flowers for a ghost

Summary: "Some Orthodox churches believe hell is self-imposed," Sam blurts out one day as they're cleaning guns and knives and whatnot. Post Dean's resurrection Sam has been having a hard time coping with the fact an angel had to pull his brother out of hell.

Characters/Pairings: Gen. Sam and Dean and mentions of Castiel.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Note: I saw on the history channel the other day about how some Orthodox churches (specifically eastern ones) believe hell is self-imposed and is sometimes based off the relationship the person had with God. (deep, am I right?)

Word Count: 1,250

"Some Orthodox churches believe hell is self-imposed," he blurts one day as they're cleaning guns and knives and whatnot. Dean starts and makes a low, startled keening noise in the back of his throat.

"Jesus Christ, Sam," Dean gives him a hard look to accompany his equally hard tone and that right there should have been enough of a hint telling him to shut up right now but something in Sam's throat won't let him stop talking and he barrels through anyway.

"Like, it was based on the person's faith and the goodness of their soul." Sam thinks maybe his voice is a pitch higher than it should be but he turns to face Dean with wide, almost terrified, eyes. Dean releases a breath.

"Yeah, well all things considered I think it's safe to say God had nothing to do with my deal." His voice is scornful and bitter near the end and although Sam knows it's not directed at him per say, it still stings a great bit more than he'd like to admit. Dean shook his head, making another scoffing noise. "I'm not fucking doing this right now." With that statement said he grabbed his coat and stormed outside into the cold air outside of the motel room, leaving the rest of the work to Sam. Moments later he heard the Impala engine start up and saw the headlights disappear from behind the curtains.

Dimly it occurs to Sam that he shouldn't have said what he did, or at the very least, not the way he did. He could never be upfront with his brother and expect vulnerability and truth in return, especially not this new Dean fresh out of hell.

So when he returns the next morning smelling of whiskey and a bar fight and neither of them say anything, well that's okay…all things considered.

"You wanna talk about it?" Sam asks, his voice still rough from a freshly awoken sleep. Dean grunts and rolls over, pretending he didn't just wake up gasping like a fish out of water.

"You wanna talk about those four months?"

Sam swallows, thinks fair enough, and slithers back under the covers. He doesn't fall back asleep but he also doesn't get up until morning.

They're at another greasy spooned diner the next time Sam dares to bring it up, although he congratulates himself on the tact he being a considerable amount more subtle and natural about it.

"Why do you do that?" His eyebrow was arched and he purposefully inserted a lightly exasperated tone into the question. Dean, with his mouth full, looks up and raises both of his eyebrows in return, giving an incredulous shrug of his shoulders.

"Do what?" Of course, being Dean he doesn't bother to swallow before speaking. Sam scrunches his nose and flicks a crumb of a spit burger off his napkin before continuing.

"Eat like it's the last meal you'll see in the next three years."

This time Dean chews more deliberately, slowly wiping his mouth and setting aside his hamburger as though it has lost all appeal. "Catching up on lost time." He says it with an over-exaggerated light tone that completely betrays his un-Dean like actions only moments before.

"Well—yeah…but—"

"Sam." Now he just sounds annoyed. "Drop it. I'm hungry."

This time Sam can't help but feel a bit hurt, as though his older brother wasn't talking to him because he wasn't trusted enough. Even after all this time he was viewed as like a child, unable to handle any sort of responsibility, but he had to take care of himself for four months thank you very much. Thus, Sam did what any self-respectable Winchester would do; take those hurt feelings and lash out with anger.

"Oh, sorry," He snarked and as soon as he began to talk he knew it was going to end poorly. "Didn't realize I'd have to call hell and ask for your table manners back please."

He went too far. He went too far and he knew it but Dean didn't violently retaliate, only clenching his jaw in the way that told Sam he was just barely refraining from throwing a punch. He threw two bills on the table and took large, jerky steps towards the exit. For a brief moment of panic Sam honest to god thought Dean was going to take off to another state and leave him behind, but when he reached the Impala he was waiting in the driver's seat with a cassette tape blasting as loud as it could.

"If there're angels d'youthinthere'sgodtoo?" Sam was aware he was slurring his sentence but through the pleasant buzzing in his head he couldn't bring himself to be too concerned about it. And to think he was afraid he had forgotten how to get drunk after his close encounter with alcoholism after Dean's death.

"Let's get you to bed, sasquatch." Dean provided a helping arm (or whole body support) and had to practically manhandle his younger brother under the covers. Sam made a humming sound of agreement in the back of his throat and when his eyelids were too heavy with the promise of sleep he was too late to realize Dean hadn't said no.

Several beats of silence passed, just long enough to make Sam think he was out of the initial blast range. He couldn't even remember what had started it this time—something he said, something Dean did, it didn't matter. They were at each other's throat so often that he could barely remember the time where they were just hunting.

"It was hell." Dean tied his boot laces up and glared in Sam's direction. "There wasn't anything you could've done."

"Castiel did." And he swallowed at how petulant he sounded, how much of a needy, jealous younger brother he must appear to be.

"You're not an angel Sam! Why is this bothering you so much?"

Sam clenched his fist and grinded his teeth, metaphorically digging his heels into the floor. "I'm your brother! I searched for over a year to try and break you out of your deal, then to get you out of hell, and Castiel comes along and does it in four months. How could it not bother me?

Dean was stunned into silence, defenseless against the onslaught of words pouring from his brother's mouth.

"And then when you finally do get out, you aren't even grateful! You don't even care! Whatever happened in hell is killing you Dean! It's killing you and you won't let me help! It's this past year all over again!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, this is about Cas?"

Cas. Jesus Christ he has a nickname for the guy. Typical that was the only part he bothered to latch onto.

"Yes!" Sam cried, incredulous, arms waving about his head (albeit he looked a little ridiculous).

Dean breathed through his nose. "Sam. You can't. Okay? You just…can't."

"I can't what?"

"Take this weight, and I know you want to—believe me, I know, but man…what happened? Nobody should hold that on their shoulders."

"Nobody except you," He sounded a little bitter but nobody bothered to call him out on it. Dean said nothing in a response and only swung his duffle bag high on his back, jingling the car keys and making his way towards the door. Sam did nothing to stop him and as he left if he pretended they didn't leave little shards of themselves in the motel room, well that's okay…all things considered.