Three days after Dean told him what he’d done in Hell, Sam woke up to the sound of running water. It was a hollow sound, extra loud in the midnight quiet, and suddenly, it all made sense. The extra bars of soap. The unexplained abrasions. The piece of steel wool he’d thought had been left behind by Housekeeping.

A tendril of cold crept down his spine as he listened to the water running, as he stared at the slice of yellow-white light cutting across the carpet from beneath the bathroom door. He’d long known about the nightmares, the drinking, the shadows behind his brother’s eyes. Knew also the reason for them—the generalities if not the specifics. Hell was, well…hell, for lack of a better term. He could take the worst thing he’d experienced and multiply it by a million and it would still be a walk in the park compared to what Dean had seen. Had done. Had to relive, over and over, every night in his dreams.

Sam sat up. The water was still running and he could picture Dean standing there, hunched over the sink, trying to scrub the sin from his skin, trying to clean away the blood of others with his own. He could feel the scrape of the steel wool, the sting of the soap, the heat of the water, and he dug his fingers into the edge of the mattress, the rough sheets bunching against his palm.

Sam had meant it when he’d told Dean that he’d held out longer than anyone else would have. He’d meant the words as a comfort, but the moment he’d said them, he'd known they were meaningless. Dean couldn’t forgive himself for exchanging his own pain for someone else’s.

Thirty years of suffering and resistance couldn’t eclipse the rest. And it was the rest Dean couldn’t forget.

The water shut off and Sam stared at the carpet, watched the arc of light disappear from beneath the door, heard the doorknob turn and the door open. He looked up, saw the outline of his brother against the patterned wallpaper, and reached for the lamp, switching it on, blinking against the brightness.

Dean stared back at him, slightly startled. “Jeez, Sammy. What the hell?” He played it off, smirking at Sam in a way that made Sam ache to go back, back…back to when? Back to six months ago, right before Dean died, when he made Sam promise to keep fighting? Back to three years ago when Dean showed up at Stanford to ask for his help? Back to when they were kids and Dean lied to protect him, to protect Dad’s image in Sam’s eyes?

Right now, Sam would settle for going back to three days ago. He’d do something more than offer Dean useless platitudes. But it was too late now and Sam couldn’t stop staring at Dean’s hands.

“Let me see them,” he said softly.

Dean shifted uneasily and said, “See what?” even as he slid his hands away from Sam’s gaze, dragging them down the seams of his shorts.

“Your hands,” Sam said, lifting his eyes to meet Dean’s. “Let me see your hands.”

“Sam.” Dean’s mouth hung open for a second like he was going to say something else, but nothing else came out and he closed it again, running his tongue nervously over dry lips. “Go back to sleep,” he finally said, his voice like gravel, and he sat down on his bed, his back to Sam.

Sam stared at Dean’s back—at the way the knobs of his spine were outlined beneath his tattered gray t-shirt and the way his shoulder blades moved when he brought his hands up to his eyes—and concentrated on breathing. There are no words. That was what Dean had told him. But words were all Sam had at the moment.

“You can’t wash it away,” he said and fuck, that wasn’t what he wanted to say at all.

Dean made a noise that Sam supposed was meant to be a laugh, but it was a broken sound. “I know,” Dean said and lowered his hands, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of it all. Dean had always been like Atlas, Sam realized, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. But that wasn’t exactly right, either. It wasn’t the weight of the world Dean carried; it was the weight of his world. All Dean had ever cared about, really, at the end of the day, were Dad and Sam and when Dad was gone, well…Sam knew all too well just how heavy a burden he’d been, how heavy a burden he still was.

“Dean.” Sam stood up. He wanted to do something, but didn’t know what. How did you ease someone’s burden when you made up most of it?

“Sammy,” Dean said and Sam watched him straighten, heard the iron slide back into his voice as he reached for the blanket. There was a brief flash of rawness in the light. “I’m fine. Really. It’s noth—”

“Let me see.” Sam was on his knees, reaching for Dean’s left hand before his brother could pull it away. The knuckles were scraped raw, the abraded skin shiny in the light. It wasn’t bad, really. Not much of an injury at all, except for the reason behind it. It was the why that made it bad.

Dean tugged at his hand, said, “Damn it, Sam. Leave it alone,” through his teeth. But Sam held on.

“Jesus,” he said.

“Alastair,” Dean said.

Sam looked up, met Dean’s eyes. His pupils were large in the dampened light, but his eyes were dark for other reasons. “I’m so sorry,” Sam heard himself say and knew they were the wrong words. But that was the problem; they were all the wrong words.

“Don’t,” Dean said and Sam felt Dean’s hand close into a fist inside his grip. “Don’t say that.”

“I don’t…” Sam began, then looked down and closed his eyes. “I don’t know what to say.” Dean’s skin felt hot against his palm and he wasn’t sure whose pulse he felt beneath his fingertips, but it was pounding.

