Author's Note: You didn't think I was gone for good, did you? ;-)

Anyway, with all the long stories I'm working on taking more time than I expected, and a little break before the next update to Our Echoes Roll, here's some gratuitous hurt Sam and guilty Dean.

Thanks (as ever) to Cheryl.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Summary: Sam and Dean have an argument. Dean goes out for a night on the town. They're Winchesters, so this isn't going to end well.

Setting: Sometime after Adventures in Babysitting but before The Born-Again Identity. Put it where you like. :-)

Vengeance

Chapter I: Pretending

Dean didn't look at Sam as he walked into the motel room and dropped the duffel full of weapons on the nearest bed. He continued not looking at Sam as he took a long drink from his flask – Bobby's flask.

It wasn't that he was mad at Sam. It was just that he couldn't meet his brother's eyes just then. It made him feel like a coward – or worse – but he couldn't bear to look at Sam and see the truth that Sam was trying to hide. He couldn't bear to acknowledge that Sam was going slowly crazy.

And Sam thought Dean didn't know. He thought Dean couldn't see. It was a sign of how far they'd gotten from normal, from their normal, that Sam thought he could hide the fragile state of his mind from Dean. It was like he didn't know that Dean was tuned to everything his little brother said and did, like he didn't know Dean's big-brother radar would pick up on the slightest change of posture or tone.

Dean knew.

Dean was just letting them both live the deception that Sam was fine, because…

Because what else was he supposed to do? Admit that Sam was going crazy and Dean didn't know how to fix it? List his failures as a protector and as a big brother? Oh, Dean could do that. He'd begin with dying and leaving Sam by himself, trace the horrible two years that followed Dean's return, make a rest stop at the part where he let Sam jump into Lucifer's Cage because he couldn't think of any other way to stop the Apocalypse and then couldn't figure out how to get his soul out for eighteen months, and then end where he stood by like an idiot while Cas broke his brother's brain.

Oh, yeah. Dean could see that happening.

He couldn't admit, even to himself, that Sam wasn't OK. Dean was dead certain that God had fled to Narnia and never intended to come back; that was the only way to explain the fact that Sam's reward for saving the world was that he got to see Lucifer everywhere he looked.

So Dean did the next best thing. He let Sam pretend he was fine.

He hated himself for it, but he didn't know what else to do. He couldn't fix this. He couldn't fix Sam. He had to let Sam be strong enough for both of them, because one of them had to be strong and it wasn't Dean. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.

The irony of the situation wasn't lost on him.

Sam watched, trying not to frown and not quite succeeding, as Dean put on his jacket. His older brother wasn't quite drunk – Dean would probably have to down half the contents of a brewery to get drunk now – but he wasn't exactly sober either.

"Where are you going?" Sam asked, keeping his voice as neutral as he could.

It didn't work; Dean looked up and glared at him. "To find a bar."

Sam hesitated. He knew Dean wouldn't take kindly to any attempt to suggest restraint, and Sam had had a hard day. He'd been thrown around by a vengeful spirit, had the contents of a bookshelf dumped on top of him, and then choked by a possessed department store mannequin. (Seriously, who would have thought those things could move their fingers?) His back was bruised. His neck hurt. He had the beginnings of a headache. He was pretty sure he had some hairline fractures in his ribs, too.

Finally, to top it off, Lucifer had been sitting in the backseat of the car and laughing at him all the way back to the motel.

Sam really wanted nothing more than to get a hot shower and sleep for the next fourteen hours.

And, really, Dean was a big boy. If he wanted his liver to fail before he hit thirty-five, there wasn't a lot Sam could do about it.

Yeah, right.

Sam didn't even bother pursuing the thought. He knew he was only going to get brushed off, and probably yelled at, but all the same he had to at least try to get Dean to stop drinking away his sorrows.

"Dean, if you want to talk –"

"I don't want to talk."

"Dean," Sam ventured, "I know how you feel about Bobby, man. I just think –"

"Well, don't," Dean snapped. "Quit trying to help me, Sam. I'm not a teenage girl. I don't want to share or cry on your shoulder and I don't need help. I'm dealing."

