A/N: The fascinating characters of Supernatural do not belong to me, but to their esteemed creators. Spoilers for the series up to the season finale of Season 4. Set in 4x22. With that, ENJOY! xD

That Was Strength

'I'm sorry.'

And, Dean Winchester forgave him, like he always did.

Sam Winchester didn't even want to think of the choices, the mistakes, that lay behind the apology; not when the fire before them burned stronger than the flames of condemnation, not when the blood spewing from a dead still empty body – not Ruby, no, the demon bitch didn't have a name, didn't deserve a name for what she had done to him, for what she had led him to do to himself – stained blacker than the blood of innocents, the black blood of sin, that pumped through his veins.

Looking into clear green eyes, always concerned for him, always watching over him, Sam knew.

He wasn't the stronger brother.

Sam had tried, in his actions, in his words, even in his thoughts and hallucinations to convince himself, to convince others that he was the stronger Winchester.

But, he wasn't.

He thought he was stronger when he was the only son who had the courage to leave "the family business", to make his own choices, to choose his own path, to pursue his own dreams rather than be sucked into the ambitions, the revenge and hate, of his father.

Dean sacrificed all that he wanted, all that he desired, to keep the family together, unbroken even in death. He turned his sufferings into life; he had done it all with a willing devotion, smirks and sarcastic wisecracks, and an unfailing love.

He hadn't tried to run, to escape, like Sam had done.

That was courage; that was strength.

When Jessica had died, Sam had lost all that had tethered him to his normal life. He thought he was strong when he turned his face away, determined to step up to the plate, to accept the powers bestowed upon him, to make them work for the better good despite being of evil origins. He didn't try to run; he didn't try to hide. He wasn't normal, he was special. He was the chosen one, and he was willing to sacrifice himself for the world.

Dean didn't need to live on such illusions, delusions. He believed himself unworthy, worthless, but in that he had so much worth. He didn't try to be self-important the way Sam had, didn't need to toy with the notion that he was special, chosen, to have a purpose in life, to have a purpose to save and heal. He had his convictions, his core beliefs – not the "I don't believe in angels" crap – but real beliefs, ones that Sam knew because he relied on them more times than he could count, on that core of strength, on that love to be there even when the world ended, on that forgiveness even when he couldn't forgive himself.

Dean never lived by being anything more than just being himself, no matter how much he hated what he knew. He hadn't tried to cloak his weaknesses, hadn't tried to convince himself that he was better, so much better than what life had made him to be. He hadn't been in denial, hadn't live in delusions, the way Sam had.

That was courage; that was strength.

Sam thought he was strong when he gave up his humanity, crossing borders that most men, brave and true, had feared to cross. He would embrace his darkness, feed it, conquer it, control it, use it to defeat a greater darkness. He needed to be more than human, and he would do it with demon blood pumping through his veins.

Dean didn't need the demon blood, never needed it. He was chosen by angels, by god, because he was fully, truly human; a being created in the image of god. Sam had been chosen because they knew that he would embrace the darkness; corrupt enough to break the final seal. Dean had been chosen because he had the strength to resist, a righteous man who would never spill blood willingly in hell. He had been chosen because despite committing atrocious acts in the eternal inferno, his soul had remained intact, he had not embraced the potential he had to turn into something more, something less, and he was still human.

Dean didn't need to be anything more than human, not like the way Sam had to leech the power that came from a different race.

That was courage; that was strength.

And, verbally, silently, no matter how many times he said it, voicelessly whispered it, Sam knew that it would never be enough.

'I'm sorry.'

I'm sorry for leaving you; because I had my beef with dad, with life, but you were always caught in the middle, protecting him, protecting me.

I'm sorry for disobeying you, for choosing to believe the words of a demon over yours, for hurting you more than the hell hounds that had clawed at your body as they dragged you to hell; because betrayal, walking out on you and leaving you, hurt so much more than physical harm, hurt so much more than my tangible hands around your neck, strangling you.

I'm sorry for being weak; because you deserve so much more than a brother who spits in your face lies to run from the truth, who calls you "weak" because he cannot face the fact that he is weaker, so much weaker, and no matter what he does, he will never be as strong, the choices that he makes to gain that strength living proof of just how weak he really is.

Sam knew he couldn't keep doing this; he couldn't keep relying on Dean to come back for him, couldn't keep relying on Dean to welcome him with open arms.

He couldn't keep relying on Dean's forgiveness to patch things up between them, couldn't keep relying on Dean's strength to save the bond between them.

But, he was weak.

And, there was no telling what lay ahead.

'I'm sorry.'

And, Dean forgave him, like he always did.