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If you're raised with an angry man in your house, there will always be an angry man in your house. You will find him even when he is not there. And if one day you find that there is no angry man in your house— well, you will go find one and invite him in!
- "Cut" by Catherine Lacey
Sam is eighteen, alone, his lip split, the collar of his shirt dotted with blood. A parting gift.
His leg bounces impatiently, waiting for the bus to arrive, ignoring the pitying glances of the old lady to his left and the slightly more suspicious looks from the bus depot attendant. The man seems like he's got half a mind to call the cops on what he clearly believes to be a runaway with more grit than sense, but the idea is laughable, that Sam could be slapped into handcuffs when he only just escaped his shackles.
He clings to that righteous feeling in his chest, holds to it tight like his luggage, the duffel hanging from his arm and the backpack slung over his shoulders—all of his possessions, his life in its entirety, dwindled down to to two overnight bags. And isn't that sad? Isn't that the point he can't make his dad, or even Dean, understand?
Maybe it's selfish to want more, to be different. Maybe his banishment, and his lonely wait at the depot, is his price to pay. A penance, plain and simple. There will probably be many lonely nights ahead, and he figures he deserves it, judging by the tight cut of his dad's jaw as he wrestled from his grip. The furious, wet-eyed devastation Dean wore as the door slammed shut.
Guilt prods at the wetness behind his eyelids, because the worst of it is, the reason Sam should be guilty, is that he would gladly take that punch, and a thousand more like it, if it meant he ends up here, waiting for his future to arrive.
Wanting is sin for a Winchester, or so you would think, the way Dean chides him for it. But Sam wants to be safe. He wants to be himself. There must be a way, a way that doesn't require violence or blood (of course there is, Dad's way can't be the only way) or at least that's what Sam believes, and he's taken his leap of faith.
There must be a future worth running toward, not just a family worth running from.
His bus screeches into the station and his smile pries the cut on his lip open further.
The blood that dribbles out tastes like freedom.
*
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*
Sam is thirty-one, alone, his wrist swelled up under his sleeve, his nerves rubbed raw and ragged, a mosaic of bruising settling under his skin. His life has dwindled down to a single duffel, packed hastily in the dead of night. There was no screaming, no slammed doors, not this time—Sam had crept out of bed without a sound, exorcising himself from the house like a ghost.
The Impala rumbles to a stop in front of Rufus's cabin. From the front seat of the car, it hardly looks real, more like a photograph, a remnant. For a while, he had believed that he'd really left it all behind, that hunting would soon be a memory he could simply lock away in a box, treasured and despised in equal measure. Now he's here, again, and it feels like a dream, or that he's finally waking up from one.
He presses the scar on his palm, just in case. No, he breathes out. Definitely real.
And yet Sam stays in the car, stalling. He can’t understand why; the difficult part is over. He left, and, practically speaking, he's better off than that teenager, who had only his determination to survive on. Should be grateful that he even has a place to go, a car to get there. Life just seems significantly emptier now than it did at eighteen, when the future was full of possibility.
When at least his family was alive... Even if they weren't together.
Sam cut the cord there, he supposes, when he grappled against his father's grip, the hands that were always holding onto his children so tightly, so desperate; there was no room left to simply be. Until, his patience tested, his law challenged one time too many, those hands let go, with a force that rocked Sam back on his heels, landing against the wall, hard. For days after, the reminder of where it dug into his spine was tender, aching through two layers of shirts, and Sam bore it without complaint.
You were the one who said don't come back. Well, here I am.
Ignoring the throb in his wrist, Sam pulls out his phone. His thumb hovers over the block button. Soon, very soon, he'll start to receive messages. Inquiring, then frantic. Pleading, if he lets it go too long. And, he's ashamed to admit, it wouldn't take much to to convince Sam to cut his losses, to be lured back to that dreamworld. The good of the past year still outweighed the bad.
Pining over a maybe, an ex who had fully earned the title—the Sam of a decade ago would be aghast, near disgusted by his own behavior. Wouldn't be willing to compromise his safe for normal, and, recalling the fervent hope he'd clung to then, Sam decides. Surely there must be a way. A life of no violence, domestic or otherwise.
His thumb presses down, blocking. It takes more bravery that he'd like to admit. It's what his family would want, he reasons, were they here to talk the sense into him.
The car idles there, quiet except for the hum of the engine, his own somber breath. When his hands have ceased shaking, and the pitiable mood too suffocating to bear any longer, Sam goes inside.
Where his brother tosses him to the floor.
*
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*
Sam is thirty, alone, leg bouncing impatiently while he waits. His shirt’s soaked in blood, this time not his own, and he’s so anxious he's sick with it, the nausea clawing up his throat.
All over a dog he couldn't swerve quick enough to avoid.
Patently ridiculous, when you stop to consider—after every horrible, unforgivable thing he's ever done, that this banal crime in comparison has Sam so upset, his stomach in knots, his chest tight with guilt.
It was just an accident, he swears, as if that will heal the dog, or absolve Sam of blame. Excuses and apologies have never absolved him before.
He spends the surgery shamefully avoiding eye contact with the receptionist and praying to any god who might listen. Dean would laugh, if only he was here to laugh at Sam and his silly devotion.
Finally, the doctor appears. Sam pushes himself to his feet; the man is tall, dark-haired, his eyes a rich brown that glitter as they observe Sam and his shaky hands. He has the abrupt urge to feel self-conscious over the blood he's yet to wipe off and almost misses the prognosis. "-serious internal bleeding, at least two leg fractures, but he's going to pull through."
Sam nearly wilts in relief, he's so—not happy, but he is, he's so happy to not be the cause of more death. "Thanks, doctor," he sighs, his body moving on autopilot, toward the door. Probably to drown his remorse in whiskey, relish the ensuring hangover as penance for injuring the poor animal in the first place.
"You're gonna take the dog?"
Slack-jawed, Sam stops. "Huh?" The man just arches a brow, expectant, and he fumbles for a response. "Look, I-I would. He's not mine-"
"He isn't anybody's."
"I-" Arguing is difficult, he finds, under the intensity of that gaze. "I'm not from around here. I'm only staying-"
"Somewhere nearby?"
"For now," Sam mutters, and then, when the man's gaze doesn't waver: "The, uh, motel on Fifth Street."
He nods. "That should be fine. As long as he gets plenty of rest and care, the where isn’t too important. Just the who."
Maybe the who is the problem, Sam muses grimly. After all, he was responsible for the accident. "Fine," he agrees, more bewildered than belligerent. And tired. God knows he hasn't slept peacefully lately.
Mistaking his exhaustion for trepidation, the vet says, "I'll stop by to check up when I can."
"Oh, no, you don’t-"
"It's no trouble." He sweeps over the protest, suddenly in Sam's space, close enough to murmur, "I twisted your arm a bit, didn’t I? Only fair I take responsibility, too."
And he winks. Butterflies replace the sick feeling in his stomach.
"Thanks, um-" Sam ducks his head, reading the tag off his coat. "Dr. Richardson."
"Emmett," he introduces, offering a hand.
His palm is warm against Sam's own.
*
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*
"So what was it?"
Of course Dean asks.
"What could possibly make you stop just like that?"
Sam anticipated this. Because there must be a reason Sam quit, why he'd forsake the family business, even when the rest of the family was dead and gone. Wanting to be safe or normal doesn't cut it anymore, not after Hell, and the Cage, and Leviathans.
"A girl?" Dean prods, digging fingers into wounds Sam’s still visibly nursing. Knowing he's hit a pressure point, Dean latches on, unceasing: "Was there a girl?"
And of course for Dean, the only reason he ever decided to quit was—well, a girl. Or, the ideal of a girl, the slice of apple-pie life she could provide. So of course there must be a girl. Sam is straight, and weak-willed, and he would never quit of his own volition, never choose that for himself. As if Sam had ever wanted anything else.
For a moment, Sam imagines the truth. The sweet, fleeting satisfaction of bursting that bubble. Imagines if he told his brother: No. There was a boy. And he was my savior, my lifeline. Until he wasn't.
Pictures how Dean's brow would furrow, disbelieving. How his eyes would narrow, suspicion pursing his lips before they would curl into a smirk, rueful and light, and then the inevitable snide remarks. Very funny, Samantha. No, for real, who was she?
The alternative isn't an option he wants to explore, really. What if Dean does take it seriously—what if the humor dissipates once he realizes what Sam's implying, what he refuses to outright confess. He shudders, praying that his brother won't notice his hesitation, this fear he's never been able to shake.
All of this starts to feel so uncomfortably familiar; his brother, raw after a year in Purgatory, his resentment stinging sharper, his words always accusatory. His unsubtle disapproval for how Sam coped with his absence, the bitterness over the "girl" who replaced him, the serpent who soothed Sam through his grief.
