Title: Nietzsche

Author: Kits
Rating: T, for language and violence
Disclaimers: Supernatural, and all its pretties, belongs to the WB and Kripke (though with the finale, he doesn't deserve them. Not that I'm bitter or anything.)

"That man flirted with me."

Dean chanced a quick glance at his brother in the passenger seat. Sam was staring straight ahead, eyes locked on some point in the distance and his mouth tucked firmly downwards—an expression he had perfected sometime around sixteen, when he decided his family may not qualify as normal and had preached to them all prim and proper about the abnormality of their ways. Dean really hated that expression.

"Yeah," he said casually, "he did. What about it?"

"You encouraged him," Sam said in a tight voice. It reminded Dean of when his mother and father had a fight. He half expected a door to slam and his dad to start pounding on it with his fist.

"Well, I didn't discourage him. He helped us get the demon, Sammy, what's the big problem?"

"It's Sam, and the big problem is that you used me." The words just like Dad used us lingered in the air, but both of them be damned if the other actually said it.

"Oh, please, what's more important, your modesty or catching a demon that kills people?"

The crux of the matter hid in that sentence. Dean could have replaced the first half with 'your college life' and it would have been just as true; by the way Sam's face darkened, Dean figured he must have realized it at the same time.

They drove in uncomfortable silence for a while until Dean reached over and changed the tape. He barely recognized the music, and the lead singer's voice was jarring in the car, so finally he flipped it off, watching the road instead.

"I don't care that he was a guy, flirting with me," Sam said and Dean had to concentrate not to jerk the car into the other lane in surprise at the soft voice, "It's the fact that you let him—"

"I would have saved you if he tried anything," Dean said, flashing a wide, fake grin in Sam's direction. His fingers bounced on the steering wheel, wishing desperately there was a way to avoid this conversation, but Sam was like a bulldog when he latched onto something. He could appreciate the tenacity—it was a trait that kept him searching for his father when he had a feeling at the bottom of his stomach telling him it was useless; it was a trait telling him to keep killing monsters and protecting the innocent when there were always more monsters and no one was really innocent, anyway.

"It's the fact," Sam repeated, giving Dean a look that told him to start acting his age, "that you allowed him, and even encouraged him, when you knew I had no intention of following through. We used him."

"C'mon, Sam, we lie to people all the time. What makes this so different?"

Sam looked at him then.

He cringed, staring at the road again. "Fine. I used you and I used him. Are you happy?"

"Not really, no," Sam said, and he was startled to hear his brother actually raise his voice at him. "I don't want it to fucking happen again, okay?"

"It's going to fucking happen again, Sam. We're going to have to lie to people, and use them, and do all that so we can to protect them, and if that offends your sensibilities, then I'm sorry, but it's worth it."

"You know, I don't get you—" Sam started, but Dean suddenly veered off the road and had his seat belt unbuckled before Sam could finish his thought. Dean turned in his seat and pulled Sam towards him by his shirt.

"No, I don't get you, Sam. You want to live in this ivory tower that you've created where bad guys and monsters and things that kill your mom don't exist. You want to pretend that as long as you're pristine, they won't hurt you, but you know they're real, you know they're out there. How many times did you see something at college that you knew wasn't right? Huh?"

Sam shook his head mutely, but Dean was already speaking again.

"How many people do you think you could have saved, if you had just spoke up? Done something? But you didn't. Because you didn't care."

"I do care," Sam said, interrupting with a sick look on his face. "I do care about people, but—"

"But what?" Dean shook his head. "You have to get your hands dirty sometimes. You gotta make sacrifices. People don't appreciate it, and they don't want to see it."

"I don't want to become one."

The admission stunned Dean into a moment of silence. Sam stared stubbornly at the floor, never meeting his brother's eyes or explaining.

"Come again?" Dean finally said.

"I said, I don't want to become one."

"Become what?"

"A monster," Sam said faintly.

