A/N: This piece is dedicated to JamesParker (dude, that speech of yours "remember... it all ends bloody or sad, and, sometimes, it ends bloody and sad" has been hunting me since I read it on your PM. And, for the first time -ever- I've written something with an unhappy ending. I blame you.)
It's actually been a while since I wrote this, but lately I've been busy moving into a new house (seriously, I felt like the White Rabbit -"Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late!") and hadn't got any chance to upload it sooner.
Disclaimer: I do not own Dean and/or Sam. (...And that's probably a good thing since I like to abuse them.) They belong to Kripke.
Also, "The Godfather" belongs to Mario Puzo.
Story Details: AU, set a couple of weeks after the events on 1x16 "Shadow". Sam's set on getting back to college as soon as the brothers take care of their unfinished business with Yellow Eyes. Dean just wants to focus on finding Dad, while killing as many sons of bitches as he can on the way, and stop feeling like he's dragging a reluctant Sam along.
Starring: Whining!Worn-Out!Asshole!Sam, Nervous!Angsty!Fed Up!Dean
Warnings for: bad language, eventual separation of the brothers (well, duh!), traces of Wincest (even though I tried very hard to keep them in 'family mode'- well, okay, I didn't try that hard... I can't help it, it's like an infection), Sam portraighed as a total jerk (not my intention... I think I focused too much on Dean...), potential of hurting the reader's feelings and inspiring hatred towards the author (that's okay; I don't like you either... :P)
"And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can't replace
When you love someone but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?"
Fix You - Coldplay
Sam: "What if this whole thing was over tonight? Man, I'd sleep for a month. Go back to school, just... be a person again."
Dean: "You wanna go back to school?"
Sam: "Yeah. Once we're done huntin' the thing."
Dean: "Huh."
Sam: "Why, is there somethin' wrong with that?"
Dean: "No, no it's uh, it's great, good for you.
"Supernatural, 1x16 - "Shadow"
It starts like an itch; in a spot on Dean's body he can't reach. An itch because of something that makes Sam -Dean's Sammy- miserable/wretched/unhappy... take your pick. Anyway, Dean has an itch and Sam- No, that's a lame metaphor and you won't get it.
Let's take it from the top.
It starts with Sam looking pale, the circles under his eyes more pronounced and thinner than usual. Not that he complained or anything, but Dean is a big brother and trained to notice things like these.
In between being tossed around another hunt and putting states behind him, Dean has spent the past days thinking of nothing but Sam, and has come to the conclusion that, yes, something is off with him. Something has been off with both of them ever since Sam admitted he wasn't done with school or dealt with his obsession about having a normal life.
And, frankly, Dean has been thinking about that so much lately it really isn't that stressful anymore. After all, at least Sam had liked it there; which is the only place Sam has liked in his entire life.
So Dean has been mulling this thought over and over inside his head to the point were he can barely contain himself to not just stand up and scream "Go, Sam, go! Run the hell away from here!" But, bitch please, Dean will never allow himself to go hysterical like that. Plus, he keeps thinking about his father and his "If you walk out that door..." and the fact that Sam chose to take that order at heart and follow it; and he's scared that, if he yells at Sam to leave, Sam'd actually do it.
So Dean's stuck in a never ending cicle of vacillating between the idea of chashing Sam away from him and tie Sam up and lock him inside the Impala's truck until he forgets there's a world outside that he wants to join.
Now, you're wondering if Sam has noticed Dean's abnormal behaviour.
Probably not. Sammy's special, one of a kind, and other shit like that, but he's a bit (a lot) thick when it comes to Dean. Or Dean's very good at hidding his... whatever it is he's been doin' by angsting all over the place.
Anyway, let's go back to Dean's itch; you can see a connection, right? You can see why Dean has a specific reaction every time he and Sam are in the same room.