"You're drinking. That, and fuelling your obsession with Dick Roman. It's not healthy –"

"Excuse me for trying to save the world."

"That's not what I mean and you know it. I know we have to stop them, but you can't make it personal –"

"Sam," Dean growled, "listen to me. I don't want your help. I don't need your help. If you want to do something useful, get some useful intel on Roman instead of bitching at me. Or better yet, try to get your head straight."

Sam flinched. "Dean –"

"I mean it," Dean snapped. "I don't know what's going on up there, Sam, but until you sort out your issues, they're going to be a liability. I can't even trust you to have my back right now because as long as Lucifer's in the picture you could wind up getting us both killed. I need to know you're not going to go crazy on me –"

"Dean, I'm dealing with it –"

"You've been dealing with it a lot worse lately. You think I haven't noticed? You know what's worse than being drunk, Sam? Seeing Lucifer everywhere."

Dean stormed out, leaving Sam too stunned to go after him.

Sam knew he was messed up, but he hadn't imagined that Dean thought he was so messed up that he couldn't be trusted.

The slam of the door had barely stopped reverberating when Sam's cell phone began to ring, cutting into his thoughts. He glanced at it. It was a number he didn't recognize.

Sam took the call.

"Hello?" There was no answer, although he could hear someone breathing on the other end. "Hello," Sam tried again. "Who is this?"

Still nothing, although the breathing hitched and quickened.

Sam sighed – he didn't have time for this – and ended the call.

Almost immediately, the phone rang again. Same number. Sam was tempted to throw the phone at the wall, just to hear the smash of glass, metal and plastic.

Instead, he picked up. Again.

"Hello?"

"Sam!" It was a child's voice, high and terrified. "Please, is that Sam Winchester?"

"Yeah," Sam said slowly. "Who is this?"

"It's – please don't hang up – it's Jacob."

"Jacob?" Sam racked his memory. He couldn't remember any –

Wait.

"Amy's son?" Sam asked, his voice, despite himself, shaking a little. "That Jacob?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Please don't hang up. I have to talk to you. Please."

"Sure," Sam said. "What is it?"

"I need help," the boy said, his words punctuated by sobs. "I – I don't know what to do. My mom told me I could call you if – if I ever needed anything. She said you'd help. You're not like the others. You won't hunt me. Please."

"Jacob –"

"Don't say no. Don't. You can't. I don't…. I don't know what else to do."

"But –"

"Please."

Sam sighed. "Look, give me five minutes, OK? I'll call you back."

"Sam –"

"Five minutes," Sam said, hanging up.

He pressed Speed Dial 1.

Dean didn't bother taking his phone out of his pocket. He knew it was Sam. And he really couldn't handle a conversation with Sam right now.

None of this was Sam's fault. Dean knew that, too.

And he knew he'd hurt his brother when he'd lashed out. He hadn't meant to. Dean wasn't cruel, not to Sam. Letting the kid pretend he was OK when he wasn't was one thing. Throwing his problems in his face, especially when Dean, after those first couple of weeks, hadn't done a damn thing to help him with them, was another thing altogether.

He'd seen the flash of pain in his little brother's eyes, and he'd hated himself with all the concentrated energy he usually applied to things that hurt Sam.

But that hadn't been enough to make him stay and fix it. He was too tired. He needed to lose himself in a bottle of Jack and a hot girl.

He'd buy Sam doughnuts in the morning. It was an easy out for Dean, and it made him feel like even more of a coward to take the absolution he knew Sam would offer willingly. But it wasn't like it was news that Sam was a brave kid. Dean couldn't imagine going through a year and a half – a hundred and eighty years – of a Hell far worse than Alastair's had been and still being vertical and mostly coherent at the end of it.

Dean ignored the phone, even when it began to ring again, and drove. After all, there was no way he could hate himself more than he already did.

Sam looked at his phone. Dean wasn't answering – Sam had tried four times. The fourth time he'd left a message asking Dean to call back. He hadn't given any details – who knew how many inside men Dick Roman had working for RIM? – but he'd made it clear that it was important.

