trans_9 | On Your Feet, Soldier [R for Cussing] [Closed]

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On Your Feet, Soldier [R for Cussing] [Closed]

After driving himself crazy with the hand-eye coordination work--i.e. tracing shapes--that Dr. Grey had given him to work on, Sam needed a break. Unfortunately, when you have been injured, are in recovery, and your last name just so happens to be Winchester, a 'break' means getting your butt working on something else so that you hurry up and get better. The fact that he was trapped on an insane ship full of life-threatening situations around every corner--Yeerks? Giant Roaches?--just made it all the more imperative that Sam recover even more quickly.

So, instead of hand-eye coordination, Sam was on his feet--in a sense--working on coordinating his walking. The medbay had somehow grown a set of railings for Sam to use for this very purpose. While he wasn't completely incapacitated--he could move his legs rather easily, after all--it was still difficult for him to control just where his feet landed, or how they landed. So it made balancing on his own two feet a struggle. This is what he was working on.

He moved in the space between the railings with his hands hovering over the beams--ready to catch himself if he stumbled--while he took slow, gradual steps, focusing his attention on controlling his stride. Dean sitting on one of the beds, staring, didn't help.

"Dude, you're doing it again," Sam said, slightly irritated.

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"Oh."

Sam hoisted himself up onto his bed, shifting for a moment to get comfortable.

"So, uh, are we gonna talk about what happened? You know, with you and Hell and...everything."

If Dean had had a drink to spit out, he would've. Instead, he turns to look at Sam, expression surprised. He really wasn't expecting that, not at all.

He needs alcohol for this kind of talk, he thinks.

"... What's there to talk about?" Dean stalls, looking everywhere but at Sam, expression of shock fading into a blank look.

"Oh, I don't know," Sam said sarcastically. "How about what it was like? How long were you down there? Or how about why an angel pulled you out?"

Ooh, was that a wince, Dean? Looking vaguely irritated, he swings himself off his bed and stands, though he doesn't know exactly what he's going to do once he's up.

"Oh, it was just so much fun, Sam," Dean replies just as sarcastically. He's done this once already, and this time, he has no patience. "Four months for you is what you told me, but for me, it was forty. I spent forty years in the Pit, and it was just fantastic. Y'know, in between having my skin ripped off repeatedly using nothing but meathooks and having my eyes gouged out with rusted metal."

Dean's not facing Sam, staring resolutely at the wall. He doesn't answer the angel question, because he's trying really hard not to think.

Sam just sits, quietly listening to Dean as he finally starts to tell him about what he went through, what--apparently--Dean will go through when and if Sam gets sent back to his point in time. He watches Dean for only a few seconds before his eyes turn to a blank space on the floor.

Dean has made his way over to a stool next to Sam's bed, and he collapses into it now, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, kneading his forehead.

"That's not even the whole truth, Sammy." Dean mumbles, using his nickname for his little brother in a weary tone. When he speaks next, he doesn't stop, like he's trying to get it all out. "Every day, when the demon was finished with me, he'd tell me he'd take me off the rack if I tortured souls instead. I told him no."

And then he pauses, with a deep breath. "I told him no for thirty years."

Sam was bewildered by that last statement and the creases in his forehead showed it.

"I don't understand, I thought you said you were down there for forty years?"

"Yeah. I was."

Dean is quiet for a long moment. When he finally speaks, his voice shakes.

"For thirty years, I told him no. And then... then I couldn't. I got off the rack. Sammy, I... the things that I did to those souls, I..."

He doesn't move, but his shoulders are shaking. Going through this for the second time, he didn't think it'd be as bad. But it is.

To say Sam was shocked would be an understatement. Dean was always--on the surface anyway--the strong one. He was always gun-ho about what they did. When he made a decision, he didn't debate it, didn't question, he just did it and seemed to know that it was the right decision. He was also stubborn as all hell. So to not only hear that his big brother had been broken but also to hear in his voice the guilt that weighed Dean down, the questioning, went against everything Sam had believed.

He swallowed a lump in his throat. "It's not your fault, Dean. You didn't do anything wrong."

There's a bit of a strangled laugh that comes out of Dean's mouth at that, though he cuts it off quickly. He hasn't looked at Sam through the entire explanation, and his voice is strained.

"Don't say that," He says, trying to swallow down another laugh; he must be going crazy, he thinks. "Don't say that, because it's not true. Every bit of that is wrong. Nothing I do... nothing I do can change how wrong it is."

"You said they tortured you for thirty years, Dean. They tore you apart then put you back together so they could do it again. There's only so much of that anyone can take before they finally crack. You're not responsible for that. You weren't yourself."

"I enjoyed it, Sam." Dean says quietly. "I enjoyed every minute of it. Every soul I ripped apart, every person that I cut and burned."

He's trying to be inconspicuous about wiping away the tears dripping down his face, though he's not sure if he's successful.

