual. I was constantly in need of your help and it disgusted me. I was ruining our relationship and couldn't stop it. I was too tired for all that. But that didn't mean that watching what we had fall apart didn't rip my heart out.

I tried to pretend not to notice you making late-night phone calls to Pam asking for advice, or coming home purposefully late, or just looking thoroughly crestfallen when I didn't eat. Our conversation switched from mostly useless exchanges about topics that weren't of the greatest importance to basically only talking about me. My habits, my thoughts, and my feelings were put under a microscope. You practically put me on suicide watch. It was exhausting for both of us. No, I didn't know exactly what was causing this. It wasn't as easy as calling someone anymore, or getting me to a rehab center. It was like my body had taken the executive decision to just give up and my brain was slowly getting on the same wavelength. It wasn't fair to drag you into it. I asked if you wanted to leave and get me admitted or something. I knew you didn't sign up for this shit. There was a flicker of something akin to relief in your eyes for a split second before you refused. Nothing could erase that. That look stayed permanently seared on my eyelids. Relief. That's what people would feel once I left, once I stopped fucking up everyone else's lives. I'd known that a long time ago, but it was different getting visual confirmation. I was a burden and there was no hiding it anymore. The realization settled coldly at the bottom of my stomach.

Dean wanted to yell at Sam, or maybe Cas. Anyone. Of course Castiel would be at least a little relieved to have Sammy admitted to a facility where they could watch him. That way he wouldn't have had to worry about Sam all day at work and call to check on him every few hours as Dean was sure he had done. He suddenly realized why Cas had taken Sam's death so hard... The thought hit him like a Mac truck. How had he not seen it before? Castiel wasn't super empathetic and feeling Dean's pain, it was all his own. He and Sam had been close. Dean tried not to shudder. He felt slightly ashamed of how many times he'd snapped at him in the days following that awful phone call. He'd treated Cas like he had no right to miss a guy he'd never known. He'd been oblivious to his boyfriend's history with his brother. It made Dean wonder what exactly happened after to make Castiel scared to admit he knew Sam. It still seemed sort of weird.

You went through my phone. I was pissed. You called Bobby, most likely hoping he'd give you some magic antidote to my dark thoughts. No such luck I guess. Within a week of Castiel's refusal of admitting me to a hospital, I'd begun preparing for my suicide. I did you all a favour, I need you to know that. Castiel, you were nothing but kind and patient and understanding with me... until you weren't. I don't think you know I know what you did... that makes this a little fun, don't you think? We can all learn about how much of a douche you were at the same time. Now, before I go into further detail, I need to defend my ex-boyfriend just a little bit, here. Worrying after a suicidal house guest is beyond stressful. He didn't sign up for all my shit. He thought that was over with. Cas probably just wanted our old life back- out old couple life back. See, when you're depressed, sex is the last thing you really want to do, at least, for me. Maybe it had to do with my history, maybe it didn't. I'm not the psychiatrist. I just know that our relationship wasn't exactly... how do I say this? Wasn't exactly fulfilling in the last stretch. So there you go, those are my words of defence for my ex. I'd say if there was ever an excuse, that would qualify as one of the least bull-shit ones out there.

What did he do? Dean's mind tripped over itself. What could have made Cas walk away from someone who needed his help? He wasn't that sort of a guy. Cas was kind, selfless.

You found a few more numbers than Bobby's in my phone, it would seem. You found my brother Dean's.

Fuck. What? What do I have to do with this? Dean furrowed his brow and sipped more of his coffee. He'd gotten some in a McDonald's drive-thru. He smiled a little to himself when he remembered excusing Sam's tape as an audio book. I wish.

It was my turn to look through your phone. When you were taking a shower, I looked through your previously called list. Sure enough, Dean's number showed up. What was weirder is that you denied it when I asked you. It would have been a lot easier to just tell me . I wouldn't have minded you asking my brother about me. If he called back, I wanted to talk to him more than anyone. I quickly checked your text messages, too. Yeah, I know, I sound like a snoopy, paranoid boyfriend. But I did find something interesting. You sent a message to a different number that you seemed to think was Dean's, telling him you were a friend of Pam's and needed to talk.

Dean's heart nearly jumped out of his chest. He remembered that message. The first one he'd gotten from Castiel. The timeline didn't... Fuck. Fuck. He was starting to put it together, his mind working like porridge, trying to convince himself that his Cas would never do that. But he did...

