Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sam Winchester had always been good at keeping it together. Too good, maybe. While Dean punched walls and drank himself stupid, Sam swallowed it down. Kept his head up. Stayed rational.

But there was only so much a person could take.

It started with the demon blood. His fault, they said. Then the seals breaking. His fault. Lucifer walking free. His fault. The apocalypse. His fault. Every single time something went wrong, every time the world teetered on the edge of destruction, somehow it all came back to him.

Dean's eyes, cold and accusing. Bobby's disappointed silence. Castiel's judgment wrapped in angelic righteousness. Even strangers—hunters who'd never met him—knew his name like a curse word.

Sam tried to explain. Tried to apologize. Tried to make it right. But it was never enough. The blame kept piling up, crushing him under its weight until he couldn't breathe.

And then one day, in some shitty motel room that looked exactly like every other shitty motel room, something inside him just... snapped.

He didn't punch a wall. He didn't drink. He just stood there, trembling, as years of guilt and rage and exhaustion finally broke through. His hands shook. His vision blurred. And for the first time in forever, Sam Winchester stopped holding it together.

He screamed. He cried. He threw things and broke things and said every bitter thought he'd been choking on for years.

Dean had been outside getting ice. Just ice. Gone maybe five minutes.

He heard the crash through the door before he even got the key in the lock.

"Sam?"

No answer. Just another crash. Something shattering.

Dean dropped the ice bucket and shoved through the door, gun already in his hand because that's what you did—you heard a fight, you came in ready.

But there was no demon. No monster. Just Sam.

Sam, who was ripping the lamp off the nightstand and hurling it across the room. Sam, whose face was red and twisted and wet. Sam, who was making sounds Dean had never heard him make—raw, guttural, animal sounds that didn't even sound like words.

"Whoa, hey—" Dean started forward, hands up.

"DON'T!" Sam's voice cracked on the word. He grabbed the chair and slammed it into the wall once, twice, until the wood splintered. "Don't you DARE—"

"Sam, what the hell—"

"SHUT UP!" Sam spun on him, and Dean actually took a step back. His brother's eyes were wild, red-rimmed, barely focused. "Just shut up, Dean! I don't want to hear it! I don't want to hear how I screwed up or how it's my fault or how disappointed you are or—"

His voice broke completely. He stood there, chest heaving, surrounded by broken furniture and shattered glass, and then his legs just... gave out.

Dean watched his brother crumple to the floor like a puppet with cut strings.

Dean stood frozen for maybe three seconds. Then his legs moved on autopilot, carrying him across the wreckage until he was crouching down next to Sam. Not touching. Just... there.

"Sam. Talk to me."

Sam laughed. It was an ugly sound, bitter and sharp. "Talk to you? That's rich."

"I'm serious—"

"You're always serious!" Sam's head snapped up. His eyes were bloodshot, furious. "You're always so goddamn serious about how I fucked everything up!"

Dean blinked. "What are you—"

"Don't play dumb!" Sam's voice climbed higher. "The demon blood? My fault! The seals? My fault! Lucifer? My fault! Every single disaster, every apocalypse, every person who died—it all comes back to me, doesn't it? Sam Winchester, the screw-up. Sam Winchester, who can't do anything right. Sam Winchester, who ruins everything he touches!"

"Sam, I never said—"

"You didn't have to!" The words exploded out of him. "I can see it, Dean! Every time you look at me, I can see it! The disappointment. The anger. The way you wish I'd just made different choices, been a different person, been more like you!" He was shaking now, his whole body vibrating with rage and grief. "And you know what the worst part is? You're right! You're absolutely right! I can't do anything without destroying it! I try to help and people die! I try to fix things and they get worse! I'm a walking disaster and everyone knows it!"

Dean's jaw tightened. His first instinct was to argue—to say "that's not true" or "stop being dramatic" or something equally useless. But the words stuck in his throat because part of him knew Sam wasn't entirely wrong.