Oh, clarification? That's easy; it's a sort of throbbing, twitching, pumping thing that's happening inside his chest, where his heart speeds up to 500 beats per minute, like a mouse's, thump-thump-thump-thump-thump, and also like Dean just got dropped into the Amazon rainforest, right in the middle, with the heat all over and the sweaty worry that some big panther or something is going to eat him, and the panther in this analogy (if that's the right word, it might be metaphor; he's usually good with these but an effect or affect or whichever it is of this is that he has lost whatever grip on sanity he previously had) would have to be Sam. So that puts a vision of Sam eating Dean inside his head, and there's so many different ways of interpreting that, and only the one where he's sprinkled on Sam's ice-cream sundae is creepy, wrong on so many levels and yet somewhat funny; the rest are scary, and a lot of them involve blood. Actual blood. So Dean's trapped inside an ice-cream involving, bloody, horror movie in the Amazon rainforest, with his mousie-heart speeding up so quickly that it hurts and running around in a panic because it's been abandoned by it's little mousie brain: thump-thump-thumpthumpthump!thump!thump!thump!THUMP!THUMP!
"Dude? You okay?" Sam asks -and when the hell did he got here?
"Hm?" Dean mumbles, realizing he's about to pass out, due to hyperventilation.
"What are you doin'?" Sam narrows his eyes on him and Dean finds it hard to calm the fuck down in order to weasel away from the scrutinizing gaze.
"Chillin'... Never heard of it? C'mere, I'll teach ya," he lies easily.
"Dean, cut the crap, we've got work to do," Sam complains, and that's exactly what Dean needs. Something to latch himself onto.
"Yes, we do! I'll go to the library!" Dean all but yells, with more enthousiasm than what's proper.
"You will?" Sam looks like he doesn't know whether to congratulate him or start an interrogation (complete with an annoying lamp right in Dean's eyes and everything).
"Sure, yeah, see ya later." Dean's out the door before Sam manages to decide which option he prefers.
DSDSDS
Days later, Sam has obviously forgotten the incident, since he's the one slacking; which isn't what Dean had been doing, but Sam doesn't know what Dean had been doing, and, to be honest, neither does Dean, so hush.
"Can we do nothing tonight? Let's watch whatever lame show is on TV and sleep late and stuff," the younger hunter suggests.
Dean blinks. "Sam, we've got a witch on the loose and you wanna hang out? Your timing sucks, man!" he informs his younger brother. It's valid that they have to find that motherfucking bitch, but it's also the fact that Dean's been desperately avoiding spending time with Sam; well, time during which they're not busy working that is.
"But I'm tired," Sam protests, which actually sounds a lot like whining, "I just want a couple of hours to-"
"People are fuckin' dying out there, Sam," Dean reminds him sternly, his mind trying not to compare himself with his father, and praying that Sam won't call Dean out of his exasperation. No one has died, the bitch is just toying with their luck.
"Fine! I'll find your damn wench! Jesus!" Sam snaps, storming out and leaving his brother to his own devices.
Sam did find her, and they vanquished the Demon that was feeding her power, thankfully without a scranch on either of them to prove it.
But, that meant they've got nothing to do in... where were they again? Oh, in Litchfield, Connecticut.
So, Dean is racing Sam back into the motel, franctically gathering his belongings; eager to be somewhere where a disaster is happening and they'd have no spare time to stop and stare. Staring leads to talking, ergo it's off the table for Dean. Except, Sam doesn't seem to agree with him.
"Must you always do that?" he huffs, face supporting one of his infamous bitchfaces (specifically, pattern #4 "my brother is a jerk").
"Do what?" Dean inquires distracted, too busy zipping his duffel closed and pretending he has no clue what Sam's talking about.
"Be on edge; anxiously waiting for the next," Sam explains irritated.
"The next what?" Dean knows he's pathetically trying to play stupid and that it's not going to work.
"The next hunt, the next monster to appear in your way, the next thunterstorm to cloud your clear sky, the next catastrophe to fall upon your head!" See? Sam knows Dean. Damn him.
