Dean blinked himself awake in surprise—he hadn't meant to fall asleep at all. He may not have needed sleep as a demon, but his body was feeling it now. A quick glance at the clock told him it had only been two hours—desperate need of sleep or not, his mind was racing too fast to stay down for long. And it was hard to get comfortable—injuries that hadn't killed the demon were taking the time to heal now. Everything hurt. Not that he didn't deserve it, but still. Ow.

He swung off the bed and started wandering, trying and failing to push back the memory of hunting his baby brother through the same halls just a few hours ago. Right—bad idea. Maybe sitting and brooding then—kitchen?

Cutting through the library was the shortest way, and Dean really needed to get out of those corridors, but the back of a tall silhouette slouched in one of the chairs stopped him cold. Sam. There were all kinds of things Dean wanted to say, so many things he needed to say, and not a clue where to start for any of them—never mind that he was the last person Sam wanted to see right now anyway.

His approach hadn't gone unnoticed, though, and before he could back away, Sam's voice drifted up from the chair. "Go 'way, Cas. Tol' you I was fine."

Should he correct him, or just leave? Maybe he could still get out of this.

Sam swung his head around, the glare apparently intended for Cas melting into something a little more apathetic. "Oh. S'you. Hey, Dean." He turned back around.

Well, he didn't seem mad. He didn't seem much of anything, really, and Dean didn't know whether to back off or try to say something. This was kind of uncharted territory. There was a clink of glass, and he realized Sam was answering for him—his good hand was extended behind him, holding out a beer bottle. After a moment's hesitation, Dean stepped forward and took it. "Thanks."

Sam said nothing, just took a long pull from his own bottle. Dean figured that was about as good as he could get for right now, and turned away. He stopped when Sam's hand caught him around his wrist. He turned back to see his brother looking up at him, eyes shining in the semi-darkness. He didn't say anything, but Dean nodded, and after a moment moved to sit down across from him. They drank in silence.

Dean lowered his drink. "Sam, I—" he finally started.

"Shut up," Sam cut him off, gesturing with the bottle in his hand. He sat back in his chair. "S'okay," he said, softer this time. "M'not mad. S'all just…" He gestured vaguely with the hand holding the bottle—at his head, at the room, at Dean and back to his head before giving up and taking another drink.

"Yeah," Dean agreed. Whatever Sam meant, Dean was pretty sure he got it. Still…"You gotta be a little mad." Oh, that's great. Dig your hole deeper there, buddy.

Sam shook his head vehemently, his hair flopping back and forth like a cartoon sheepdog. "Nope." He took another drink, considering. "Maybe kinda freaked out," he admitted, tilting his head to one side. "You did jus' try to kill me with a hammer." Dean's throat tightened, and Sam looked thoughtful, then started giggling.

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Sam, it's not funny."

Sam shrugged. "A hammer," he repeated, and huffed a small laugh. "S'new."

"Dude, how much have you had to drink?" What with the slurred words and the fact they were even having this conversation, Dean had already figured Sam was at least sort of drunk. But the giggling was a little disconcerting.

Sam shrugged again. "Don' know." He gestured with his sling at the end table beside him. "Kind of a lot, I think."

Dean flicked on the lamp beside him and his eyes widened. Empty beer bottles littered the table top, and a glass and a bottle—empty—of the harder stuff were nestled in the middle of it all. Sam wasn't drunk. He was wasted. "Dude…"

"What?" Sam demanded, narrowing his eyes.

Dean opened his mouth and closed it again. "I guess you're entitled," he said sadly. This afternoon alone would have accounted for all that, even without the hell he'd put him through over the last six weeks. "Sammy, I am so sorry."

Sam's face softened. "Wasn' your fault," he said softly. "Wasn' you."

"Yeah, it was," Dean said, looking down.

"Not all'f you," Sam insisted.

Dean opened his mouth, found nothing to say, and closed it again. A sniff drew his eyes back up to Sam's face, where he was surprised to see a thin line of tears trickling slowly down his brother's cheek. "Sam, what is it?" he asked, sitting up straight, fighting down the instinct to reach over and touch him. He doubted Sam would welcome it.

"It was my fault, Dean," Sam muttered sadly, eyes fixed on the bottle in his hand. "All'f it. Today, an' Crowley, an' you d-d-" sniff "dying, an' th' Mark an' everything….Dean, I'm sorry!"

How in the hell was Sam pinning any of this on him? "Sam, it wasn't—" Dean started.

"It was!" Sam insisted, cutting him off. "It was. If I hadn'…I know you didn' mean wha' happened with G'dreel," he murmured. "You didn' know he was gonna do any'f that, an' I shouldn've been so mad."

The jump from the Mark back to Gadreel took Dean a moment to follow, but now he was tracking Sam's argument. "Sam, no," he said firmly. "That doesn't put any of this on you. I crossed a line with Gadreel, man, I know that. I should never have done that to you."

"Saved m'life," Sam mumbled. "An' you were right—'f I had to save you, I would've…anything, 'f I had to." He set his bottle on the floor and rubbed at his eyes with his free hand. "It's just, after Meg, an', an' L—Lucifer," he shuddered on the word. "G'dreel was…" He sighed deeply, unable to find the words he wanted. "I was jus' mad," he went on softly. "An' I wanted to make you mad too. Tha's th'only reason why I said…I didn' mean it, Dean. Not really." He met Dean's gaze then, bloodshot, watery eyes pleading with Dean's. "You wouldn've gone with Crowley an' got the Mark, an' none'f this would've happened 'f I hadn'…" He sniffed again. "I'm really sorry, Dean. I didn' mean it, I didn'," he repeated miserably.

