A Sunday

Sam has always been an early riser, regardless of the action of the previous day or late hour they turned in and he wakes Sunday morning with the sun, not that he can see it from the underground and windowless stone walls inside the Men of Letters bunker. He's moved his belongings to a bedroom in a different hallway, farther from Dean. Eliminating most of the daily crossover of their lives. They meet up for some meals, and are conversing more often now, but it's awkward, on Dean's part. Walking on eggshells, broken glass. Sam doesn't acknowledge it. He has no issue speaking with Dean, just stays away from anything more than superficial drivel.

They've pretty much been keeping separate schedules for a couple of months now, merging lives as hunting partners when the job calls for it, which is happening more and more often. They're spending more time together away from the bunker, trapped in the Impala for long stretches on the road. It's quite possibly becoming misleading for Dean, making him think Sam's finally at a place where they can slide back into being brothers, too. Sharing beers, burgers, and banter. He's starting to get a look, the crooked smile right before he drops a "Sammy." But Sam isn't ready for that, is forcibly maintaining a work relationship.

He isn't a monster, isn't without empathy, and recognizes Dean is no longer taking care of himself and isn't sleeping well, if at all. Sam takes it all in the way a roommate would. Concern without intervention. His brother's gait is heavy, his eyes dark and lowered, and he drinks like a fish. If this behavior is a plea for forgiveness or compassion, it's a poor one. It's even worse if he's somehow cast himself as the victim of this story. With what he's done, Dean more than deserves the guilt he's attempting to drink away and Sam's just stubborn enough to keep this going for as long as he feels the need. Maybe forever, if they manage to retrieve the First Blade from Crowley and kill both he and Abaddon and do it all without dying, themselves. He's contemplated moving on from the bunker in that instance, striking out on his own in a more permanent way than his previous attempts at solitude. Even so, part of him feels the emotional tug in his gut as Dean falls apart by the day, like little Sammy would, no matter what he tells himself or his brother.

Sam had meant it when he implied that he didn't want to be brothers. For the time being, at least. They have a codependent, toxic relationship. He's done with misplaced trust, definitely, and even more so with being under constant subjugation to whatever plan of action Dean deems is best because he calls the shots without taking Sam's opinion into account. Done with the guilt practically wafting from Dean's pores, polluting the halls of their home. It's nearly contagious. He doesn't want his heartstrings pulled this time, wants Dean to deal with the very real ramifications of what he's done to Sam. How he's forced him to go on living when he was happy to be finished. They've been stuck in a horrible, self-destructive carousel of keeping each other alive for far too long. The cycle needs to be broken.

Dean hasn't learned this lesson but Sam did, a long time ago. A lifetime ago. Dean would be dead in days, and he'd gone sleepless for two nights until he found an answer, a faith healer. He'd made the choice to save Dean and then had to witness what happened to his brother afterwards, when another man died so he could live. Convinced he didn't deserve it, wasn't worth saving, the guilt tore him apart, nearly killed him anyway. And then Dad did it to him all over again. And once more Sam had to stand by helplessly and watch the fallout. He swore to himself he'd never again put Dean through that.

Sam was saddled with his own survivor's guilt once, left alive and alone in the world with his big brother burning in Hell because in that self-sacrificing jackass's mind, enduring Hell was a better alternative than to go on living without Sam.

Sam's done some shady, crappy things in his more recent past, he can't argue that fact. He did start the apocalypse. The worst part of what Dean has done is that he doesn't care about the repercussions. He didn't care then, when he made that deal at the crossroads, and he doesn't care now that he'd as good as sold Sam's body as a weapon to an angel with an agenda. He cares that Kevin is dead, at least assumes the remorse and responsibility for that, but Sam can't help thinking that really, deep down, Dean considers the kid's death as acceptable collateral damage, because Sam is alive. Because he couldn't stand the thought of Sam being gone, of having to be alone.

Sam's been dead a half dozen times over, but this time was different. This time Sam was done, and he'd accepted it. Prepared himself to die. He can't express how hard it is to be alive when you were at peace with having played your part and lost the fight.

Sam pulls on track pants, a loose gray hoodie over a white tee, and a pair of worn running shoes. He stretches and tucks his cell phone into his pocket, lazily loops the ear buds around his neck. Sam's cleansing all unhealthiness from his life, everything from the nuclear relationship with his brother to what he chooses to eat to returning to some semblance of an exercise routine, attempting to keep his mind and body well-adjusted and fine-tuned.

The bunker is dark and quiet as he makes his way out, no sound from his brother. Roommate. Despite himself, Sam hopes that means the man is getting some sleep. As far Sam can tell, Dean's been spending long hours the past couple of nights with the Impala in the bunker's garage, detailing the Enochian scratches put into the car's doors by Abaddon's cronies. It's been a rough week all around, finally finding, using, and immediately losing the First Blade. Dean with the Blade in hand was a frightening sight, more so than Sam had expected. The same unbidden part of him that hopes Dean is finally resting also hopes the supercharged weapon never makes its way back into his brother's hands, for both of their sakes.