"What? Why would you?"

" 'He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster,' " Sam said, and Dean shook his head.

"Sammy, you're my little brother. I know you. You're too good to become—"

"What if I'm not? I mean, we see it every day, Dean, don't you get it?" Sam locked eyes with him and Dean nearly flinched at the pain there. This was not something he wanted to be doing along a deserted road at three in the morning in his car. This was something he was supposed to gently tease out of Sam until finally he admitted his fears and Dean calmed them and they were over. Never mind Dean shared said fears.

"Don't get what?" he said, acting deliberately obtuse.

"You know what I'm talking about."

"You mean nice people getting bit by a werewolf, and suddenly mutilating their family next full moon? Is that what you mean by becoming a monster?"

"No," Sam said, not buying the act for a minute, "I mean becoming the darkness itself. I mean blurring the line until it doesn't matter anymore and just burning out. That's what I mean."

"Sammy…"

"We can't save everyone," Sam said, staring out the window again. "So why even bother?"

Dean had nightmares about it, occasionally--about giving up and finally figuring out that the demon that killed his mother was never going to be caught; that evil would always win; that eventully, he would never even bring himself to care. What was he supposed to say? Act like he never got scared? Say something completely inappropriate for the moment and let it fester? He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and heaved a gigantic sigh.

"Yeah. I get it, Sammy. I do," he answered distantly, feeling disconnected from the voice saying it. Sam gave him a curious look. "But that's the thing, you know? You keep fighting, and you keep thinking that at least you got this one, that you've saved this person. That it's worth it."

"Is it?" Sam said. It was so low Dean thought he might not have been meant to catch it, but he replied anyway.

"Yeah," he said forcefully, "Yeah it is. Because every little thing we do means something to someone, and that someone means something to someone else."

Sam stared at him askance, and then finally spoke.

"Did you get this from that 'Chicken Soup for the Teenager's Soul' book?"

It was such a nonsequitur that Dean laughed. "What?"

"You know, the whole starfish thing?" Dean looked at him, and Sam sighed impatiently. "It makes a difference to that starfish?"

"Yes, Sammy," said Dean solemnly, "I got it from 'Chicken Soup for the Demon Hunter's Soul'."

"Lame, man, lame," Sam said.

It took another ten miles before Dean realized that his brother hadn't told him to call him Sam.

One must have a good memory to be able to keep the promises one makes.

"You promised."

Dean paused in washing his brother's cuts, looking up to see Sam's eyes boring into him, never once wincing in pain when the iodine touched the open wound.

"I what?"

"You promised," Sam said again, sounding like the little kid that used to crawl into Dean's bed at night because Dean would tell him stories about what their mother was like when she was alive—all off-key songs and rich laughs and flowers--and what their father used to be like, and what their world used to be like before there were monsters. Sam liked those stories the best, more than the ones where the good guy won or the prince beat the dragon. He liked the ones where the fathers went to work at a normal job and mothers complained about having to pick their kids up at soccer practice.

"I promised what, Sam?" Dean asked gently, dabbing at one cut that made Sam hiss and try and flinch away. Dean held his arm tighter.

"When I was five."

"I would need a better memory than the one I have to remember a promise I made when I was ten, Sam," said Dean dryly.

"You promised me that I wouldn't be hurt."

There was not an ounce of accusation or resentment in the tone, just the stating of facts that were irrevocably true, and Dean had to have been ten to make such a stupid promise. He could remember it, though. Sam was out hunting with Dad and him. Dad disappeared after the elf—not at all like the happy ones in movies, or the frivolous ones in their copy of Lord of the Rings before Dad tossed them out—telling them to stay there. Sam started crying, loudly and so desperately that Dean wrapped his arms around him and told him that he was being a baby. When that only made it worse, he hastily made a promise that nothing would happen to him. That he wouldn't get hurt.

