Title: Start Somewhere
Characters: Sam, Dean, Castiel in absentia
Rating: T for language
Word Count: 3959
Genre: H/C, family

Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for 10.03, Soul Survivor, and all that comes before. Warning for possibly non-mainstream treatment of characters, as I spent most of Season 9 ascribing equal blame for that debacle to both Sam and Dean, not one more than the other.

Summary: It's eight days before they actually speak to each other again. A mysteriously appearing marker board isn't the usual way of apologizing for a colossal screw-up like theirs; but then again, they are Men of Letters.

It's eight days before they actually speak to each other again.

Sam doesn't know what's wrong with him. For the better part of five months he's been looking forward to this day, nearly killing himself or being killed trying to make this happen – getting his brother back.

And now that Dean's back, now that he can see the remorse and the guilt and the grief and the love in his brother's eyes again – now he can't stand to be around him, somehow. Irony is indeed a cruel mistress.

Part of it is his own guilt, of course, Sam is well aware of that. It took him over four months, after all, to even figure out that Dean was still Dean, not just some demon borrowing his brother's body as a meatsuit. He sank so deep, went so dark doing so, that Dean's words rang too true for comfort; Sam doesn't know which of them right now is the bigger monster. Dean had mitigating factors: the Mark, the demon, the twisted soul.

Sam had only a driving need for revenge, had only the most dangerous force in the world – love turned into blind bloodlust. Conscience had long since taken a backseat to accomplishing his goals no matter the cost, and while he had always said the end game had been "saving his brother," killing and torturing a few demons along the way, even a few deserving humans who dared to think they could stand in the way of a Winchester…

…damn, it had felt good.

He was and is a monster, that much hadn't been a demonic lie. And if Dean as a demon could see that, then Dean with a conscience, with a non-warped soul, will certainly be able to see it too. Saving his brother does not wash the blood from his hands, and Sam knows it. He doesn't know if he can stand to see the disappointment when Dean realizes that those accusations at least were true about how far Sam has fallen.

And there's still the fact that Dean died trying to absolve his little brother of the terrible things Sam had been saying for weeks about them as a family, as brothers – not truly meaning them, only trying as any little brother would to hurt as much as he had been hurt by Dean's violation of his autonomy. He'd known what would hurt Dean the most, and had said them to accomplish that end. He hadn't meant most of them the way they sounded, but he had never taken them back, never had time to…but in his dying breath, Dean had forgiven him, in his own way.

Sam still hasn't forgiven himself, though. After four months of loneliness, then a period of time talking to his brother in which everything he said was only twisted and mocked and tossed back in his face, and then several months before that of saying things that either were meant to hurt, or were accusations against Dean's decisions to keep him alive or God only knows what else they were arguing about…

It's been probably the better part of a year since Sam talked to his brother for an extended period of time without hurting him, either intentionally or unintentionally. He's a little out of practice.

But Dean's hungry, and that's one thing Sam knows he can fix without screwing up. Everything else can wait until after he's had a few hours' sleep.

And possibly enough alcohol to forget the fact that if Cas hadn't gotten a stolen angelic power-up, Sam's blood would be decorating the bunker walls right now, and he'd be joining Abel in the Satiating-the-First-Blade Club.

Day One

Dean's a hunter, trained to notice and remember detail, and both those abilities haunt him more than any specter ever could right now, because they tell a more vivid story for him than a video recording of what the last few months have done to his brother. It's a story he can't think about for very long, because he can't afford a breakdown right now, not with the Mark still on his arm and no way of knowing how his fluctuating emotional state will react with it. There's no way in Hell he's going to put Sam through any more than he's already been.

Death has a funny way of reconciling differences, and love leaves no room for martyrdom. Dean has a hunter's memory, and a demon has a perfect memory – and he realizes more than ever that while Gadreel had succeeded in splitting them apart with greater success than Lucifer and Michael ever had, it was Dean's decision and Sam's reaction which catalyzed the disaster culminating in his dying before they had a chance to at least make things right. Dad had always said, don't go into a hunt angry. The man might have been a less-than-spectacular father, and a better soldier than a parent – but he wasn't a fool, and he had loved his family deeply.

Two things that, until quite recently, Dean would have said without question he'd inherited from his father.

But now? Now, his baby brother is afraid of him, and with perfectly good reason. This isn't like the skinwalker in St. Louis; for weeks after that, they both had issues that Freud would have a field day with. No, this is worse. This was him, spewing venom from his own twisted psyche, stabbing half-truths wrenched from his own twisted, bleeding soul – not to mention the fact that he had stalked his brother through the corridors of the one place he had for over a year tried desperately to convince Sam could be their safe haven, their home. All that, only to finally come within a hair's breadth of killing him, then tearing him limb from limb had Castiel not miraculously stepped in. (Had Sam even known Cas was on his way?) Not to mention the whole debacle with that Cole kid holding a ten-year-old grudge, and using Sam as nothing more than a broken pawn on the board…

Sam is the smartest person Dean knows, and Dean is glad he's smart enough to be afraid; it may be what's kept him alive through this.

