·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·

Aftermath

Dean

·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·

For a few minutes after Bobby had driven out of sight in Barret's old Ford both Sam and I stood frozen in place. He was still staring at the entrance to the salvage yard, but it was the thousand-yard stare of war veterans; a haunted expression I never wanted to see on my little brother's face, and definitely not for a reason like this.

Finally I broke from our shared trance. Right. Damage control. "Sammy, come on inside." My throat was tight for some reason, my voice strained, so the words came out soft and breathy. "You should wash up."

He dropped his gaze to his hands and realized that he still gripped the old hunting knife in one fist. After an obvious effort he managed to release it, and we both watched it fall to the ground with a dull clank. Yeah, that thing had to go. As soon as I picked my little brother up and got him moving, that was number one on the to-do list. He studied his bloodstained hands for a moment, clearly in shock.

"Sam," I said gently, trying to pull him out of his daze. When he didn't respond I grasped his wrist as if he was five again and needed to be led across the street. He jerked as if I'd shocked him at first, but I kept him in a loose grip, ignoring the blood slicking my fingers. "Let's get you cleaned up." I kept my voice soft and steady, as if trying to soothe a spooked animal. After a second he relaxed and let me pull him up the stairs and into the house.

He scrubbed his hands for a good ten minutes before I decided that enough was enough. They were bright red from the hot water but, the way Sam was looking, he obviously wasn't seeing the same thing I did.

"Alright Sammy," I said, keeping my tone light. "Shower time." He let me herd him to the upstairs bathroom but then stood there as if he didn't have a clue what to do, and I remembered when I used to give him baths as a baby – something I hadn't thought of in years. Which darkly brought me back to Frank's confession. 'I like the boys.' Jesus. I couldn't believe it. I had one job – take care of Sammy – and I'd fucked up so miserably...

I blinked, hard, to shake myself from my thoughts, and then patted my brother's cheek sharply to bring him out of his. "C'mon Sam, you can't walk around looking like that all night." I swallowed the lump in my throat and tried (and failed – and I was noticing a pattern here) to make light of the situation. "You look like an extra from Friday the 13th."

He jerked his head in a rough semblance of a nod, then swiped a hand over his face and stared at it when it came off tacky from the light spray of blood. "Right. Yeah. Shower," he murmured, and I tried not to let the relief show on my face. "Shower's good." When he started fumbling with the buttons on his red flannel, which was a little darker red in spots than it used to be, I nodded my approval and stepped out, closing the door softly behind me.

As soon as there was a barrier between us I felt all the resolve drain from my body and my face crumpled. I sagged back against the door, biting my lips and fighting despair. I remotely registered the water of the shower turning on, but I still leaned there, taking deep breaths, needing a moment longer to pull myself together.

God. How had I never seen this?

Sam had been quiet that summer. I remembered it now.

Preoccupied with my training, I'd thought he was sulking because he wasn't allowed to come with me and blow things up. I mean, it was the most awesome thing in the world to me, so how could he not be jealous? Fishing was boring at that age; I hadn't been surprised that he'd hated being left behind to be babysat by Mister Barret.

Son of a bitch. How could I have I missed it?

After we'd left the mountains of North Carolina I'd chalked his continued sullen demeanor up to the fact that he was once again having to start over in a new school. He'd made friends at his last school. I guess he hadn't yet given up on forming attachments like I had. Though now that I thought about it, he'd been much more reserved for... well, a long time after that summer. And I was apparently oblivious, because I couldn't even remember how long it had taken to get him out of that... funk, or whatever I'd assumed it was. Had he ever regained that innocence? Maybe I'd chalked it up to his recent discovery that monsters were real. To Dad handing him a gun when he said he was afraid of the (thankfully imaginary) monster in the closet of the dump we'd been living in at the time. Or maybe I was just looking for an excuse for being a pathetic big brother.

My mind wandered back to the cabin. Sam and I had slept in the loft on what I'd thought was a luxurious king bed. Looking back now, I realized it was just kind of rustic, with old, unfinished wood à la cabin-in-the-forest and a soft, worn quilt. I'd been a bit awed at having such a large mattress to stretch out on without having to worry about my little brother kicking in his sleep... but had he just been curled up on the far side of the bed the whole time? Dad had been in the downstairs bedroom, and Mister Barret had stayed in the suite in the basement. I actually didn't recall ever going down those stairs, now that I'd thought of it.

Was there a picture of my baby brother displayed lewdly on some pedophile's wall? I was reminded, disturbingly enough, of the trophy shots the Benders had taken with each of their 'kills' and, as soon as my brain made that connection, I felt the bile rise in my throat.