So I watched you leave on your day off, saying you were going to work. I was on the second season of Prison Break and curled up in a blanket, still wearing yesterday's clothes. I nodded slightly and waited for you to leave. Now I would wait. I knew where you went so I knew what I was looking for. I knew your tells. I wanted to trust you. I wanted to believe that you were only going to meet my brother for advice. That's probably how it started out. Or maybe you just saw my attractive, less complicated brother and just thought you wouldn't tell him you knew me. Somehow I doubt anything would have happened between you if he'd known you were supposed to be in a relationship with his little brother. You know what, Cas, when I die, he's all yours. If he still wants you, that is. I just need him to know what you never had the guts to tell me. He probably had no idea we knew each other. It's sad, really, and I wish I didn't have to do this. I'm serious, I do. I don't want to cause you or my brother pain, but these tapes are about the truth, about why . You nailed the last nail in my coffin, Cas.

Dean felt like he was going to be sick. So he'd... So Cas... Fuck! He pulled over and tugged the half-empty bottle of whiskey out of the glove box. Cas was a cheater? He'd cheated on Sam with Dean ? Fuck. He took a deep swig and tried to keep the self-hatred from rising in his throat like bile.

You met him a bunch of times over the next week. It's not that you weren't being careful, it's just that Dean's smell is the easiest thing to spot when you're looking for it. Your lies were great, Cas, really. I almost believed them. Still, I don't really hold it against you. I know you didn't want to hurt me and I know how hard this whole thing was for you but... It ripped my heart in two. I'd really fallen for you. You were the only one that cared enough to stick around. And then you went and did this... It was so unlike you. I get it, people do things when they're stressed, but fuck.

That wasn't an excuse. Dean couldn't help the rising fury in him. Cas had known Sam was suicidal and hadn't told him? Instead, he'd started a romantic relationship with him? What the fuck? Dean felt tears sting his eyes. Fuck. He took another swig from the bottle. Didn't you always go out to bars and pick up girls when taking care of Sam stressed you out? Dean's inner voice snaked its way into the forefront of his mind until it was screaming at him. Sure he had, but he hadn't been in a relationship! He'd avoided those like the plague for that exact reason. That, and he was still a closeted gay man. If you met a hot, nice guy when you were... No. He wouldn't have. He would have been tempted... so fucking tempted... but Dean wouldn't have done that.

I gave you a lot of opportunities to come clean. We started our sessions again, trying to get the situation back under control. I was on so many antidepressants that one alcoholic drink would have probably caused a major overdose. I purposefully brought up lying and secrets and Dean, just to see how long you could hold out. You fidgeted, even looked like you were going to cry and apologize, but the words never came out. I let it go after that. I wasn't going to be around long, anyway. Why shouldn't you have fun in my absence? I mean, yeah, it sucked, but I'd already made up my mind. If anything, this just helped. What if Dean and Cas grew to love each other? Yet another good thing brought about by my suicide. It was a win-win.

A win-win? Dean's hands balled into fists. Yes, he had strong feelings for Cas, but... He'd trade even that for his brother without much thought. He would do anything to get Sam back, if anything would. He wanted Sam to be angrier. He wanted him to curse Cas and call him a low-life cheating bastard, anything to keep Dean from making excuses for him. Dean could excuse almost anything if it meant he didn't have to say goodbye.

'Sometimes it never gets better'. You said that to me. If that wasn't an invitation, I don't know what is. I knew your position on suicide. You always said it was the person's decision if they wanted to live or not, until I was that suicidal person. Then, you kept saying things would get better and I shouldn't end it. All that 'permanent solution to a temporary problem' stuff. Honestly, a permanent solution sounded pretty good to me. That was the first time since our sessions started up again that I heard your real opinion. Sometimes it never gets better. That was true for me. Every time I fixed a problem, another one replaced it in a second, sometimes even worse than the last. I couldn't live like that anymore, running from problem to problem, wishing I was dead but living just to- what- live? Putting up with my miserable existence just because I can? I wasn't making mine or anyone else's lives any better by sticking around. If anything, I hated myself more every day. And without me, Jess and Mom and Gadreel would still be alive, Dean could be happy with Cas, Bobby won't have to worry about me, and maybe these tapes can get Dad or Lucifer arrested, who knows? I don't think it will affect me much in the afterlife, but it would be nice to know they'll get what they deserve.

Dean would do whatever in his power to use these tapes to get those assholes arrested. Sam's testimony had to be worth something, right? Why would a dead guy lie? Dean shivered involuntarily at his own thoughts. Was that all Sammy would be seen as after a while, just another damaged dead guy, another young adult suicidal statistic? Would people pity him and his story if they heard it, maybe even shed a few tears, then forget him within a week? Sam's life story going public was the last thing Dean wanted. That said, going public would be the only way for Nick the Dick and John Winchester to get what was coming to them. Anger boiled up in Dean's chest like destructive, frustrated lava threatening to explode out of him. Helplessness didn't suit him. Soon i'll start throwing punches, swear to God.