"I don't know why the angels pulled me out. I don't see why they put in the effort."

Sam was stunned into silence. He didn't know what to say, which was rare for him. Comforting people had always come easily to Sam, but this was different. Not because it was Dean but because Sam felt responsible for it. If Dean hadn't sold his soul to save him, to bring him back from the dead, he never would have been sent down to Hell. He never would have been subjected to thirty years of torture. He never would have...

Sam leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. He has no idea what to say. What can he say?

It's almost like Dean can't breathe, suddenly; the atmosphere in the room is tense, guilty, out of control, and Dean is trying to fight the urge to run away and never come back.

It's silent between the two of them, Dean suffocating in his guilt and memories, Sam unable to really help. And finally, Dean stands up, paces to the other side of the room, and sits on the bed he'd been at before, back to Sam.

He won't leave, though, because Sam might need him.

Sam swallows a lump in his throat before breaking the silence.

"There has be a way we can stop it, he said. "Keep you from going."

"If I don't go, you die. Not gonna happen, Sam." Dean says flatly.

"Yeah, I die and what, Dean, got to Heaven? Yeah, that'd be a disaster. You die and you go to Hell, Dean. And you just told me what happens to you down there. They tear you apart for thirty years, Dean. What the heck do you expect me to do? Just sit back and let you fall on your sword for me and pretend every is all candy canes and lollipops?"

Dean turns and scowls at Sam, now. "Damn straight I expect you to do that. I'm not gonna sit and let you die when I coulda done something. And it wouldn't make any difference for me. I've already been."

There's a thousand things running through his head that he wants to say, but he won't; he knows they won't go over well. What if the demon blood doesn't let you go to Heaven? and I'm not doing this shit by myself and I'd rather go to Hell and come back fucked up than let you die don't even begin to pick at the surface.

"How the hell is this any different, Dean? It's not ok for me to die--like I was supposed to--but it's ok for you to do it and go to Hell. How does logic work?"

He paused and looked his brother dead in the eye.

"Dean, if you know something--anything--about how I can get you outta this deal, you've gotta tell me."

"You weren't supposed to die. Not like that. And the logic works because I'm oldest, and I fucking say so." Dean says angrily, gripping at the bed again, too tightly.

"I don't know, Sam. We tried everything, alright? Cas was the only thing strong enough to pull me outta the Pit. Trust me, they don't give a shit about us, they won't help."

"You're the oldest so you're automatically right?" Sam said. The sympathy was gone and was now replaced with anger.

"That's bullshit and you know it, Dean. How the hell can you sit there and tell me that I can't do anything? After everything we've been through, after Madison, and Jessica, and Dad...how the hell can you even ask me to just not do anything and let you..."

He paused, his jaw flexing and relaxing repeatedly as he tried to calm himself. "It was supposed to be me, Dean."

"That's how it is, yeah. Mind your damned elders." Dean replies, irritated.

"You're twisting things around, Sam, I didn't say that. You can do things fine, fuck, you can do stuff better than I can, but that doesn't change a god-damned thing."

Dean's angry, sure, but more than that, there's just a sort of tired sound to his voice, underlying it.

"Think about it, Sammy. What if you were going to Hell instead? Would you just let me die so you wouldn't have to go to Hell?"

"That's not the point, Dean!" Sam countered. He slid off the bed and hobbled up to his brother. "I knew Jessica was gonna die weeks before it happened. Remember? And I didn't do anything. I just told myself it was a stupid nightmare. Then it happened. And now you expect me to do the same damn thing all over again? Only this time it's worse. And all because you say so?"

He stood over Dean, trying to be intimidating. Which, given Sam's height and build, might have worked had he not been unsteady on his feet at the time...and had it not been Dean he was trying to intimidate.

"I was supposed to die, Dean, and you took my place. But that's ok because Dean says so. Well BULLSHIT!! If I thought Stacy wouldn't stop me, I'd kick your ass right here, right now."

Dean looks surprised that Sam's off the bed, and he's about to snap at him to go sit back down, but jesus, he's in Dean's face. And just because Sam is taller doesn't mean Dean's backing down, not by a longshot. In fact, those are fighting words, and they only piss Dean off further.

"It is the fucking point! You wanna know why?" Dean fumes, doing everything to stop himself from shoving Sam. "Because it's not fucking worth it! You die, Sammy, I got no point, nothing! Dad's dead, Mom's gone-- you're the only family I got left."

Dean's not as tall as Sam, but he's still managing to stand his ground. "Go ahead, do it. If you think you can punch me because of something you know you'd do if you were in the same position, do it."

Sam stands still, visibly fuming as he glares down at his brother and clenches his fist tightly as if he were readying for a brawl. Instead, he simply takes another step forward, swaying as he got even further in Dean's face.

"Yeah, and you're all I got left, too. So where the hell does that leave me?"

On Your Feet, Soldier [R for Cussing] [Closed]

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