Disclaimer: I do not own them.

Author's Note: I officially suck. I say I'm not going to add another chapter and then I do. I say I'm going to add another chapter and then I never do. Go figure. Oh well.

Author's Note 2: This one probably got a little too out of character with the current relationship between Sam and Dean... but I'm a sucker for a happy ending. This was seriously going to be more angsty... but then... Sam and his blasted puppy dog eyes got in the way. And then Dean started bitching at me for putting that look there. So. Here is the unpromised second chapter.

You May Be My Brother, But You're Not My Brother

Chapter 2

Dean gripped his injured wrist tightly with his good hand, watching in astonishment as Sam walked out the bar door. He couldn't believe that had just happened, that Sam had just left.

And why not? he thought darkly. That's what Sam always does. He leaves.

Sam had no right to be angry or to call Dean pathetic or to say that Dean was a loser. After everything the lying bastard had done, where did he get off on calling Dean a traitor? It was Sam who always betrayed Dean, not the other way around. So what if Dean had punched Sam? The jackass more than deserved it.

And now he had fucking left. Where the hell was the justice in that? He broke his brother's wrist, accused Dean of being a horrible brother, and then. Fucking. Left.

"Damn bastard," Dean growled, massaging his hurt wrist.

But as much as Dean wanted to hate Sam for leaving, for not having a soul, for breaking Dean's wrist, for every single thing that had gone wrong over the past year, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Because damn it, Sam had a point. Soulless or not, it wasn't really Sam that had been acting soulless or heartless or whatever in that fight. Sam hadn't been the one to dislocate his brother's shoulder (though Dean was ninety percent certain that his wrist was broken). Sam hadn't been the one to call his brother a monster or a bastard, though Dean was fairly sure Sam had wanted to. All Sam had wanted was for Dean to help him. And dean had to go and be John, the overprotective jackass that was so screwed up in the head that he couldn't really see that he was doing more harm than good.

And damn, was that an awakening.

Yes, Sam didn't have a soul. Yes, Sam was a terrifying bastard when he went into hunter mode. Yes, he might have forgotten to mention the fact that he was out of Hell. Yes, he had tried to leave Dean out of the life for as long as possible.

But did any of that really add up to anything in the long run?

Sam didn't have a soul. Solution: find the damn bastard who had it and get it back. That shouldn't be too hard—Dean already had a good guess as to who had Sam's soul. The devilish little bastard.

Sam was a terrifying bastard when he went into hunter mode. Was that really news? Sam had always been a little scary when he got moody and overprotective and just plain bitchy. He was six-foot four and pure muscle for crying out loud. It would be freaky if Sam wasn't scary.

Sam forgot to tell Dean that he was out of Hell. Agh. That one wasn't quite as easy to forgive. Dean understood where his brother was coming from, but damn it, Sam still should have done something. Sent up smoke signals, left a cryptic text message, gotten in trouble with the cops and gotten his face broadcasted on national television… something. You didn't just let your brother think that you were dead and in Hell. Especially when said brother had been to Hell and knew what it did to a person.

Leaving Dean out of the life was a laugh. Sam knew better than anyone that hiding from hunting didn't solve anything.

But Dean couldn't really blame Sam for that either. As much as he wanted to. Dean had been hiding all by himself. And he really hadn't been doing that great of a job, either. Salting the doors at night, leaving nice little devil's traps underneath the floor mats, constantly restocking his Impala's supply of dead man's blood and silver bullets… yeah. Dean might not have been actively hunting, but he still had the tendencies of a hunter.

Yes. Sam was soulless. But in some respects, so was Dean. He had left a part of himself in Hell. He knew it. He was fairly certain that Sam knew it. Heck, Bobby even probably knew. The idjit.

Yes, Sam was a terrifying bastard in hunter mode. But so was Dean. That was what made them so good at what they do, so lethal, so unstoppable.

Yes. Sam left Dean out of hunting. But Dean really wasn't too upset about that after all.

Yes. Sam should have said more about his escape from Hell.