But it still hurts just the morning after Cas leaves them, Sam buried in the library with a bottle of vodka and he locked in his bedroom with a headful of gutwrenching memories. Sam's still obviously hung-over and apparently half-asleep this morning, and ambles around a corner in the bunker. He runs straight into Dean, who has been taking his internalized anger out on the firing range. The Mark had been demanding blood since dawn, and had been somewhat mollified by some realistic-looking target practice.

Sam probably just sees the bunker's fluorescent light glinting off a gun and an unfamiliar haircut, because his drawn face morphs into an expression of terrified panic, and he slams his back against the wall, left hand fumbling with exhaustion-slowed clumsiness at his back for a non-existent weapon.

Dean drops the gun immediately. It falls with a resounding clatter as he raises both hands in the air, silent in surrender.

Sam blinks, looks down at the gun, and then the tension leaves him in a sudden rush. His head drops forward for a moment, hair falling limply in front of his face.

Dean lowers his hands. He clears his throat, opens his mouth to say something, anything –

Sam mutters something that sounds like an apology and darts away, leaving Dean to pick his heart and his Taurus up off the bunker's cold floor.

Day Two

There's an unintentional brush-by in the kitchen later that evening when Sam leaves an offering of four burritos and two orders of chips and guacamole, along with a pumpkin pie and can of slightly-past-expiration-date whipped cream from the filling station where he'd stopped to vacuum the Impala and toss the trash before his brother saw how his baby had been recently treated. Dean starts to thank him for the food, but Sam just offers him an exhausted smile – genuine, but definitely not very inviting – and disappears with three of the six-pack he takes out of the fridge.

The next morning, Sam stumbles in to make coffee (it's basically all he's been able to stomach for several days now) and sees that his brother again apparently consumed every crumb of the food he had brought back – with the exception of one slice of pie, which is carefully covered in a Tupperware container on the counter, labeled SAM EAT ME – PUMPKIN IS A VEGETABLE RIGHT? with a pink sticky note from the pad by the shopping list.

It startles a brittle laugh out of him, for the first time in what feels like (might be) weeks.

Turns out, he's hungrier than he thought.

Day Three

The next morning, Dean sees it when he sneaks out to the library while Sam is in the Men of Letters shower room. Sam's cut his hair since Dean died, in some weird almost-psychic compensation for Dean growing his while demonified, but it still takes him a ridiculously long time in the shower because he likes to shampoo and use that frou-frou conditioner (and how has he even been managing that with only one good arm, anyway?), so there's no chance of running into the kid and freaking him out.

And if Dean's going to be hiding in his room again like yesterday then he's at least going to appropriate the majority of their DVD collection so he can try to shut out the instant replay in his head from being filled with the memories of what he's done the last few months. But before he can lay his hands on his prize, he sees it.

It being a large dry-erase board mounted on the wall in the corridor to the library, ironically just above where a newly-spackled patch in the plaster indicates where he swung a hammer at his brother's skull just days before.

Lovely.

What the hell, Sam.

The board has two colors of markers clipped neatly to either side of it, with a perfectly ruler-straight line drawn down the middle (OCD much, Sam?).

And the top of it is titled: Things I'm Sorry For

Seriously, what the hell, Sam.

He can't tell if he's angry or amused or some weird combination of the two, because after not feeling anything for so long he's still all over the board emotionally and totally lost in identifying them. Regardless, he just snorts and moves on to the library, rummages through their stash, and then returns with his collection of DVDs, fully intending to ignore Sam's pathetic attempt at care-and-share.

But that sickly white patch in the yellowing plaster stops him in his tracks.

That could have been Sam's brain matter.

Would have been, if Cas hadn't shown up when he did.

Down the hall, he hears the wet slapping of Sam's feet returning from the shower room; the kid never remembers to take his slippers.

He swallows against the sudden gag reflex at what-might-have-been, and picks up the blue marker from the left side of the board. Draws a long arrow down at the patch on the wall, and writes THAT above it.

Then he re-caps the marker, and scuttles back to his room without being seen.

Sam has been waffling between homicidal and pleased for some time now.

Pleased, that his brother has returned to himself, and doesn't feel that he needs to lock himself in his bedroom with his noise-canceling headphones like he had been way back before this mess started. And homicidal, because due to that precise freedom, Dean has been blaring a playlist of hard rock at full volume in his bedroom for the last two hours.