"Huh," Dean turns to look at his brother, or a spot above his left shoulder -whatever- determined to throw Sam off his case. "First of all: breathe. Second of all: is it that time of the month again? And third of all-"
"Dean, please," Sam sighs, and Dean only stops because it's nothing more than a breathing sound that makes Sam look like it took him a lot of effort to produce.
"Can't we just relax for a lousy couple of days? Can't you just let yourself go for a tiny little while? Is that too much to ask?" Sam downright pleads and Dean sort of feels sorry for packing like a maniac and not noticing that Sam can barely keep his own eyes open.
"Tired?" he aks, biting his lip.
"Extremelly so," Sam sighs -again. Making those 'I'm cute and cuddly and I don't take up much space... adopt me; woof!' eyes, that make Dean ache and desperate to eliminate every single source of evil in this world, then fill it with rainbows, fluffy clouds and unicorns, and then place Sam in it and say "it's okay baby, you'll be safe now, go live."
And Dean thinks, Sam's definately doing it on purpose. There's no other explanation for the kid looking this worn out after what felt like less than a day's work of gig. Then again, as Sam has made clear, hunting isn't what he wants to do. And Dean knows that, when you don't like what you do it's natural to a) suck at it or b) to look so damn exhasted.
Dean wishes he could be away from Sam sometimes; then, maybe, it wouldn't hurt so much being near him. But, at the same time, he wishes he could get as close to Sam as humanly possible. He likes being near Sam, but he also kind of hates it, because Dean wants to be nearer; he wants things to go back to the point when the two of them were a family, but he knows Sam doesn't want that. Sometimes, Dean thinks that if he's far away from Sam for long enough, he wouldn't miss him so much. Simultaneously he's certain that it would only make it worse.
When you spend most of your life pretending to be someone else, you ache for what makes you feel yourself. A constant of sorts. You crave it; wishing you could find it, hold on and never let go.
Suddenly, Dean knows that he has to do it; cause he can't stand feeling like this; it's confusing and overwhelming and altogether painful since Dean knows that Sam would never feel the same.
"Dean?" Sam's gentle voice, snaps him out of his thoughts, "you okay?"
"It's nothing," Dean says, as realisation turns to turmoil. Sometimes, the way to keep those you love into your life is to just give them freedom; give them space to think and room away from you.
"You're thinking about something. I can tell," Sam presses on.
Dean stands silent for a moment, searching the wobbly ceiling fan for some kind of support, pondering on how he should start.
"What happened to us, Sam? You go to college for a few years and all of a sudden... we don't know each other anymore. Not once did you talk to me about your time there, or what's it like to be back on the road... You've become a bit anti-social, you know, for someone who supposedly spent four years making new friends and stuff. And, on top of it all, you say you can't wait to go back there," Dean rants; and yes, it's not exactly smooth, but the question has been banging against Dean's head for a while now, and he's always been too much of a jerk to just open the door; he usually breaks them down.
Sam suddenly looks like a deer in front of a car's headlights; a deer that has accepted the fact that it's going to die, and is stoically waiting for the fatal blow.
"I guess... What- my point is... If there's no chance, of us becoming a family again... I'd like to know why, at least," Dean says, voice as neutral as possible. It isn't fair, cause Sam couldn't have seen this conversation coming, but it's not like Dean did it on purpose. It sort of slid out. He doesn't want to cause a fight. In fact, probably for the first time in his life, Dean wants to talk things out. Calmly.
"Dean... Look, I... I- I don't know what to say," Sam bites his lip, sounding small and scared and Dean blinks, realizing Sam's afraid. Afraid of saying something wrong, that will hurt both of them; Winchesters have a knack of always saying the wrong things.
Dean wishes he had a pillow to scream into. He had seen a girl in a movie do that; she had seemed strangely relieved afterwards. "You have to know," he pleads desperately, "I've been racking my brain trying to figure this out. Trying to figure out how things ended up like they did... Why you don't want us to be a family anymore..." Dean rubs his hand against his face.