You really liked him. Dean, I mean. I could see it in your face, your eyes, the lightness with which you walked when you came back from seeing him. Dean could have that effect. He just knows what to say to make you forget your problems.

Obviously not.

I see how you'd need that, given how our situation was going. Dying would have been doing you a favour. I could see that. Dean was better for you than I ever was, but I was too weak to send you off. You helped me and tried your best, and I pretty much spat on your efforts. It would be better for everyone if I just stopped getting in the way. If I stayed around, you'd get hurt. Maybe in a week, maybe in a year, but it was inevitable. It was like a poisonous cloud of bad luck that followed me wherever I went. I figured it was better to quit while I was ahead and give you and my brother a shot.

Dean couldn't help the coldness that was creeping along his spine. It must have had something to do with Sammy's voice: calm, cold, dead.

I didn't forget, Castiel. Your rejection hurt me, and you need to know that. It might be painful to hear, and even cause you to blame yourself, but its not as important as you might grow to believe. Actually... I don't even know anymore. Just that and everything... I wanted it to be over a long time ago. When I met you, I was already on the verge. I was so fucking done. Your betrayal didn't convince me, not really. I promised myself that these tapes would be honest, so I'll be honest. When I started this tape, I had every intention of leading you to believe your cheating tipped me over the edge. I may have even started it that way. There was a point where I wanted to cause you pain like you'd caused me. Letting you live with the guilt would have definitely achieved that. But that's not the way it really happened. The truth is that I didn't really have it in me to care that much anymore. I'd basically made my choice when I fell into my second depression during a time when I should have been happy. I knew I'd never be happy. Too much had happened. But it didn't mean you couldn't be happy. You, Dean, Bobby, everyone I was destined to destroy. You helped me see something very, very important. Hope. Hope for those I'd leave behind. You are a great guy, Castiel, despite your flaws. So is my brother. You helped me see that he could have a good life without me. Someone would come along and fill my space. Maybe you would help each other. Either way, things would turn out just fine. You don't need to worry about me anymore. I'll be alright.

Dean squeezed the steering wheel until his knuckled turned white. Sam. Ever-kind, ever-forgiving, Sam. How could he possibly think that anyone could replace him? Dean's identity was founded on his older brother status. Without a little brother... what was he? An only child? He shuddered. Sam was a part of him. An integral one, at that. Their identities were intertwined. One couldn't be entirely himself without the other.

I wanted to see my brother. Maybe tag along during one of your visits. I so much as got dressed one day (in something other than sweats) before losing my nerve. I regret not going through with it at least once, but I had two reasons. One, I still had feelings for you, Cas, and wasn't ready to explain this crazy situation to Dean of all people. Two, I didn't want it to change my mind. Dean, your tape is next and you know that. This was hardest on you, obviously. You were the toughest to leave behind. Actually, you were the only reason it took me so long to decide to end it. You've always been my rock, my protector. But now it's my turn to protect you. Let me go.

The tape made an empty whirring sound, the wheels turning with no purpose. The silence was deafening. Here it was, less than a foot away from Dean's hand, the last words he'd ever hear from Sammy. The tape clicked, but Dean couldn't move. He didn't want this to end. Not now. Not like this. He wanted – needed – to hear it wasn't true, that none of this ever really happened. Sam never mentioned how he'd gotten a gun, so what if he never did? Someone could have kidnapped him, planted a corpse... Stop it, Dean. Conspiracy theories? Had he really gotten that desperate? His heart ached as he remembered Sam excitedly chattering about a conspiracy theory about Hitler and how he faked his death. Maybe Sam was off in Argentina or something, lazing on that beach Dean had always promised to take him too, sipping on a cocktail. Keep dreaming, Winchester, see what it gets you. Maybe Sam would meet one of those serial killers he was so obsessed with, a psychopath on the run. Dean smiled to himself as he pictured Sam inwardly fangirling while talking to a felon. Oh, Sammy.

Dean checked his phone. He couldn't avoid it forever. His dad had sent him plenty of texts. Dean's hands shook in balled fists just seeing the lying, disgusting bastard's name. He deleted them all. There were some from Cas, too. Those made Dean bite his lip in thought. He was angry, there was no denying it. Castiel had broken Sam's heart, lied to Dean, and cheated . Dean hated cheaters. He always associated the word with a pot-bellied, trailer park man in a dirty wifebeater. Cheater, liar, heartbreaker. It didn't sound like the naïve-yet-incredibly-intelligent, attractive, clueless-yet-caring man that Dean had grown very attached to over the past few months. Not at all.

Cas: Dean. We need to talk. Please call me.

Cas: Hello, Dean. You must have heard the tape by now. Please call.

Cas: Dean! Please do not ignore me!

Cas: I'm sorry. I know you're angry. Please let me explain.