"Sam…"

"I know," Sam said, his voice shattered like glass, "that you can't, but—"

Dean detested deep moments. He hated them on movies, he hated them on real life, and he preferred his life to be black and white as often as possible. Gray made things shady and blurry and not at all certain. Deep moments were gray.

Sam, on the other hand, seemed to revel in gray. He liked color, too, when everything was painted differently and he could pick and choose what to believe in and what to turn his back on.

So sometimes, Dean lived in color just to make Sam happy.

Which was why he found himself holding Sam in his arms, rubbing his hand up and down his back and murmuring things quietly into his ear while hitching sobs soaked his shirt. Because he really did hate deep moments.

"It's all right, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll never let you be hurt again, I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm so sorry."

The overman...Who has organized the chaos of his passions, given style to his character, and become creative. Aware of life's terrors, he affirms life without resentment.

The true nature of the universe is visible only to a select few, those who open their eyes and live in the real world and are aware of life's terrors. They suffer the thousand natural shocks daily—and know them. They are painfully aware of them.

This knowledge is granted only to those who deserve it, and the knowledge allows them who possess it to act on a higher plane than the rest of the world, who thrive in their own ignorance. They can rise above the masses because they understand themselves and life, they understand their own impulses, and because they are acting of their own will, and not only at the base impulse of their mental and physical makeup, they become a destroyer. The will to power overtakes them; the desire of all things, not just living and dead, to create form and order, to overcome, to overtake.

They do not live to survive; they live to destroy in order to promote a more perfect wholeness, and their destruction of others is creation in itself.

They seek to impose their ideas on the world at large—not directly, but like an artist sculpting a statue in the hope that one day the masses will understand it and be impressed upon by the artist's message.

They are above all else. They do not feel guilt, because they know that destruction brings structure. They affirm life without resentment—recognizing life and the universe for what it is, and the decision to live and fulfill their own will to power as a result, or despite, this. They were taught by the ubermensch and have become like him. They are the ones, who seeing the world for what it truly is, decide to live regardless.

Talking much about oneself can also be a means to conceal oneself.

"You always talk about yourself," Sam said, staring at his brother with eyes that seemed far too wise for someone who was younger than him, "But you never really say anything."

"I see in college they taught you to speak in riddles," Dean said, stabbing at a piece of maybe-meat with a fork. The meat gave, oozing grease onto the plate.

"Nah," Sam said, leaning back and grinning at him. "Just to become a lawyer."

"Oh, funny."

"Seriously, though. You know talking about yourself can also be a way to hide who you really are," Sam said, losing the grin and gazing seriously at Dean. Dean glared at him from above his meal.

"You want to know who I really am? I am your older brother who can still make your life miserable, I am hungry, and I am dead tired."

"This is what I mean. You're just hiding yourself by putting on a mask of humor."

"Trust me, Sam, this isn't the humor talking, it's the dead tired, hungry older brother," Dean said, tossing Sam some cash. "Now go get us a room at a motel with some nice, soft beds."

Sam stared at him a minute more, making him feel like shifting uncomfortably, then nodded slowly. "Okay," he said before disappearing out the door. Dean smiled at the cook behind the bar and wondered if he could get away with throwing the food away and sneaking out the door.

Later that night, when Sam was shifting restlessly under the covers and trying to get to sleep, Dean tossed his hand out and hit him.

"Ow. What do you want?" Sam said, shifting some more. Probably farther away.

"Hey, you know what you said earlier, about who I really am?"

Dean could almost see his brother mentally backtracking the day to find the conversation he was talking about. Finally he said slowly, "Yeah?"

"I'm your older brother, I miss my dad, I miss my mom, and I missed my little brother, and if anything happened to you, I wouldn't have a clue what to do."

There was a silence, then Sam let out a shaky breath.

"Yeah. Okay."

"Now get to sleep." Dean rolled over and pulled the covers around him tighter, closing his eyes and listening to his brother breathe.