"Dean... I- I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I didn't realize-" Sam stumbles over the words, his eyes wide in surprise.
"I don't want you to be sorry, Sam!" Dean barks, his fragile temper reaching it's breaking point, "I want you to be like before all this!" He says with a passion, like he's hoping Sam will suddenly see how right Dean is and do what he says.
There's a pause, during which Sam curls an eyebrow upwards to indicate he wants Dean to elaborate. Dean looks recalcitrant for a long second, then it fades.
"Before you left for Stanford, we were happy," Dean exclaims, "I know what we had was different from what could be expected from a typical family... but, now... all of a sudden, it's like I'm just a random person, whom you happen to live with. I was happy with you, Sammy," Dean groans into his hands and then runs them through his hair, wanting so badly to just start tearing it out. He can't understand why the fuck he got himself into this conversation with his brother; it's one of the forbitten topics.
"But apparently, I was missing something and you were fucking miserable, cause once you were out of the door that was it. You didn't even call. Sam, why didn't you call?" he demands nonetheless, voice getting higher and higher until Dean could swear he's practically bitching.
"Dad told me I could never come back," Sam whispers, having the decency to look apologetic.
Dean almost growls in annoyance but instead moves forward to hover above Sam, forgetting for a moment that that used to work a long time ago, when Dean still was taller than Sam. "Yeah? Well, I said no such thing!" Dean hollowers, four octaves above his normal tone.
"You said nothing! I barely got a goodbye!" Sam yells back, anger flarring for a bit, before he notices the pained look on Dean and coils again.
Dean's breath hitches, as if he has inhaled and it hurt him and Sam wants to ask why on earth they're even discussing this, and what brought it up, but his throat constricts and he feels like punching the wall, or crying, or both.
"You were the one who walked away, man," Dean says, finally, sounding frustrated.
"You were the one who didn't stop me," Sam accuses weakly, as Dean snorts that this isn't the sixth grade.
"I thought you wanted me gone," Sam tries to explain, the lame sentense ecoing a million times inside his head.
Dean launches himself from the chair he can't recall sitting on, though he doesn't move more than a couple of feet in Sam's direction before the barrier between them does it's job and keeps them apart. His fists clench and his breathing grows erratic as Sam stands there watching as every hurtful, damning thing his brother wants to say flashes across Dean's face.
"That's bull," Dean yells, eyes blazing with thunders and storms and hurricanes, "You fucking abandoned me!" Dean's blinking is fast, as a fist rubs hard at one eye, trying to fight off the tears, the memories slashing over his face, lining it deep with old hurt that cuts him through even now, "I would've gone with you, you know," he informs Sam in a grim tone. "But you didn't ask," he accuses.
"I would have done anything for you, Sam, but you just- you fucking left me. Didn't ask me what I wanted, didn't care that I was dying inside; nope, all you cared about was doing what was normal, and you turned your back on me, on us and sliced me wide open and I-" He gestures helplessly into the air between them, the tears breaking free, sliding down and he slaps at one with his palm, "I wasn't the same, Sam. You took everything from me that day, ripped out my freaking heart and I never even knew why. Well, now, I'm asking! Why, Sam? Why did you do that to me?" And a sob breaks out of his throat, his voice torn raw "I just want to understand why-"
Sam grits his teeth together, his mouth a hard line, because he can't tell Dean about how weak, how afraid Dean makes him feel. How thoughts of them together, in a good life, with their own little place to call home, fill him with stupid hope; ridiculous because they can never have that happiness. They're hunters, Winchesters; and Winchesters never get the happy endings.
"Stop it," Sam tries to shake him off, as Dean reaches for him, but Dean's having none of it, digging in Sam's arms with his fingers and getting right up in his face, "Tell me, you son of a bitch! You owe me that much!"
