Good Intentions
Title: Good Intentions
Author: LaughtersMelody
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural…but I refuse to give Dean back anyway. ;)
Genre: Angst
Pairing: None
Type: One-shot
Spoilers: Major spoilers for Wishful Thinking, and mentions of events from Dream A Little Dream, No Rest For The Wicked, Lazarus Rising, Metamorphosis, and I Know What You Did Last Summer.
Characters: Sam
Secondary Characters: Dean
Summary: Dean had said that he didn’t want to talk about it, that Sam could never understand. Sam just wishes he’d listened. Set in season four between Wishful Thinking, 4.08, and I Know What You Did Last Summer, 4.09.
A/N: Goodness, it’s been a while since I posted a Supernatural fic! This is one I actually started quite a while ago near the beginning of season four. We were learning so much about what Sam had actually been doing after Dean’s deal came due, and I was trying to figure out just what he was really thinking, and explore the strain in the brothers’ relationship. My favorite scene from Wishful Thinking was that one at the end, when Dean finally admitted that he remembered what had happened to him in the pit. Sam wanted to talk about it, but Dean refused…I couldn’t help wondering, what if Sam hadn’t let it go so easily?
I wrote most of this before “Heaven And Hell” aired, so there’s no mention of Dean breaking and torturing others, but I think it still works into canon pretty well…or you can consider it slightly AU. :)
A/N2: Without Jesus Christ I would be totally and utterly lost.
~*~*~*~*~
Good Intentions
He’d been trying to help.
Sam pressed his hands harder against his eyes in a useless attempt to drive out the images now forever seared into his memory.
A weirdly detached part his brain reminded him of all the sayings about good intentions and curiosity killing cats, and he realized how true both really were. Good intentions could pave a road you weren’t willing to travel, and curiosity did kill the cat, or in this case, the Winchester.
Only, it hadn’t killed him exactly, just made him wish that it had. Anything had to be better than this, better than seeing his brother’s brutal torture repeating in an endless loop every time he closed his eyes. He should have listened to Dean, shouldn’t have been so sure he could help, shouldn’t have decided that if there weren’t words to describe what Dean had been through, then he’d just have to see if for himself…in Dean’s subconscious.
He’d never told Dean that he’d kept the rest of the dream root, and he’d never planned to use it for that, for eavesdropping on his brother’s dreams without his permission. But when he’d woken up to hear Dean trapped in yet another nightmare, brokenly whispering “no” over and over again…the decision had barely been a decision at all.
Dean couldn’t carry the weight of those memories alone, nobody could, and sooner or later, that weight was gonna crush him beneath it. Sam couldn’t let that happen. He’d had just gotten his brother back, and even if things weren’t the same, even if Dean wasn’t the same, it was still Dean and Sam wasn’t gonna lose him again.
So he’d snuck out and gotten the dream root from the trunk. It hadn’t been hard to slip some into Dean’s beer the next day, and that night, he’d found a few stray hairs on Dean’s leather jacket, mixed some tea for himself, and downed it.
A few minutes later, his eyes had snapped open and he’d barely made it to the bathroom before he wretched violently, his stomach in tight, painful knots, unchecked tears streaming down his cheeks. He’d thrown up until there was nothing left, then dry-heaved some more before finally collapsing, exhausted. He’d managed to crawl over to the corner between the bathtub and the wall, and sat there now, shoulders shaking, a hand pressed against his mouth to try to stifle his sobs.
Dean was right.
There were no words.
Horrific, terrifying, appalling…there wasn’t anything in the dictionary that even came close, that even touched a fraction of what he’d seen. And somehow, he knew what he’d seen was just a tiny piece, just one, short glimpse of what Dean had been through.
Blood, darkness, fire, and pain replayed behind Sam’s eyes again, making him flinch. The screams were the worst though…the utterly hopeless, agonized cries of untold billions, but one scream in particular, Dean’s scream, resonated in his ears. Just like that the nausea returned full-force and Sam lurched forward, grabbing the rim of the toilet bowl hard enough that his knuckles were white. His stomach clenched, choking him, and he gagged.
“Sam?” Dean’s worried voice made Sam start in surprise, and he looked up before he could stop himself. Guilt tightened his chest when he saw the concern on his brother’s face. Whatever else had changed, Dean would still try to help, to make everything better. But he couldn’t. Not this time. Not anymore.
