Part 2.

When Sam gets in the shower he's assuming their mom has taken the obvious and smart next move and left the bunker. Get out of their home and hair and be grateful she still had her life. He thinks he hears the bunker door shut through the streaming water but he's not sure. Even then his soul rests easier thinking of the bunker as safe again.

He turns his face into the nearly scalding stream of water and lets it wash away everything. There was no need to think of their mom and her world halting confession. There was no reason to think of the loss of even the ghost of her motherly love and regard...bottom line nothing had changed. He and Dean faced a world of people who wanted to screw them over same as always.

Except now that included their mom. That really sucked. And it was really hard not to think about. Fingers run through wet hair and massage slick shampoo into it, eyes coast open and closed lazily...Sam lets the familiar rhythmic actions soothe his raging mind. By the time his shower is over he's managed to calm himself.

Mary was wrong, but she hadn't physically hurt anyone and that was good, he and Dean would be alright, they always were. It might take time and it might take a whole lot of hard work rebuilding self confidence and the ability to TRUST ANYONE EVER AGAIN...but come on they'd done that before right?

They'd done it just a couple of months ago when she'd turned her back on them and left them, and their home...Sam sighs towel drying his hair. This was definitely not going to be easy. And if it wasn't going to be easy for him he can't imagine what it was going to be like for Dean.

Dean was angry. More angry than Sam himself, and Sam was pretty angry. That was right, that was expected. Dean felt everything more violently than Sam. He just did. Call it a gift or a curse, it was just the way things were. And most of the time Dean needed space, needed understanding. He needed to be the forceful anger while Sam was the considerate thinker. Other times Dean needed to be stood up for, times Dean would let those he loves walk over him.

That was where Sam came in.

Because no one was walking over his brother on his watch. And Sam knew that's exactly what would happen with Mary if he didn't step in. It was something so endearing and frustrating about Dean. He would put up with anything for family, he would turn a blind eye for those he bestowed his earth shattering weight of love and devotion but you couldn't have paid him to care two cents about himself.

Mary didn't even have to be there to do it. Her words and actions would crush Dean in her absence. Her doubt and disdain would chip away at Dean's faith in himself and their calling...he would question if he'd wronged Sam somehow. If Sam truly wanted to be there with him, in his life, on this ride with him.

That was the one thing that never ceased to break Sam's heart. And every time he'd gather the shatters while he talked Dean down from his emotional suicidal edge and unknowingly Dean would piece him back together as he smiles through his doubts and fears and whispers...

...just me and you against the world, Sammy.

So Sam knows his work is more than likely cut out for him as he turns off the water and steps out of the shower. He can imagine Dean mirroring him, can see the tight but slumped posture of Dean's shoulders the way he dresses in layers when he's feeling off. The wool socks he'd pad around the bunker in, the thermal he'd wear under his button up. Dean wasn't aware of it, but he would surround himself with good safe things when his life went south.

Sam pulls on sweats and a long sleeved t-shirt, some socks. Pulls his sheets back so his bed is ready when he comes, throws the dirty clothes and towels from his bag and bathroom out into the hallway where Dean would pick them up eventually. And then he stands.

Sam, tall, fully grown, a dark silhouette against the light leaking through his doorway head down, listening. The quiet, deceitful peace of the bunker all around him and his sigh is the only sound that breaks the silence. A hand on the back of his neck, eyes closed as he tries to let the muscles already tensing again after his shower relax, and thinks of his brother somewhere trying to cope in his own faulty manner.

The manner in which Sam usually has to come and save him from the foreseeable outcome of depression and angry pent up violence.

That's when the silence shatters around him.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Sam jumps with the sound and before fear wraps itself tight around his heart he's halfway down the hall yelling;

"Dean?!"

This had not been a foreseeable outcome.

His brother's room is empty and Sam is panting standing in the library when the next trio of shots sound loud and echoing in the bunker's stillness.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Sam pushes shaky fingers through his hair and jogs down the hall in the cool darkness and slips into the shooting range. Through the dark door he can make out Dean's silhouette under one of the big lights, gun raised, hand so steady it scares Sam sometimes, face hard and ears unprotected. His brother alive and well, clad in predicted layers and woolen socks.

He lets out a sigh and leans in the door frame, lets arms cross over his chest where his heart is still skipping, scared stiff. Dean studies his previous shots and their met targets silently, his lips pressed into something between an intimidating line and, an unintended, adorable pout.

Sam clears his throat.