Sam has no idea how Dean's mounted weapons haven't vibrated off the walls yet, as he is at the farthest library table working on their digital database, and he can still feel the beat thrumming through the floor.

Finally he groans, scrubbing both hands over his face, and stands up to stretch, feeling his back give in a satisfying series of snaps. It's been three days since Dean was "cured," and they have yet to actually talk to each other; perhaps it's time they did. Maybe over the neutral ground of fixing lunch?

He's on his way to Dean's bedroom from the library when he sees it.

It, being a large dry-erase board hung on the wall, the wall which he actually just finished repairing two days ago after his brother put a hammer through it. This hallway isn't his favorite route now, but he's surprised Dean came this way as he rarely has reason to visit the library and Sam hasn't heard him leave his room much at all since he retreated that first night.

He stops in front of the board and feels his eyebrows go up his forehead. It's a simple enough board, equipped with two markers and divided into what looks like perfect halves; obviously Dean used his construction skills to take the time to hang it as perfectly level.

The corner of his mouth quirks up at the title, and even further at what is obviously his brother's first – and for Dean, an exceedingly grand – gesture, as the arrow pointing at the repaired wall indicates. For Dean, something like this is tantamount to a dozen roses and a sonnet, and he must truly be hurting to make such a gesture of apology. And it's not like there's a Hallmark card for Sorry I blamed our mother's death on you while I was a demon. And in all fairness, he thinks ruefully, there isn't one for Sorry I said I wouldn't save you if you were dying when that wasn't exactly what I meant.

God, their lives are so screwed up.

Aw, what the hell. They're Winchesters, they never do anything like normal people. Case in point: they have a freaking dry-erase apology board hanging in the hallway of a secret bunker which seventy-two hours ago got locked down to keep a knight of hell from busting out.

He unclips the red marker and scribbles briefly on the other side of the board.

Day Four

Sam actually yelled down the hall this morning, an improvement on their non-communication the last few days, to say he was going out for supplies. Dean emerges a few minutes later, fixes himself a cup of coffee, frowns over the state of the kitchen (it appears as if Sam has been subsisting on Cornflakes and Ramen Noodles and not much else for months, milk optional and whisky a decent substitute, and what the hell did he do to cause that scorch mark in the sink), and then sneaks out to look at the dry erase board.

He tells himself to not get his hopes up; if he were Sam, he would never even come back through this corridor due to the memory of nearly being bludgeoned to death; but Sam is full of surprises, and apparently this is no exception.

Dean stares at the board for a moment, tears burning at the back of his eyes.

Things I'm Sorry For

That I couldn't use my blood to cure you, Dean.
I couldn't chance it, that my blood was pure enough even after being blessed. You being a knight of hell, me still having traces of demon blood…I couldn't take the chance. Maybe that's why it hurt you more than Crowley, because you got straight up human blood, not diluted with demon at all. I'm sorry it hurt you so much.

"Somehow I doubt I was the one hurtin' the most during that, Sammy," he sighs, using a sleeve to erase his own blue writing.

Sam drops the six bags on the counter, puffing with the exertion of carrying them all in one trip with one arm. He misses his right arm so very much, it's not even funny. And given the activities of the last few weeks, he probably should go have it re-examined, because it's probably been reinjured. He grumbles a little to himself as he puts away cartons of milk and orange juice, a box of eggs, half-a-dozen yogurts, two packages of bacon, and several containers of fruit and vegetables. Two boxes of donuts go on the counter for breakfast, a packet of Oreos into the cupboard, and a loaf of bread into the breadbox. The hardware to repair Dean's rampage through the bunker can stay in the bag for now. Cleaning supplies tossed under the sink, hamburger meat can stay out because he needs to start cooking it in a few minutes for the spaghetti sauce.

Then, still exhausted, he flumps onto the couch in the library on his stomach, free arm dragging the ground and face mashed into a couch cushion, and promptly falls asleep.

When he opens his eyes, he knows immediately with hunter's instincts that someone was in the room while he slept, though they are not anymore. He sits up slowly, stiffly, because his shoulder is screaming in pain from the awkward positioning, which it should not be after a short nap…

Short meaning eight hours apparently, as his watch says it's after eight in the evening.

That would explain the stiffness of his shoulder, as well as the faint smell of a dinner long cooked and the blanket that just slid off him to puddle around his feet.

Dean's been busy.

Groaning, he stumbles to his feet and into the kitchen, where he tosses back a painkiller with a cup of water from the sink. He doesn't often need the prescription meds anymore, because he knows better than to sleep on his stomach; he hadn't intended to do more than just rest his eyes for a minute.