“Sam, what’s wrong?” Dean demanded, stepping closer.
Sam swallowed hard and shook his head, not trusting his voice to cooperate, not sure what he could say if it did.
When the nausea had settled down a little, Dean helped him back down to the floor, and Sam closed his eyes, leaning into the cold tile behind him, trying not to think about fire and burning and endless heat.
It didn’t surprise him when Dean spoke again.
“Sam?” he asked.
“It was just a nightmare,” Sam answered finally, forcing himself to open his eyes so he could meet Dean’s gaze, hating the fact that he was lying again, but not willing to tell Dean the truth.
“Must have been some nightmare.”
Dean’s voice was casual, but Sam didn’t miss the edge in it. Not suspicious, thankfully, but strained, uneasy. Nightmares weren’t something Dean wanted talk about.
As soon as that thought crossed his mind, Sam flinched again and his eyes darted away.
He should have known that would be enough, that Dean had stopped taking anything he said at face-value, was watching for signs that something was off -- and that realization hurt almost as much as the way Dean went rigid next to him, whole body tensing.
He watched as Dean turned to look back out at their room, and too late, Sam remembered the glass he’d used for the dream root. He knew Dean had seen it when he froze, then walked stiffly into their room to pick up the glass from the nightstand where it sat.
“Dream root,” Dean said flatly. “You used dream root.”
Sam wanted to say he was sorry, but he’d said that so much lately, and the words felt hollow, even to him.
He tried anyway.
“Dean, I’m-”
The only answer he got was the sound of the glass shattering against the motel room wall.
~*~*~*~*~
Dean hadn’t said a word.
After he’d thrown the glass, his hands had just raked through his hair roughly, before they’d clenched into fists at his sides. Sam had braced himself for a blow, but instead, Dean had closed his eyes, a muscle twitching along his jaw, and his fingers had slowly, deliberately uncurled.
Then he’d grabbed his jacket and slammed the door behind him.
That had been five hours ago.
And with every hour that passed, something in Sam’s chest tightened just a little more.
He’d always been the one to walk away, always been the one who’d done the leaving and never the one who’d been left.
Until Dean had died. Then he’d been left behind, alone, and he’d hated every second of it, hated how lost he’d felt. But he’d had to keep fighting, had to keep going, and it had taken him a while, but he’d found a way to do it.
It hadn’t been perfect, but it was the only thing that worked, the one way he could make evil pay for what it taken from him, from them.
It had meant breaking his promise, but Dean had been gone, and breaking his promise was worth it, more than worth it, if only because every demon he took down brought him one step closer to Lilith.
Then Dean had come back.
Dean had come back, and Sam had felt even more lost than before.
He’d had to face it then, the fact that he’d have to tell Dean everything eventually. He’d put it off for as long as he could, but then an angel had stepped in, and Dean had seen the truth for himself. Some of the truth, anyway.
Sam glanced at the clock on the nightstand and realized another hour had passed, an hour filled with just his thoughts and no one to interrupt them.
Dean had never let that happen. Dean had always known when -- Sam paused, realizing he’d been thinking about Dean in the past-tense. He’d forced himself to do that before, forced himself to remember Dean in terms of had and used to and would never, because thoughts of Dean with has and does and will had slowly been driving him insane.
But he didn’t have to do that now because Dean was back…only he wasn’t back, not really. That’s why it was up to Sam to do what had to be done, because Dean couldn’t anymore.
That particular thought was enough to remind him why Dean was gone, and his breath caught in his throat, the images he saw in Dean’s dream flashing before his eyes over and over again like a video stuck on instant-replay.
Somehow, he’d thought that he’d be able to deal with whatever he would see -- with the nightmares he’d had after Jess, the visions, the hounds…he thought he’d seen it all.
He’d been wrong, so absolutely, totally, incredibly wrong.
As a kid, he’d always believed that Dean could beat anyone, face anything, and win. But as an adult, he knew better. He’d learned the hard way that his big brother wasn’t invincible, as much as he liked to pretend he was.
Dean could fail. He could break. He could die.
Sam had seen all three, and sometimes, he wasn’t sure which one was the worst. Then he’d remember the growling of the hounds mixed with his brother’s screams, and he knew.