Neither of them ever bring up the demon blood—they never discuss that chapter of his life, unless Dean has a bone to pick, a grudge to hold over his head—but the memories of those months after Dean returned from Hell weigh heavy over Sam, sometimes heavier than the Cage.
Sometimes he doubts he's ever earned back his brother's trust, not fully. He's forgiven it all, but he can't ever forget the way Dean looked at him, during and after. The kind of scathing, disgust that burned sharper than any knife.
The truth sits at the tip of his tongue, defiant and dreading. He imagines how Dean might react. You freak, he might say, mouth twisting, eyes boring into Sam like he barely recognized him. Sucking demon blood, trusting Ruby, now you're gay to boot?
Ever since he broke that final seal, Sam's braced himself for the last straw, the point at which Dean breaks and can no longer stand to be in the same room as his brother, let alone the same hemisphere. He'll leave, and Sam will deserve it, but if he's braced for it, if he's prepared for the inevitable, he's convinced it won't shatter his heart quite so violently as that rejection has in the past.
It'd be difficult, nigh on impressive, if he could manage to disappoint his brother any more than he already has. If there's one thing that he's learned, though, it is that his rock bottom reaches depths unfathomable to most.
"They had nothing to do with it," Sam evades.
"So there was a girl," says Dean, a sly insinuation. And a condemnation.
Even as Dean assumes, even as there’s now another vital part of himself he’s forced to hide from his family, Sam breathes a sigh of relief. They don’t need another point of conflict right now. Dean has got plenty of ammo in his arsenal and no hesitation to use it against him.
"Yeah. There was," he lies. "And then there wasn't."
*
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*
Despite the severity of the injuries, Dog heals nicely. True to his word, Emmett checks up frequently, ensuring that Sam isn't making a colossal screw up out of the recovery. They step into a routine, of sorts.
He stops by, checks on Dog, praises his progress. Then he cajoles Sam out to lunch, or to the park, insisting that it's his duty to show Sam the finer points of the community that exists outside his motel room. He discovers the joy of walking through the farmer's market in the morning, eating apples fresh and crisp. The fun of taking Dog for a walk with somebody in tow, sharing a laugh as he limps gamely after any squirrel or bird to cross his path.
Emmett is kind, he learns, and well-liked by the residents of Kermit. Nobody has a bad word to say. Many patients will stop to chat if they stumble across them in the park. Hell, if the barista's glances are anything to go by, he might be the town's most eligible bachelor. Doesn't seem to have many friends outside of his job, though, if the time he spends with Sam is any indication. Could just be career-oriented, too dedicated to his work.
His cares shows in every stitch, his hands an instrument of healing, not hurting. Sam admires that about him, just as he admires the length of his fingers, the strength of his palm whenever it claps his shoulder. He catches himself staring at those hands on more than one occasion, like this one night, while they're tucked in the corner of the local pub. Sam's staring, he realizes, only after he catches Emmett's eyes on him, gleaming where they reflect off his half-empty glass.
Sam flushes a spectacular shade of pink and stammers out a lame compliment about his proficiency with a stitching needle. Emmett breezes past the "I've seen a lot of stitches in my time" comment, settles on bemused, perhaps charmed. Helps that they're a couple of beers in already.
"Well, I try to be gentle and thorough, you know, for the patient's sake. Especially the strays," he says wryly. "Grew up in foster care. Kind of a stray myself."
"I'm sorry." He stiffens when Emmett scoffs, an ugly noise of affront, wondering what he's done to set this off.
"See, that—that's the pity I normally try to avoid," Emmett chuckles, gesturing to Sam's contrite expression. "Listen, you don't have to feel too bad for me. All things considered, I was lucky. I was adopted, I got to go school, pursue my passions. But I guess … you never forget that feeling. Of not having a home. Not having anything of your own."
A familiar twinge aches behind his ribs. Everyone has baggage, he supposes, if not the supernatural variety he's accustomed to. "For the record," Sam interjects. "I don't pity you. I get it, actually."
He steels his nerve, refusing to avert his eyes as Emmett searches his face for any sign of dishonesty. Or worse, sympathy
"Never had much of a home. I got close, but..."
But, Jess. His mom. And his dad. Then his brother, and Cas, and Bobby. Now Dean, again.
Long fingers wrap reach across the table to squeeze his own. His heart thunders in his chest, thrilling and petrifying all at once.
"I’m sorry, Sam," And what carves Sam to his core is that he means it, too. "You want to talk about it?"
They talk a lot after that. About everything, and nothing. Emmett is a vegetarian. He isn't much of a baseball fan, but he'll watch a Rangers game anytime it's on, because his father is a fan and it's something they can talk about over the phone. He loves the library, though he can't go as much as he likes, so he lends Sam his card and asks him to pick out a book he thinks he'll like. He winds down with crappy reality shows, most of which Sam has never seen; they spend cozy nights like this curled up on the couch, Dog nestled in between their legs, snout propped in Sam's lap, begging for pets.
"Should give the good boy a name one of these days," Emmett drawls.
Sam snorts. "Are you this invested in all your patients?" he asks playfully.
"Only the cute ones."
Fondly, Sam smiles down at Dog, more attached than he ever thought he'd become. "He is, isn’t he."
"He, um-" Emmett coughs, the strangled noise drawing his attention. "He isn't the he I was talking about."
Caught off-kilter, Sam freezes. Realizes where he is, exactly—lounging on this guy's couch, near enough their shoulders are bumping, on a Thursday night.
"Oh, God," he groans, burying his face in his hands. Somewhere in Heaven, Dean's laughing, he's sure: Only Sam could be going steady and somehow be the last to know.
"I wondered if I was coming on too strong." Emmett keeps his tone light, casual. "Now I wonder if I was too subtle in my… Blatantly asking you out. On multiple occasions."
"I’m so stupid," Sam mutters.
"Hey," Emmett whispers, always so soft with him, and it should be annoying, he doesn't need to be handled with kid gloves, but it's a balm. Emmett coaxes Sam out of his hunch, his eyebrows knitted together in worry. "I haven't totally misread this, have I?"
"No," Sam assures, more fervently than he intended. "No, I'm-"
Not straight? Sam isn't sure how to quantify his attraction and had never had the chance to fully explore it without a life-altering horror displacing his identity crisis. He hadn't dated a guy since college, and he hadn't slept with one in years, unless you count his liaisons while soulless, which—a whole other identity crisis, there. "I'm out of practice, is all. With this."
"Men?"
"Dating," he clarifies, and what little was vexing Emmett appears to vanish, his grin teasing as he sways toward Sam. Fingers trace over his jaw, and he gasps, mouth agape, until they're tilting his chin up, close enough that they're breath mingles, lips scant centimeters apart.
"Well. Now that you do realize..."
Sam hesitates, heart in his throat. Then he leans forward for a clumsy first kiss.
*
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Sam began to attend church semi-regularly once he settled in Kermit. Emmett wasn't a fan, much preferring to have Sam warming his bed on Sunday mornings. He was adamant, though, so when he could manage to slip away, he would pick a seat in the back, silently engaged, and excuse himself at the end of the service.
Baby steps, he reminded himself, as with every Sunday he lost the nerve to congregate with the congregation. Though Sam had managed to keep his faith in spite of all the shit he'd endured, the jury was still out on whether that faith would be well-received. Unclean blood dwelt in his veins, lingering under his skin, the mark of damnation so vivid and visible that Sam wondered if they could smell it on him, like all those angels and demons had.
It occurred to Sam that being the veterinarian's kept man might not endear all his fellow churchgoers, either.
Dean would snort at Sam acting like the good Catholic boy, if he'd cared to ask, which he evidently did not.
Sitting in a church again, a row behind Kevin, the prophet who had never asked for that role, who should be attending honor classes, not hiding from demons in this dilapidated chapel, that guilt washes over him.
He apologizes, not to sate his conscience, but he is sorry. Sorry he ran. Sorry he left Kevin to Crowley's minions. Even if it wouldn't have made a difference, or changed anything for the better, Sam wishes he'd tried.
Kevin doesn't offer forgiveness, nor does he spurn the apology. Instead he asks, "You've been a hunter since you were a kid, right?"
The question takes Sam aback.
"Yeah, mostly. Yeah." He can't bear to elaborate. Won't give false hopes based on those years at Stanford; the months after he freed the Devil; the past year he spent in Texas. None of that matters, now. None of that will help Kevin.
He got out.
His own words echo. Along with Dean's callous reply.
And now he's in it. Whether he likes it or not.
Sam scowls, fingers clenched into the fabric of his jeans. Bitter over the life that Kevin lost, the one he was denied, and how blase Dean's acting. He never did understand.
So... Free will, that's only for you?
"Yeah, it sucks right now, I know that. Um, it might suck for a lot longer, but... Trust me on this. It gets better."
Kevin swivels around. "You know I'm not gay, right?" he asks glibly, not quite smiling.