There's a chill in the air as he heads out for his morning run. He makes this one count, follows the two-lane blacktop all the way into town, to a non-chain coffee shop where he's become something of a regular over the past few weeks. Grabs an egg white sandwich, coffee, and newspaper, soaking in the rising morning sunshine at a table on the patio, surrounded by elderly couples complaining about Obamacare and gas prices and a younger couple dressed in Jayhawks gear grabbing coffees to go. It's nice to get out of the dark, cavelike atmosphere of the bunker for a few hours, pretend there's more to this life he didn't want in the first place.

Sam takes his time, makes his way through the entire paper, even bums a pen and completes the weekend crossword. He leaves the rest on the table for another customer without pulling out the comics to bring back to Dean. He always used to save the comics for Dean. The sun is beginning to warm the day, and though it isn't forecasted to feel like spring he feels the heat on his neck as he stretches, preparing for the long run back to the bunker. He strips out of the hoodie, wraps it around his waist in a way that would have had Dean cracking jokes. If they were in a place to be making jokes with each other.

Sam sighs, extricates the comics from the stacked sections of newspaper. He folds the flimsy pages and crams them into the pocket of his pants. Jackass. Not positive at which of them the thought is directed, and he blasts it out of his head with loud music and a sprint for the first quarter mile.

It's around noon by the time he makes his way back to the bunker, and as he trots down the staircase he notices a few lights in the main room have been turned on. One of the desktop lamps and the overhead in the hallway leading to the kitchen, lighting a deliberate path. Sam pulls the buds from his ears and hears muted sounds coming from the end of the hall.

He follows the path, where he comes across Dean at the kitchen table with a coffee mug in his hand, but the percolator is dark and cold. Scotch or whiskey fills the cup, whatever was within arm's reach. The end result is the same and he doesn't care enough to check the bottle to know for sure.

There's a sweet smell in the air, sweat and alcohol. It isn't Dean's first drink, whatever it is he's drinking, nor is it his last. He's wearing the same clothes as the day before, the blue long-sleeved henley looking stretched and rumpled, accessorizing the homeless look with an additional day's worth of beard growth darkening his cheeks and circles under his eyes. The effect is a skeletal caricature of his big brother.

Dean's staring listlessly at a small television. His eyes flick up just for a moment as Sam enters the room. "Hey." He straightens, shoots a glance at the bottle of liquor.

Sam goes to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of water. "You sleep?"

Dean swallows, clearing the hoarse growl of his greeting from his voice. "D'you care?"

He sounds like he honestly wants to know, so Sam answers honestly, after a long drink from the plastic bottle. "A little."

"Same." Dean tips more dark amber liquid from the bottle into his mug.

"Any lingering, uh…" The sleeve of Dean's shirt hides the Mark of Cain from view, but Sam can feel the slow burn of its presence pulsing in the room, a strange, feral heat coming from his brother.

Dean glances down at his arm, rubs absently at the spot just below his elbow. "No." He raises the mug to his lips. "You were out?"

"Yeah, for a run. Breakfast. Of breakfast food." Not to be judgmental. "I, uh, brought you back the comics." He pulls the sweaty, crumpled sheets of newspaper from his pocket.

Dean raises his eyebrows as Sam sets them on the table. "Yeah, I guess I could use a laugh. Thanks."

The unmistakable sound of the buzzer of a basketball game comes from the low volume of the television, and Sam turns to the source with mild surprise, thinking of the couple back at the coffee shop. "You watching the tourney?"

Dean shrugs, but his eyes tell a much different story. "It was on. Can only watch P90X infomercials so many times in one morning." He's never been much of a basketball guy. Sam's been a formidable college b-ball fan in his time, but Dean's game of choice was always baseball, or football. He cracks under Sam's scrutiny, adds, "For old times' sake, I guess. This is your school, right?"

"Yeah, but playing Kansas." Sam lowers himself to the seat across from Dean, turns to face the game. "I would think that's some kind of conflict of interest." March Madness should be a safe topic of conversation, the idea of sports in itself a viable distraction, but Dean throws a wrench into it right away.

"You know me. Always rootin' for the underdog."

Two digs for the price of one, without meeting Sam's eyes. The maybe playful jab at his alma mater he's cool with, but not with Dean referring to himself as an underdog in their current broken state. Sam doesn't give in, doesn't respond, just sips from the water bottle.

Dean stares into the mug in his hands. "Hey, you remember when we drove all the way from, what, Spokane for that Jayhawks game?" He smiles in the way he always does when he's thinking back on a fond memory, like Sam isn't in the room, or if he is, he's a much younger version. "We were in the car for, like, twenty straight hours or somethin.' You said we'd never make it. How long ago was that?"