I pushed it back with determination just as I pushed myself away from the door, steeling myself, and went to go dispose of that old knife that none of us would be able to look at again. I scuffed some dirt over the small blood spatter on the ground outside and then went back through the house, making sure there wasn't a drop or smear to be found. I think it was more for our peace of mind than to destroy evidence of a crime, but it was necessary either way, and served to keep me focused on something that I could actually do something about. Once I was done I scrubbed my hands and arms thoroughly over the sink and inspected my clothes for any further bloodstains. My eyes settled on a dark brown, almost black spot on the bottom cuff of my frayed jeans. Well, any new bloodstains, at least. Satisfied that I was clean, I went to Sam's bag and pulled out a change of clothes for him. The jeans I picked up might not've been freshly laundered, but at least they weren't covered in blood.

By the time I'd returned, the bathroom door was still closed but the water was off, so I knocked a couple times. After an ominous silence I tentatively pushed the door open.

Sammy was sitting on the closed toilet lid, a damp towel wrapped around his waist, still staring at his hands. They were bright red from the hot water and rough scrubbing, as was the rest of his skin – and, Jesus, had he just stood in scalding water the whole time? – but I didn't think that's what he was seeing.

I called his name lightly but he didn't look up. "I, uh, brought you some clean clothes," I told him, lifting the bundle of clothes – reasonably clean, at least – as if presenting an offering. No response. "Sam?" Still nothing. I chuckled uncomfortably, letting my arms drop a little, then admitted, "Come on dude, you're scaring me."

He never took his eyes off his hands. "Now?" His voice caught on the single syllable. "Now I'm scaring you?"

I chewed my bottom lip as I deliberated on my reply. How could I explain that I probably would've done much worse to the man had I known – now or then – without taking the conversation somewhere uncomfortable? "Yeah, well, I've seen you stab monsters before." I don't think I pulled off the lighthearted tone I was shooting for, but Sam graciously didn't call me out on it. Eventually, when he still refused to look up from his hands, I set the pile of clothes down and took a seat on the edge of the tub.

Alright. Fuck it. This was one of those times when the 'no chick-flicks' law had to be suspended.

"Sammy, why didn't you tell me?" My tone was subdued and though I tried to keep it light, he could probably hear the hurt feelings beneath.

After a long silence he answered. "Would you have told anyone? About something like that?" He sounded... broken. He was judging himself. For an adult taking advantage of him. And God, didn't that hurt. He was just a kid, and I told him as much.

"He said he would hurt you," he finally explained. I huffed a humorless, almost-soundless laugh, but didn't get the words out before he beat me to it. "And by the time I got old enough to realize he couldn't, or wouldn't..." he shook his head, "it wasn't like anybody would have believed me anyways." There was self-loathing there, and I couldn't stand hearing it.

He had to know... "I would've believed you." There wasn't much volume behind my words, but I backed them with conviction. He had to know that I would have his back. If I'd have known – if I hadn't been so fucking blind... well, Sammy would've been Frank Barret's last victim, at least. And my little brother wouldn't have had to live with that... that secret shame in his eyes any longer. I'd have put a stop to that right then. Both Barret and this guilt, this self-disgust that'd obviously been eating the kid alive for over a decade.

Fuck. Alcohol. Yeah, alcohol would make this better. For both of us. My body jerked into motion at the thought. "I better go pick Bobby up, before he drinks all that high-shelf whiskey without us." He'd most certainly had time to wipe that bastard's car down, and had probably been idling at the liquor store for a while now, most likely fretting about Sam's mental health and wondering what he'd find when he got back.

"Yeah," Sam said flatly. "Whiskey sounds good."

I gently patted his shoulder and then the clean(ish) clothes I'd left for him on the sink. "I'm not drinking with a guy who's wearing only a towel," I told him in a glib tone, studying his reaction closely for tells.

He flipped me off.

Yep. I was cleared for takeoff. I could leave knowing he wasn't going to fall apart. Or do anything stupid.

And then he finally, finally, lifted his eyes to meet mine, and I felt like things might just be okay. Eventually. We'd be okay.

·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·

Author's note: Once again, thanks to TigerLilyNoh for such helpful advice on this chapter! I'm fairly certain that no one can channel Dean as well as she can, but I gave it my best shot. :)

And yet another author's note: After a bit of tinkering, I'm pretty positive I wouldn't be able to do Bobby's point of view justice, plus at this point it'd probably fairly redundant (sorry, to those who requested it), but I hope you enjoyed Dean's POV. I'd welcome any sort of feedback you would be so kind as to offer. Thanks for reading!