In all honesty, Dean hadn't even realized that he didn't answer the question. He thought he had, figured that his answer would somehow be the right one to dissuade his brother from asking even more of them because he just knew what he was doing. Knew what he'd done, what he was talking about, how best to handle the situation without complaint. Because it was just obvious - Sam wasn't allowed to die. He wasn't allowed to be given a Hunter's Funeral like the rest of them because he was Sam, because they were brothers, because Dean didn't know how to do any of this on his own. And so of course he would have tried to do everything; why even list everything he'd tried? Especially when there wasn't a list in the first place, and nothing but a brilliant lie that stood in the back of his throat, waiting for it to come tumbling free.
That he'd tried one thing.
And it had worked.
But the real kicker is, the real one, is not the fact that Dean's lied or the fact that he knows it and doesn't want to say it because he knows what will happen, is what Sam points out next. Dean's brow furrows as Sam gestures and suddenly, Dean's hands are going around his neck like he's trying to throttle himself, feeling out for the leather band that keeps the amulet around his neck and it's not there. Nothing's there. His neck is fresh and clean and sure, everything is in its place, except for the one most important thing of all. The amulet's gone, completely and utterly gone, and he knows its not on his person because why would it be anywhere else but around his neck? It doesn't go anywhere, never leaves his body. Except for, perhaps, in death.
"Shit."
Dean's got nothing. Nothing. He has no lies saved up for that one because in all honesty, he doesn't truly know where it could be. All he can figure is that Sam took it when he died, kept it as some kind of keepsake and now it's gone in some other world that Dean can't reach. It's out of his possession and there's nothing he can dredge up quite so quick to make room for the fact that his keepsake, the one thing that says without words what their relationship is, what they mean to each other, is gone and Dean has no explanation as to where it could be except for the obvious. And he can't give the obvious, he can't do it, he doens't know how. He doens't know how to bring the words to a Sam who's only just freshly dead and he sure can't say the words that he just spent the last forty years in Hell without falling to pieces.
And he can't fall. He can't break. He isn't allowed to crack or splinter or let himself falter, he isn't allowed to be anything but strong in the face of all of this because that's his punishment. His failure is his defeat and he knows it, knows that Sam can't see the parts of him that are so tarnished they'll never be unsung and Dean just hangs his head, because what else can he do?
What else is there but the truth? What Dean can do but not give it, except for how there's nothing else to offer in its place?
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That he'd tried one thing.
And it had worked.
But the real kicker is, the real one, is not the fact that Dean's lied or the fact that he knows it and doesn't want to say it because he knows what will happen, is what Sam points out next. Dean's brow furrows as Sam gestures and suddenly, Dean's hands are going around his neck like he's trying to throttle himself, feeling out for the leather band that keeps the amulet around his neck and it's not there. Nothing's there. His neck is fresh and clean and sure, everything is in its place, except for the one most important thing of all. The amulet's gone, completely and utterly gone, and he knows its not on his person because why would it be anywhere else but around his neck? It doesn't go anywhere, never leaves his body. Except for, perhaps, in death.
"Shit."
Dean's got nothing. Nothing. He has no lies saved up for that one because in all honesty, he doesn't truly know where it could be. All he can figure is that Sam took it when he died, kept it as some kind of keepsake and now it's gone in some other world that Dean can't reach. It's out of his possession and there's nothing he can dredge up quite so quick to make room for the fact that his keepsake, the one thing that says without words what their relationship is, what they mean to each other, is gone and Dean has no explanation as to where it could be except for the obvious. And he can't give the obvious, he can't do it, he doens't know how. He doens't know how to bring the words to a Sam who's only just freshly dead and he sure can't say the words that he just spent the last forty years in Hell without falling to pieces.
And he can't fall. He can't break. He isn't allowed to crack or splinter or let himself falter, he isn't allowed to be anything but strong in the face of all of this because that's his punishment. His failure is his defeat and he knows it, knows that Sam can't see the parts of him that are so tarnished they'll never be unsung and Dean just hangs his head, because what else can he do?
What else is there but the truth? What Dean can do but not give it, except for how there's nothing else to offer in its place?
"Sam, it's not gone, okay? Didn't lose it."