And regrets it instantly.

Dean whips around with deadly quickness, gun leveled at Sam's head with confident aim. Dean's eyes hard but aflame green embers, breaths calm and even but still causing a rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Sam spreads his hands out in front of him and meets that gaze. Knows somewhere in his mind Dean was making things right, was expelling the rage and hurt. That sometimes in the helplessness of other people hurting you, you have to make sure that what little power you had you still do, in fact, have.

And for Dean that was being a hunter. A master marksman, a man among men...a warrior who could take down anyone who went up against him. And that's who fights for dominance as Dean looks at him, stares into his eyes without flinching. The predator fights for the lead while Sam's brother of course, pushes him down and under and away. Dean's body language softens and the gun falls.

"Jesus, Sammy...warn a guy, could have hurt you." He says with a sigh turning away from the door and looking back to his target.

"But you didn't." Sam says with a fond smile and laugh. Of course you didn't. "How about you warn me? Bout scared me to death when I heard the shots."

"Ah yeah, sorry." Dean mumbles distractedly, as the gun levels again and Sam hurries to cover his ears as Dean lets off three more shots, all meeting close together in the target's head.

Bangbangbang...

Good shot. Sam thinks, letting himself straighten and coming to stand beside his brother as Dean slides the clip from his colt and begins to reload. He watches as Dean unerringly readies the bullets and shoves the clip back into his gun, the focus on his face nearly intimidating even to Sam. Mouth turned down in a grim line, eyes aflame but focused and downcast watching his well practiced movements.

"What are you doing?" Sam asks, and Dean lets another bullet fly and Sam flinches.

"I think," Dean says, looking down at his gun and smiling with grim satisfaction, aiming again, "It's what highschool girls..." and bang he shoots again, "call venting."

Sam breaks and smiles then, his ears are ringing and he can only imagine what shape Dean's must be in.

This is good though, he tells himself, this is much better than throwing things.

And wow, Dean was actually coping better than Sam.

"So you're coping?" Sam asks, a smirk on his face and folding his arms.

Dean sends him a look, "Would you like me to shoot your face instead?"

Sam laughs and takes a step back holding up both hands. "I'm not questioning, in fact this is a great idea, I'm going to get my colt."

It's Dean's turn to smirk as he holds Sam's gun up hanging from his pointer finger, "One step ahead of you, Sam."

"You got..." Sam starts and Dean just holds his hand out offering Sam two green foam rounds; ear protection. Sam just huffs a laugh and takes them.

"Two steps ahead of you." Dean adds drily.

"You should have some too." Sam tells Dean, slipping the clip from his own gun and looking it over.

His older brother rolls his eyes but sticks a twin pair to Sam's in his ears, sending him a smirk before spreading his legs, rooting his feet to the floor and steadily taking aim again, focused back into his own little world. Sam takes it for what it is and does the same the vibrations of his brother's shots beside him enough comfort for now.

Here it is controlled. He stands in one room. Before him is one objective, hit the target. In his hand is something he knows he is efficient with, here he's confident and sure...he's in control of where the bullet lands, of what it hits, and what gets hit. Maybe Dean was a little better at coping than he thought.

Sam only notices because he's slowly relaxing too, but the tension is bleeding from Dean, he can tell even from twelve feet away. His stance is weakening, his arms easier and less strategic. Oh. he hits the target as surely as every, but now Dean is all ease and confidence like he is when on a hunt. Sam feels the final string of terrible, pent up posturing and tension from the conversation with their mom pop between them and a sigh falls from Dean's lips. His chest fully falling in a complete exhale.

He sets the gun down on the counter, reaches up and takes the ear protectors out, throws them down too. Sends Sam a blinding smile. Sam follows his example and sighs himself, reveling in the feeling of 'better' throughout his whole body. His hands are warm with the heat of the firearm, and he's shaking just a bit from the adrenaline. But it's good, good adrenaline...another kind of high.

He glances to Dean who wipes his hands on his pants and then turns towards Sam. Sam's half scared he's just going to walk away.

"Want a drink?" He asks, is confused when Dean just kind of smirks.

"A lot more than a drink." And his brother walks to the next section over and shows Sam the liquor decanter and two whiskey glasses he'd hidden there.

Three steps ahead of you, Sammy.

"I was thinking more like, 'comfortably drunk'."