But even that was nothing compared to what he’d seen in Dean’s nightmare…in his memories, and Sam resisted the urge to fold in on himself, to shut his eyes tightly, wishing he could somehow purge those pictures from his mind.
But he couldn’t. Those images would be right there, forever, like Dean had said.
The thing was though, somehow, even knowing what he did now, maybe because of it, the hardest part was that Dean had been right. Dean had been right. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say, nothing that could make this better -- and that fact ate at Sam, made him feel like someone had put a vice around his chest and squeezed. He was helpless all over again, just as helpless as he’d been that night, pinned against the wall, forced to watch as his big brother was ripped apart in front of him.
Dean couldn’t help him, the one who’d always been able to fix everything, who’d always made things better, couldn’t fix this, couldn’t fix himself.
But maybe Sam could. If he was strong enough, maybe he could find a way to make things okay again. He just needed more time…
Resentment slowly bubbled up inside Sam at the thought, and he tried to force it back down where it belonged. It didn’t make any sense, it was stupid and ridiculous, and Sam had berated himself for it time and time again, for being anything other than happy that Dean was back, that he was alive, but it didn’t change what he felt.
He was glad to have Dean back, he was, but sometimes…sometimes he wondered where he would be if Dean had stayed gone, just a little longer. What if another month was all he’d needed? What if just a few more weeks would have made him strong enough to take out Lilith?
Deep down, Sam didn’t blame Dean for being worried, knew that he should be terrified of the way he’d changed over the last four months, the last year, but he pushed that fear away, clamped down on it and locked it away.
He was doing what he had to do. He’d never wanted this, never asked for it…but he could use it. What the yellow-eyed demon had meant for evil, he could use for good. Why couldn’t Dean understand that? Ruby did. Somehow, Ruby had been the one thing that had made sense in his life after…after. She’d taught him how to use his powers, been willing to listen when he needed it, and had sometimes even been able to make him forget that he was the last Winchester standing.
Sam sighed and pushed a hand through his hair, then froze as he heard the familiar rumble of the Impala’s engine. His gaze fell on the motel door, and a few minutes later the lock clicked. Dean stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.
Sam didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything at all, just watched as Dean shrugged off his coat and tossed the Impala’s keys onto the nightstand.
He smelled like smoke.
“I burned the rest of the dream root,” Dean said. He didn’t add, “…so you couldn’t use it on me again,” but he didn’t have to. Sam heard it just the same.
“Dean-”
“I get it,” Dean cut him off. “You were only trying to help. I get it.” He sighed and glanced away, looking uncomfortable. “How much did you see?”
Sam swallowed hard.
“Enough.”
Dean didn’t answer, just rubbed a weary hand over his face and moved to sit on the bed across from Sam’s. The silence lasted long enough that Sam was almost surprised when Dean broke it.
“There was a reason I didn’t want to talk about it.”
“I know.”
And he did. He knew why Dean didn’t want to talk about it now, the reason imprinted in his memory, in Technicolor, surround-sound, High-Def, wide-screen, and 3D. And he knew that Dean had just been trying to protect him, like he always did…but Sam didn’t need protecting anymore, even from this. He wished he hadn’t done it, but he had, and he couldn’t change that.
He waited, half expecting Dean to crack a joke that would make them both feel better, could almost hear him saying something like, “Dude, you could have at least changed the dream. You know, babes, a beach…”
But Dean didn’t say a word, and suddenly the few feet between them seemed like a lot more.
Dean had said he understood, though. It wasn’t the same as forgiveness, maybe, but it was close enough. Sam knew that if pushed, Dean would say he forgave him even if he didn’t mean it, but a part of Sam didn’t want to pretend that things were okay, because they weren’t.
As if he’d somehow read Sam’s mind, Dean gave a soft, hollow, humorless laugh, and shook his head.
“Man, things are messed up.”
“Yeah,” Sam agreed. They were.
He felt like they were part of giant chess match, and somehow, he and Dean had wound up on different sides of the board. It had never been that way before. It had always been them against the world…a team, friends, family, brothers. But now the world was in between them, pushing them apart.
There weren’t any words for what Dean had been through. And the idea that maybe things would never be the same, that maybe being brothers wasn’t gonna be enough this time…
There weren’t any words for that, either.
Fin
~*~*~*~*~
A/N: I hope you enjoyed it! Please let me know what you think!
Take care and God bless!