He had blamed Sam. Maybe not out loud every time, but yeah. He'd blamed him.

"Okay," Dean said finally.

Sam's head jerked up. "Okay? That's all you've got? Okay?"

"What do you want me to say?" Dean's voice came out harder than he meant it to. "You want me to lie? Tell you none of it was your fault when we both know—" He stopped himself, but too late.

Sam's face crumpled. "Get out."

"Sam—"

"Get OUT!" Sam's voice cracked again. "Just leave! You're so good at that anyway!"

Dean felt his own anger flare. "Oh, that's real nice. I'm trying here—"

"Trying what? To make me feel worse? Mission accomplished!"

"I'm trying not to bullshit you!" Dean shot back. "You want me to pat your head and say everything's fine? It's not fine! Yeah, you made mistakes! Big ones! But you think I haven't?" He stood up, pacing now, because sitting still made him feel like his skin was too tight. "You think I don't blame myself for every person I couldn't save? For Dad? For letting you drink that blood in the first place?"

"This isn't about you!"

"It's always about both of us!" Dean spun around. "That's the problem, Sam! We're so busy drowning in guilt we can't see straight!" He dragged a hand down his face. "Look, I don't... I'm not good at this. The talking thing. You know that."

"Yeah. I know."

The silence stretched between them, sharp and uncomfortable.

Dean looked at his brother—really looked at him. Sam was still on the floor, surrounded by broken things, looking like he'd been hollowed out. And Dean realized he had no idea what to say to fix this.

So he didn't try to fix it.

He just sat back down on the floor, a few feet away, and said, "I'm not leaving."

Sam's laugh was hollow. "Great. So you're just gonna sit there and watch me fall apart. That's your big plan?"

"If that's what it takes."

"God, you're so—" Sam pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "You still don't get it."

"Then explain it to me."

"I just did!" Sam's hands dropped. "You think I made mistakes. Big ones. You said it yourself."

"Yeah, and?"

"And you still think it was all me!" Sam's voice rose again. "The seals, Dean. Sixty-six seals. I broke one. ONE. Who broke the other sixty-five? Who started it all by breaking the first seal in Hell?"

Dean's jaw clenched. "That's not—"

"That's not what? Fair?" Sam's eyes blazed. "You broke the first seal. You. And yeah, I know why, I know what they did to you down there, but you don't get to carry that and then dump the rest on me like I'm the only one who screwed up!"

"I never said—"

"Lilith was going to break that final seal no matter what!" Sam was on his knees now, leaning forward. "With me or without me. Ruby played me, yeah. I own that. But you act like I personally handed Lucifer the keys when there were dozens of seals broken by dozens of people and you were one of them!"

Dean felt like he'd been punched. "So this is about Hell? About what I did?"

"No!" Sam's frustration bled through every word. "It's about you acting like you're the only one allowed to make mistakes! Like when you screw up, it's tragic. When I screw up, it's proof I'm broken!"

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Nothing came out.

Because Sam was right.

The realization hit him like cold water. All this time, he'd been carrying his guilt like a badge—proof he cared, proof he tried. But Sam's guilt? That was different. That was evidence. Evidence that Sam was dangerous. Untrustworthy. Wrong.

"I..." Dean's voice came out rough. "Shit."

Sam stared at him, waiting.

"You're right." The words tasted like ash. "I've been... God, I've been a hypocrite."

"Yeah." Sam's voice was flat, exhausted. "You have."

Dean looked down at his hands. Hands that had tortured souls in Hell. Hands that broke the first seal. "I don't know how to not blame you."

At least it was honest.

Sam flinched like he'd been hit, but Dean kept going because stopping now would be worse.

"It's easier," Dean said quietly. "Blaming you. Because if it's your fault, then I can... I can fix it. I can watch you, control you, keep you from screwing up again. But if it's both of us? If we're both drowning?" He shook his head. "Then I don't know what to do. And I hate not knowing what to do."

Sam was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "I'm so tired, Dean."

"I know."