To forget one's purpose is the commonest form of stupidity.

"Why'd you want to become a lawyer?" Dean asked suddenly, from all appearances out of the blue. Sam blinked, straightening in his seat and looking at his brother for some idea as to what brought this up. Dean stared back at him intently, obviously latching onto some idea in his mind.

"I don't know," Sam said slowly. "Why do you want to know?"

"I know why."

"You do." Dean nodded, looking so smug and satisfied that Sam would have said he was wrong even before he heard his brother's answer, if he wasn't so curious. "Why then, genius?"

Dean glanced at him. "Because you have a purpose."

"A purpose," Sam repeated, wondering if everyone felt as if they were missing bits and pieces of their conversation with Dean or if it was just him. He had seen Dean charm other people for information before, so he guessed it was probably everybody.

"Yeah. How many people every day walk around without any idea what they're doing or why they're doing it? They just live from day to day, makin' a living living."

"I would be impressed with your insight, except I know you got that from a Boston song," Sam said. Dean's satisfied look faltered at the exposure, but he quickly shook his head.

"That's not the point, because they had it right. People are like sheep, just doing something for no reason. No one wakes up and says, 'Hey, I think I want to work under some guy I hate, doing something that's completely useless, and then give up all my ideals for a raise and promotion.' No, man, kids grow up saying they want to be firefighters or cops or ballerinas and stuff," Dean said, taking a drink from his coffee. Sam watched with a critical eye. Occasionally Dean felt the need to explain the world, and would go into lecture mode, generally after they just left a Starbucks. It reminded him of some of his professors at Stanford, disturbingly enough.

"But you," Dean said, pointing at Sam with his cup, "you had a purpose."

"To become a lawyer?" Sam said, brow wrinkling in confusion.

"Not to become a lawyer specifically, but it's in the blood. Protect the innocent, put the bad guys away, et cetera. Just like me and Dad."

"Except I use the Constitution to put bad guys away. You use handguns and holy water," Sam pointed out.

"Semantics," Dean said with a dismissory gesture. "It's all the same. Justice and all that. You had a passion for something, just like we do. Just different methods is all. Lots of people forget what their purpose is. It's the most common form of stupidity. You, you've got a purpose, like me and Dad." He stood then, walking towards the door and leaving Sam with the barest sense of familiarity at the last part of Dean's rant.

Maybe Dean wasn't so far off, after all.

What is done out of love always takes place beyond good and evil.

"You killed him," Sam said, staring at the body on the ground. He was used to seeing bodies: charred, soaked, or even twisted in some last throes of life. This one just looked scared, dead, and painfully human.

Dean cleaned his gun, never glancing at the tracks his sneakers left in the blood.

"He was going to hurt you, Sam," Dean said, and Sam stumbled in shock.

"But… you didn't have to kill him. He wasn't…" His voice faltered, and his head spun, like he was going to collapse. Dean frowned at him.

"You all right?"

"No!" Sam shouted, whirling to face the body and back to his brother. "I am not all right! There is a dead body of an innocent man on the ground and I don't know why!"

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Dean said, as if Sam were the one going completely mad instead of the other way around. "I just told you, he was going to hurt you."

"That isn't a reason, that's—You could have just knocked him out. Or something. He wasn't bad."

"He came after you with a blade, Sam. He wasn't innocent."

"But," Sam said, feeling like Alice down the rabbit hole. The fumes from the city were getting to him, making him feel lightheaded. "He wasn't supernatural. He was just a guy."

Dean stalked up to him, grabbing him by the shoulders and staring him in the face with such a look on his face that Sam cringed in his arms. "Listen to me, Sam," Dean said in a dangerous voice, "He was going to hurt you. What I did wasn't right or wrong, okay, it's past that. I love you too much for you to die because you have to take the time to think about what the moral implications of killing him are."