And Dean hadn't called.

Sam found himself not feeling as surprised as he'd expected to feel.

That made it worse.

Before he could think about it too much, the phone rang. Although it wasn't Dean's name that flashed on the screen, he was still disappointed when he heard Jacob's voice.

It was the eighth call – or possibly the ninth. Dean didn't know. Dean didn't want to know.

He let it roll to voicemail again, knowing Sam would bitch at him in the morning. Chalk that up to another apology Dean owed his brother. They never ignored each other's calls. Never, no matter what. Not if they were pissed at each other, not if they were in a library, not if one of them was in a girl's room about to get lucky.

And what if Sam was in trouble?

Dean pushed that thought away. Sam wasn't in trouble. Sam couldn't be in trouble, not in trouble he didn't know how to handle. He was just being his girly self, wanting to call and have a chick-flick moment. Dean knew he owed Sam about eight hundred thousand of those, but he'd deal with it later. Hopefully Sam would have fallen asleep by the time Dean got back to their motel room.

Jacob had broken down and cried for ten minutes straight the last time he'd called.

Sam was torn. He had to help the kid – it went against every instinct to listen to a sobbing child, monster or not, and do nothing about it.

He had to help the kid.

But he wasn't stupid, and he couldn't discount the possibility that it might be a trap. Sam had known Amy, but he didn't know Jacob, and Dean had killed the kid's mother. Right in front of him. Sam would be sore if he were in that position.

One way or another, he didn't want to run off after Jacob without letting Dean know. He didn't want his brother to come back to the motel room, find him missing, and panic.

And he was starting to worry about Dean. Dean had been pissed, yeah, but they didn't ignore each other's calls. Not with the kind of work they did. Not when a phone call could mean that your brother had been backed into a corner by two werewolves and a vampire and needed backup.

Dean heard the phone ring. Again.

The girl – Jasmine, he thought, although he couldn't really be sure; all he knew was that she was sizzling and willing – frowned a little. "Do you have to get that?"

In answer, Dean pulled out his phone and flicked it to silent.

"There you go," he said, dropping it on the table next to his jacket. "I'm all yours, darling."

Jasmine smiled, revealing a set of perfect white teeth.

Sam suppressed the urge to sob when he heard Dean's voice say, "This is Dean. Sammy, leave a message. Anyone else, tell me how you got this number."

"Dean." Sam's voice was shaking pathetically, but he couldn't help it. His head was full of horrible pictures of the car crashed into a tree with Dean unconscious and bleeding all over the steering wheel. "Dean, call me back." And, God, it didn't take much blood loss before it started to get dangerous. "I just need to know you're OK. Please."

"Sam, please," Jacob sobbed. "Just listen to me."

Sam sighed. "OK. What is it?"

"There are hunters after me. Sam, I haven't killed anyone. I promise. My mom – she taught me how to survive, and I told my dad, and he's got a friend who works in the coroner's office. I swear I haven't killed anyone, Sam. I tried to tell them, but they came after us anyway and we had to run."

"Which hunters, Jacob? Do you know their names?"

"I don't know." The kid was full-on crying now. "I don't know."

"Jacob – OK, listen to me. Where are you?"

"With my dad. Boston."

"Boston. OK. Listen, we're a few hours away. Dean's not here right now, but he'll be back soon, and then we'll come to you."

"Not Dean."

"Jacob –"

"I don't want Dean to come."

"Jacob, I have to bring him –"

"He killed my mom!"

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "I know, Jacob. I know, and I'm sorry. Dean's not a bad person. If it's true that you haven't been killing anyone, he won't hurt you."

"Just you," Jacob said. "Not Dean. Just you."

Sam sighed. He couldn't blame the kid. "We'll see," he said. "I still need to talk to Dean. I'll call you when he's back, OK? For now you just keep your head down and stay out of sight, and we'll be there in the morning."

He ended the call and tried Dean's number again.

The cell phone screen flashed silently, lighting up the small bedside table. A few feet away, on the bed, the cell phone's owner had fallen into a post-coital doze.

After several seconds, the screen stopped flashing.

The room was completely dark.

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