He jumps up on the ledge and folds his socked feet up under him Indian style. Sets the glasses on the counter and pulls the lid from the crystal decanter. Watches as the amber liquid gushes in, sparkles and glistens. Sam leans over and places his elbows on the ledge, tucking hair behind his ear.

Takes the glass Dean pushes towards him with an inclination of his head. Takes a mouthful of the liquid warmth in his mouth, savors the taste of it and the burn of it on the sensitive skin of his mouth before swallowing and allowing the fire of it to sweep up from his belly to his throat. Hums with the satisfaction of it.

Dean smiles at him and tosses his head back too, Sam watches him do the same...watches him treasure this very little thing, life had taught them long and hard that it was the small things they had to hold on to. Dean's eyes light when the full taste and heat of the liquor ignites his insides and Sam laughs a little.

"You know eventually, the good stuff is gonna run out." He says as Dean, brings his head back down.

"Shut your mouth." Dean spits back easily, and Sam smiles wolfishly.

"You set this up." He says back, meaning he knew Dean had purposefully designed for them to drink together tonight and Sam was going to tease his older brother about it.

Dean sobers immediately, swirls the whiskey around in his glass, watching it circle. "There's no reason for us to hide from each other just because we lost her."

"Dean, we haven't lost her..."

"We lost her a long time ago, Sam, we lost her November 2, 1983...and that's the truth, whether we like it or not. And I'm not gonna let us rake ourselves over the coals because we're not good enough for her when we've been good enough for ourselves, each other, and the entire world for years and years."

He sighs and looks down into his glass again, taking another drink. "She's got a second chance Sam, and she's got to choose how she's gonna use it." He shrugs and gives Sam a watery smile.

"I don't even know how many chances I've had, but after Chuck and Amara left I was given another one and I'm not about to use it kissing someone's ass who tried to kill you, I'm just not. Not for anyone, not even for her."

"I know." Sam says, looking down, clearing his throat.

Dean looks at him, without walls, without reservation. Sam is swallowed up and drowned in the entirety of Dean Winchester reflected there. His big brother rarely shows the fierceness of his character that is burning for eternity under the facade of this carefree, dorky, violent man. But Sam is transfixed as the essence of Dean is laid bare for him and Dean meets his eyes straight on, doesn't try to hide.

"Listen," he says, "When they took you they would have killed you. And Sammy, you would have welcomed it..." Sam shakes his head but Dean stops him. "It's no use little brother," he nearly whispers with a soft smile on his face.

"I know...I know you gave up the minute I was gone and, this might be way over the chick flick line, but you were glad and relieved. And they were even happier to do it for you..."

Sam looks down, hides from the pain and sincerity of his brother's gaze and voice, hides from the smarting of burning tears in his eyes as he remembers the complete, crushing feeling of loneliness and desolation when he realized he was truly, finally, no long a little brother. Hides from the memories of the way he welcomed the pain and the torture and smiled at the thought of death, of oblivion, heaven or hell, anything better then this life alone.

A rough calloused hand finds a place under Sam's chin and gently pulls upwards until Sam is looking back into the green pools of his brother's eyes. Dean's head cocks to the side, such sweet anguish on his face, fondness making his eyes twinkle through the anger making them glow.

"And that is unforgivable Sammy, that is unforgivable."

They would have done it for you Sammy, and that is unforgivable...

And the tender, oh so good, relieved, right ache in Sam's very much alive heart is worth every single moment of torture. That feeling of being needed, of being wanted...of his life counting so much that this amazing human being right here was buzzing, alive and angry with the thought of it being taken away, even if Dean was no longer in the world to be a part of that life.

"Dean," He starts, feels like his brother is owed an explanation on the subject of his death wish.

"I'm not judging you Sam, hell, probably wouldn't have done anything different myself." He throws back his head, drinking the rest of the liquor in his glass. He sighs when he swallows it and winces with the burn.

"Thanks Dean." Sam says softly. And he doesn't have to say for what, Dean knows.

Thanks for saving me Dean, thanks for caring enough to save me...thank you for loving me enough to hate the people who hurt me. Thank you for loving me so completely that you know living in a world without me would be meaningless, and thank you for realizing you can't ask me to do that very same thing...

"So the hell with mom, and to hell with the British Men Of Letters..." Dean smirks, picks up an empty shell from the counter and throws it onto the floor, watching it clatter and roll to a stop.

"...long live you and me, Sammy. Long live just you and me against the world."

the end.

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all done:):)

I adored how this tag turned out, and adored the episode that gave me the opportunity. See you guys soon;);)