Sam chuckles. Wants to say, I am. Sort of. And I made it work, for a while. I could do it again, maybe. My version of getting out never seems to be permanent. Yours could be.
What he says aloud is, "If we can go this, get the tablet, get you everything you need to close the gates of Hell, there's a world out there where nobody—not Crowley, no demons—is chasing you anymore."
Somber, Kevin mulls that over. "I guess I just don't see how I get from here to there," he admits, and Sam's heart breaks, both for this kid, and for the kid he used to be.
"I used to not be able to see, either. But there is way," he promises, as much for Kevin's sake as his own.
*
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The last time that Sam shared long-term intimacy with somebody was—well, it was Ruby. If he doesn't count any of the demons, it would be Jess, and he isn't sure if that's more depressing or less. If he counts the Cage—
Fact is, Sam isn't used to sharing space with somebody who isn't his brother. Toward the end, Dean was medicating with alcohol just to sleep, which was in no small part thanks to Sam's lapse in sanity; the least he could do was give his brother a reprieve at night. Learn to muffle his screams, clamp down on his lip until it bled, and keep the horrors inside his head where they belonged.
He finds his secrets harder to conceal when sharing his bed with somebody else.
The morning after Sam has a nightmare of the Cage, Emmett makes him breakfast. Pancakes and turkey sausage, his favorite. Presses a bottle of pills into his hands, a kiss into his forehead, and leaves for work. The label promises to induce a deep, undisturbed sleep; they make Sam groggy as hell, but they do the trick.
Except when he does dream, the dreams are vivid, inescapable. After a nightmare that's far too real—Lucifer's breath ghosting over his cheek, his neck, his thighs—that he has to claw his way out of, Sam stuffs the pills in the cupboard. He'll cope.
Logically, Sam's aware that he's safe with Emmett; his body is slower to trust. Like it remembers more of Hell than he does. He flinches at too-fast touches, shoves vehemently at hands that try to help.
And he's so patient with Sam. More patient than he deserves. Deserves a guy who can have sex without the looming threat of a panic attack.
To be fair, he hasn't—he hasn't been with anybody since the Cage. This was always going to be a trial, lots of room for error, but he hates that Emmett has to deal with it, too, and that he does it without complaint.
They haven't discussed it directly. Sam refuses. Has never spoken the words out loud. Isn't certain there are words to describe the experience. He suspects that Emmett suspects, and that's worse—the knowing that he knows. His scars are on full display, a blemish he can't hide.
Mostly when they have sex, it's fine. Good, even. And yet on some nights, when they're making out, fingers threading through his hair while another caresses his skin, enjoying every inch, Sam hears a chuckle, an icy shiver at his spine, and the ghost of manacles clamp down around his wrists. His pulse quickens, his lungs screaming for air, and he'll tear away from the kiss with a heaving gasp.
"I can’t," he sobs, panting, begging through the panic, the fear that despite his pleas it won't ever stop. "I can’t, I can’t, I can’t-"
Emmett shushes, and soothes, and when he returns to his body, breathing shallow yet steady, he's curled on top of Emmett's bare chest, a hand splayed protectively over the nape of his neck." I’m sorry," Sam croaks.
"Don’t apologize." He bites down on his lip, chastised. "It isn't your fault."
It is, it always is, but he can't explain that to Emmett in a way he'll understand. Selfishly, Sam hopes he never has to, so he'll always have this.
Sleeping Beauty will have to wake up soon, the devil's voice croons in his ear. This dream won't last forever.
*
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*
When Kevin disappears with his mom, they go to work, and it's business as usual. Comforting in its familiarity.
Sam missed his brother, dearly, more dearly than he's ever missed anyone. He missed Dean, even if, as it turns out, he hadn't needed Dean to guide his every step, to be there to thwart the Hell that lives in his memories. Somebody had fulfilled that role, and now, scarred from that ordeal, Sam's decided that nobody should be in charge of his life except himself.
It's a bitter pill to swallow for Dean, who returned from Purgatory expecting to have to take care of his brother, like always; the inept little freak who was content to to follow his lead since the Cage, since the Apocalypse. It's an adjustment. Sam recognizes this. He understands why Dean's upset.
The simmer of resentment isn't easy to swallow, either.
They're discussing the Brick Holmes case, tracking down leads in Phoenix, when Dean squints at the laptop screen.
"Got another email here, too. This one is for you... From a university. Answering questions about admissions."
Sam folds up like a child caught willfully misbehaving. Absurd how his brother can bring this out in him when he's this grown. "Just something I'm looking into. An option."
Dean stares, incredulous. "You're seriously talking about hanging it up?" he demands, with that hint of indignation that's come to underlay too many conversations.
"I'm not talking about anything, Dean," he says, defensive. "I'm just looking at options."
He sighs, loudly. His nerves are just frayed, the constant tension building between his temples like sinus pressure. No reason to take it out on his brother.
With one final comment, Dean lets Sam change the subject, and they re-focus on the case.
Business as usual.
*
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"College?"
Chin hooked over his shoulder, Emmett reads aloud from the website Sam's perusing. Sam can't turn to see his expression, cradled firmly against his chest, trapped in the embrace.
Sam shrugs. "I'm considering."
He works at the motel, which keeps Sam busy, plus it pays the bills without resorting to credit card fraud. But it's a temp job at best, evidence of his transitory lifestyle. And with Emmett, permanency is something he's ready to try.
"Just an idea." He fiddles with the keyboard, bashful now. People have gone back to college older than him, surely, Sam just tends to his carry his years heavier than most. Money could be an issue, but there's financial aid, there's part-time jobs like he did at Stanford. There's no reason Emmett should object, and yet. The silence stretches on.
"You don't think I should," Sam murmurs. The lack of support hurts more than he expected.
"I didn't say that," Emmett reacts sharply. Sam winces at the tone, despising that he does. At this proximity, Emmett must've noticed. He's tense, strung tight, only relaxing once Emmett does.
"I'm sorry, that came out wrong," he huffs, conciliatory. "I mean I don't think you should now. With you at school and me working, we'd hardly see each other. I just- Want you all to myself awhile longer, I suppose."
He sounds a bit sheepish, which charms Sam more than he cares to admit. He's smiling, pleased. "I'm practically here every night. How much more can you have me without gluing me to your side?"
"You could move in."
The suggestion is startling. He cranes his neck to catch Emmett's eye, but the arms squeeze him tighter, no room to wriggle free.
"If you really want to go back to school, you should save up. Motels aren't cheap if you're living there." He states it so rationally. Sam can't really argue. Doesn't want to argue, much to his own surprise.
"You're serious?"
"'Course I am. You and Riot are here most nights, why not make it official? I make enough for both of us."
Sam balks, a protest on the tip of his tongue. His paycheck isn’t comparable, but he can pull his weight. Emmett only smirks, adding slyly, "Besides, I know how you can earn your keep. I've always wanted a hot maid."
"You are, like, three years older than me," Sam scoffs, though it's feeble, already arching his neck, conceding to the hot mouth trailing over the sensitive line of his jaw. "Not old enough to be a sugar daddy."
"Don't ruin the mood with logic," Emmett gripes, all low and coy, and in one fluid movement Sam's twisted around, sliding into his lap, thighs spread and pinned on either side of him, slotting their mouths together in a sloppy kiss.
The topic of school is quickly forgotten.
*
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Sam should've seen it coming. A penny with a penchant for seeking out betrayal, no matter how petty or lingering. It would find Dean with a gun in his jacket and a lifetime's worth of ammo.
"You never even wanted this life. Always blamed me for pulling you back into it."
As if he had ever blamed his brother for not being at the apartment when Jess was killed, for the deal Dad made with the demon, or for gripping too tightly to Sam because he had nobody else. No, Sam knows what's to blame; his mere existence was cause for every tragedy that had ever befallen him and the people he loved.
"What do you want me to say? That I've made mistakes? I've made mistakes, Dean!"
"That's not Dean, Sam."
Garth meant it as a reassurance. To shield against the vitriol spilling from his not-brother's lips.
That's not Dean, except in every way it was. The cut of his smile, smug and cruel. Convinced of his own virtue. Certain of Sam's fault.
That was his brother. And it's why Sam couldn't put up a fight.
"Mistakes? Well, let's go through some of Sammy's greatest hits."
Only a brother could know precisely where to hit.
"Drinking demon blood, check."
To make it hurt.
"Being in cahoots with Ruby."
To twist the knife.
"Not telling me that you lost your soul. Running around with Samuel for a whole year, letting me think you were dead while doing all kinds of crazy."
To assign guilt for things that were done to him. Things Dean had once assured Sam weren't his fault.
"Those aren't mistakes, Sam. Those are choices!"
Choices, always choices. Save Dean, move on. Kill yourself, live a lie. None of them ever led to salvation.
"Yeah, I might have lied, but I never once betrayed you. I never left you to die."