Cas: I know you've read these. We need to talk about the tape. Call me.

Cas: Dean! Call as soon as you get this, please!

Cas: DEAN, PLEASE STOP IGNORING ME!

Cas: CALL ME!!

Dean's hand hovered over the number. What would he say? He didn't think he was calm enough to have this discussion. His jaw still clenched every time he replayed the tape in his head. How was he going to start this? Hey, Cas. Great to know our relationship started because you were my depressed brother's boyfriend and psychiatrist and decided it was a great time to date me. Fuck. That would go down well. Dean rubbed his temples. There was no way this little talk wouldn't escalate to an all-out on-the-phone screaming match. Dean was just in that sort of a mood. The amount of shit he'd heard and learned over the past few days was starting to take its toll. Not to mention he'd barely slept for said few days and drank more than he probably should've. All that together wasn't exactly a perfect set-up for a level-headed chat. He pressed the contact number nonetheless.

“Hello, Dean.” Cas said heavily, sounding relieved.

“Cas.” Dean couldn't help but sigh into the phone. No matter what he'd heard, the familiar sound of Castiel's voice still sent waves of comfort and reassurance through Dean's body.

“I know why you're calling.” Cas said. The relief had been quickly replaced by a palpable dread.

“Yeah.” Dean's hands clenched and unclenched. Be an adult, Dean, please...

“What the fuck, man?” Dean all but yelled. So much for that.

“ There is no excuse, Dean, and I-”

“Damn fucking right there's no excuse! My brother was a mess! If you couldn't handle him, refer him to a psychiatrist who knew what they were doing ! Then you can think about yourself. When your fucking patient is on suicide watch, it's not the time to be screwing around with his brother. WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING, CAS?”

“I was coming to you for advice. About Sam. But... you didn't know anything. I asked an open-ended question and you thought he was still at Stanford. I couldn't bring you into it-”

“So you just thought: hey, why not start boning this guy while his brother is already close to suicide because I don't want to hurt his feelings? Does that sound fucking logical to you?” Dean said.

“The timing was a mistake, Dean. I have no problem admitting that. “ Said Cas softly.

“Yeah the timing was the problem here.” Sarcasm and anger dripped from Dean's voice.

“Yes, it was. Our connection was undeniable. No matter what happened, our relationship would have blossomed. I truly believe that. But given the circumstances, the timing was far from optimal.”

“No fucking shit ! Your timing was garbage! I think our relationship would have blossomed a lot slower if you'd told me you already had a boyfriend and that that boyfriend was Sam. ” Dean's voice rose. “Oh, and I almost forgot- You fucking lied to me so many times! Whenever I brought Sam up, you acted like you didn't know him! You don't think I would've wanted to know what you knew, that I could've helped?”

“You didn't see your brother.” Cas sighed. “He'd given up. I called everyone I knew, tried everything that worked before, and it was like he'd just... made up his mind.”

“Maybe he wouldn't have if you'd fucking told me where he was! Sam said it himself. He didn't want me to change his mind, which means that I could have! So if you'd let me see my goddamn brother he might still be alive right now!” Dean's throat was raw and he choked out a sob. “ Fuck.”

“I understand how difficult-”

“Please... Don't.” They sat in silence on opposite sides of the phone for a while. Dean took a swig of whiskey and set it down on Sam's box. He let his fingers linger on the dented cardboard and swallowed a lump in his throat.

“What do we do now, Dean?” Cas sounded miserable. It melted some of Dean's anger. God, he must feel guilty as hell.

“I need time.” Dean found himself saying. He didn't know what he needed. He needed to think, come to terms with everything, have time to process, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to be far from Cas or closer to him. “Finish the last tape, you know, and... deal. ” He clasped his hands around the back of his neck and bent over the steering wheel, leaning his head on the cool leather.

“Alright.” Cas said in a slow, disappointed voice. “I'm sorry, Dean.” He added. Dean nodded, but didn't trust himself to talk quite yet.

“I'm sorry, too, Cas.” He sighed heavily.

“When you... finish them and... afterwards...” Castiel started uncertainly, his gravely voice wavering and tapering off. “We can still... Do you still want to... you know... can we fix this?”

“I don't know, man.” Dean sounded as miserable as he felt. He didn't want to say goodbye to the only good thing he had left. If anything, he wanted to curl up on Castiel's couch and pretend it was all just a bad movie and watch a lighter one to change the mood. He just didn't know what to do about... everything. It was all a little overwhelming.

“Oh. It is your decision.”

“I mean, after all this, maybe.” Dean added quickly. This can't end. I can't just say goodbye.

