Title: Coda to Born Under A Bad Sign
Rating: R (language, massive angst)
Fandom(s): Supernatural
Characters: Dean and Sammy
Pairing: none
Spoilers: up through Born Under A Bad Sign
Genre: Drama
Disclaimer: Not mine, sadly. :(
Summary: Sometimes, things break and you can't fix them...



A/N: Unbetaed. Was thinking about Born Under A Bad Sign and came to a realization. Which turned into the angstiest thing I've ever written. Left a bad taste in my mouth when I was done, and I almost didn't post it. But then I did. Mainly because as soon as I came to the realization (which I'm sure is just due to the writers' need for different bits of drama in different episodes) I couldn't stop thinking about it, and I'm hoping this gets it out of my system. If that makes any sense. Anyway, y'all have been warned.

Coda

“You know, if you’re going to make a habit out of this kind of thing, I’m gonna have to invest in some Kevlar.” Dean winced as he stripped off his shirt, peeling it away from his shoulder.

“Is it bad? Can I—” Sam started to ease the bathroom door open and Dean kicked it shut on him. Sam waited for all of one second before trying again. “Just let me look, Dean, ple—”

This time, Dean snapped the lock when he pushed the door shut. He heard Sam try the knob and felt a mean stab of satisfaction slice through him. Then jumped as Sam pounded his hand against the door. “Don’t do this, Dean. Don’t shut me out.”

“Take a walk, Sam.”

“I can help, I—”

“Oh, I think you’ve already helped enough for one day.” Dean heard the bitterness in his voice and couldn’t control it. This was the second time the little fucker had gotten himself possessed and shot him, for crying out loud. He was trying to take it easy on his brother because he knew it wasn’t really Sam’s fault, but it was so fucking hard. And he really couldn’t deal with that hangdog expression and woeful, puppy eyes anymore. Not tonight.

Dean waited for Sam to answer him, expected his brother to plead a little more before he finally gave in, but there was only silence from the other side of the door. He edged a little closer to it, shirt held loosely in one hand, and heard the front door slam. Hunh. Kid had actually taken the hint for once. Things were looking up.

He turned back to the mirror and grimaced at his reflection. His shoulder was caked with blood: the bandage Jo had slapped down over the bullet wound soaked black and twisted askew. Which was what tended to happen when some asshole dug their thumb around in there like they were rooting for gold. Sam had fucked the muscle up: Dean could tell from the heavy weakness that was practically paralyzing his entire arm.

Or maybe Dean had done that himself when he insisted on driving here. Fucking moron. He’d known when he slipped behind the wheel that he had no business driving with his arm like this, but he’d done it anyway. He’d done it because if he’d been stuck sitting in the passenger’s seat with nothing to do but think about the incredibly screwed up week he’d just had, he would’ve actually said the words that had been swimming around his mind ever since Jo fished him out of the water.

Dean grunted and tossed his shirt in the trashcan. That bloodstain wasn’t coming out, and it was a little too large to be glibly explained away. Waste of a perfectly good shirt, really, but they couldn’t afford to draw attention to themselves.

He did his best to clean out the wound, despite the pain and the fact that he didn’t really want to look at it. Even without a thorough inspection, however, it was obvious that he’d be lucky if it healed up right. The bullet sure as hell hadn’t done him a world of good, but round two—with Sam’s hand clamping down as hard as the demon could manage—had torn the wound into a ragged hole almost an inch wide.

He should’ve had Bobby fix him up, but he’d been in too much pain to even think about messing around with his shoulder just yet, and he’d waved off the offer with a quick grin and a promise that Sam would see to it as soon as they stopped for the night. Hah. As though Dean was letting his brother anywhere near his shoulder again.

It wasn’t him, he reminded himself. You fucking know it wasn’t him, so what’s the problem?

“The problem’s that it looked like him, is what,” he answered aloud, softly. “The problem’s…” He cut that one off before he could say it. Refused to even let the thought slip through his head again. This whole fucking situation was bad enough already; he didn’t need to add to it.

Still, if he wasn’t going to let Sam help, he should really drive himself over to a hospital and get stitched up. From what he could see, the docs would probably have to do both an internal and an external set: the muscle was shredded enough that it wouldn’t knit together properly otherwise.

Dean tore his eyes away from his shoulder, turning his back on the mirror. He’d better go now; the longer he waited, the less they’d be able to do for him. If Sam had taken the Impala with him when he left—better not have run off with my car again—he’d just have to call a cab.

Dean sighed and fished his shirt out of the trashcan: no sense ruining another one. After a few minutes of trying to fumble his arm back into the sleeve, he gave up and draped it loosely over his shoulders instead. He eyed himself in the mirror. Yeah, looked like shit, which was pretty much par for the course these days. Maybe he could get Sam to take a few weeks off, just until he stopped looking so much like something that had been dead for a couple of months.

Unlocking the door, Dean stepped out into the room and shifted his good hand up to hold the shirt closed. It was a measure of how much pain he was in and how tired he really was that it took him almost a full minute to realize that Sam was sitting in a chair by the window, staring at him.

Dean resisted the urge to dive back into the bathroom, planting his feet instead. “Thought you went out.”

“I know.”

Tricky little bitch. Sam had slammed the door to their room deliberately, trying to draw Dean out into the open. Which was where he was right now, damnit. Just keep going and don’t…don’t say anything you’re gonna regret, okay, Winchester?