-Laughter
Author: LaughtersMelody
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural…but I refuse to give Dean back anyway. ;)
Genre: Angst
Pairing: None
Type: One-shot
Spoilers: Major spoilers for Wishful Thinking, and mentions of events from Dream A Little Dream, No Rest For The Wicked, Lazarus Rising, Metamorphosis, and I Know What You Did Last Summer.
Characters: Sam
Secondary Characters: Dean
Summary: Dean had said that he didn’t want to talk about it, that Sam could never understand. Sam just wishes he’d listened. Set in season four between Wishful Thinking, 4.08, and I Know What You Did Last Summer, 4.09.
A/N: Goodness, it’s been a while since I posted a Supernatural fic! This is one I actually started quite a while ago near the beginning of season four. We were learning so much about what Sam had actually been doing after Dean’s deal came due, and I was trying to figure out just what he was really thinking, and explore the strain in the brothers’ relationship. My favorite scene from Wishful Thinking was that one at the end, when Dean finally admitted that he remembered what had happened to him in the pit. Sam wanted to talk about it, but Dean refused…I couldn’t help wondering, what if Sam hadn’t let it go so easily?
I wrote most of this before “Heaven And Hell” aired, so there’s no mention of Dean breaking and torturing others, but I think it still works into canon pretty well…or you can consider it slightly AU. :)
A/N2: Without Jesus Christ I would be totally and utterly lost.
~*~*~*~*~
Good Intentions
He’d been trying to help.
Sam pressed his hands harder against his eyes in a useless attempt to drive out the images now forever seared into his memory.
A weirdly detached part his brain reminded him of all the sayings about good intentions and curiosity killing cats, and he realized how true both really were. Good intentions could pave a road you weren’t willing to travel, and curiosity did kill the cat, or in this case, the Winchester.
Only, it hadn’t killed him exactly, just made him wish that it had. Anything had to be better than this, better than seeing his brother’s brutal torture repeating in an endless loop every time he closed his eyes. He should have listened to Dean, shouldn’t have been so sure he could help, shouldn’t have decided that if there weren’t words to describe what Dean had been through, then he’d just have to see if for himself…in Dean’s subconscious.
He’d never told Dean that he’d kept the rest of the dream root, and he’d never planned to use it for that, for eavesdropping on his brother’s dreams without his permission. But when he’d woken up to hear Dean trapped in yet another nightmare, brokenly whispering “no” over and over again…the decision had barely been a decision at all.
Dean couldn’t carry the weight of those memories alone, nobody could, and sooner or later, that weight was gonna crush him beneath it. Sam couldn’t let that happen. He’d had just gotten his brother back, and even if things weren’t the same, even if Dean wasn’t the same, it was still Dean and Sam wasn’t gonna lose him again.
So he’d snuck out and gotten the dream root from the trunk. It hadn’t been hard to slip some into Dean’s beer the next day, and that night, he’d found a few stray hairs on Dean’s leather jacket, mixed some tea for himself, and downed it.
A few minutes later, his eyes had snapped open and he’d barely made it to the bathroom before he wretched violently, his stomach in tight, painful knots, unchecked tears streaming down his cheeks. He’d thrown up until there was nothing left, then dry-heaved some more before finally collapsing, exhausted. He’d managed to crawl over to the corner between the bathtub and the wall, and sat there now, shoulders shaking, a hand pressed against his mouth to try to stifle his sobs.
Dean was right.
There were no words.
Horrific, terrifying, appalling…there wasn’t anything in the dictionary that even came close, that even touched a fraction of what he’d seen. And somehow, he knew what he’d seen was just a tiny piece, just one, short glimpse of what Dean had been through.
Blood, darkness, fire, and pain replayed behind Sam’s eyes again, making him flinch. The screams were the worst though…the utterly hopeless, agonized cries of untold billions, but one scream in particular, Dean’s scream, resonated in his ears. Just like that the nausea returned full-force and Sam lurched forward, grabbing the rim of the toilet bowl hard enough that his knuckles were white. His stomach clenched, choking him, and he gagged.
“Sam?” Dean’s worried voice made Sam start in surprise, and he looked up before he could stop himself. Guilt tightened his chest when he saw the concern on his brother’s face. Whatever else had changed, Dean would still try to help, to make everything better. But he couldn’t. Not this time. Not anymore.