And that was why Dean was so pissed off. Because he should have known that Sam was out of Hell. Maybe Sam hadn't told him. But Dean should have known. Somehow. Some way.

Okay. So the four major points were out of the way. Dean, per usual, hated himself and made himself feel guilty about Sam's soullessness and not knowing that Sam was out of Hell.

And then there was the real crux of the problem. The result of those four major points. The outcome of Dean bottling his anger and his paranoia and shaking it all up and uncorking it on Sam right when the guy asked for help.

Sam probably more than deserved it. He had just spent the last two months lying to Dean about being all human and perfectly fine and all that jazz. He had just spent the last twenty-four hours lying to Dean's face. He had spent the last twenty-some-odd years running away from Dean.

So yeah, Dean was a little more than justified in decking Sam.

But his timing sucked. He should have waited until after he found out what was wrong with Sam, fixed it, and gotten his real brother back before he had gone all Cain and Abel on the kid.

"Damn it," Dean swore, glaring at the now empty bar. The bartender, who Dean had to admit was smoking, glared at Dean.

"What are you looking at?" Dean demanded, glaring back. He didn't care how freaking adorable she looked. He was in no mood to deal with her bitchiness.

"You're an idiot," she said, shaking her head.

"And you don't know what the hell is going on, so why don't you just stay out of it?" Dean snapped.

"Fine," the bartender said with a shrug. "But my brother and me had a fight like yours a few years back. It didn't end well."

"What happened?" Dean asked with grudging curiosity.

"He died," the bartender said bluntly. "Ran out of our house right in front of a drunk driver. Never stood a chance. And all he wanted was for me to help him get over his meth addiction. I told him that I was done cleaning up his mess and he was on his own. Hell, he disappeared for over two years and didn't even bother to tell me that he was alive."

"I know the feeling," Dean admitted. He sighed. "I screwed up big time, didn't I?"

"Not trying to make you feel guilty," the bartender said with another shrug. "But from what I heard in your fight, you two have a lot to work out with each other. And yes, you royally fucked up."

"He just rubs me the wrong way sometimes," Dean said. "A lot of the time, actually."

"He's your brother," the bartender said.

"Me and Sam aren't normal brothers," Dean said softly, not realizing how screwed up that sounded until he saw the look on the bartender's face. "No. Nothing like that! It's just… we've both always had each other's backs. Until now, it seems. Actually, it's been more like the past three years. And I just can't help but wonder if things are ever going to go back to anything resembling normal."

"Take it from me," the bartender said. "Wishing for normal only ever gets in your way. Normal doesn't exist. What used to be is gone. You've got to suck it up and deal with your problems or you're going to end up alone and angry at the world."

"You're telling me I should go after my idiot of a brother?" Dean asked, already fishing his cell phone out of his pocket. It was unavoidable. He was going to have to face his brother again anyway. They were staying at the same damn hotel. And it was pouring down rain and Dean highly doubted Sam would hitchhike in this weather.

Or at least, he hoped he wouldn't.

"I'm not telling you anything," the bartender said. "But I hope you do. If you two were as close as you say you were, I wouldn't let that go to waste. So what if he's changed over the past three years? You have too, I'm betting. So, accept that what's gone is gone and focus on now."

"You sound so much like my ex, it's not even funny," Dean said. He flipped through his contacts and found Sam's number. "Thanks."

"I didn't do anything," the bartender shrugged.

"Yeah. Sure you didn't," Dean said.

He left the bar, pressing call on his phone. He really wasn't that surprised when Sam's phone went straight to voicemail. If he were Sam, he probably wouldn't want to talk to him either.

"Hey, uh, it's me," Dean said lamely. "I know that you're pissed at me. And you have every right to be. I'm not going to apologize for what I did. You deserved at least one of those punches for lying so much lately. But… damn it, Sammy…"

He trailed off, unsure of how to say what he wanted to say. He sighed.

"You've always been the one with everything to say," he said. "That sounded stupid. Gah. This whole situation is stupid. And did I really just say gah? Crap."

