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Sam’s quiet the whole trip back to the bunker, which isn’t exactly a surprise. Dean does his best to chalk it up to disappointment, because if he thinks about what it might be—if he thinks about all that time Sam spent with the Devil alone (Crowley claims it wasn’t long, but what the hell does he know)—he might scream. So he lets Sam keep his silence and he doesn’t even chew him out for not waiting for him before going to Lucifer like he was supposed to. Things could be worse. Dean’s afraid they were worse.
The dam of silence doesn’t break until they’re dragging their asses through the library at three in morning (straight shot all the way back to Kansas, no stops), dropping their crap on the table for later. Sam lingers instead of continuing on to his room, so Dean reluctantly ignores the siren call of his bed. His brother looks off into an undefined distance, far off and nowhere in particular, and says with utmost certainty, “He wasn’t lying.”
Dean knows what he means, but plays dumb anyhow. This is not the conversation he wants to be having. “Who?”
“Lucifer. He wasn’t lying.”
“Is water wet? Is the pope Catholic?” Dean scoffs. “He’s Lucifer, the friggin’ Prince of Lies! Of course he was lying!”
Sam chuckles at that, but not in a funny ha-ha way. Dean’s stomach sinks. “He’s never lied. Not to me, anyway.”
“He’s never lie—” Dean throws up his hands. “He lied to get you down there, remember? Signed all his little visions ‘Dear Sam, From, God.’ Ring a bell?”
But Sam shakes his head, slowly sinking down into a chair. “Not-not technically. Sure, he sent the visions, but I’m the one who filled in the blanks. I wanted so badly to believe—”
He cuts himself off, a shaky breath escaping his lips. “He played me,” Sam continues quietly. “And he knew exactly how to do it. He didn’t have to lie.”
What can Dean say? ‘I told you so?’ He’s not always the most sensitive guy, but even he knows Sam doesn’t need more kicking while he’s already down. Hell, Dean can’t even find it in himself to even be the little bit smug about it. Not when he can still feel the ache of Lucifer’s punches. Not when he can still feel Amara’s kiss. He’s not sure which of the two is more nauseating.
“It’s close enough,” Dean declares. “And even if he didn’t lie to get you to the cage or anything else doesn’t mean he’s not lying about this. There’s no way he can take on the Darkness. She’s outside of his weight class by... I don’t know, but a lot.”
Sam’s still staring off into la-la land. It’s starting to piss Dean off. “It was one of the first things he said to me,” he murmurs. “‘I’ll never lie to you.’ After all this time, he still...”
If Dean didn’t know better, he’d say Sam looked touched. Anyone else would think so. But he does know better. And the look in Sam’s eyes—pupils a touch too wide, a touch too dark—is complete and utter mortification.
“Maybe Lucifer can’t take on the Darkness, but he believes he can. He wouldn’t say so otherwise.”
Sam clearly has been thinking about this for hours. Letting him stew had been a stupid idea, and now Dean got to reap the consequences.
“Sam, it doesn’t matter if he was lying, telling the truth, or blowing smoke up his own ass,” Dean says firmly. “He’s back in the cage and he’s staying there, alright? The last thing we need are two assholes competing to end the world. You... you made the right call. Turning him down.”
He shouldn’t have to say it. Obviously making a deal with the devil, especially that deal, was bad news. But look on Sam’s face, like he’s wondering if he screwed up somehow, needed erasing. So, yeah, Dean’s gonna go ahead and state the obvious.
Finally, Sam looks up at him. “I thought about it,” he says flatly. Somehow, Dean manages not to react beyond grinding his teeth. Calm down. Obviously he didn’t say yes. Keep your shit together. “He tried to talk me into it at first. Tried winning me over like he was selling me a timeshare. Said he respected me.” Revulsion sweeps over his face once more. “But he says I’ve gone soft. That I’m weak.”
“That’s bullshit,” Dean tries, but Sam’s shaking his head even before he’s finished speaking.
“He’s right,” Sam admits. “That’s the worst part. He-he’s right. I’m not as strong as I used to be. I used to be able to make the hard choices but I can’t anymore. He has me down cold. Do you know what he said to me?” Dean doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know, but Sam’s on a roll now and can’t be stopped. “He showed me Amelia and me, and he said that—being with her instead of looking for you that year—was the worst thing I’d ever done. Not drinking demon blood, not letting him out of the cage, but abandoning you. And he was right.”
