SUMMARY: Missing scene from 10.10 The Hunter Games. Sam bears witness to the Mark's unpleasant side effects. Set between Sam pulling Dean away from Metatron and the brother's heart-to-heart.

A/N: Dean looked like he was in bad shape after the Mark didn't get its way, right? I'm elaborating :)

Sam releases a hollow, weary breath.

The tension in his body deflates like a balloon the moment Cas zaps Metatron back to wherever the hell the angels are keeping him.

His hand's still braced against Dean's shoulder, holding his brother upright. He takes a long, careful look.

Dean hasn't moved. Pale and panting and sagging against the industrial shelf as if it's the only thing preventing a nasty nosedive.

Sam can also feel the way Dean's shaking like maybe he's about to fall apart and shatter into pieces on the floor.

He places both hands firmly on Dean's shoulders and says, "Hey."

Firm and in control and letting his brother know he's right there for him.

Dean jerks anyway, startling like a spooked deer and his eyes dart left to right, looking for an escape route. But Sam wraps his hand around the back of Dean's neck and rubs his thumb along his jawline, anchoring the only way he knows how.

"Dean, he's gone. Pull it together. Okay?"

Dean's head drops to his chest and he sort of rolls it one way and then the other as if attempting to shake it no.

"Dean, can you talk to me?" Sam voice softens, searching for his brother's eyes that continue evading him.

Another horrible moment of silence trudges by before Dean swallows and tries to raise his head. His breath's coming in rapid, spasmodic gasps like he's staving off a panic attack.

"I just…" he gulps again. "Fuck," he whispers. "Sammy, I just need a minute."

Dean pushes past his brother and Sam lets him go, following on his heels so close that he accidently almost trips them both.

His brother growls a half-hearted, "Dammit, Sam."

Dean moves like an old man, shoulders drooping inward, shuffling down the hallway with one hand dragging against the wall for balance. He makes it to the kitchen and collapses into the nearest chair, pillowing his head in his hands.

Sam needs to do something but doesn't know exactly what, so he crosses the short space to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of Gatorade.

He twists the cap off and tries to hand it to Dean. But his brother ignores him because he's too busy counting the cracks in the kitchen tiles.

So Sam starts talking because maybe it'll help and maybe Dean needs to listen to his voice. Or maybe he's being overly dramatic and all Dean needs is to be left alone.

Either way Sam can't help himself.

"Look, man, it's no big deal. We'll figure out a plan B." He spins the cap back on the bottle and sets it on the counter before kneeling in front of his brother. "Any plan involving that self-righteous dick is just asking to go ass-backward. We're better off without his help. Or, you know, whatever he calls helping," Sam pauses for a breath and notices Dean's not quite so twitchy anymore. He keeps going. "Besides, we've cracked tougher shit than this. It's just gonna take a little more time, you know?"

Dean finally raises his eyes. They're wet and bloodshot and full of gut-wrenching regret. Sam winces, dutifully clamping down on the despair threatening to bubble up from those dark places he keeps hidden.

"We're gonna figure this out," Sam says, hoping so desperately that Dean will believe him. "You just gotta hang on a little longer."

Dean buries his chin against his chest again, swallowing thickly.

"Dean, it's not always going to –"

"Sammy…" Dean grits out, urgently cutting his brother off. Sweat beads over his upper lip and his face is ashen. "M'gonna –" he manages to gulp out before slapping a hand over his mouth and stumbling a few steps over to the trashcan resting beside the kitchen island.

Dean doubles over and gives in to a full-bodied heave without producing anything. He spits, mercilessly gripping his knees.

Sam stands over him, placing a supporting hand on his shoulder. "Dean?" he asks, now genuinely frightened.

Dean shivers before his body finally gives in to the urge. He curls forward and retches, vomiting up everything in his stomach in one violent torrent.

When he's finished he latches onto Sam's shirt and pulls himself upright leaning away to cough into his sleeve.

"Sorry," he slurs out, reaching for the Gatorade. He takes a deep drink and wipes at his lips.

"Y'all right?" Sam's forehead wrinkles in concern. He's looking at Dean like maybe he's about to combust any second.

"Yeah," Dean assures, trying to keep his shaky voice from cracking. "Happens sometimes," he says without thinking.

"What are you talking about?" Sam turns Dean's shoulders to face him.

"Nothing," Dean amends, quickly pushing Sam's hands off. "Never mind. I just need sleep. Haven't been feeling a hundred percent lately in case that wasn't obvious."

He doesn't want to, but Dean's shutting down - building up his walls again - so Sam drops the subject.

"Yeah," Sam says softly. "Yeah, okay."

Dean turns his back to his brother and walks over to the sink, letting the chilly water run over his hands before cupping some to splash on his face. He stays like that for a moment, elbows resting on the rim, head bowed low.

"This isn't gonna work," he whispers.

"Dean –"

"Dammit, Sam, this isn't gonna work," he repeats, a note of desperation worming it's way into his voice. "I mean I can't even hold it together long enough to…" he breaks off, runs his fingers through his hair, rubbing his scalp a little too hard.

"We're gonna –"

"Don't give me that we're gonna figure this out shit, man." Dean spins to face his brother and it's angry enough to make Sam want to take a step back. He stubbornly stands his ground. "This Mark isn't something you and your books are just gonna figure out. It's fucking permanent and sooner or later you're gonna have to get the fuck away from me before it burns you too."

Sam keeps his eyes on the floor, suddenly as fascinated by the tile cracks as Dean had been earlier. "I'm not gonna do that," he says.

Dean throws up his hands and lets out a choked noise that sounds dangerously close to a sob. "This whole thing is insane. It's impossible. Fuck, Sammy –"

"Would you quit saying that?" Sam glares, suddenly pissed because Dean's being a self-pitying little shit and Sam's had just about enough.

"What?" Dean pauses his tirade long enough to look confused.

"Quit with the "fuck, Sam" and "dammit, Sam". I don't care what you say right now. I'm not going anywhere so you better get used to it. Now here," Sam shoves the half-full bottle in front of Dean's face. "Drink your fucking Gatorade."

Dean manages to look defeated, ashamed, and exhausted all at once. He takes the bottle and lets it hang by his side.

"I'm sorry." It's not really an apology. Sam knows Dean meant and worse yet, believes every word he just said. The hopelessness etched all over his brother's face gives him away. No, Dean just doesn't know what else to say.

"Quit it," Sam slaps his brother gently upside the head. "Go get some rest. I've got work to do."

Sam heads toward the library and hears Dean's heavy footsteps following behind him a few seconds later.

"No. I'm comin'," his brother's hoarse voice calls after him.

Dean sinks down into a chair at the map table, still a little unsteady. Sam decides to give him a minute.

"Well since you're not gonna take that siesta…you, uh…want a beer?"

It's pretty lame but Sam's desperate to pull Dean out of his funk.

"Sure," Dean mumbles without looking up.

"'Kay."

Sam heads back to the kitchen, giving his brother a moment to pull it together and himself a moment to breathe.

It doesn't matter what Dean believes.

Somehow, someway, they're gonna figure it out.

END