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Five Times Dean Doesn't Kill Sam and One Time Sam Begs Him to (Again)

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They’re on a plane. Sam’s insides feel itchy and a little like concrete, but it feels different than when Cas zaps them around. Less violent. Dean doesn’t know much more than him, but they can see the church being completely decimated below them.

They’re on a plane and Sam is absolutely certain of two things. One, Dean is going to puke his brains out and Sam lost the privilege of helping him. Two, Dean was probably going to kill him sometime in the near future. He was trying not to be too anxious about it.

Dean is sitting window, white knuckling the arm rests and staring straight ahead. Sam kept glancing over at him, opening and shutting his mouth. He hadn’t planned an apology because he never thought he’d be around to give one.

“You saw me, didn’t you?” Dean grits out finally, blinking at the space in front of him.

“What?” Sam asked. He thought Dean would go a more direct route, with accusations and threats and knives. But he never really knew with Dean, these days.

“Before Ruby or who the hell ever closed the doors at Saint Mary's. You heard me yelling for you.” It’s more of a statement than anything, Sam doesn’t really need to respond.

“Yeah.”

Dean nods, leans away from Sam like the demon blood might catch. Sam thinks about telling him he’s sorry, he was wrong, he’s a terrible person, but Dean knew that already. Dean was going to kill him whether he said it out loud or not.

Dean goes to the bathroom ten times before they land, and the flight attendants had to physically block off the aisle when Dean tried to get up during a rough patch of turbulence. He doesn’t ask for Sam’s barf bag this time.

He’s still green and sweaty when they silently jack a red Subaru in the airport parking lot, Dean shaking behind the wheel and Sam trying to melt into the passenger's seat. Sam is wondering where they’re headed, where Dean wants to kill him. He wonders how Dean’s gonna do it, if he’s gonna draw it out (Dean's always been one for theatrics) or just put a bullet in him and ditch the body. Sam really fucked up, here. Dean deserved a little therapeutic closure, and Sam would give him whatever he needed.

“So. I know-ah-look. Sam. It’s not gonna be easy, but we can fix this,” Dean says, strained and uncomfortable. Sam doesn’t know how to tell him how on board he is with the plan-it would probably cheapen the whole thing for Dean, anyway-so he lets Dean avoid eye contact and go thirty over.

“I know. It’s okay.”

“Right. Okay,” Dean says slowly. He shoots Sam a weird look and they let the conversation drop off.

“Did you get my message?” Dean asks as they pass mile marker 343.

“Yeah. Whatever you need, Dean.” Sam says. Dean gives him another look Sam doesn’t have the energy to decode. “I know I messed up.”

“Kind of an understatement.”

“Yeah.”

“How much did you drink?” Dean asks too loudly.

“I-uh.” Sam had to clear his throat and start again. “I drained a nurse. She begged me to stop, but I thought. You know.”

Dean clenched his jaw, pretended he didn't hear the last part. “So we’ll have to stop at Bobby’s, then.”

“The demon blood’s gone. Whatever zapped us onto the plane must’ve taken the demon blood with it. I’m clean, Dean,” Sam wasn’t sure Dean would believe him, but he could feel the lightness in his bones, the dull ache where there used to be the buzz.

“Look. Sam. I’m sorry it turned out this way,” Dean gripped the steering wheel tighter, like he always did when he was uncomfortable.

“I know,” Sam replied, and he did. He knew what this would do to Dean, he knew what he’d done to the world. Sam was a vampire, a freak. Dean was going to kill him. “I’m sorry.”

Dean nodded, looked like he was going to say something more, but turned on the radio instead. Some stations were static but most were up and running, and the ones that were didn’t seem to let on about the apocalypse. Dean was in the middle of trying to find a soft rock station when he tells the radio that Sam’s eyes went black.

“What?” Sam flinches away instinctively, hands flying up to feel his face. Just in case he'd grown horns, as well. Or something.

“The angels showed me. You killed Lilith and your eyes went black.” Dean's tone reminds Sam of John, when he was trying to tell Sam he resented him without really saying it. Sam thinks he’s going to be sick.

Dean looks over, disgusted, when Sam starts gagging into his fist.

“Jesus Christ, Sam, not on the leather-” Dean pulls the car over and Sam stumbles out. There’s not a lot in his stomach, but what comes up is red and nasty and it burns like hot knives in his throat and lungs.

Dean is standing against the car, waiting for Sam to finish. Sam chokes back the dry heaves and lays his forehead on the cool dirt. Dean could shoot him, now. Sam was a demon (a blood sucking freak) and he deserved whatever Dean had planned.

Dean dragged him back to the car by his shirt and peeled away, Sam shivering and guilty beside him.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Sam’s words were thick, like they'd gotten stuck to the back of his throat on the way out and Dean still didn’t respond.