"Yeah." Sam doesn't give permission to the smile that comes naturally to his face, fights it back. "Uh, yeah, I guess. Vaguely." There's nothing vague about the memory, just another something Dean did for Sam with the best of intentions in mind. Years ago but not so far back that Dean was still on his 'never go back home' kick, end of the world looming straight ahead. Sam had become a fan by association as a kid, watching games because Dad was watching games, and always wanted to see a game at Allen Fieldhouse, had talked about it since he was twelve. Dean hauled ass from Washington state to get them there, the year after they won the championship.

Dean's been attacking him with nostalgia lately, retelling stories from Sam and Dean's Greatest Hits, in a bucket list kind of way. Like if he can get Sam to remember the good times they've have, if he can get Sam to forgive him, to be his brother again, he can check that one off the list, and give himself permission to be done. Like it's all he's clinging to, this and killing Abaddon. Then he'll happily leave the very world he's damned Sam to remain in.

The smile fades as Dean raises his eyebrows. He knocks back his drink. "Yeah. Even so, I'm findin' myself hoping your Cardinal pulls out the upset here. Kinda been a closet fan for years."

Shut it down, Sam. He finishes his water in a long gulp and tosses the empty bottle into the trash can. "I'd better shower."

"Sure."

Sam pauses on the threshold, struck by Dean's words in spite of his desire not to be, steamrolled by the thought of him secretly cheering for Stanford while knowing Sam chose the school over him.

"What is it?"

"Nothin.' Just…" Sam turns, keeping a hand on the doorframe, keeping a physical distance. "A closet fan? Just because I went there?"

Dean shrugs. "S'there somethin' wrong with that? You were my little brother."

Past tense. Sam brought this on himself. No, he tells himself. Dean brought this on. "I just…I guess I just wish you were that kind of brother, you know, back when I actually needed it."

Dean stares a long moment, absorbing whatever sting he's drawing from Sam's words. "I've always been that kind of brother," he says finally.

Sam squints, draws away from the doorway. "I'd better…"

"Yeah." Dean fills the mug once more. "Well, thanks for stoppin' by."

Sam returns to his room from the showers, shuts the door and turns on the television just in time to watch the final seconds of the basketball game play out. It's not his life anymore, not even remotely, but it brings a smile to his face, his school pulling an expected upset. Brings back his own nostalgic rush of fond memories.

Sam dresses in a clean button-down shirt and jeans, is rooting about for his shoes when he feels a presence behind him. He spins, surveys the empty room before opening the door. He finds Dean leaning against the stone wall, looking strung out and in desperate need of more than a little sleep and a shower of his own.

Sam tosses the shoes to the bedspread, and with his back to Dean asks, "Did you need something?"

There's no answer for just long enough to cause Sam to turn back. As he does, a crooked, weary smile crosses Dean's thin, bearded face. "Nothin' like rooting for the underdog," he says, his voice low, wrecked, and with the hint of a slur.

Sam frowns and raises the remote to turn off the TV. He can't help but feel on edge, almost cornered here, after the change in Dean he'd witnessed with the First Blade at his disposal. Like he's in some sort of danger. "Sometimes, yeah."

Dean's shoulders raise and lower, just the smallest hint of movement.

"Why don't you get some sleep," Sam suggests, fighting the urge to shake Dean until he comes to his senses. This isn't a battle he can upset, won't turn the tables with childhood regalements and certainly not with falling down drunk in the hallway.

"Yeah," Dean says, but stands in place staring at his boots and rubbing his arm for a long moment before finally retreating down the darkened hallway, weaving a broken line. "Yeah."

Sam watches him go, exhales a breath he'd been holding, long and loud. Maybe Dean's right, and he is the underdog here. And maybe there's a little boy somewhere inside Sam who hopes his big brother will pull out the upset and find a way to be the hero again.

Author Notes: This was totally, inexplicably random, and more a writing exercise than anything. I haven't had an idea and written a whole story in one sitting in, God, eight years? It was a good day, today, and that's when this story happened, as anyone who's following the NCAA Tournament will recognize. I was cleaning up this morning, Stanford and Kansas in the background, and started having images come to mind. Dean with a drink of dark amber liquor watching Stanford play and doing it just because it's Sammy school. Remembering how in Swan Song it's said they drove two days for a Jayhawks game. It popped in my head, Sammy stating, "I wish you'd been this brother back when I needed it," and Dean's broken response of, "I've always been this brother." Then it was all day, me and my laptop, Crookshanks. It was also an opportunity to organize some thoughts regarding this strange, dark, listless season nine. A lot of people are saying a lot of negative things about Dean, and I've tried to reconcile some of them from Sam's perspective. Dean is one messed up dude, my friends. I refuse to jump on the Dean!hate bandwagon, will continue to work on exploring all of the crap that's happened in his life that's brought us to this place for the character.