Dean desperately wishes Sam would shut up, but it’s like witnessing a car wreck or a train derailment. He couldn’t look away or tell him to stop even if he wanted to because there’s nothing more horrifying and fascinating than hearing his own thoughts coming out of his brother’s mouth. Dean knows what kind of man he is. Knows he holds on to things that are better off let go, knows he claims to forgive but never ever forgets. Knows that his year in Purgatory is just one of many things he quietly holds over Sam’s head like a Sword of Damocles, and also knows it’s small goddamn potatoes compared to the near destruction of the world. Hearing it out loud should heighten that absurdity, solidify it, but all Dean can think is: he gets it. He finally gets it.
“I’m the liar, Dean. I didn’t turn Lucifer down because I thought he couldn’t take on Amara or because it’d be bad even if he did win. I told him no and said it was because I had faith in my friends and family, a-and I do, but it’s still not why. I told him I was ready to die, to watch the people I love die, but it’s not true. I said it wasn’t about you... but it is. It’s always about you.”
For a moment, Dean can’t breathe, the enormity of Sam’s confession sitting on his lungs like a lead weight. Their eyes remain locked for the entirety of Sam’s speech. Dean swears neither of them even blink.
“I-I-I can’t give you up. I can’t. I can’t make the sacrifice, I can’t make the right choice for the world anymore. Not if it means losing you. If Cas hadn’t gotten you away from him, if Rowena’s spell hadn’t kicked in just in time—”
Lucifer’s hand around his throat, lifting him off the ground. He can’t breathe, and struggling is a joke. The angel has been playing with them, Dean realizes. Struggling vainly for breath, he can barely register the words coming out of his captor’s mouth: “Alright Sam, I’m gonna make this real easy for you. You say the magic word or your brother dies... and we both know you won’t let that happen.”
“Sammy, don’t,” Dean croaks; his mouth is so damn dry.
Sam smiles thinly. “I stood up to him. I held out, because I knew you would come for me. But he’s right about me, about where my... priorities are. None of it’s worth it. Not if I lose you.”
It’s the only thing Dean’s wanted to hear. For... years now, maybe. For the first time in a long time, they’re on the exact same page. The revelation should be lighting him up like a damn fireworks show, have him breaking out into show tunes. But Sam gazes at him like... well, like he’s just crawled out of hell, and the lick of hellfire is still scorching at his heels—at his mind. Dean knows how that is, and he can’t stand it.
“Why you gotta say it like it’s a bad thing?” Dean asks, trying to joke but can’t. Can’t hide his desperation or his hurt. Why can’t we have this? Why shouldn’t we be like this?
Sam laughs, affectionate and bitter all at once. “Because it is a bad thing, Dean.” Then he rises to his feet, cups Dean’s jaw, and pulls their mouths together into a kiss.
The kiss is a careful, chaste embrace; Dean changes that quickly, twisting a hand into Sam’s collar and diving deeper, pulling him in even closer. This. This is what was missing the whole time. Everything slots into place, just as easily as their mouths do. Brothers Winchester. His brother. His everything.
When they pull apart, a thin strand of saliva connects them. Sam has to be the one to step back to snap it while Dean licks his lips. Stares. Fantasizes about the shine on Sam’s mouth. Wishes he’d pay more attention to the taste.
“This... y-you can’t be...” Sam stammers.
“I am,” Dean counters quickly. He may not have known it before today, been able to put it into words, but it’s true. Always has been. “Sam, you and me. This is us.”
“We can’t. This... this will consume us. You know it.”
Dean kills the distance between them and claps his hand around the back of Sam’s neck. Brushes his nose along Sam’s cheek, feels every one of his rattling, terrified breaths. Speaks directly into his ear, “We won’t let it.”
Sam groans like he’s been shot. Finds his mouth again, boldly this time. Decisively. Like the Sam he used to be. Dean devours and is devoured in return.
Sam isn’t the only liar in the family. Difference is, Dean knows to keep that fact to himself.