“After all this.” Cas agreed. Dean could almost hear his smile through the phone. Did he smile at Sam like that, too? Dean inwardly groaned. He had stolen girlfriends from Sammy before, but this was different. He had no idea how this was going to work.

“We'll figure it out. We always do.” Dean exhaled through his nose and closed his eyes, trying to picture a future in which none of the tapes' contents mattered. It didn't happen easily. His eyes gravitated towards the cardboard box yet again. What have you done to me, Sammy ?

“Goodbye, Dean. Call whenever you need me. Please.”

“Bye, Cas.”

“Dea-”

Dean hung up. He threw the phone into the glove compartment, next to the gun. His throat tightened a little when he saw it. He wondered if this was what Sam had been feeling before he pulled that trigger. Hopeless. Everything good having been ripped away. It seemed likely. Dean touched the cold metal and pulled his hand back quickly. Don't even think about it, Winchester. Drive.

Dean put Baby into gear and peeled onto the main road. The sun had set and he was the only one on the road. He tried to fight the overwhelming deja-vu. The road to Lawrence, Kansas was a familiar one. It would all end where it began. Dean clenched his jaw, took a swig for courage, and flipped the tape.

Dean pressed 'play' for the last time.

Chapter Text

Tape 5, Side B: Dean

Hey Dean. I guess you made it all the way, huh? You must be pretty pissed off. I mean, I kept a lot from you. I hadn’t realized how much until I started recording these tapes. There was so much crap that I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how to start. I owed you an explanation, a reason why I was so distant. I regret keeping everything from you.

Dean took the exit off the highway, following the signs towards Lawrence, the final destination on Sam’s map. Dean was pissed off. He gripped the steering wheel tightly and tried to stretch out the kinks in his neck. Yeah, he was pissed at Sam for leaving him. Sue him. Any brother would feel the same way. Especially if they knew they could have done something about it. He didn’t want you to change his mind. Fuck. No. Dean would have marched in there and said everything that came into his head and changed Sammy’s mind if it killed him. If he’d known. God damn right he was owed an explanation.

I remember how much easier it was to deal with things together, when we had someone else to talk to and get advice from. I should’ve gotten in touch with you a long time ago. Actually, I never should’ve gotten out of touch with you. Things would have probably ended up a lot differently if I’d been honest from the beginning, about Stanford and Nick and Jess… Sam sighed. I don’t know why I said that. I shouldn’t have said that. Uhh... I guess what I’m trying to say is that I created these problems myself.

I’m the one who shut you out, not the other way around, so you can’t blame yourself. Instead of asking for help to get out of my hole, I just kept digging myself in deeper. There’s nothing you could’ve done that would have changed things in the long scheme. I mean, even a few conversations more wouldn’t have… Well, I don’t know. I can’t know. But it doesn’t matter either way now.

Maybe telling you about Jess would have domino-effected its way into changing this moment, or maybe it would have just caused a detour to my final destination. Honestly, I don’t know what to tell you. Whatever would have happened if I’d done things another way is my problem, no one else’s. They were my mistakes. Mine and a few of the assholes in my story’s, of course. But do I have a point? Sam laughed. Sorry. I ramble. You know that. Uhh… I guess this is just my long-winded way of saying this isn’t your fault. The last thing I want is for you to beat yourself up over this.

Dean felt his anger towards his brother slowly dissipate. He wasn’t surprised. Sam just had the talent of making Dean the most endlessly forgiving person in the whole world. Hell, Sam could even start the goddamn Apocalypse and Dean would still love the kid to death. As much as Dean wanted to be angry about how little Sam’d told him, not to mention the fact that Sam had abandoned him and Dean didn’t know what to do with himself from here on out, he couldn’t. But it was still partially his fault as he was the one supposed to protect his little brother. Hearing Sam say it wasn’t… it made Dean sick. It was like the kid didn’t see it, everything Dean had done wrong, the myriad ways he’d fucked this whole thing.

If you’ve followed the map this far, kudos. I really wasn’t expecting you to. Knowing you, you probably took a detour to Bobby’s and threw the whole thing off track.

Dean laughed. It came out harsh and raw-sounding. Of course Sam knew he would do that.

Nothing wrong with that, of course. I mean, it’s a natural course from Sioux Falls through Nebraska to Kansas. I wouldn’t have planned it that way if I didn’t think it through. I got a little carried away with the rest stops, I’ll admit. But we had a lot of good times on these roads. The more I thought about it, the more I remembered and wanted you to remember.

Dean immediately felt guilty for having by-passed those rest stops. He should have known how much they’d mean to his brother.

I hope it’s night time right now or else my next stop won’t be nearly as interesting. Off the highway where we’d drive from Bobby’s place to Mom’s grave for the anniversary, there is a field. We both know this specific field well. Hopefully you didn’t screw the timing too bad and will still get there when this tape plays. If you did fuck it up, though, feel free to pause this and wait until you arrive. I won’t mind.