Sam remembers how he'd curled up in Bobby's panic room, skin clammy and bone-white, blood burning with fever. Remembers how the vision of Alastair carved into his guts and how he howled at the agony of it, wailed and wept for help like he hadn't done since he was a child. And how the door remained close. Firm in its ultimatum.
"You left me to die for a girl?"
He lunged for the gun. A fist smashed against his nose. A kick to his sternum sent him crashing into the table, wood splintering under his weight. He staggered to his elbows, blood gushing like a fountain from his nose. Sweat and copper tinged the air.
The beating was better than the words. Better than hearing Dean list all the reasons Sam was a failure, a lesser brother than the vampire Dean had lied about, the vampire he'd hidden and protected and praised over his own blood.
(Sam had once wrestled with the Devil and won to save his brother. Only Garth's intervention had kept Dean from pulling the trigger.)
Staring at the evidence of his brother's wrath in the mirror, Sam feels a strange, numb sort of distance from his body, while he inspects the damage done. Red caked under his nose, dark where it dried, clinging to the stubble on his chin. Bruises on his cheek in the shape of knuckles. He wonders if the coin's influence felt like any other possession, if Dean's hands were cold like his, trembling, icy as he'd felt with Lucifer nestled in his bones.
Splashing water over his face, Sam scrubs at it until it's clean, every bit of blood erased. The bruises remain there, more concealed beneath his clothes.
They never wash away quite so easily.
*
*
*
*
The other shoe, as Dean used to be so fond of claiming, was bound to drop.
Sam clocked it near instantly, though he deluded himself into believing that nothing was wrong, that he was paranoid, or a pessimist.
It began after a visit from Emmett's father, which was—stressful, to say the least. His tepid reception of Sam was to be expected; he was no trophy "wife" and, based on his initial impression of Mr. Richardson, he wondered if any man his son dated would live up to his lofty (and, dare he say, traditional) expectations.
His disapproval stung, but if it was awkward for him, he couldn't fathom how it affected his boyfriend. Although if anything, Emmett seemed to be more insulted on Sam's behalf than Sam was.
No stranger to fraught relationships with fathers, Sam had done his best to support him through the visit. Emmett had withdrawn, however, and aside from some hot, frantic rounds of sex, Sam was barely allowed to comfort his own boyfriend. Confrontation was out of the question.
Had it started then? Or was it earlier? Sam was pressed to pinpoint the precise moment it caught his attention.
The problem is that there is no problem. Technically. Emmett is upset—that much is obvious. His mood permeates the house, sours otherwise sweet moments, and sets Sam's teeth on edge. The tension remains invisible to the party responsible; that, or his vision's so narrow he can't see what he's doing.
Roberta, the receptionist, mentioned to Sam that the the clinic was understaffed and overwhelmed, so the strain of that could be bleeding into his personal life. Phone calls with his family were terse, or what bits Sam managed to eavesdrop on seemed to be, anyway. Except those were merely theories, just things that Sam had pieced together from observation.
Because Emmett won't talk. Not to Sam, whose attempts to prod were met with either annoyance or open hostility.
Sam let it slide for weeks, every flare of his temper forgiven, every brusque comment forgotten. Half for the sake of keeping the peace, half out of fear for what he stands to lose should he push too far, too fast. It is Emmett’s house, after all. Despite claiming it was theirs, the deed is in his name, the bills paid by his job. Sam cleans, and cares for Riot, and they have sex—aside from his company, what’s to stop Emmett from kicking him to the curb on nothing more than a whim?
You'd think after everyone he's ever loved slipping through his fingers, he would finally be immune to loss, yet it's only made Sam more desperate to cling on.
It comes to an head very quickly during a lazy afternoon at home. Sam gets a call from Everett, who's freaking out over a maintenance issue at the motel that they can’t get a handyman for until Monday.
"You don't even work there anymore," Emmett complains. Which is true—he convinced Sam to quit a while ago. Ostensibly to focus on his school, yet he's hardly glanced at any site or application since, too busy worrying over his relationship.
Still, Sam frowns. "That isn’t the point. I want to help."
Emmett does a poor job disguising how miffed he is. He had off this weekend and the plan was to spend it together. Together physically, anyway; he wasn't the most mentally present these days, so he doesn't have a reason to be this upset. An opinion that Sam wisely keeps to himself.
"Why doesn't he call a professional?"
"Because it isn’t a job, it’s a favor for a friend. And with his father's treatment, they're cutting corners wherever they can." Sam glares. "I know you know what that's like. Neither of us grew up in the lap of luxury."
His reproach stifles any further comments. "Doesn't mean he has to call you, though," Emmett grumbles.
"I don’t know, maybe he needs a friend,” sighs Sam, putting on his shoes.
"Or maybe he's got a thing for you."
Sam laughs, because, well, that's ridiculous.
Emmett isn't smiling.
The mirth slips from his face, replaced by bewilderment. "He- He's a kid, Emmett. And he's juggling a lot, so he asked for my help. Am I supposed to ignore that?"
"Of course not," mutters Emmett, sullen. "You'll go running to somebody who's practically a stranger, but you can't be there for your own boyfriend."
After weeks of spurning any attempt to talk, that's the final straw for Sam. "As if I'm not here, day and night, begging you to tell me what's bothering you lately. My problems you want me to share, you want to solve... But I can’t be a shoulder for you to cry on? How's that fair?"
"Let me get this straight," Emmett drones. You’re upset I’m not bothering you with my issues?"
"A relationship is a two-way street!" says Sam, exasperated. "It isn’t burdening your partner to unload once in a while."
"I just want you here with me," Emmett responds, reaching out for Sam's hand and bringing it to his lips. "I'm don't need anything else."
Sam softens. "And I will be," he promises, smiling as he withdraws hand. "After I do this one thing."
Irritation floods Emmet's expression so fast he flushes with it.
"So that's it? I'm not emotionally available, so you run off to the first guy who asks?"
"Screw you," Sam spits. Eyes flashing, he storms for the door.
A hand snags his shoulder, yanking back. Sam whirls, a barb on the tip of his tongue, and feels the impact of bone on flesh.
He blinks the white spots out of his vision, stumbling over his feet.
His mouth tastes like blood.
*
*
*
*
Dean bangs on the door, shouts his name, signaling their departure. With one last, baleful glance at his reflection, Sam grabs his bag and stalks out to the car.
Sam could let it go. Could let it fester more than he has already. Could turn the other cheek, and he might have, were his cheek not black and blue and tender to the touch.
"For the record, there was no girl," he tells Dean, with no warning or pause. Anger loosens his lips, the apprehension secondary to his petulance as he strings his own noose. "There was a guy."
Dean balks, jaw dropping, and yet Sam barrels on—why bother to preserve his brother's good opinion when it was evidently long gone?
"His name's Emmett. Emmett Richardson. He and I had a place together in Kermit, Texas," he reveals, and takes a savage delight in the way Dean's lip purse, clearly perturbed by this. After the secrets he's kept, it seems only fair to slam Dean with one of his own.
"Look, man, I don't even remember what I said, but-"
"But what?" Sam interrupts. "But you didn't mean it? Oh, please. You and I both know you didn't need that penny to say those things."
The deflection was frustrating enough, then his brother has the gall to roll his goddamn eyes. "Come on, Sam."
"Own up to your crap, Dean!" Sam doesn't yell. His anger is no longer the loud, robust thing it was in his youth. "I told you from the jump where I was coming from, why I didn't look for you-"
"Yeah, minus one detail," says Dean icily. Sam levels his stare with one just as cold.
"And what about you? You had secrets. You had Benny. And you got on your high and mighty, and you've been kicking me ever since you got back. But that's over," he states, steady, like he's finally found his equilibrium in this new dynamic of theirs. "No more secrets between us now. So move on, or I will."
Half of Sam expects he'll disagree outright. Say goodbye, drive off, and leave Sam at this shitty motel in this shitty corner of Missouri.
"Okay," says Dean, lackluster, acquiescent. He takes Sam's final ultimatum over Benny in stride and they're silent as they exit the parking lot.
In the wake of his anger, the silence is cloying, no longer triumphant. There's no taking it back now. The seal's broken, the shoe's dropped. Sam will weather his brother's disdain for another hundred miles, or however long it takes to get to the next case, the next motel.
He chews through his cheek to keep the words at bay. Nothing he says will change a goddamn thing, anyway.
*
*
*
*
"Whoa, Sam-" Everett hisses through his teeth. "You okay?"
"Yeah, no, I'm fine," he assures. "Tripped on my way here and kind of, uh, banged my head."
The excuse is brittle, just like his smile.
Everett frets, though Sam insists he can do the job he came there for. He accepts an ice-pack and allows the kid to hover. When he's finished, Everett invites Sam to dinner, anxiously hoping that he accept as compensation for his time. His dad would like it very much, he adds, radiating his concern so blatantly that Sam would be endeared if he weren't so numb.