Good advice. Dean turned his back on his brother while he scooped his keys up from the table and shoved them in his pocket. “I’m going out for a while. Try and get some sleep.”

“Going out?” Sam was up in an instant, moving to stand between Dean and the door. “Where the hell are you planning on going, Dean?”

“A bar. Disneyworld. Acapulco.” He gave a harsh laugh. “What the fuck’s it to you, Sammy?”

Warning bells were going off in Dean’s head, ordering him to run now before he said anything else, but the anger that had been simmering ever since Sam had pulled the trigger was coursing through him, fixing him to the spot.

Sam’s eyes dropped a little. “I can…you don’t need to go, Dean. I’ll get another room, okay?”

Oh, Christ on a motherfucking cross. “You’ll stay here where I can keep an eye on you. Now get the fuck out of my way.”

Sam raised his head, glancing at Dean’s shoulder and away again. “It’s your shoulder, isn’t it?”

“Shoulder’s fine, Sam. Just peachy. Now move.”

But Sam only shifted his weight a little. “Please. Don’t shut me out, man. Don’t…” He swallowed, eyes tearing, and it only fed the fire. Because what right did Sam have to feel sorry for himself, after what he’d done, after…No. Really not going there.

Dean forced himself to take a shuddering breath, counted to ten and back down again. “Not now, Sam. I can’t…I can’t really deal with you right now, okay?” And suddenly he was pleading, begging like some weak kid. Don’t make me say it, Sammy. If I don’t say it, it isn’t true. Please, just…for once in your life, just let this go.

“I know, and I’m…” Sam trailed off, swallowing.

Sorry. You’re sorry. Say it, you asshole. But Sam didn’t, the word was stuck in his throat, and that was just. Fucking. It.

“You’re what, Sammy? Hunh? You’re what?”

Sam’s eyes widened and he shuffled back a few steps as Dean advanced on him. “Dean, I—”

“You what? Go ahead, Sammy. Say it.”

“What’s wrong with you, man, I—”

“What’s wrong with me?” Dean snorted laughter and let the shirt drop from his shoulders, let Sam get a look at his handiwork. “You turned my shoulder into a fucking piece of hamburger, Sam.”

“Dean, I couldn’t…I tried, but I couldn’t stop it. I wasn’t…wasn’t strong enough.”

“No, you weren’t. And why is that, Sam? Hunh?”

Sam’s throat was working; his eyes locked on Dean’s shoulder, which was sluggishly leaking more blood now that Dean had washed the wound out again.

For a second, Dean thought he’d be able to drop it, that he could just push past Sam and get out of this room before he let this go any further. He could see the precipice now—hell, he was leaning over the fucking edge—but he didn’t have to take that last step. If he left, if he left right now, they could drop it, pretend it had never happened. But his thoughts were fogged with a red, sullen glare, and it was already too late. It had been too late ever since the realization first slammed into him with the speed of a bullet.

“You want to tell me how come you shot me—twice, now? You wanna tell me why you would’ve put a bullet in my brain back in Rockford?”

“Ellicott…”

“Fuck Ellicott. And fuck you, too, Sam. Dad stopped.”

And there it was, laid out simple and flat and fucking naked between them. Dad had bled him from the inside out, sure, but Dad had also stopped. Dad had cared about him enough to stop, even when that son of a bitch was inside him: a demon stronger than Meg’s, stronger than anything else they’d faced, and Dad had fought it down. Had stopped.

Sam looked stunned and hurt, as though Dean had just sucker punched him. Which, in a way, Dean guessed that he had. Sam probably hadn’t thought that he was smart enough to put two and two together and come up with four. Or he’d expected Dean to just shut up and take it the way he took everything else. But Dean only took everything else because none of it mattered. Because none of that shit was worth a damn thing.

They don’t need you, not like you need them.

Those words echoing back around, words that he’d almost managed to convince himself were a lie. Words he knew were a lie, in Dad’s case, because the proof was in the purchase, wasn’t it? And Dad had paid the highest price he could for Dean: too fucking high in Dean’s opinion. But Sam—Sam, who Dean had cut himself up over, had bled for, had killed for—couldn’t be bothered. It hadn’t been important enough for him to stop himself.

Dean hadn’t been important enough.

Dean waited for a few minutes while Sam worked through it. He waited for his brother to argue. To come up with some kind of explanation, no matter how weak. But Sam just stared at him, face slipping from shock into a slack, empty expression, and finally Dean couldn’t take it anymore.

“I’ll be back whenever,” he said. The words came out soft, almost gentle: his anger was gone suddenly, replaced by a dull throb in his chest that hurt more than his shoulder ever had.

Sam didn’t move as Dean walked out. Didn’t call him back as Dean shut the door behind himself.

He got as far as the Impala before his legs stopped working, and then he leaned his back against the freezing metal. Let the night air wash over his bare chest, raising goose bumps, numbing him. Stared up at the stars, cold and remote.

I would’ve stopped, Sammy.

And the most fucked up, horrible part of the entire mess was that even now, knowing what he did, Dean would still stop. He’d always stop. He’d stop until Sam stopped him, and then everything would finally be quiet. And God and Dad please forgive him, but that day couldn’t come soon enough.

Continue on to the Tag to the Coda