A/N: This is a tag to episode 12x13, 'Family Feud.' It's slightly AU because this is not what ended up happening as evidenced by episode 12x14, but I hope you enjoy reading this slightly different angle! Also, I feel like I should add a little disclaimer because I absolutely LOVED episode 12x14 and how the writers addressed the Dean-Sam-Mary tension. This little one-shot is just an excuse for some angsty boys. :) Thanks for reading!

Dean finds him in the kitchen.

He's washing up some neglected dishes in the sink. The muscles in his back are tense as he scrubs harshly and angrily at grime that isn't there.

Dean stands at the doorway for a while, just watching.

He knows that their conversation with Mary left his brother on-edge. And he can't blame him.

If Dean is feeling betrayed, forgotten, and disposable, he can't imagine what Sam is feeling.

So where does that leave us?

That was the million-dollar question that Dean had asked, hand slowly creeping up to rest on Sam's shoulder, after Mary dropped the bombshell that she'd been working with the British Men of Letters. After they had painted a pretty clear picture of why the Brits were not to be trusted under any circumstance. After Sam had referenced the torture Lady Bev-Bitch had put him through.

And when Mary remained silent for a fraction too long, Sam simply pushed his chair back from the table, stood up, and walked away.

Leaving Dean to settle with Mary.

To which he had laid out the terms quite nicely.

Mary is gone now.

And the only thing on Dean's mind is Sam. They need to talk about this.

Heck, they need to talk about everything.

With a sigh, Dean taps on the doorframe to let his brother know he's there. "Hey."

Sam drops the plate he's been scrubbing back into the sink and shuts the water off. Then he braces his hands on the edge of the sink and drops his head. "Hey." He lets out a deep breath, rolls his shoulders. "She gone?"

Dean leans against the frame and folds his arms across his chest. "Yeah, she's gone." He licks his lips, voice hoarse when he asks, "You okay?"

Sam huffs a bitter laugh, still doesn't turn around. "Are you?"

"No," Dean answers bluntly. Honestly.

Sam faces him then, meets Dean's eyes. He wipes his hands on his pants and then runs them through his hair. "What'd you say to her?"

Dean shrugs the question off. They'll get to that later. Right now, he's itching to do the one thing he always does when he has a lot on his mind. He clears his throat gruffly and reaches into his pocket. "You up for a drive?" he asks, holding up the keys to the Impala for Sam to see. "We can talk it out on the road."

Sam bites down on his lip, then nods. "Yeah, okay," he breathes.

They walk out of the kitchen, Dean grabs the four remaining beers left on the table, and they head up the stairs.

xxx

They drive in silence for a while.

No music, just rubber on asphalt.

Dusk has turned to night, and there's a light drizzle as Dean takes Baby down a back road they've never been down before.

Sam is in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead, jaw locked.

Fifteen minutes go by without them saying a word. Fifteen minutes and then they start to talk at the same time.

Like an idiot, Dean says, "Nice night," even though it's raining and dreary and the absolute opposite of a nice night. He says this because he's not good at the talking thing. He's not good at looking at things under a microscope, especially when emotions are running wild. He's not good at beginning a tough conversation.

He says this at the same time Sam says, "I wish she hadn't come back."

Dean feels like the air has been knocked out of him. "What?"

"I wish Amara hadn't brought Mom back," Sam repeats, refined. "And I know you probably think I-I'm… a monster for saying that – I hate t-that I'm even thinking it – but it's true. I… I wish—"

Sam breaks off when his voice catches in his throat. Dean can hear him swallowing convulsively, trying to fend off the sobs that are no doubt building in his chest.

And Dean figures it's best for him to pull over to the side of the road. He knew this discussion would probably involve some waterworks. Hell, Dean feels like he is on the verge of breaking too, so he can't really blame Sam for it.

"Why're you stopping?" Sam croaks.

"Because I think we need some air," Dean answers without hesitation. His voice is clipped, but it's not out of anger. It's because he feels sick at just the thought Sam feeling guilty over this. It's not his fault.

So he slows down and puts Baby in park by the side of the road. They're settled on the outskirts of a large field: a farm property. It's just them and the road, the light drizzle of rain, and the air of tension between them.

Dean reaches into the backseat and grabs two beers from the depleting six-pack. Then he pats Sam's knee and says, "Okay, come on."

Sam obeys. They both kick open their doors.

xxx

It has stopped drizzling and they're sitting on the hood of Baby, halfway through their beers, when Dean says, "Keep talking, Sam."

Dean hears Sam swallow. "But… aren't you mad?" he asks slowly. "About what I said? I-I mean, Amara brought Mom back for you – she said she was giving you what you always—"

"Wanted," Dean finishes for him softly, staring down at the rim of his bottle. "She said she was giving me what I always wanted."

"Yeah."

"So how come I feel like my heart's been ripped out and run over with a damn tractor?"

Dean feels Sam's eyes on him more than he can see them. "Dean…"

"Sam. What you said in the Impala… I-I think you and I are on the same page. And I can't put it into words, man. So please. Keep talking."