For a moment, all Dean could do was stare at his drunken, weeping mess of a brother, too shocked to put the right words together. Was this really where Sam's head had been all summer? No wonder he was such a mess! He'd known that Sam's harsh words of nearly a year ago (had it really been that long!?) had come out of feeling betrayed and guilt over what happened to Kevin. He'd wanted to hurt the same way he'd been hurt—and, hell, he had—but Dean had always known that beneath the pain, Sam had never meant it.

"I know I screw everything up," Sam went on, taking Dean's silence the wrong way. "I just make everything worse, an' the stuff I did when I was looking for you…" He huffed a small, bitter laugh. "Like you said, y'already know about that. So 'f you wanna leave, s'okay, I get it. Just, d'you really…" The trickle of tears had turned into a steady stream and he inhaled shakily. "Was I so bad you really pr'ffered Crowley over me?" he asked in a small, desperate voice.

Any reservations Dean had flew out the window before he had time to think about it, and he yanked Sam to his feet and into a crushing embrace. Sam's surprised grunt reminded him of his bad shoulder, and he shifted his grip but didn't let go. "Don't you ever think that, Sammy, you hear me?" he growled. He pulled back, one hand gripping Sam's good arm and the other tilting his face to look at him. "There is nothing you could ever do to make me pick that scumbag over you. Nothing. You're not a monster, and not one word of what I said in that dungeon is true. You did some stupid crap, man, I'll give you that, but I sure as hell did too. And that one was all on me"

"B't what I said…" Sam pressed, blinking more tears out of his eyes.

"I know what you said. And I already forgave you for it, man," Dean said firmly. A flicker of hope swam up from behind the alcohol in Sam's eyes and Dean managed a small smile. "Clean slate, remember?"

Sam blinked slowly and nodded once. "Does this…" He paused, sniffed again. "S'this mean we c'n be brothers again?" he asked hopefully. He sounded about five.

Dean really did smile this time, and he pulled Sam back into a much gentler hug. "You've always been m'brother, Sammy." And this time, Sam hugged him back.

"I'm glad you're back, Dean," he said softly. "'m sorry it took so long to find you."

"You saved me, Sammy," Dean reminded him. "You did good."

"You know you've got a clean slate too, right?" Sam said in a hoarse whisper. Dean didn't answer, but his arms drew tighter around Sam. It was a long time before he let go of his brother.

When they finally pulled apart, Sam swayed and stumbled back, sitting down hard in his chair. He blinked up at Dean. "How'd you get up there?"

Dean couldn't help a small snort of laughter. "I think it's time for bed, big guy, c'mon." He bent down and hooked an arm under Sam's good one, pulling him to his feet with surprisingly little effort. He was lighter than Dean remembered.

"'s comfortable here," Sam protested, leaning back toward his chair.

"You're not sleeping in the library, Sam," Dean said, pulling him back upright.

Sam shrugged and slumped onto Dean's shoulder instead. "'s where I've been sleeping mostly," he argued sleepily.

Dean snorted his disapproval. He could picture Sam in increasingly desperate research mode all too well—slouched over the table with a shot of whiskey in his hand until he passed out face down in a book. "Yeah, well, not any more you're not. Big brother's back, which means you're back to eating actual food and sleeping in a real bed."

Sam hummed and didn't argue, and Dean figured that was good enough. In Sam's room he flicked on the light and lowered him gently onto the bed. Sam immediately rolled onto his stomach and nestled his face into his pillow. "Uh-uh, Sammy, on your back," Dean reminded him. "It's bad for your arm, c'mon." Sam grunted a protest, but allowed Dean to roll him onto his back. He pulled off Sam's shoes and tossed them into the corner, filled a glass of water and rummaged through the drawers until he found a bottle of pain medication and set them both on the nightstand. He turned to go and stopped when Sam's fingers looped lightly around his wrist.

"Yeah, Sam?"

Sam blinked his eyes halfway open, which looked like it took some effort. "Dean?"

"Yeah, man, I'm here," he assured him.

"You really are." His thumb rubbed across the back of Dean's hand, and the grip around his wrist tightened. "Please don't be gone when I wake up," he whispered.

Dean swallowed away the sudden tightness in his throat. "I won't, Sammy," he said warmly, reaching out to card his fingers though Sam's hair. "I promise." He figured Sam meant gone from the bunker and his life—not his room, but he nudged Sam over with his hip and sat down beside him anyway. Settling back against the headboard, he toed off his shoes and stretched out a hand to resettle Sam's arm. He patted Sam's chest in assurance of his presence, and Sam's eyes fluttered shut again with an incoherent mumble. A minute later, he was snoring gently.

Dean smiled, leaning back and shutting his eyes. They were such a mess. And he knew—no matter how much of this conversation Sam remembered tomorrow—that there was still more that needed to be said, more to prove and more to heal before they got back to where they should be…but this right here was a pretty good start. Being able to take care of Sam again was warming up things inside that the demon had left cold and dead, and though it hurt to see what Sam had done to himself in his absence, he couldn't help but be warmed even more knowing that he'd pushed himself that far all for Dean. For the first time since waking up in the dungeon, he felt like he was actually alive again. He had a lot left to atone for, but Sam's forgiveness made that weight a lot less crushing. They could get through this. "Thanks, Sammy," he whispered. They'd get each other through.