Sam stared at him dully, thinking that this was what it felt like. Ambiguity felt like the coppery taste of blood, stinging and sweet and thick enough that he thinks he might want to stumble over to a trash can and empty his stomach in it, even though he hadn't done that since he was twelve.

"Did you hear me?" Dean said, letting him go and taking a step back. "I said did you hear me?"

"Yeah," Sam said, stumbling a bit as he walked to the car. He fumbled with the seat belt and as they drove through the darkness, he said in a voice too quiet for Dean to hear, "Past right or wrong" and wondered if it was true.

But thus do I counsel you, my friends: distrust all in whom the impulse to punish is powerful!

Some nights were rougher than others. Some nights the Monster/Demon-of-the-Week got the better of them, sometimes they got beat up and torn up and had nothing to show for it except a wisp of smoke where there used to be a bad guy. Some nights they saw past the outside that ripped a person to pieces and saw this nice accountant guy that just was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Those nights were the worst. Those were the times that Sam would slip into a depressed, brooding mode and stare out the window. Dean just got angry—at the world, at Dad for dragging him into this, at himself. He stared at the road and those were the nights they normally got pulled over for speeding, except not so much now that he was officially dead and it brought up some awkward questions about his driver's license.

"Dean?"

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

"Yeah?"

"Do you…" Sam paused, obviously mulling over what he was going to say in his head. Dean resisted the urge to snap at him to spit it out. "Do you ever wonder if maybe there isn't another way?"

"Another way to what, Sam?"

"To kill them," Sam finished, a hint of defiance in his voice. Dean nearly snarled.

"No. There's silver bullets."

"That's not what I mean."

"Then what do you mean, Sam?" He was pushing ninety, so he backed off the gas a bit.

"I mean if there's a way to make them normal again. So they won't hurt anybody, but they're still alive."

Dean was already shaking his head. "No chance."

"Aren't you being a little quick to say that?" Sam said with a flare of annoyance. Dean glared at him, the lights from the dash throwing shadows and lines onto his face. His voice sounded menacing, and he knew it, but didn't really care.

"No. They're gone, Sam, they're a lost cause."

There was more silence in the car, and then Sam said softly,

"Maybe we shouldn't trust our impulse to punish when it's so strong."

Dean turned the music up, drowning out Sam's voice and everything else until he only heard oblivion.

We are always in our own company.

Sleeping is a sin.

Sacrifices mean giving up sin, giving up sleeping, waking and looking into the mirror with bloodshot eyes and dark smudges of skin underneath and feeling like nothing is real and nothing has ever been real anyway.

Reality is a sin.

Reality, he tells himself very carefully, leaning on the counter heavily and glaring straight into his reflection, is something concocted by demons and monsters and it has never really existed. Sacrifices. Gotta give reality up, too. Even his stupid illusions of it. Especially his stupid illusions of it.

His voice is so matter-of-fact, so flat that he laughs until Dean asks what he's laughing about and he falls silent until Dean gives up and walks away. He's going crazy. Going, gone, has been. Crazy is okay. He can be sainted for being crazy, because insanity isn't a sin, it's reality that is.

He lays awake at night, because sleeping is a sin, staring at the ceiling and listening to his brother snore and thinking how it's only a sin if he does it, and sees his dead girlfriend and his dead mother and his dead father on the ceiling, only he's not dead, but he sees him anyway. He doesn't close his eyes. He doesn't turn away. He just stares up at them, and occasionally apologizes, tears running down his face just like when he saw Bloody Mary, and he thinks that maybe she was all right, but then Dean killed her, so it's not important anymore.

Living is a sin.

So he doesn't, mostly. He just is.

Being guilty is a sin, too. Sin is being guilty. But he thinks that maybe it's okay if you feel guilty about being guilty, so he does, even when Dean thinks he shouldn't.

"What're you thinking about?" Dean asks, a small smile on his face, but worry in his eyes. He smiles at Dean.

"Just thinking to myself."

Because he can't get away from himself, and that's the only company he has.