Dean paused the tape. He only had about a half hour to drive until he got there, but the timing wasn’t spot-on like it had been when Dean had been following all the map’s directions. He turned on the local rock station for a while, which he rarely did. He’d usually rely on his father’s cassette collection, but it would take more willpower than he had to both remove and re-insert Sam’s tape. So he decided to swallow his pride and settle for radio. Surprisingly, the song selection wasn’t half bad. Not that Dean would ever admit that out loud.

Sam had been right. Dean did know this field quite well. He couldn’t even count the number of times he and his brother had stopped here. It had become somewhat of a tradition every time they took the drive from Sioux Falls to Lawrence. To anyone else, it would just look like any other field. In fact there was nearly nothing that set it apart from the other thousand or so fields in Kansas, at least not to the naked eye. But Dean could spot the gnarled tree that had been struck by lightning in 2002. Yeah, he remembered that year. He and Sam thought they had the wrong field, though Dean’s knowledge of the US road system rarely let them down.

Welcome, Dean. If you listened to my directions, it’s dark, you’re at the field, and you’re listening to this at our usual spot.

There were shallow tread marks from the many times Sam and Dean had followed this exact path.

What’s missing from this picture, Dean?

You, obviously.

Apart from me.

Nothing Important.

If you walk ten steps forwards from where the tire tracks end and five steps to your left after that, you will find something. It’s shallowly buried, so you don’t need a shovel or anything. I promise you’re not digging up a body.

Okay… Dean turned the tape all the way up and opened the windows so he could still hear. He pulled a flashlight from the glove compartment. He took the first ten steps, then five to the left, as instructed. Dean noticed the nearly-naked bump in the dirt quickly and rushed to his knees to unearth it. It better not be another goddamn tape. He pulled another crumpled shoebox from the hole. He couldn’t help but hope that it would be empty except for a little note saying: ‘gotcha!’. He would be fuming mad, but at least there would still be a Sam to be fuming mad at. Dean’s heart dropped as he picked it up. Heavy. Surprisingly heavy.

I couldn’t let our ritual die with me, even if we’ve ignored it the past few years. I brought it all here. The beer, the pictures, the bottle opener we always forgot.

Sure enough, there were pictures of Mom holding baby Sam, and Dean’s favourite photo of his mother and himself. Dean laid them out on the Impala’s hood. He pulled out the bottle opener and two beers. He turned the extra beer over and over in his hand.

Why did I bring two? I don’t know. I started off with only one, but it felt strange. I figured you wouldn’t mind drinking another one. Sit on the hood like we used to. Forget Dad’s rules. Hopefully the stars are out. That’s an important part of this. I remember the first time we did this, when Dad first let you take the car out on your own. You made up a whole bunch of bullshit constellations. I actually believed they were real. Sam laughs. I told my teacher and then entire class laughed. You laughed even harder than they did when I repeated that story when I got home.

Dean remembered that. He’d only known two: the little dipper and Orion’s belt. Truth be told, he hardly even knew where to find those. His ever-curious brother kept pointing to the sky asking: “Which one is that, Dean?”, “What’s that one called?”. Dean hadn’t had a clue. Medusa’s Hair, the Al Pacino, De Niro. He named them anything he could think of that sounded remotely Roman-y. Sam had been so expectant, so eager. Dean couldn’t admit he wasn’t the superhero Sam had still seen him as at the time. Would he still be so excited about his dumb brother who didn’t even know the difference between Ursa Major and Minor? No. Sam would’ve been disappointed. He hadn’t deserved more disappointment.

I know why you lied. You did it for me. You didn’t want to let me down. I understand. That’s what you always wanted to do, protect me. Physically, emotionally, in every way really. You didn’t fail. Seriously, you didn’t. But I did.

What? Dean froze mid-sip of a beer.

It wasn’t fair to you. You shouldn’t have had to take care of me for so long. No matter how badly I wanted to be independent, I just kept fucking everything up. Without me, you would flourish. You’d have a family of your own, you and Dad would get along splendidly if I’d never existed, and you’d never would have had too much responsibility. I’m an anchor, Dean. I know you must have thought that more than once. ‘If Sam would just shut up, this wouldn’t happen’, ‘If Sam weren’t here, I would…’. But don’t you dare feel bad about that. It’s on me. I guess I just couldn’t go 5 seconds without ruining everything good in my life, including my relationship with you.