More than the anger, Sam flinches at the amount of hurt pouring out of Dean's mouth along with the bitter words. Dean pulls Sam even closer, hands travelling up to tighten painfully around the younger man's shoulder, "I was lost without you," he pegs out his words like they're nails and his tongue is the hammer; Sam huffs a surprised breath and Dean hammers again with more forse, "Did you really think I wouldn't be?" he snarls, "Coming back to an empty motel, with no one to wait for me (cause they fucking can't sleep by themselves -not because their scared, but because "I was worried about you, Dean"), no one to scold for spending their Saturdays doin' their homework ("geeks never sneak out when their parents are away, do they?"), no one to plead for one more story before bed ("Tell me again about the time you almost got tricked by that shapeshifter, Dean,"), no lanky, skinny, baby brother sprawled across my bed, wearing my shirts and hugging my pillows -and I know that shit had stopped by then, but the point is... I had no fucking clue how to live without you!" Dean's speech leaves him breathless and tired -so goddamned tired- as he watches Sam blink and blink and blink, like it's his new favorite thing. And Dean would bet that for a second he almost hates Sammy -but he really can't.
"I know," Sam replies. Dean feels frustrated -and even more tired. It's like Sam has no words in his mouth or his mind. He's intent on listening; probably hoping Dean would say the right things to him and the sustenance in Dean's words would speak volumes to him and make sense of his own feelings about their situation.
Dean squares his shoulders and glares at Sam, going from sad to angry with him in 10 seconds flat, cause the kid's making him talk and confront and fucking reveal things Dean had meant to keep secrets forever. He's pretty sure his mouth is gonna forget how to function any moment now, or break, for it never had to work this hard before, cause the next time he tries, at first it doesn't move -and when it does, nothing actually comes out. Dean clears his throat and manages a "Sammy..." in a voice that he's set it can't belong to him, "Keep hunting until we find out where Dad is, or why the hell he decided to go MIA on us, is a pain in the ass right now. But all of that pales in comparison to what I need to know," he rasps, scooting closer to Sam, looking him in the eyes.
"What do you need to know?" Sam asks, having the nerve to sound evasive, and Dean almost slaps him -but, of course, he wouldn't.
Instead, he grabs a hold on Sam's hands, squeezing them tightly. Although, they've grown out of being fans of physical contact with each other (what can Dean say? they had been a little bit too 'touchy-feely' as kids), Dean all of sudden needs to confirm he can get as close to Sam as he wants. "I need to know... What do you want?" Dean asks with sincerity in his voice.
Sam takes his sweet time thinking about his answer. "I don't know," he counters quietly and Dean's shoulder's slumb cause he had hoped for something more... something less... well, something else. But, clearly, Sam does better with words when they come out of his mouth unchecked.
Okaaaaaay. Calm down. Deep breaths. For the love of all that's good in this world (which are not too many) Do. Not. Punch. Him.
"I mean what do you want to do in your life... if hunting was out of the picture. I know that I can't have a very normal life. I could never adjust to it... because I feel like I was born to do this. For me, it's not just about Mom. Killing the son of a bitch who took her away from us matters, but it's not the only reason I hunt. I need to know if you can handle staying with me on the road, after we'd have sent the bastard back in Hell," Dean pours out.
For a second, both men pause and look at each other, Dean a nerve-wrack, practically vibrating on the spot, filled with hope and dread and the whole damn thing, his mind teasing him that his ears hear "I can," but the illusion only lasts for three, blissfully naive, seconds.
Sam sways a little from side to side as if he has some kind of inner conflict, which then he overcomes, only to completely floor his older brother. Taking a breath, Sam stands his ground and looks Dean in the eye -something they haven't been doing a lot of lately- and whispers "No," like a kid that has just said his first vituperation, feeling equal parts of fear and thrill inside his heart for what's coming out of his mouth, "I don't want this life."
And, just like that, Dean feels they've become strangers who once upon a time knew each other very well, as he wills for his fingers to unclench their tight grip and let go of Sam's hands. His muscles are numb, but he manages.
