weary_head | (no subject)

Dean sat where Angua had deposited him, staring after Angua's back as she went to rummage for pie ingredients. Sam was still at the bar, still hunched over his glass, shoulders tight and too long hair falling over his ears and into his eyes.

It made him look younger than he was, younger then the new lines around his eyes and mouth betrayed, and Dean's heart twisted a little tighter in his chest.

Sam would be okay here. Somehow, Dean could make that happen, and if not Dean than Jess or Dad or Twerp or any combination of people left on the island that loved him. The only person in the way of that was Sam himself, but Dean would find a way around that, too.

He just had to find a way around whatever it was that stood between them, first.

Sam had arrived on the island spitting words like apocalypse and Lucifer from his mouth, and those scared Dean, but not nearly as much as the look in Sam's eyes when he said them.

Dean sighed, tucking himself further into the booth, watching with an anxiousness barely contained while those around Sam came and went. Occasionally he looked away, out into the jungle beyond the Winchester, to his hands and the small but growing marks on his palms his own fingernails had left behind, but always Dean's focus shifted back to Sam at the bar.

"Fuck," he murmured, twitching helplessly as the long line of uncertain questions restarted themselves in his head. What the hell happened to us?

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As a general rule, I didn't spend that much time at the Winchester. It was a great place, don't get me wrong: Neil had done a wonderful job with it. I just didn't drink much, didn't find much time to sit around randomly shooting the shit, and didn't have anybody to take me to dinner. Still, I popped in from time to time, usually to see if Dean or Jess were around, or just to be friendly; that day, I thought maybe I'd talk to Neil about his cake, try to get a better idea of what he wanted.

I spotted Dean before I'd even walked in the door, and could tell immediately that something wasn't right. Even from a distance I could tell he had that vaguely pinched look to his face he got when something was genuinely worrying him, and I was already frowning by the time I crossed the threshold into the bar.

Dean's gaze had slid to her when she walked in, tracking the movement before he registered who it was that'd just come into the bar.

Jesus.

Dean was out of the booth before he'd really even made the decision to move. Everything had happened so quickly since Sam's arrival, Dean's focus on him so complete that it hadn't yet occurred to him that he should be easing those closest to Sam into his return.

"Shari," he said, loud enough to be sure that her attention was only on him and not the bar. He took her arm, trusting her to trust him, and walked her out the door. "Hold on a sec."

Well, if I hadn't been worried before, I sure was now. There wasn't any reason for me to resist, so I allowed Dean to lead me back outside, but my mouth was open as soon as we were out of the doorway.

"Tell me what is wrong right now," I insisted, tone broaching no argument. I knew him: He might try to waffle, depending upon what it was, and my mind was racing. Surely nothing had happened to Angua or John or Bobby; Dean wouldn't have been brooding in a bar were that the case.

He'd been expecting that, enough so that Dean was just glad they'd made it out the door before she went off.

"It's not...wrong," he said, holding up both hands to show her he was getting there. "It's Sam. He's back."

For a few seconds there at first, I had the totally irrational thought that Jimmy had disappeared. It was stupid: Why would Dean know that before I did? But my fingers had already begun to tremble by the time he spit it out.

I faltered, mouth open. "What?" I exhaled.

"He's right inside." Dean stepped closer, not liking the sudden pallor in her cheeks. He almost wished he'd gotten her sat down first, but there just hadn't been time. "Got here a few hours ago."

He was serious. Not that I would expect Dean to joke about something like that, but I hadn't expected him to tell me Sam was back, either. Feeling suddenly overwhelmed, I clamped a hand over Dean's closest bicep and took a deep breath.

"Is he okay?" I asked. "I want to see him, Dean, I want to see him right n- Oh my God." I blinked several times and pressed my free hand over my mouth, because it wasn't until right then that it occurred to me that Sam would know Dean, and Sam would know Jess, would know John and Bobby... but he wouldn't know me at all.

Dean took her elbow and sat her down whether she wanted it or not, right there on the steps of the Winchester. "He's okay, but he's - fuck." Dean forgot everything for a moment, lost what little he'd managed to scrape together for a game face, pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and concentrated on breathing through it.

"He's from a long time after I got here. He's been through a lot." What he didn't say was that as foreign as Shari might seem to Sam, Dean couldn't help but think Sam saw him in the same, muddled light.

A memory surfaced then, of sitting beside Jimmy in his car as he bent over his steering wheel and cried; of being so close and yet so completely far away from him and utterly helpless. I wasn't used to Jimmy breaking down like that, and I certainly wasn't used to Dean showing any weakness. I think that actually hit me harder than the news about Sam.

"Shit," I sighed, wrapping my arm around his and pressing my face in against his shoulder. "Is it the anti-Christ stuff?"

"I don't know," said Dean, even if he had a hell of an inkling. It wasn't a comfort to learn that despite their father's instructions, he hadn't killed Sam to prevent him ending the world, how could it be? "Maybe. I don't know all of it yet, but things are real bad back home."

"I'm sorry, Dean," I said, because even though Sam being back wasn't a bad thing fundamentally, there was so much upsetting stuff that came with it. I squeezed his arm tighter, and I didn't care that it made me a selfish person, I was glad he was there, on the island, with me. I didn't like imagining him back home in danger, even if it was for the best cause in the world.

"I want to see him, but I also don't. You know?" I couldn't even look over my shoulder to catch a glimpse of Sam inside, despite wanting to desperately. "The last thing he needs is some crazy dead chick he doesn't even know crying all over him, right? I should just leave it alone."

"He needs to believe he's here," said Dean, "and that it isn't all a trick. The more people recognizing him, grounding him..." Dean let a shoulder rise and fall - he couldn't admit that he wasn't sure what his brother needed. "Probably more the better."

He looked over, trying for a smile. "You might dial down the crazy tears, though."

"I'm not making any guarantees," I said, and managed to force a weak smile. I couldn't tell whether Dean's answer was a relief or a burden: Part of me wanted to see Sam again, part of me wanted to stay as far away as possible.

"S'all right," Dean murmured, pushing a lock of loose hair back behind her ear. "Him popping back in like this...he's not the only one who got shook up today. He's a smart kid. He'll figure that out."