He heard someone pick up on the other end and would willingly admit to anyone watching that yes, his breath caught slightly.

"Sam?"

There was breathing on the other end, but no other reply.

"Look, man, all I wanted to say was that I'm sorry for calling you a bastard," Dean said. "And for dislocating your shoulder. And for letting Cass torture you. That was probably really stupid. I should have asked you before I did that. Not that it would have mattered. When Cass gets into that mood, he's kind of hard to snap out of it… I'm babbling again."

"You think?" Sam scoffed.

Dean jumped. He hadn't been expecting Sam to really say anything.

"Sam, I'm sorry," he tried again.

"I know," Sam said, sighing heavily. "And I am too. I shouldn't have lied like that. I should have told you earlier. And yeah, I probably should have sent you some sort of message saying that I was alive. But I just wanted you to have a good life, you know? Like the one I couldn't have with Jess."

"You sure you don't have a soul?" Dean asked, his voice half-joking. "Because that was pretty heartfelt right there, Sammy."

"Dean," Sam said tiredly.

"You okay?" Dean asked, wincing. That was a stupid thing to ask. Of course Sam wasn't okay. Dean wasn't okay either.

"I'm fine," Sam said, his voice hollow. "Just tired of everything. Tired of fighting, tired of hunting, tired of the world in general… just plain fucking tired."

"So am I," Dean said quietly.

They both stood there for a while, just listening to the other breathe. In a strange way, it was comforting.

"You know, Lisa told me that we have an unhealthy relationship," Dean said randomly. He mentally smacked himself. Where the hell do I come up with these thing?

"Well, she's a smart woman," Sam said caustically. "I mean, this whole dying for each other and then winding up hating each other can't be exactly healthy."

"Sam, I don't hate you," Dean said quietly. "I just—I don't know you as well as I used to. And that bugs the crap out of me."

"For the record, I don't hate you either," Sam said. "Though I think things would be easier if we did hate each other."

"Yeah, probably," Dean admitted with a soft chuckle. "We'd probably stop dying quite so much."

"Yeah, that would be a nice bonus," Sam said, groaning through the phone. "You really did a number on my shoulder, you know that?"

"Yeah, well, you got your payback," Dean said. "My wrist hurts like a bitch."

"You would know," Sam snorted.

"Ouch, Sam, that hurt," Dean said sarcastically. "Where are you right now, anyway?"

"Behind you," Sam said.

Dean turned, sighing as he saw his brother approaching from the other end of the bar. He was obviously favoring his injured shoulder and he had his jacket slung loosely around him.

"You look like shit, dude," Dean said as Sam stopped a few feet away.

"Thanks," Sam replied, rolling his eyes. "You done bitching at me because I don't have my soul?"

"You done lying?" Dean asked.

"It depends," Sam said, cocking his head and studying Dean. It was such a Sam thing to do.

"On what?" Dean wanted to know.

Sam shrugged his good shoulder. "Whether or not you include our job in that lying thing. Cause let's face it, ninety-nine percent of our job is lying."

Dean glared at Sam.

"Your bitch face has improved remarkably," Sam commented with a smirk. It faded as quickly as it appeared. "Dean, I wasn't lying earlier when I told you I wanted your help. Or my brother back."

"It's kind of hard to tell with you sometimes," Dean said.

"I know," Sam said. "But I'm done. With everything. The lying, the hunting with Samuel, all of it."

"You don't want to hunt with old Granddad anymore?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.

"His car sucks," Sam said. "And it smells funny."

Dean snorted. Of all the things to say…

"So," Sam said. "Brothers?"

Remembering the bartender's words from earlier, Dean shrugged.

"We'll see how it goes," he said. "No lying. And no more going to Hell just because you want to save the world. And no more not telling me when you get back from Hell."

"Well, seeing as you just said that I can't go to Hell," Sam said, trailing off with a patented bitch face.

"You've never listened to me anyway," Dean said.

"No reason to start now!" Sam said with a smirk.

"Bitch," Dean growled.

"Jerk," Sam retorted.