He accepts the invitation, though. Better to deal with an hour of pity and under-cooked potatoes than the mess he left at home. Let Emmett stew for a bit longer in it.
If he's stewing at all, a traitorous voice whispers. Could be he's finally sick of you and your shit.
He picks at his dinner, not hungry in the slightest. All too soon he's slipping back inside the house. Sam isn't certain what he's expecting to find. He didn't expect it to be Emmett slouched on the couch, tear-streaked and despondent.
"I'm sorry," he chokes out. His breath is whiskey sour with remorse. "I'm so sorry, Sam, please, I swear."
And he wrenches Sam into an embrace. Sam can't tell which of them is more relieved.
The revelation churns his stomach.
"It's okay," Sam murmurs. Slowly, tentatively, he wraps his arms around those broad, quivering shoulders. "It's okay."
"I didn't mean to."
"I know."
"I would never hurt you," he babbles, desperate, squeezing Sam tighter. "Not on purpose, you have to understand-"
"I do."
"Just, the thought of you- Of losing you, I-" He rakes through his hair, shuddering. "Christ, I don't know what I'd do without you."
He heart constricts in his chest. Sam attempts a wan, ill-fitting smile. "It's okay," he repeats. "I've had worse."
Apparently, it isn't the comfort he intended. Emmett grimaces. "It won't ever happen again, Sam. I swear."
"Yeah," says Sam, placating. He almost believes it, too.
*
*
*
*
His duffel has barely landed on the bedspread before Dean announces that he's going out.
Alone.
He leaves without a word. Not even a "Don't wait up!" or a last minute attempt to invite Sam out.
This is his punishment. The silent treatment. The leaving. Dean had done it as a kid, when they were both kids, like that time on Christmas. He would get angry at Sam, or angry at the situation, and his emotions, too big to be felt without yelling or fighting or taking it out on the nearest target, would swell until they were too big to fit in whatever dingy room Dad had left them in, and Dean would leave.
Sam would make his own dinner. Tidy the room. Put himself to bed, where he would lay, contrite and contemplative, wondering why he felt like he was to blame for every hurt his brother endured, and every hurt Sam endured from him as a result. A cycle of cruelty neither could escape.
The difference is that Dean knows what he's doing now. Life was no less cruel to his brother as an adult, his emotions no less overwhelming to himself and everyone in his proximity. But, as the recipient, Sam can tell that this isn't a tantrum borne of neglect and helplessness. This is a punishment with purpose.
Because he had a secret, he had lived with a man for a year and hadn't told Dean, and that hurt Dean, so Sam should be hurting, too. The consequence of living out of each other's pockets for their entire lives means that he knows exactly how to do it, too.
Ignoring Sam is a page right out of Dad's playbook. When he was a teenager, all righteous fury, there was no amount of argument, no amount of yelling that could force Sam to comply. After a while, it was just a matter of ignoring his complaints entirely, until the flame of his anger fizzled out, and Sam felt less like a person and more like a cumbersome piece of luggage. Dean knows how much Sam detested it, remembers the long hours of silence as vividly as he does.
But if it ain't broke, well.
Sam wishes it didn't have so much sway. Wishes more than anything that he could shed this desire to belong, anywhere, to anyone. Wishes that he wouldn't rather be a human punching bag than be totally alone.
Hit me. Yell at me. Let me have it. Just don't shut me out, please.
Disgusted, Sam digs out his phone. He should plug it in to charge. Listen to a podcast. Scroll the internet for a new case.
Instead he unblocks his ex's number. Fights the urge to hang up as it rings, rings, rings.
Finally, a click, and a disbelieving: "Hello?"
"Hey," he rasps, clearing his throat. "Uh, hi. Emmett. It... It's Sam."
As if the caller ID didn't make that perfectly clear.
"Sam," Emmett responds. "God, it's good to hear your voice."
"Really?" he blurts, and cringes, because—Is he that lonely?
Emmett laughs. "Yes, really. As corny as it sounds, I-I miss you."
And it's so carelessly affectionate that he's robbed of the ability to speak, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. It takes a long, helpless moment before he's able to reply.
"You're not," Sam hedges, because he can't help it, pushing his luck, always with Dad, and with Dean, and with Emmett, too. "You're not mad?"
It doesn't sound quite as meek as it did in his head, which, that's something. Emmett goes quiet, and Sam waits, braced for the reprimand that won't be entirely unearned. Sam chose to run, like a coward. Even if he had his reasons.
"Of course I'm not. I- Well, I admit, I'm a little out of my mind with worry. Are you okay? Are you safe?"
Safe is relative. "I'm okay," he answers, and they sit with that, to see if Sam shares anything further, any clue to where he is.
He doesn't.
After a beat, Emmett says, "I think the only guy pining for you more is obsessed with chewing the socks you left behind."
Riot, Sam mourns, heart nearly breaking in two. "How is he?"
"About as miserable as you'd expect," he confirms, fanning the flames of guilt, but it's interrupted by a voice in the background. Emmett swears, mumbles a brief, "Hold on a second!" to Sam, who belatedly realizes that he's the intruder here.
His stomach sinks into the soles of his shoes; it was a man's voice, unmistakably. And it's a Friday night, he hadn't even considered that as he called. No doubt he's interfering with some rebound date, which he has no right to be depressed over.
And why is he surprised. For all his faults, Emmett was a catch. Handsome, friendly, successful. Sam was the oil to the water, always catching fire. It was better that he left, so they could both move on with their lives. That didn't make it any easier to swallow.
"Sam?" There's a note of panic in Emmett's voice, like it isn't the first attempt to grab his attention, and he’s scared he hung up.
"Sorry," he coughs, embarrassed, and staggered by the abrupt jolt of longing. I'm the one who left, he repeats, like a mantra that will keep it at bay. "God, sorry, I shouldn't- Shouldn't have presumed, or- If you're with someone, I can-"
He can what? Call back?
If there were any angels listening, he implores one to smite him now.
"Wait, no, Sam," Emmett interjects, hasty and soothing. "No, no, babe, it isn't like that. It's Roberta's birthday this weekend, so we took her out after work. Josh was just bringing back our drinks."
"Oh," he exhales, and yeah, no way Emmett's missed the relief, so he should be mortified now, yet he can't summon the nerve to care. He's happy that he hasn't moved on. And he hates his own guts.
"Why did you call? Not that I'm not thrilled, but..." Emmett trails off, yet the question lingers. Sam wishes he had an answer.
Because he’s lonely? Because he's aching for any scrap of affection? Because he’s never learned to love what’s good for him?
"My brother's alive," he says in lieu of any of that.
"Your- He's what?" Emmett sputters. "Sam, that’s incredible! How did that even-?"
"Long story," Sam drawls, already weary of the subject. "And I don't—I can't talk about that now."
Emmett hums mildly, then he repeats: "Why did you call?"
Sam mulls it over, stalling. When he manages to find his voice, it is unbearably small.
"You really aren't mad?"
Emmett scoffs like that's ludicrous. Like all the other instances when he lashed out were misinterpreted, a judgement made in bad faith. How could Sam believe him capable of that, when all his behavior in this instance was to the contrary?
"I'm just happy you're okay," he admits, and it's so goddamn earnest that Sam's forced to swallow his biting retort.
They talk for an hour. About everything, and nothing. Dean stumbles in drunk in the wee hours of night, which Sam knows since he was lying there awake in bed, his chest hollowed out.
He blocks the number again.
*
*
*
*
Dean speaks to him the next morning and it’s water under the bridge. In that Dean never mentions the incident again. Pretends like it never happened.
They don't talk about Emmett. They don't talk about Benny. They don't speak much beyond the job these days.
Castiel returns, somehow intact, and through the whirlwind of joy that is, there isn't much opportunity to discuss it further. Like, hey, remember how you tried to shoot me? How I came out to you after and you haven't acknowledged it since?
What irks Sam most is perhaps how nothing changes. He thought he changed, thought he was done with glancing in the mirror and meeting his own black, sunken eyes.
Against his better judgement, he unblocks the number. Emmett texts a good morning. Ask how he is. Has he eaten today? Is he eating regularly?
His fingers hover over the keys, itching to reply.
He shouldn't respond. Shouldn't want to respond. What sort of headcase wants to speak to the guy who beat the shit out of him?
The lonely sort, his mind supplies. Dean isn't ideal company lately, and vice versa. Privately, and at his lowest, Sam wonders if Dean would be better off if he was hunting with Benny or Cas. Half the time, it doesn't seem as if he likes Sam all that much. Certainly he would be happier if they both stopped pretending.
Every disparaging comment, every night of alcohol soaked-silence, and the itch returns. He types out too many messages he refuses to send, all a rendition of the same.
You're not mad? You're still not mad? You promise?
In the end, he never replies. He does leave the number unblocked.
Another choice. Another mistake.
*
*
*
*
Sam, I need your help.
Come quick.