"No, you don't." Sam's eyes met his. "I'm tired of being the problem. I'm tired of apologizing. I'm tired of hating myself because everyone else does too."

"I don't hate you."

"You sure about that?"

Dean wanted to say yes immediately. But the word stuck. Because hadn't there been moments? Moments when he looked at Sam and felt nothing but anger and betrayal and bitter disappointment?

"Sometimes," Dean admitted, and watched Sam's face crumble. "Sometimes I do. And I hate that I do. But Sam..." He leaned forward. "Most of the time? I'm just scared."

"Of what?"

"Of losing you. Again." Dean's throat tightened. "Every time you make a choice I don't understand, every time you go left when I think you should go right, I panic. Because what if that's the choice that takes you away from me? What if I can't save you this time?"

"So you blame me instead?"

"So I try to control you instead. And when that doesn't work..." Dean exhaled slowly. "Yeah. I blame you. Because that's easier than admitting I can't protect you from everything. Even yourself."

Sam's face twisted. "That's not fair."

"I know."

"No, Dean, you don't know!" Sam's voice cracked again, raw and desperate. "You don't get to make your issues into my problem! You're scared of losing me so you—what? You make me hate myself? You pile on the guilt until I can barely function? That's not protection, that's—" He struggled for the word. "That's abuse!"

The word hung in the air between them like a grenade.

Dean's face went white. "I never—"

"You did!" Sam was shaking again. "Maybe you didn't mean to, maybe you thought you were helping, but you DID! Every disappointed look, every 'I don't trust you,' every time you chose someone else over me because I was too broken or too wrong or too—" His voice broke. "Do you have any idea what that does to a person? To constantly be told that the people who are supposed to love you can't stand who you are?"

"Sam, I love you—"

"Then why does it feel like you hate me?" The question came out small, broken. "Why does your love feel like punishment?"

Dean had no answer for that.

Because Sam was right.

And Dean had no idea how to fix it.

Sam pushed himself off the floor. His legs felt shaky, but they held.

He looked around at the destruction. The shattered lamp. The splintered chair. Glass everywhere, glinting in the dim light. His mess. Always his mess.

Without a word, he bent down and started picking up the bigger pieces.

Dean watched him for a second, then stood up too. "Let me—"

"Don't." Sam didn't look at him. Just kept gathering broken wood in his hands. "I got it."

"Sam."

"I said I got it."

But Dean was already moving, crouching down to pick up chunks of the lamp. They worked in silence, not looking at each other. Just cleaning. Picking up pieces. Trying to make the room look less like a crime scene.

Sam's hands were shaking. He gripped a piece of chair leg tighter, willing them to stop. They didn't.

Dean grabbed the trash can from the bathroom and held it out. Sam dumped his armful in. The sound of wood hitting plastic was too loud in the quiet.

They kept going. Dean found the dustpan under the sink. Started sweeping up the smaller shards while Sam righted the nightstand, checked the wall for damage. There'd be a dent. Maybe two. He'd have to pay for that when they checked out.

Add it to the list of things he owed.

"Careful," Dean said quietly. "You're bleeding."

Sam looked down. There was a cut on his palm, thin and red. He hadn't even felt it. "It's fine."

"Let me see."

"It's fine, Dean."

Dean didn't push. Just went back to sweeping.

They worked until the room looked almost normal. Not perfect. You could still see the dent in the wall, the scratches on the floor. But better. Manageable.

Sam sat down on the edge of his bed. Stared at his hands. At the cut that was already starting to clot.

Dean threw the last of the glass away and stood there, awkward. Like he didn't know what to do with his hands. "You want me to get the first aid kit?"

"No."

"Sam—"

"I don't want anything from you right now." Sam's voice was flat. Empty. "I just want to sit here."

Dean nodded slowly. Sat down on his own bed, across from Sam. Not leaving. Not talking. Just there.

The silence wasn't comfortable. But it wasn't the screaming either.

Sam figured that was something.