Dean paces. Ruffles his hair. Sits down. Gets up. Paces. Takes a bottle of water off the table. Looks at said bottle for twenty seconds -Sam actually counts- before putting it down. Paces, paces and paces some more. All of that without saying a word. "I see," he finally offers, nodding -mostly to himself.
"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam whispers, actually sounding ashamed, "I just miss home."
Dean nearly bites his tongue off, as he struggles to keep from telling Sam that he is home; and even though Dean knows his brother means mostly Jessica and not Palo Alto, it still feels like a slap. Dean had assumed he is home for Sam. But then again, Jess hadn't been just a girlfriend; Sam had loved her with his whole heart. Plus, she was like a portal to normal for Sam; to something Dean will never be able to give him. So, maybe, Dean should stop being so selfish.
"Learning how to live without you, was the hardest thing I ever had to do in my life," Dean admits, loathe for himself settling in the pit of his stomach, "When you left, I'd make a consious effort to smile, nod, hunt and carry on with my life as if nothing had changed... but, at the end of the day, all that mattered was that you weren't there to share everything with."
When Sam remains silent, Dean drops down onto a bed, running a hand through his hair as he huffs out a breath and suddenly shots back up, restless. "I'm not gonna let you hurt me like that again, Sam," he warns.
"What do you mean?" Sam asks long moments later, listening to the swish of Dean's boots as he paces back and forth on the thin motel carpet.
Dean hates the vulnerability in Sam's voice, knowing he had been the one to put it there. "I don't want to go through that again," he explains roughly, "it hurt like a bitch to..." Dean trails off as his voice cracks, emotion worrying him down.
After a few deep breaths, Dean clears his throat, "I want you to leave. Now." He demands, voice once again strong and firm, even though it feels like his whole being is falling apart. He turns his back on Sam, unable to meet the other's gaze. Dean's heart pounds as if it wants to jumb out of his chest. It's hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to stand.
"You're kicking me out of your life?" Sam yelps, in a high-pitched voice that would have caused Dean to tease him to death, once upon a time before everything got complicated. Well, more complicated. Instead, Dean wishes he could somehow freeze time; keep them both locked together in a moment that would contain only them two, safe and secure from anything that may threaten them. But then, Dean's sure that wouldn't lead them anywhere either. He would do anything for Sam; in order to make Sam happy. He guesses his love for Sam is what people call unconditional. Dean would be willing to kill... Die... Let go.
With re-newed determination, Dean shifts to look at his brother properly, in order to explain his train of thought. "No. I could never do that, bud. You and I, can hardly function without the other," he jokes, only to regret it, as it's sort of out of place right now.
"You're my brother," Dean whispers, voice taking on a serious tone, trying to find the correct words to assure Sam that he'll always hold on, but he'd never hold him back, "my best friend, my confidant, my son, my second in command, the love of my life- and not in the crappy "I wanna fuck you" kind of way, but in the "I'd take a bullet for you, cause if you're not alive nothing else matter's on this world" way, and that's never gonna change," Dean pauses to take a sobering breath, "I'll fight tooth and nail, to not let it change... Do you get what I'm sayin'?"
He's doing to Sam what Sam had done to him only a few years ago, but this is different; Sam had left because he wanted a better life for himself. Dean is senting him away because he wants a better life for Sam. It's going to crush him just the same, he knows; doesn't really matter the reason.
Sam has some kind of a mini-conferance with himself for a long moment, murmuring what Dean had said under his breath, as if trying to comprehend the hidden meaning of the words. And, when he raises his head, to look at his brother with his doe-eyes filling with liquid, Dean knows Sam understands perfectly.
His brother's eyes are locked on his, soft love rising up, replacing the suspision, the hurt, almost glowing at him, and Dean can't breathe with how Sammy's looking at him right now.
Sam knows his mind should be going a mile a minute, should be asking why's and how's, but it doesn't. It's Dean. And no matter how defiant Sam had been through his teenage years he aknowledges that Dean knows what he needs; knows what to do and how to make it all better. Always did.