After everything you’ve done for me, you’d think I would repay the favour once in awhile, but I never did. I never gave anything back to you, I just took and took and held you back.  I know I’m the reason you dropped out. It’s not that you weren’t smart enough, it’s that you were practically my parent and I let you . I cared more about myself than my brother. And then I fucking went to Stanford and… Sam takes a shaky breath. Fucking hell. Uhh. He takes another one. I left you without so much as a thank you. I just left with no intention of looking back. I’m so goddamn sorry, Dean. I really am.

Dean wanted to puke. No, Sam, no. You’re so fucking wrong… Dean felt like screaming at the fucking tape, screaming himself raw until it heard him and returned his brother. He couldn’t take any more, he just couldn’t.

We had good times, Dean, so many good times. That’s what I’ll miss the most. Don’t think I didn’t think of you, how you’ll feel when you hear this. I know it’ll be hard, but I hope you’ll understand soon. A few years from now when you’re happy, you’ll understand. Just… Sam swallows hard. His voice cracks. I’m sorry, Dean. Uh… Fuck. I don’t know how to do this part. You know, turn it off for good. I, uh, I’d planned on saying more, but that would just make it worse, wouldn’t it? Yeah… It probably would. So… drink that beer for me, huh? And I’ll see you again someday. Somehow. I know it.

Dean’s heart lurched. That couldn’t be it, it couldn’t be over. He knew what he’d thought a moment before, that he couldn’t take it, but this was worse. This being the end was so much worse.

Goodbye, Dean.

Static.

“Sam?” Dean called raspily towards the radio, beer all but forgotten on the hood.

More static.

“Goddamnit, Sammy! Don’t do this! Don’t fucking do this!” Tears welled up in Dean’s eyes and he gritted his teeth. He climbed back into the driver’s seat and pounded on Baby’s dashboard, all car etiquette forgotten.

“Fuck! Come back! Don’t. Fucking. Leave!”

Static.

“Fucking Christ.” Dean breathed. He leaned against the seat, placing his hands over his head and breathing hard. His face was wet but he didn’t give a shit. A never-ending chorus of curses and what now? ’s bounced around in his head.

Dean stayed like that for a good half hour. He couldn’t bring himself to pop the tape out. The static continued for a while, then the car shut off. Still Dean stayed still, staring straight ahead at the field. Their field. Childhood memories and immature teenage activities flashed across his mind. Eventually his eyes focused on the beer. He could see the slightest crisp of frost forming on the outside of the bottle. Now that the car was off everything was quiet. Quiet like a graveyard. Dean breathed slowly. Somehow that was wrong. It shouldn’t be quiet. There should be people crying and explosions or fire or whatever else happens in Hell. This was Dean’s own personal Hell. Sam was gone. His tapes were done. There was nothing left.

The bottle held Dean’s attention for a while longer, then he was marching out of the car and hurling the full bottle - Sam’s bottle - at the nearest tree. It fell short of its target and didn’t bring nearly enough satisfaction. Dean emptied the contents of the box he’d dug out of the ground in the passenger seat and proceeded to stomp repetitively on the already-bent cardboard until it was unrecognizable. Still, that wasn’t enough. He needed to hit something, Hard. He needed to feel it. Dean paused for a moment, puffs of breath showing up as little white clouds in the cool night air. Then he made up his mind.

Dean brought the rest of his beer with him in the car and fished under the seats for what was hopefully a forgotten, half-full bottle of whiskey. The one he found was less than a quarter full, but he put it in the passenger seat anyway, next to crumpled shoebox holding his little brother’s final memories. Dean backed out of the dirt road and back onto the asphalt. He stopped for a little, polishing off the beer and the whiskey and letting the heat flow to his fingertips. Then he pushed the gas pedal down as far as it could go, keeping the gear in 3rd and watching the RPM and the speedometer creep dangerously high. It was my fucking fault, Sam. And if you go, I’m coming with you.

The tree was in Dean’s full view. Just about a quarter mile of road, then some 6 feet of grass and it would be over. Dean would finally see his brother again. He stroked Baby’s wheel, an apology for what was to come. Just a few more meters…

The hairs on Dean’s neck prickled, like someone was watching him. He shivered involuntarily. God, it was really getting cold at this time of night. The tree grew in his windshield. He was close, now, ever so close. Don’t do it, Dean. Stop. Stop the car!

Baby screeched to a halt, spinning half-off the road and leaving skid marks on the pavement. Dean’s breath caught. Both his hands were still glued to the steering wheel, as they had been since he pulled away from the field. His foot had never left the gas. But the parking brake… Dean shivered again. The parking brake was engaged.

“Sam?” Dean whispered into the darkness of the Impala. “Sammy, can you hear me?”

Nothing.

“Goddamn it! What the fuck? If that’s you, Sam, prove it! C’mon, show me something!” Dean strained to see anything in the pitch black, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Still nothing moved except the small, crystallized puffs of air coming from his own mouth. His heart sank.