“Sam,” he heard Dean say and opened his eyes. A tiny pearl of blood had pushed to the surface and sat perched on Dean’s knuckle like an accusation. Dean bled for you, it said. He bleeds for you still.

“Sam,” Dean said again. “Let’s just forget about it, huh? This…it doesn’t—”

Sam pressed his mouth to Dean’s knuckle and sucked, sliding the tip of his tongue across the spot of blood. He tasted the vague tang of metal mixed with institutional soap and heard Dean’s sharp intake of breath.

“Sammy,” Dean said, the name breathless with surprise, but Sam ignored it, brought his other hand up to grab Dean’s wrist as he moved to the next knuckle. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, only knew that words didn’t work, would never be enough, and he wanted to do something before he drowned under the weight of his own guilt.

It was his fault, after all, that Dean was hurting, that he was bleeding and suffering and scrubbing himself raw every day. It had always been his fault.

He reached Dean’s last knuckle, lingering for a moment, feeling the throb of Dean’s heartbeat beneath his fingers and that of his own inside his chest. Then he turned Dean’s hand over and gently pried open his fingers. Meeting Dean’s gaze, he saw Dean looking back at him with wide green eyes, dark lashes stark against pale skin, lips slightly parted. Sam could just make out a ghost of movement as Dean ran the tip of his tongue over the edges of his teeth.

Sam breathed in, breathed out. Then he lowered his head and pressed a kiss to Dean’s palm, tasting salt and uncertainty. He felt Dean flinch against his lips.

He didn’t move, just stayed there like that, lips pressed against Dean’s skin, eyes closed against what he knew he’d see in Dean’s eyes if he looked up: disgust, disappointment, anger.

But then…

A hand in his hair, trembling and unsure. Sam pressed back against it and opened his eyes. He saw Dean’s chest rise and fall and his belly tense and felt Dean’s fingers grip tighter in his hair.

Sam looked up, met Dean’s eyes, and felt Dean’s hand slide to his ear, felt Dean’s thumb glide across his cheek. He wrapped his left hand around Dean’s right wrist, holding Dean’s hand there, afraid of losing the contact. He dropped Dean’s other hand and scooted forward between Dean’s knees until his belly pressed against the edge of the mattress, laying his other palm flat against Dean’s thigh and feeling the muscles twitch beneath it.

“Sam.” His name was just a whisper, Dean’s breath warm against his face.

“Shh…” Sam leaned in, pressed his forehead against Dean’s and closed his eyes.

“I…” Dean’s fingers twitched in Sam’s hair and his other hand moved to cover Sam’s hand on his thigh. “I don’t know what else to do, Sammy.”

His hands. He didn’t know what else to do to get rid of the blood on his hands. The blood only he could see.

“Please,” Sam said, squeezing Dean’s wrist. “Let me help you.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Dean whispered. “I’d rather d—”

“No,” Sam said firmly. “Don’t say it.” He opened his eyes and found Dean looking back at him. He dug his fingers into Dean’s wrist and tried to bite back the sudden tears that sprang to his eyes. “I don’t want you to die for me, Dean. I never wanted that.” He closed his eyes and felt hot tears spill over. “It’s all my fault.”

“No.” Sam felt Dean’s thumb slide across his cheek, felt Dean’s fingers press into the back of his wrist. “No. Sam—”

“You won’t hurt me, Dean,” Sam said, shaking his head, feeling Dean’s palm press against his ear. He opened his eyes again and saw that Dean’s eyes were wet. “You’d never hurt me.”

Dean tried to smile, but it crumbled away. “I already have, Sammy.”

“No.” Sam shook his head again. “No.” He grabbed both of Dean’s hands and held them beneath his own against his sides, felt the heat of Dean’s skin seep through his t-shirt. “Touch me,” he said, dropping his hands.

“Sam…” Dean shook his head, but didn’t remove his hands.

“You’re not a monster, Dean,” Sam said, sliding his hands along the tops of Dean’s thighs. He leaned in a little and when Dean didn’t back away, he leaned in some more. Angling his head, he felt Dean’s nose brush against his, felt Dean’s fingers curl into fists, pulling Sam’s t-shirt taut across his stomach.

“Show me,” Sam whispered, his lips barely brushing against Dean’s. “Show me you won’t hurt me.”

Dean pulled at Sam’s t-shirt and Sam felt Dean’s breath, warm and ragged, against his lips. “S-Sam,” Dean breathed. His fists spasmed against Sam’s sides and Sam felt the tension coiled in Dean’s jaw. Dean was fighting with himself, thinking too hard, calculating the weight of this new sin and his capacity to shoulder it.

Sam could feel Dean slipping away and dug in deeper, tugging Dean towards him. “Please, Dean,” Sam whispered fiercely against Dean’s lips. “Please.”

Dean’s grip on Sam’s shirt relaxed and he sighed. “Okay, Sam. Okay.”

Sam kissed him. Dean’s lips were warm and dry and trembling slightly and he opened them as he slid his hands beneath Sam’s shirt.

After, Sam woke up to the sound of running water.