Sam abandons Martin during the hunt and can't summon an ounce of repentance. Nothing matters except how fast he can race to Kermit without crashing the car. Praying he's not too late.
His mind spends every mile conjuring up the memory of Jessica, pinned to the ceiling, flames scorching over her. Dying alone, when Sam should've been there, should have saved her.
He can't let that happen. He loves Emmett, still, despite everything.
Gun in hand, he approaches the house, ever mindful of the threat, except—there is none. No danger, no intruder, unless you count Sam, who's left standing at the window of a seemingly empty house, dumbfounded. A shrill, sudden cry of excitement grabs his attention, but, upon spotting the source, he can't help but smile.
Sam drops to his knees, weapon abandoned, both hands free to catch Riot when he jumps into his embrace. He soothes through his fur, lets the dog lick his chin. "Hey, boy. Hey, oh," he chuckles, wetly. "Good boy, I missed you, I missed you so, so much."
"Sam?"
His stomach swoops at the sight of Emmett standing there, safe. "You're alright," he breathes aloud, the relief swiftly melting into confusion.
Emmett is fine. Not cowering, not distressed. The leash is dangling from his grip, a flush across his face, like they were on a walk.
Ignoring his questions, Sam taps the contact the text came from. He's spent enough time agonizing over the number to know it by heart. Somebody replaced the number in his phone.
He’s got a sneaking, sinking suspicion of who it will go to if he calls.
"Sorry. I-I thought you were—" He exhales through his nose, fists clenching. "Never mind. I'm sorry," he repeats, glaring down at his boots. "It was a misunderstanding. I-I have to go."
Hands dart for his arm, tugging. Sam tries and fails not to flinch. The grip doesn't waver, but it's light, easily evaded.
"Wait! Calm down, Sam, please. You're here, so- Come inside, even if it's just for a minute."
Mutely, he shakes his head. At his heels, Riot whines.
"Stay," Emmett begs. "Please."
Maybe it's the betrayal from Dean, so quick to accuse Sam of deceit and disloyalty, yet perfectly willing to invade his privacy and prey on his deep-rooted fears. Maybe it's the dread of the long drive back and dealing with the hunt he abandoned. Or maybe it’s his vicious inclination toward self-destruction.
Whatever the case, Sam nods, and allows himself to be shepherded into the house, deposited on the couch, and waits while Emmett clamors around in the kitchen for tea. The mug is hot against his palm, right over his scar. After the stunt Dean pulled, the adrenaline still pumping in his veins, it takes a minimal amount of cajoling for Sam to spills his guts. Well, a non-Purgatory version of the truth, anyway.
And once he's finished, Emmett looks at him with pity, not reproach. "Sam, your brother disappeared. He was gone for a year. Most people would have given him up for dead."
Scornful laughter peals out of his throat. "We aren't most people. We've survived a lot worse. I guess I should have figured," he mumbles, shaking his head. "Of course I should have."
"You didn't know he was alive," Emmett says far too sensibly. "Why punish yourself?"
"Because I should have," Sam insists. He scrubs a hand over his face, blunt nails scraping over his cheek. "If it were reversed, he would've never stopped looking for me."
"Even if you didn't want to be found?"
The tone has Sam peeking at Emmet sidelong, a furrow between his brows. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He sets his full, tepid cup aside Sam's empty one. "Even if you left a note, telling your brother to leave you alone, to not follow you—and you ran away, somewhere you could be happy—he would find you and drag you back to him."
The scathing assessment is met with utter discomfort. Even if there's a hint of truth to that, Sam frowns. He won't let Emmett get it twisted. "Dean's saved my life more times than I can count. He's sacrificed so much for me, ever since we were kids."
"So you owe him everything? At the cost of your own happiness?"
They've derailed, Sam thinks, somewhere along the line, mind too muddled to decipher where. He moves to stand, though his knees wobble under his weight. "Maybe this was a mistake," he says, calmer than he feels. "I should go."
Fingers wrap around his wrist, a parody of that first time at the bar. Those eyes glisten at him, just as they did then, but the focus that once made Sam blush now sends a shiver down his spine.
"Sam." His voice is soft, always so soft, so at odds with the severity of his expression. "I can't let you do this again."
The words register too late, the grip around his wrist a vice. "No," is what fumbles from Sam's lips, dumb and distraught. "No, I'm leaving. I have to-"
"Run away? Run back to the brother who degrades you, treats you like a burden?" He regrets the hour of venting now, the excuse he's given Emmett to wield.
"I'm upset with Dean, yeah. I'm pissed. But don't get the wrong-"
"Are you kidding?" Emmett cuts off. "I'm not blind. You think it's any secret how badly your family screwed you up?"
(It was what he'd always feared—everything that was ever done to him, every trauma he buried, every scar he concealed, all of it was carved into his skin, visible to anyone who bothered to look.)
Sam glowers at him. "You never said anything."
"Because you wouldn't hear a bad word about the guy! Not now, not when he was dead." Emmett laughs, cynical. "You would rather hold onto the ghost of some brother who treats you like shit than come home to your own boyfriend? That's sick, Sam. You see that, don't you?"
"That isn't why I left," he says, quietly. You know why. "Dean had nothing to do with that."
Sam can't explain why he feels the need to keep justifying his decision, other than it was something that was his decision, for once. "I had no idea he was even alive when I-"
"But he's the reason," Emmett snaps. "The reason you stayed away."
Sam clenches his jaw so tight it cracks.
"And the reason you came back." He leans in closer, disregarding his attempts to writhe away, muscles lax and uncooperative. "Deep down, Sam, you know what you have isn't healthy. Isn't good for you. Either of you, from what it sounds like. If your brother's that pissed at you, all the more reason to stay gone, right?"
"You're wrong," Sam rasps, stubbornly.
"He told you to your face. That you're a failure, that you're less of a brother to him than a guy he's known, what, a year?" He shrugs, apologetic. "Sounds like get lost to me."
Knowing it's a manipulative ploy doesn't stop it from being the truth. Doesn't stop the sting of tears. Through the bile crawling up his throat, Sam sneers, "So what makes you want me then? If I'm so useless and shit? If I'd choose my miserable, rotten family over you controlling my life?"
The veneer of cruelty falls away. Emmett cups his cheek, all too fucking tender. "I love you, Sam," he says, sounding sad. "Don't you understand that? Everything I'm doing is to protect you."
"Protect me from what?" Sam provokes. He can't ever keep his mouth shut. "From you?"
Emmett shoves at Sam. Hardly the hit he anticipated, and yet he's staggering, collapsing under his own weight. His vision swims, dotted with black. Something is dragging Sam down. Something in the tea, he realizes, way too fucking late.
His last thought is that, well, it looks like Dean got what he wanted. Sam will be out of the picture for the foreseeable future.
*
*
*
*
He wakes in fragments. Mouth dry, eyes bleary. Groggy, the first word that comes to mind, important somehow. A clue to his predicament.
With a groan, Sam throws an over his eyes, blocking out the minuscule light in the room. How many pills did I take?
Awareness filters in gradually, a muted horror that he's too exhausted to feel. The door is cracked, left ajar in case he needs help. Which indicates he's alone—he flops a heavy, uncooperative arm over to the vacant side of the bed. So his limbs aren't bound, at least.
Escape isn't remotely possible in his condition. Still, a relief to know that Emmett hadn't resorted to restraint. He's supposed to be his savior, after all.
The walls are paper in, so over the drumming in his skull, Sam can hear every scrape of Riot's nails against the floor, every shuffle of feet as Emmett putters around the house. And he can hear it when his phone, confiscated along with his gun, begins to blare its ringtone.
Footsteps follow the noise. Panic seizes Sam through the haze of the pills.
Let it ring. Please, please. Let it ring.
Nobody answers that particular prayer. He hears it Emmett utters a cautious, "Hello?"
It must be Dean. Who else could it be? His brother's hostility evident in the defensive reply: "I'm his boyfriend."
Present tense.
Sam shuts his eyes. Tight. Pretends it's a dream, a nightmare he hasn't woken from yet.
Emmett snorts at the probable threats Dean's lobbing his way. "Figures. I had you pegged as a homophobe. That, or you're just a major dick."
He's riding his high horse, probably thinks he's a hero, telling off the monster who belittled his poor boyfriend. All Sam feels now is queasy, his stomach trying to crawl up his throat.
"Sam doesn't want to see you anymore," Emmett asserts, every bit the protector he professes to be. "Do us a favor and leave him the hell alone."
No, he wants to scream, for all the good it would do. No, that isn't how you talk him down, you can't reason, you can't be righteous.
Would he care, at this point? His mind spins its insidious logic. Benny was a better brother than you. Less crazy. More loyal. Somehow not the monster you are, despite being a literal one. Now you're finally somebody else's problem. He should be cracking open a beer to celebrate.
Sam muffles his moan into the pillow. The headache tries to split his skull.