Dean waited. And waited. Nothing. He shifted the Impala back into gear with shaking hands and steered back towards the highway. He blasted the heat as high as it could go, yet the chill never went away.

Several Months Later - May 2nd

“Hey, Sammy.” Dean adjusted the microphone on the table next to a small, lopsided, homemade cake. “Happy birthday, buddy.” He stuck a single candle in the middle.

“So… Pam and Cas thought it might be helpful for me to make some tapes of my own. I could put them in the box with yours, brighten that shit up, you know. Anyway, I put some other stuff in there, too. Uhh, let’s see...” Dean dug through the cardboard box on the chair next to him, in front of the cake. “A toy soldier, a few LEGOs, uhh… broken off wing from a toy airplane. Bunch of useless crap, really, but… I dunno, I thought you’d like that sentimental, chick-flick shit.”

“Adjusting has been… Well, I haven’t really adjusted, not completely… Well, It’s complicated.” Dean ran a hand through his hair. He sighed and placed the top of the cardboard box back on. There were messy block letters scrawled across it spelling ‘SAM’. “Um, well, I’ve been seeing specialists ever since I think you saved my life a few months back, the night I finished the tapes. They think I’m crazy and that I really pulled that parking brake myself.” Dean shook his head and frowned. “I know it wasn’t me, though. Both my hands were cemented on that goddamn wheel, I know it. And I think I heard you, Sammy, right before it was engaged… I just got this feeling, you know?”

“This isn’t really what I’m supposed to be talking with you about, I’m pretty sure. I think Pam more meant it as a way to deal with my ‘feelings’ or something. Cas just thought I needed to talk to someone. He says I don’t communicate . What the fuck? I talk to him plenty, more than to anyone else, at least. Besides, if anyone’s bad at the whole communication and feelings thing, it’s Cas. Oh, that reminds me. Yeah. Cas and I made up about a month after I finished the tapes. I still get mad at him sometimes... but - I don't know. He's the only one who understands this whole thing. I don't think I'd have the greatest luck finding a new partner with this much baggage, you know? Anyway, I think what I’m really supposed to talk about are the trials. I went after Dad. Bobby came forward. He knew more than he let on.” Dean had been angry at first, but he’d quickly redirected it towards the real target.

“That, and your tapes, and my testimony… I think we have a chance, Sammy. We can make that asshole pay.” Dean laughed. He briefly thought about how much had changed in a year. It seemed like a lifetime ago when he’d last idolized John Winchester, wanted to prove himself to him. Before… everything.

“You know, I really didn’t think it was possible.” Dean picked at the icing on the cake. “Gadreel called. He’s still alive. So’s his daughter. They got out of that shithole and he’s seeing Pam now. I tried to get him to see Cas but that was… well, it was a fucking disaster.” Dean laughed at the memory of a very angry Castiel. Really it had been a terrible day, so he didn’t know why he was laughing about it now. “I’m also trying to track down your old Stanford buddy, Lucifer. Hopefully serve him up some of that karma pie going around. Apart from that, though, I don’t have much to say.”

“If you’re here, though, Sam.” Dean lowered his voice and glanced around. “If you have anything to do with my apartment always being fucking freezing or how I feel like I’m being watched, A, find a way to watch over me from the afterlife that isn’t something from a goddamn horror movie and B, just give me a sign or somethin, man.” Dean’s voice wavered slightly. “Just… show me that you can hear me. That I’m not just some crazy dude, okay? Deal?”

Dean looked up at the ceiling, then towards the door, then back at the cake. We waited a little longer. Nothing. He swallowed his disappointment like someone would choke down a mouthful of cotton balls.

“Dean? Are you coming?” Cas called quietly from the doorway. He was dressed well, his hair half-combed, an obvious attempt at smoothing it down. Dean nodded and swallowed again, hard.

“Yeah let’s do this.” He tried not to let the heartache show in his voice.

“We have a very gifted lawyer. She will give your father the prison sentence he deserves, I am sure of it, Dean.” Cas said. He gave a half-assured smile. Dean pushed himself away from the table with one last glance around the room, then flung an arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders.

“I don’t care if our lawyer is Saul Goodman, if there’s jail time, that’s good enough for me.”

“I don’t understand that reference.”

“God, we’ve still got some work to do.” Dean laughed. He shut the door behind them on the way out.

The apartment was left empty and still, no sound but the ticking clock. A light frost was building on the outside windows. The lopsided cake was left uncut and the candle unlit, the words ‘Happy Birthday Sammy’ barely legible in clumpy green edible gel.

A flame suddenly danced on the cake, letting little bubbles of wax drip down the candle’s shaft. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the flame was gone, leaving a swirling wisp of smoke.

Happy Birthday Sam Winchester.