“Sam, what’s wrong?” Dean demanded, stepping closer.
Sam swallowed hard and shook his head, not trusting his voice to cooperate, not sure what he could say if it did.
When the nausea had settled down a little, Dean helped him back down to the floor, and Sam closed his eyes, leaning into the cold tile behind him, trying not to think about fire and burning and endless heat.
It didn’t surprise him when Dean spoke again.
“Sam?” he asked.
“It was just a nightmare,” Sam answered finally, forcing himself to open his eyes so he could meet Dean’s gaze, hating the fact that he was lying again, but not willing to tell Dean the truth.
“Must have been some nightmare.”
Dean’s voice was casual, but Sam didn’t miss the edge in it. Not suspicious, thankfully, but strained, uneasy. Nightmares weren’t something Dean wanted talk about.
As soon as that thought crossed his mind, Sam flinched again and his eyes darted away.
He should have known that would be enough, that Dean had stopped taking anything he said at face-value, was watching for signs that something was off -- and that realization hurt almost as much as the way Dean went rigid next to him, whole body tensing.
He watched as Dean turned to look back out at their room, and too late, Sam remembered the glass he’d used for the dream root. He knew Dean had seen it when he froze, then walked stiffly into their room to pick up the glass from the nightstand where it sat.
“Dream root,” Dean said flatly. “You used dream root.”
Sam wanted to say he was sorry, but he’d said that so much lately, and the words felt hollow, even to him.
He tried anyway.
“Dean, I’m-”
The only answer he got was the sound of the glass shattering against the motel room wall.
~*~*~*~*~
Dean hadn’t said a word.
After he’d thrown the glass, his hands had just raked through his hair roughly, before they’d clenched into fists at his sides. Sam had braced himself for a blow, but instead, Dean had closed his eyes, a muscle twitching along his jaw, and his fingers had slowly, deliberately uncurled.
Then he’d grabbed his jacket and slammed the door behind him.
That had been five hours ago.
And with every hour that passed, something in Sam’s chest tightened just a little more.
He’d always been the one to walk away, always been the one who’d done the leaving and never the one who’d been left.
Until Dean had died. Then he’d been left behind, alone, and he’d hated every second of it, hated how lost he’d felt. But he’d had to keep fighting, had to keep going, and it had taken him a while, but he’d found a way to do it.
It hadn’t been perfect, but it was the only thing that worked, the one way he could make evil pay for what it taken from him, from them.
It had meant breaking his promise, but Dean had been gone, and breaking his promise was worth it, more than worth it, if only because every demon he took down brought him one step closer to Lilith.
Then Dean had come back.
Dean had come back, and Sam had felt even more lost than before.
He’d had to face it then, the fact that he’d have to tell Dean everything eventually. He’d put it off for as long as he could, but then an angel had stepped in, and Dean had seen the truth for himself. Some of the truth, anyway.
Sam glanced at the clock on the nightstand and realized another hour had passed, an hour filled with just his thoughts and no one to interrupt them.
Dean had never let that happen. Dean had always known when -- Sam paused, realizing he’d been thinking about Dean in the past-tense. He’d forced himself to do that before, forced himself to remember Dean in terms of had and used to and would never, because thoughts of Dean with has and does and will had slowly been driving him insane.
But he didn’t have to do that now because Dean was back…only he wasn’t back, not really. That’s why it was up to Sam to do what had to be done, because Dean couldn’t anymore.
That particular thought was enough to remind him why Dean was gone, and his breath caught in his throat, the images he saw in Dean’s dream flashing before his eyes over and over again like a video stuck on instant-replay.
Somehow, he’d thought that he’d be able to deal with whatever he would see -- with the nightmares he’d had after Jess, the visions, the hounds…he thought he’d seen it all.
He’d been wrong, so absolutely, totally, incredibly wrong.
As a kid, he’d always believed that Dean could beat anyone, face anything, and win. But as an adult, he knew better. He’d learned the hard way that his big brother wasn’t invincible, as much as he liked to pretend he was.
Dean could fail. He could break. He could die.
Sam had seen all three, and sometimes, he wasn’t sure which one was the worst. Then he’d remember the growling of the hounds mixed with his brother’s screams, and he knew.