This is what you wanted, right? To get out of the life? This is how you get that. Just have to smile, spread your legs, take a beating every now and then. Only when you deserve it. We both know you've endured worse, Sammy.
The door creaks, the mattress dips. Sam stills, feigning sleep. As if all the twitching and gasping won't give it away.
Should consider yourself lucky he's even interested. How many other people will put up with your specific brand of crazy?
He's crying, he notes absently. A thumb slides until his eye, catching the tears before they fall.
"Sam?" The proximity of the voice coaxes his eyes open.
Lucifer grins, razor sharp. Hovering over Sam, eyes gleaming gold.
Welcome home, Sammy.
A scream rips out of his throat. He thrashes against the Devil, shouting nonsense, frantic pleas verging on prayer. He isn't even sure he's speaking English (Latin, Enochian, it's all a blur in his brain). Arms cage his body, a hum of soothing, hushing noises, no different from how Lucifer would croon sweet nothings as he tore his flesh off his bones, or lovingly trace searing hot fingers over his soul.
With every reserve of strength he can muster, Sam lashes out, fist connecting his flesh, eliciting a grunt of pain. He twists out from under his captor, rolling to the floor, his legs tangled in each other. He crawls, a pathetic attempt at freedom, eyes too misty to see where he's fleeing.
A knee grinds into his lower back, knocking the breath out of his lungs. He's flipped, wrists pinned, a butterfly with its wings clipped, on a tray before Lucifer's knife. Sam flails, weeping openly now, and some higher power takes pity, or runs out of patience. A hand curls into his hair, just short of caressing, before it slams his head against the floor, and he slips gratefully into the darkness.
*
*
*
*
It's the smell that rouses Sam this time. Morning light shines through the curtains, and Emmett's making breakfast.
Pancakes. Turkey sausage. An apology caked in syrup and grease.
Sam waits until his hunger is too ravenous to ignore. Clambers out of bed. Uses the bathroom.
He finds Emmett in the kitchen, brooding over his coffee. There's a bruise on his jaw, right over the spot Sam used to kiss. He must've put up a fight in his delusion. If not for the ugly mark, though, the sight would be mundane. Still is nearly perfect.
This is the life you wanted. What are you willing to do to keep it?
At his approach, Emmett looks up from his phone. "Hey," he whispers, all sweet and smiling. His brows knit in concern. "Are you in pain? Need anything?"
The question is sincere. He never liked it when Sam was hurting.
Wordlessly, he nods, eyes never straying from the floor. The tiles are cool under his bare feet.
Somebody knocks at the door. Riot yips, tail wagging. The knocking persists.
"Hold on," Emmett huffs, retreating. Probably to sign for some package. A straight jacket for his crazy boyfriend, Sam huffs bleakly.
A commotion startles Sam out of his spiral. Whoever's at the door, they aren't pleased, the yelling interspersed by the clamor of footsteps. For a moment, Sam is five-years-old, lying awake in bed, waiting for his father to come back, listening for the unmistakable thump of his boots. His heart swells with equal parts hope and dread.
Obviously, it isn't his father who's here.
It's his brother.
"Sammy?" Dean shouts, searching. His steps falter at the threshold of the kitchen.
"Dean," Sam croaks. A plea for Emmett, or for himself, he isn't certain. He can't look his brother in the eye. Refuses to watch the horror morph into disgust. You're pathetic, Sam hears it clearly in the silence, and cringes, but he can't utter a single word in his defense. Imagines what this looks like from Dean's perspective—a grown man cosplaying a meek, battered wife, complete with a split lip and throbbing cheekbone.
Sam winces at his sharp intake of breath, clinging to the countertop with his white-knuckled grip. His pulse is rabbiting. His head aches. The pain is dull compared to the hot gush of shame that floods his face.
"I'll kill him," Dean murmurs, after an eternity. His voice is strung tight. Serene, almost. Sam looks up, startled, just as his expression shuts down, absolutely blank in its fury. "You son of a bitch, I'll kill you."
There's a flurry of movement, Emmett yelps, strangled, suddenly hauled to the floor, a fist colliding with his stomach. His sternum. His nose, the smash of bone audible. Blood sprays onto his brother's knuckles.
Sam watches, a bystander in his own body. He's no stranger to the sensation. Only there's no demon or devil to blame, he is just- He's frozen, unable to move.
Emmett wheezes, clutching at his chest. Cracked ribs, or worse, and the sound of it churns his stomach.
"Dean," Sam rasps. Weak, useless. "Dean, stop!"
He reaches out, fingers curling over his brother's elbow as it bends for another blow. He's shoved away, and it's no big deal, or it shouldn't be, except he's dizzy still, and it's enough to lose his balance. He lands on his ass, hard.
Emmett coughs, spits up a wad of blood. "Don't hurt-"
The irony isn't lost on Dean, who sneers in what could be a laugh. "Oh, that's fucking rich," he snarls. "Look at him, you piece of shit."
He grabs Emmett by the hair, yanking his neck backward. Red rivulets run from the cut on his forehead, obscuring his vision. "Is that how you spent the year I was gone? Huh? Beating my brother to a pulp? Did you get your rocks off on it? Did you?" he growls, the hatred dripping from every word. "I'm going to rip your lungs out and make you eat them. Do you understand?"
It's not bravado, not bluster—no, Sam sees the exact moment Emmett realizes how screwed he is. He's hunched over, terrified. Lips moving soundlessly, a silent bid for mercy. Sam should be getting a kick out of this, shouldn't he? Should be enjoying his abuser's turn at torment. Not be pale and ill, begging for it to be over.
Unable to stand idle any longer, Sam lunges. Places his body in between his brother's fist and the man he means to harm. Right now he's more afraid for Emmett than he is of the pain. He can do this, he's done it before. Been the proxy for his brother's rage.
Except the punch never lands. The seconds tick by and there's no sound save for Emmett's labored breaths.
Sam dares to peer out of the fringe of hair over his eyes. The fist has stalled inches from his face, suspended midair. Dean's staring at it like the limb doesn't belong to him. Like until this moment he was a mere witness to this violence, not the perpetrator. Every inch of his expression is rigid, horrified.
"Please," Sam whispers, and he jolts as if struck. "Dean, please, let's go. Let him go, please."
His mouth contorts into a thin, unhappy line. Outraged by the mere suggestion. Sam presses on, determined, desperate.
"I want to leave now. With you. Please."
His final plea knocks something loose in Dean, or rather, sets it in place. All of his features gentle, and it's like looking at his brother at fourteen again, self-assured and unwavering. "Okay," he relents, speaking like he would to a child. "Okay, Sammy. Whatever you want."
Sam wilts, just shy of weeping, and steps toward for his brother. Dean’s quick to push Sam behind him, slotting in between his little brother and the threat, right where he belongs. He crouches beside Emmett, who’s gone limp and stoic.
"Your lucky day, pal. Lucky that my brother's too kind for his own damn good." Compassion doesn't sound like a compliment on Dean's lips. "But you listen to me. You ever come near my brother again—you so much as breathe in the same zip-code as him—I'll be back to finish the job."
The way he gulps, there’s no doubt that Emmett believes it, too. This will be goodbye, Sam realizes, scrambling for what to say. I'm sorry? He isn't sorry that it's over, but he's sorry it ended in bloodshed.
In the end, he says nothing, Dean's grasp like iron around his wrist, ushering him from the house.
*
*
*
*
The car rumbles along the road, a song playing over the radio. Sam shivers in the passenger seat, dragged out of the house in only a thin cotton shirt and boxers. Dean throws a jacket over his bare legs, warmth seeping into his skin.
Sam murmurs a thank you. He's dozing, barely conscious, listing against the window.
Hours, or what seems like hours, have passed when he asks, "Where are we going?"
Fingers tighten around the steering wheel. "Depends," says Dean, and oh, that's dangerous, when his voice dips like that, void of any emotion. "Do you need to go to a hospital?"
Sam tilts his gaze back toward the window. "No," he answers, nearly a whisper.
"Sammy." There's a note of warning.
"No."
Mercifully, Dean lets it drop. They lapse back into silence, for which he's relieved, as he doubts he's in any condition to hear what Dean wants to say.
After however many more miles, Dean pulls into a motel, same as any other. He parks, orders Sam to stay put, while he pays for the room. Sam spends the minutes of solitude on the border between gratitude and panic.
He opens the door on the passenger side so Sam can stumble out of the car. "The hell did he slip you?" Dean grunts, slinging Sam's arm over his shoulder.
"Pills," he mutters, close enough to feel the way Dean tenses, likely wishing he'd done worse than beat Emmett to a pulp. Maybe that's why they drove so long, to remove the temptation.
Dean settles Sam on the edge of the bed. Hands cradle his neck, tilting his chin for inspection, and Sam winces, shifting away from the touch. Dean reels, visibly stung.
