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Sam wants Dean to know.
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Mirrors have been Sam’s enemy for years, he thinks.
Showing him a lanky body and skinny face, too small to be the perfect soldier for Dad (for Dean, too, maybe) but too big for childhood leniency. Pointing out the rings under his eyes from the trip to Palo Alto, and, later, his wrinkle lines from continuous, but probably unnecessary, all nighters. Exposing his failure when he catches a glimpse at the tattoo that has its twin on a decomposing body, the forehead that protects the brain that failed to come up with a way to save the only person in his life (no matter how much Sam had tried to crack that protection since). Confronting him with his bloodstained mouth (and a flash of black eyes if he stared at himself too long). Forcing him to look at eyes that just a few months ago had been done (and had watched as he sacrificed his brother for morbid curiosity and the hunt).
Sometimes, though, Sam would make himself look when he needed to be reminded of how many lives it takes to let his continue.
He made himself look the most during the Trials. His sickly skin, stretched too thin and somehow still hanging off of his too-thin body, was repulsive even to his own eyes. His eyes themselves were perhaps even worse the bags encasing his eyes looked as though he’d been hit. He would wonder how Dean and Cas and all of their allies could stand to look at him, much less be around him (much less protect him, fight alongside him). It was all supposed to be worth it, though, because he was going to close the gates. His feelings of failure at that (countless lives sacrificed for his meager one yet again) were either buried under anger at the knowledge of his possession or bottled up in typical Winchester fashion.
Dean, though, Sam knew, liked mirrors — loved them, Sam used to tease him before (when things were good). Dean, as much as he commented on Sam’s princess hair, spent more time primping and priming his hair in the morning than anyone Sam’s ever met. Has since they were kids. Dean liked to look at himself, even when he wasn’t getting ready. And who wouldn’t? Dean was gorgeous, even when he didn’t try. Perhaps his beauty was a reward for being the Righteous Man, for being so wholly, purely good. A pension for the continuous sacrifices he has to make to simply keep Sam alive (even when it was easier, better, for Dean to let him go) only for Sam to stab him in the back, betray him, hurt him over, and over, and over again.
Mirrors are used to reflect light, to brighten up the living room or kitchen in a home (one his 6 month birthday took from Dean). Mirrors reflect Dean, who lights up a room with his smile, his fire, his mere presence. Dean still felt less-than, despite his light — Sam could see it in the downturn of his brother’s lips, the weight on his eyebrows, the hand he runs through his short hair.
And so, because the least Dean deserved was to see himself as Sam did, Sam would be a mirror for Dean, so he could see every version of himself tonight. Every night, until Dean burns Sam into a pile of ash on a pyre (and Sam knows, hopes, he doesn’t have to live though Dean’s death again).
When they go to bars to hustle for much needed cash, Sam will get him out on the floor, and Dean will be shimmering beautiful (and though no one would say it to his face, every patron in the bar knew he was beautiful). And, when Sam breaks (because it’s inevitable, Sam always ends up breaking at one point or another), it’ll be a million pieces. He knows that Dean will have to pick up the pieces of him, yet again, and through his guilt (that Sam won’t ever deserve), Sam hopes Dean accepts his death with a hush (lets him rest for good).
Even when no one is around, Sam will be standing tall, with his broadest shoulders, shining just for him. For Dean.
Even when they both know the end is near (and it is, Sam can feel it, craves it like his worst addiction). Even at the end, Sam will still be standing tall, with his broadest shoulders, even when he wants nothing more than to crumble in on himself, to slink off to die alone like a cat does. For Dean. Always, only, for Dean.
So, Sam wants Dean to know, he’ll be a mirror (a mirror ball — strung up in the middle of the room for people to gawk at, to highlight their perfections with his shattered pieces). Sam will change everything about himself just to fit in, so that Dean never has to be embarrassed to be his brother again. So Dean can go out into public again without being ashamed of him (so Sam isn’t ashamed of himself is a lesser reason, because he doesn’t think that can ever be changed). And Sam will be normal, not just to blend in, but to make Dean stand out, to make him shine. Dean isn’t like the regulars of the run down bars they attend — he’s not average or boring or complacent and doesn’t wear a cheap mask like the typical bar patrons or hardened hunters they encounter (Dean’s mask is made of steel, perfectly welded and expertly carded to his face) — so he might not even need Sam for that. But if Sam can even help reflect even a shred, a modicum of Dean’s light then his life will have meant something. Sam likes to think his mask is a fraction as good as Dean’s, at least, but he knows the hunters, the monsters, even the drunk civilians around them could watch his ever shattered edges glisten.
And Sam will never say anything to Dean, other than to quell his older brother’s anxieties about his well-being. Because Dean will unavoidably notice Sam using his height to reach across to grab the ketchup from the next table over in a shitty diner, because theirs is empty and simply so Dean can save his energy for something more important, more worthy. When he finds Sam using his broad shoulders to intimidate whatever local monster of the week they encounter or over intoxicated bar-goes Dean accidentally offends. Shining, attracting the attention away from Dean, just then, just for a moment, for Dean. Because, at the end of the day, everything he does, everything he is, is for Dean.
And they may have stopped the Apocalypse, burned SucroCorp to the ground, sent home the horsemen, and the clowns that call themselves angles and demons, but Sam’s still on his tightrope, drawn tight with the need to somehow atone for his sins, make up for his mistakes to Dean, do penance for the sins he committed against humanity, even if he knows nothing he does can ever fix his soul or make it all better. Sam is still trying to get Dean to trust him enough to laugh freely with him again, even if he has to laugh at him to do so. He takes the jokes about his hair, or his height, or his inherit nerdiness, or his girly chick flick moments, encourages them even, for the chance that Dean will chuckle in Sam’s presence.
Sam’s still a believer, though Dean (and sometimes Sam himself) doesn’t understand why, how, he would continue to believe in a God and a host that has repeatedly turned their backs on them, or manipulated them for their own purposes. Sam hates Chuck and the angels for the things they did to Dean, but still revered them for giving Sam the punishment, the pain, the lessons he clearly needed to remain on a somewhat-safe path in life. Sam knows he deserves what they’ve done to him, given to him. Sam’s never been naturally good, like Dean has always been — all he does is try, try, try. And he’ll never complain, Sam tells himself, because this is what he deserves.
He’s still on the trapeze of atonement that seems to stretch into the horizon. Sam thinks his effort sometimes makes Dean shorten his sentences to grunts, avoid his eyes more often, leave the room he’s just entered more frequently.
Sam can’t blame him — he wouldn’t want to waste time and precious mental power on responding to a lame attempt at small talk, look in his own (dead, guilty) eyes, or be in the same room as a pitiful, half-human. Even still, Sam can feel Dean watching him, feels the holes he burns in his back, how he imagines a prison warden watches their most dangerous, yet piteous, inmate.
So, Sam’s still trying everything, to keep Dean looking at him. Even if Dean has to look at him in disgust (never hate, because Dean is too good to hate even someone as vile as Sam), because if Dean looks at Sam, Sam will show his brother all the good he possesses, all the people he’s saved, all the monsters he’s killed.
And Sam might not make it much longer, might not even make it to tomorrow night, with the weight of his Taurus tucked into the top of his jeans or the call of the painkillers that he knows sit in the locked drawer of his desk.
So, for Dean, for tonight, Sam’s a mirrorball. Because Sam will show Dean every version of himself tonight.
Tonight.