There's a beat of silence and then Sam lets out a shuddering breath. "When we were kids, I used to daydream about her," he says softly. "You know? I thought about what it would be like to have a mom. I painted this… flawless picture of her in my mind, this woman who was pure and good. It made it all easier – it gave us, me, you, and Dad – a purpose, and it was a good purpose, a good reason to fight. That image I created of her felt real, Dean. It was the woman I believed her to be, and no one could take that away from me. Until now."

Dean swallows hard over the lump in his throat, but doesn't say anything as Sam continues.

"Ever since she came back, that image I created of her keeps becoming more and more blurred. A-And I don't think it's ever going to come back into focus." Sam sets his beer down between his thighs so he can run his hands through his hair. "It hurts, man, that she lied to us. That she's working with them."

Dean closes his eyes. "I know."

"I-I still have nightmares, Dean. About that basement. A-About that woman." Sam's voice breaks, but he keeps talking. "I think… I think I'm still messed up from it. And I know you're probably pissed at me for saying that b-because I told you I was fine, but… you were back, and Mom was back, and I couldn't… there was too much going on."

Dean's heart clenches at Sam's admission. The torture that his brother endured had been brushed under the table because it was easier that way. Dean never wanted to think about it, and when he pressed, Sam didn't want to talk about.

So they didn't.

They should've talked about it.

"What did she do to you, Sammy?" Dean whispers.

Sam's breath hitches, and he brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He starts to tremble so hard that he makes the Impala rattle.

Fuck.

"Sam…"

Dean reaches out to put a hand on his brother's shoulder, squeezes it gently. He can feel the tension in Sam's shoulders, can feel the anguish in the taut muscles of his back.

"We can't," Sam says shaking his head, and Dean can tell he's trying to make his voice as strong as possible. "Not now. We have more important—"

"Don't you dare say we have more important things to discuss," Dean interrupts sternly, knowing exactly where his brother was going with that. "Jesus, Sammy."

But Sam shrugs off Dean's hand and stands up. "Look, Dean, I shouldn't have… all I was trying to say is: everything's screwed to hell. How are we supposed to get past this? I mean, what are we supposed to do?" He grabs his beer bottle, now empty, and then chucks it as far as he can into the open field.

"Sam."

He turns back to face Dean and runs his hands through his hair again. "What'd you tell her, man?"

Dean hesitates because he doesn't want to let the subject drop. It's the closest Sam has come to talking about what that wench put him through, but Dean also knows this isn't the time. He can't be the sturdy rock that Sam needs him to be for conversation like that. Not when he feels like he could burst at the seams with rage. Not when he feels so betrayed.

So he clears his throat and does his best to speak slowly and quietly, despite the anger pumping through his veins. "I told her that I can't trust someone who teams up with people who have laid a hand on my brother. Even if she's family."

Sam swallows audibly, nods his head.

Dean sighs. "But I also told her that you're more forgiving than I am, and that you get to make the final call. So… ball's in your court, Sammy."

Sam clears his throat, breathes out slowly. He takes his seat back on the hood of the Impala, folds his arms over his chest. Seconds, minutes, measured, steadying breaths.

"Okay," he says finally. Softly. "I get why you told her it was my call – and thank you – but… I-I don't want it to be. We need to make this decision together. And I don't think we can make it right now. We need to give it some time, allow ourselves to process everything."

"Do you think we're ever going to feel differently about this?" Dean asks seriously, because he's not seeing it. "About her?"

"I don't know."

"Well, we can freeze her out forever for all I care." Bitter. Cold.

"Dean," Sam chides gently.

"What?" he growls.

"I get that you're pissed. I am too. I'm so mad and hurt that it's hard for me to see straight. But—"

"Don't," Dean cuts him off. Implores. "Please, please don't make some bullshit excuse for her. Because I swear to Chuck, Sammy…"

"I wasn't going to make an excuse for her," Sam says calmly. "Hell, I don't think there is one."

Dean snorts in agreement.

"What I was going to say," Sam continues pointedly, "Is that no matter what happens with Mom, it's you and me, man. That's never going to change, okay? Hold onto that. Don't…" he trails off, but it doesn't matter.

Dean hears him loud and clear.

Don't fly off the handle like you always do. Hold onto the good.

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, then uses his thumb and forefinger to massage his eyelids. He hates that Sam's the one talking him down. That's not the way it should be. Not ever.

"Yeah," he breathes out finally, because he takes solace in his brother's words. "Okay." He drops his hand, pats Sam's thigh. "You and me." He downs the last of his beer, then pushes himself off the Impala. "Let's blow this popsicle stand."

They get back into the car and close the doors. Dean takes a moment to sink into Baby's interior.

Sam does the same.

Dean licks his lips and turns the key in the ignition, surprised to find that he is oddly at peace.

No matter what happens, he still has his constants.

Baby, the open road, and Sam.

Always Sam.

The way it should be.

Fin.