"Let me see." Half a demand, half a plea. Stiffly, Sam allows the examination to continue, despite his discomfort. He neglects it in favor of watching his brother's reaction. Wary of every sigh, every scowl, every curse that's uttered under his breath.
"Christ," Dean swears, riling himself over minor scrapes, things only time will heal. "He hurt you anywhere else?"
The sharp question takes Sam by surprise; the only parts of his skin Dean has yet to inspect would be under his clothes. The implication wraps tight around his throat, choking. Sam denies it with a vehement gesture.
His brother relaxes at that, fractionally. He returns to his fretting, or the Winchester version of it, holding an icy beer to Sam's swollen cheek, while they both ignore the tremor in his hands. "Isn't too bad," Sam offers a wisp of a grin, trying to alleviate the strain. It has the opposite effect—Dean whirls on him, eyes blazing.
"Not too bad? Have you looked in a mirror recently?"
"Could be worse," Sam retorts, amazed by how level he sounds. Downplay the wound, deflect any attention, play through the pain; the guaranteed Winchester method of dealing.
Only Dean has the same playbook memorized, had learned from their dad the same as he did. Sam believes he's done a decent job at obscuring the worst of the damage, keeping it close to his chest, and he's proven wrong with one loaded remark.
"This isn't the first time, is it?"
There isn't any doubt as to what he means. Sam, agape, can't think of a single lie to placate.
"Fuck," Dean hisses, pacing across the room. His fists smashes into the wall, the plaster quaking under the impact. "I should've gutted that guy. You should've let me," he , accusatory.
Sam swallows. His excuse is feeble, even to his own ears. "I love him."
Dean retches, the noise echoing like sour laughter.
"Are you hearing yourself? This bastard drugs you, smacks you around, and you still-"
"It wasn't like that," Sam snaps.
"Oh?" mocks Dean, the asshole. "Then what was it like?"
He won't understand. He'll treat Sam like the headcase he certainly he is. "I was managing, okay? I had a home, I was safe."
"As long as you didn't piss him off." Something in Dean falters, the dark comment not so glib when he remembers who endured. "Damn it, Sam, I don't- I don't get it! You could have torn this dude apart, but you let him walk all over you? For a year? What the hell?"
Sam has no reply, or none he feels like repeating, which incenses Dean further. "You loved him, right," he huffs, scrubbing his palm over his face. "Why didn't you leave?"
I did. I left. I got out. I ended up here, anyway.
Frustrated, Dean sighs. "I'm sure," he says, reasonably, "there was no shortage of girls for you to shack up with in Texas."
He glares at his brother. "You do realize that isn't how this works. It wasn't a lack of available women that made me into guys."
"Excuse me for trying to wrap my head around my little brother fell for this loser scrum," Dean huffs. "How could you stay with someone like that? Somebody who hurts you?"
"I stayed after the penny, didn't I?"
The words slip out without sanction, the remorse instantaneous. He might as well cold-cocked Dean with his gun. He looks like he could puke, eyes bulging and cheeks blanched of all color.
"That isn't the same, Sam, and you know it," Dean grits out, revolted, and Sam half-expects to be slapped. "I was possessed. If you think for one second I would ever-"
(Sam is twenty three, his father is dead, and nothing will change that, certainly not Gordon who makes his skin crawl, who Dean pals around with like he can replace what they've lost. Dean laughs, like that's ridiculous, and when Sam's least suspecting he lashes out. His neck snaps back, but it's fine, it's fine because despite what he says, Dean is hurt, he's grieving, and Sam would put up with much worse if it would provide any sort of balm.
Sam is twenty five, his brother is alive, and he's caught in a lie, the taste of blood like ashen guilt in his mouth after he meets up with Ruby without his brother's knowledge. Without his permission, he means, and it's that intolerable disrespect that stokes his belligerence. "Are you satisfied?" Sam demands, and the second hit he deserves more, for his insolence. "Guess not."
Sam is twenty eight, and he's mostly Sam, his body is at least, even in his soul's absence, and the sort-of Sam tells Dean that something's wrong, pleads for his help, and though he wasn't there he remembers the blow that pelted his body, over and over, suspicion and blame and betrayal packed into every punch.)
"You sent me there," Sam reminds, toneless. "Remember? Your text."
Dean crumples. "You should’ve told me," he says hoarsely. It's unclear whether the undercurrent of anger is directed at Sam or himself. Is there a difference? "I would have never sent that text if I knew. If you had listened to me about Benny in the first place-"
"You think this is just about Benny?" Sam bursts out. "You went into my phone, you changed my contact, and you sent that text because you knew I'd be afraid that the same thing that happened to Jessica—that happened to everybody we care about—might happen to Emmett. And you knew I would tear ass to Texas."
There's no denial. Not a trace of guilt. "You were gonna kill Benny. What was I supposed to do?" Dean asks, and Sam wants to scream, rip at his hair in exasperation. "What do you want me to say? That I was wrong? Fine, I was wrong."
Not an apology. Not even close.
"If you'd heard me out," Dean insists. "If you'd have trusted me, all of this would've been avoided."
Because at the end of the day, Sam's still at fault. He let Emmett do all that. He let the trauma dictate his decision to return to his abuser. He was too trusting, except when he wasn't trusting enough, when Dean expected his blessing for his friend, never mind that Amy was never offered the same. Hell, he hadn't given Emmett that grace, and at least he'd never sucked the blood out of someone's veins.
It's a false equivalent, but, given the last 24hrs, Sam figures he's allowed a little irrationality.
He brushes past Dean for the door, only to be snagged by the wrist, and a stomach-dropping deja vu.
"We ain't done here."
"I am," Sam refutes. "Let go."
The grip doesn't loosen. "You're not going back," says Dean, low, growing more agitated. It takes a second for Sam to translate go back into go back to your boyfriend.
A bitter well of laughter rises up his throat. As if his brother hadn’t burnt that bridge to the ground. "So what if did?" he challenges, 'cause if Dean would rather a vampire for a brother, well, here's his chance.
Dean refuses to budge. "I’ll cuff you to the radiator if I have to, you’re not leaving," he vows, scathing in its honesty. Sweat prickles over Sam's temple.
"Let go!" he shouts, wrestling against the grip in earnest.
"Are you fucking for real? Sam!" Dean grunts, wrangling his other arm to avoid being decked, pinning it against his chest. "After I pull your ass out of the fire, again, you still want to run back to be that guy’s bitch?"
Moisture blurs his vision. He pretends it's sweat. "If I'm such a burden," Sam snarls, "Then why did you come? You could've left me to deal with my mistake- Sorry, my choices all by myself."
Grabbing his lapels, Dean spins him around. "Fuck you," he seethes, breath hot over Sam's face, and he's not just winded from the struggles, he's pissed. "Fuck you if you think I would ever stand by and let that happen. You're my brother."
Nails dig into his skin, deep enough to draw blood. It barely registers on Sam, who's watching his features contort from fury to sorrow to regret, all in rapid succession.
"If I was here, I would've put a stop to it sooner, I swear. I..." Dean takes a ragged breath, steeling his lip when it threatened to wobble. "I'm here, now. And I'm not leaving you on your own. Not again."
He cups Sam's neck, a hand on either side. Secure, like a noose. Sam should be shaking it off, but the weight of it is familiar, and it’s the most affection he’s gotten from Dean in months. He wouldn’t be getting it if Dean didn’t maybe still believe he was somebody worth holding.
It’s the absolution he's craved since his brother's return, right within reach.
Even after his struggles cease, Dean doesn't let go. Eyes raking over Sam like he’s the only thing that’s ever mattered. It’s heady, that feeling. It sustained Sam through their childhood, the knowledge that even when he had nothing, he had his brother. He had a family. As long as he stayed.
And would it be so bad?
The question would be unthinkable, were he still eighteen, the future so bright and tantalizing. Sam knows better now, though. He'd made a life out of making the best of things.
"You’re not going back," Dean repeats, sternly. A command with no response necessary, maybe a "yes, sir" tacked on were it their father, yet there's a faint hint of despair to his tone, one that breaks Sam's heart. So for all his misgivings he nods, affirming that he'll stay.
He's choosing to stay.
And he's rewarded with the appeased crook of his brother's grin, and his firm, crushing embrace.
*
*
*
*
Sam wakes up feeling sore and sorry for himself. He wallows in bed longer than he’d normally allow himself, much longer than Dean would normally allow. He's in an indulgent mood, though, only prodding Sam when it’s time to eat. Breakfast is warm, if not super tasteful.
Dean brings him a coffee, too. Not the black swill you find in motel rooms or vending machines: the fancy sort that Sam buys for himself, with whipped topping and flavor shots, flakes of cinnamon strew over the top. Dean hands it over without a single remark on how girly he is for preferring his drinks with more sugar than caffeine.
It isn't an apology. Doesn't make up for the months of resentment or alleviate the ache that reaches all the way down to his bones.
But it makes Sam smile all the same.