Now he feels them burn with unshed tears, half exhaustion and half emotion – because this more than anything shows where he and Dean stand on this unsure, shaky ground. Dean is trying, they both are – but neither knows really where to begin. Dean gave him a blanket, tucked him up even; but didn't know enough to get him to turn over so he didn't wake up in pain.

They have a long road ahead of them.

He leaves the bottle of painkillers on the counter and stumbles off to his room, forgetting to look at the dry erase board on his way.

Day Five

In the morning, after a cup of coffee (Sam mourns the days of Dean doing the shopping, because Dean remembers the flavored creamer he likes because Dean makes honest-to-Chuck lists before he heads out to the stores), he does remember to stop and look at the board.

Things I'm Sorry For

For not listening, really listening, when you tried to say why you were so pissed about Gadreel. If I had, maybe I would have realized how much I screwed up before it came to what it did between us. For that, I'm sorry.

And then, down below, at an obviously different time.

Also, that I didn't realize you needed to sleep on your back.
AND IF I COOK DINNER YOU EAT IT, MORON.

For the second time in as many days, Sam laughs.

I'm sorry I ever had a thought that could be twisted into something that would blame you for Mom's death, Sam. The fact that something like that exists somewhere deep inside me…I don't know how or where that came from.

Demons lie and twist things, Dean. They tear open your soul, take the tiniest chink in your armor and rip it open to let evil inside. Believe me, I know. I'm sorry that you know that now, too, probably better than I do.

Day Six

I'm sorry I held onto my anger over Gadreel for so long, Dean. I promised you before the trials that I'd see them out and survive them, so I get why you did it. I had a right to be angry, but not to let it go on for so long that you felt you had no other recourse but the Mark of Cain. That's on me, and I'm sorry.

That one's all me, Sam. I took the leap without looking down first, and that's my fault. I let myself be manipulated by Crowley, and I still have to pay the price for that. I'm sorry you got caught more than once in the cross-fire, and I'm sorry that you probably will again.

Day Seven

I'm sorry for saying I didn't want us to be brothers. I hope you know I want that more than anything.

I'm sorry I gave you a reason not to. And I'm sorry I said what I did when you came to take me home.

I'm sorry I said for so long I didn't see this place as home.

I'm sorry I turned it into the Hunger Games on you.

Speaking of, I'm sorry I ate your last donut. ;)

I'm sorry I licked it before I put it back in the box. :P

Day Eight

I'm sorry it's been eight days and I haven't had the guts to face you in person yet.

Last time you did I swung a hammer at your head, dude. Not exactly blaming you here.

So.

Sooooo?

I know you're hiding in the library listening for me to walk away from this thing every time.

"Nope. No more hiding, Sammy."

Sam freezes, but he doesn't flinch like he did every time the demon said the nickname. And when he half-turns, there's no shying away from where Dean stands, arms crossed as he leans against the doorway. His brother clears his throat, caps the marker by yanking it off with his teeth and then reattaching it to the right end, carefully clips it back to the board, and turns back around. Dean's on the receiving end of an obviously nervous smile.

"Hey."

God, there's even this awkward little wave from the bad hand half-buried in a sling. It's stupid, and adorable, and so very much Sam.

Dean's never felt this much relief. It's enough to make him weak in the knees, ridiculously soft in the eyes.

"So. Uh." He runs a hand through his hair, grips uneasily at the back of his neck. "Eight days, no Here's Johnny moments…"

Sam snorts, the corner of his mouth twitching. He nods, lips pursed as if he's trying not to laugh. "And I don't have to break out the squirt bottle filled with holy water to keep you from destroying the furniture?"

It's sad how screwed up they both are, that it's that which startles a laugh out of him, for the first time in what seems like years.

Sam's eyes light up like he's all of five years old again, and in that moment Dean's world finally tilts back into axis. Still spinning crazily – he's by no means out of the woods yet, not with that brand burning on his arm – but his compass is pointed back firmly north. Sam-North.

"Pancakes?" he offers.

Sam's nose wrinkles. "We kind of…no longer have a working skillet."

"We what."

"It was not my fault."

"Is that what happened in my sink?"

"…No? Dean, no more chasing me through the bunker, you promised!"

Sam disappears around the corner, snickering with the childlike euphoric high he always gets when he's running on fumes and the adrenal crash of an emotional rush.

Dean blinks back the tears he's glad Sam didn't stick around to see, and wipes the dry-erase board completely clean.

Seven Days Previous

"I do not understand the purpose of this transient means of written communication. Surely a tablet of stone, given its resistance to the elements and -" The young messenger trails off nervously at the look he receives, and departs forthwith.

Castiel is quite pleased; he must be perfecting the visible signs of that human emotion called annoyance.

Now, to install the item in question without being seen by either Winchester...