But even that was nothing compared to what he’d seen in Dean’s nightmare…in his memories, and Sam resisted the urge to fold in on himself, to shut his eyes tightly, wishing he could somehow purge those pictures from his mind.
But he couldn’t. Those images would be right there, forever, like Dean had said.
The thing was though, somehow, even knowing what he did now, maybe because of it, the hardest part was that Dean had been right. Dean had been right. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say, nothing that could make this better -- and that fact ate at Sam, made him feel like someone had put a vice around his chest and squeezed. He was helpless all over again, just as helpless as he’d been that night, pinned against the wall, forced to watch as his big brother was ripped apart in front of him.
Dean couldn’t help him, the one who’d always been able to fix everything, who’d always made things better, couldn’t fix this, couldn’t fix himself.
But maybe Sam could. If he was strong enough, maybe he could find a way to make things okay again. He just needed more time…
Resentment slowly bubbled up inside Sam at the thought, and he tried to force it back down where it belonged. It didn’t make any sense, it was stupid and ridiculous, and Sam had berated himself for it time and time again, for being anything other than happy that Dean was back, that he was alive, but it didn’t change what he felt.
He was glad to have Dean back, he was, but sometimes…sometimes he wondered where he would be if Dean had stayed gone, just a little longer. What if another month was all he’d needed? What if just a few more weeks would have made him strong enough to take out Lilith?
Deep down, Sam didn’t blame Dean for being worried, knew that he should be terrified of the way he’d changed over the last four months, the last year, but he pushed that fear away, clamped down on it and locked it away.
He was doing what he had to do. He’d never wanted this, never asked for it…but he could use it. What the yellow-eyed demon had meant for evil, he could use for good. Why couldn’t Dean understand that? Ruby did. Somehow, Ruby had been the one thing that had made sense in his life after…after. She’d taught him how to use his powers, been willing to listen when he needed it, and had sometimes even been able to make him forget that he was the last Winchester standing.
Sam sighed and pushed a hand through his hair, then froze as he heard the familiar rumble of the Impala’s engine. His gaze fell on the motel door, and a few minutes later the lock clicked. Dean stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.
Sam didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything at all, just watched as Dean shrugged off his coat and tossed the Impala’s keys onto the nightstand.
He smelled like smoke.
“I burned the rest of the dream root,” Dean said. He didn’t add, “…so you couldn’t use it on me again,” but he didn’t have to. Sam heard it just the same.
“Dean-”
“I get it,” Dean cut him off. “You were only trying to help. I get it.” He sighed and glanced away, looking uncomfortable. “How much did you see?”
Sam swallowed hard.
“Enough.”
Dean didn’t answer, just rubbed a weary hand over his face and moved to sit on the bed across from Sam’s. The silence lasted long enough that Sam was almost surprised when Dean broke it.
“There was a reason I didn’t want to talk about it.”
“I know.”
And he did. He knew why Dean didn’t want to talk about it now, the reason imprinted in his memory, in Technicolor, surround-sound, High-Def, wide-screen, and 3D. And he knew that Dean had just been trying to protect him, like he always did…but Sam didn’t need protecting anymore, even from this. He wished he hadn’t done it, but he had, and he couldn’t change that.
He waited, half expecting Dean to crack a joke that would make them both feel better, could almost hear him saying something like, “Dude, you could have at least changed the dream. You know, babes, a beach…”
But Dean didn’t say a word, and suddenly the few feet between them seemed like a lot more.
Dean had said he understood, though. It wasn’t the same as forgiveness, maybe, but it was close enough. Sam knew that if pushed, Dean would say he forgave him even if he didn’t mean it, but a part of Sam didn’t want to pretend that things were okay, because they weren’t.
As if he’d somehow read Sam’s mind, Dean gave a soft, hollow, humorless laugh, and shook his head.
“Man, things are messed up.”
“Yeah,” Sam agreed. They were.
He felt like they were part of giant chess match, and somehow, he and Dean had wound up on different sides of the board. It had never been that way before. It had always been them against the world…a team, friends, family, brothers. But now the world was in between them, pushing them apart.
There weren’t any words for what Dean had been through. And the idea that maybe things would never be the same, that maybe being brothers wasn’t gonna be enough this time…
There weren’t any words for that, either.
Fin
~*~*~*~*~
A/N: I hope you enjoyed it! Please let me know what you think!
Take care and God bless!
-Laughter