"I... You're..." Sam closes his eyes, and rubs a frustrated hand against his face thinking how ridiculous it is that Dean's been spilling his gut for what has felt like an iternity and it's still hard for Sam to say how he feels.
But his eyes are huge and soft, love for Dean swirling inside their depths and it doesn't matter that he stumbles over his words.
"You're the best big brother in the whole damn world," he finally chokes out, much time later; and between two blinks of Dean's eyes Sam has gone from 6"4' to six years old, complete with his chubby cheeks and round belly and gazing up at Dean with awe and admiration, like Dean has hung the moon and spread the stars across the sky.
God, it hurts.
"No 'm not," Dean objects softly, "I just..." love you with my whole damn soul, he wants to add, but the words scratch harshly at his throat and he has to swallow. Hard. "I know," he assures instead, offering a cockhy grin.
DSDSDS
And that's how Dean finds himself driving Sam to the nearest bus station, on a crispy, fall morning, after he and Sam have spend four days arranging details (how to get in contact faster if they get in trouble, how to notify the other immediately if either hear from Dad, informing Bobby he has a new 'hunting-buddy' 'cause "No, way in fuckin' hell you hunt on your own, Dean! If I find out that you are I'll come back just to bitch all-day-long!") and with not looking at each other's eyes.
"So..." Sam concludes awkwardly once they've secured Sam's duffle bag inside the bus to Palo Alto.
"Yeah..." Dean agrees, as they both look around, not really knowing what to say; or how.
"Awkward hug or lame, cool-guys handshake?" Sam teases, knowing his brother had always been lousy with anything that could qualify as a display of afection. But things change, people change... And right now, their lives are changing; and so is Dean.
Sam's crushed against the older hunter's chest before his eyes have the time to execute a simple blink.
"If you cry I'm gonna shoot you," Dean threatens casually as he pushes Sam away with the same lack of grace he had pulled him close.
"So eager to add another murder on his criminal record," Sam nods with mock approval, trying to pretend he hasn't began to experience sudden blurred vision.
"I think of it more like my resume," Dean muses.
"Who'd hire you? The Godfather?" Sam snorts out a brief laugh and then salutes, like a soldier would his superior officer, as he lifts his satchel bag and starts to walk away.
Dean bites his lip, scratches his neck and then... "Yo, Sammy?" he calls out when the other has gotten about eight feet away.
"Yeah?" Sam turns around, somewhat eagerly.
Dean gestures with his hand for Sam to come closer. "Look, last time... You made mistakes. I mean... you're a bitch and you like to take unessesary chances with your life, that's fine. But I swear, if Dad knew you didn't have a damn thing anywhere... no guns, no knives, no salt lines... no nothin', he'd jump to train us both from scratch, Sammy," Dean clears his throat, "I- look, just- promise me something?" he requests uneasily, his boot scramping against the ground.
"Promise to never forego the salt lines again?" Sam frowns.
"Man, seriously." Dean growls, eyes flashing with anger, willing to bet his little brother is making fun of him just for the heck of it, "Could you just, please, maintain protocol this time? Like... when you check into a room and when you'll settle into your permanent place... Salt lines, at least one demon trap, protection symbols, hidden weapons, the whole nine yards," Dean demands, thinking he's starting to sound desperate.
"I promise, I'll be careful this time," Sam relents and Dean sighs relieved.
"Okay," is all Dean manages because his brain has pack up and left, so he nudges Sam's shoulder not knowing what else to say.
"You know what else I did wrong last time?" Sam asks quietly, suddenly very interested in a thread that has come loose on the left sleeve of his black hoodie.
"Leaving in the first place," Dean thinks, but only allows a gentle "What?" out of his mouth.
"'Forgot you own a damn phone," Sam murmurs guiltily, biting his lip. "I'll call as often as I can this time," he rushes to assure.
"No," Dean protests, shaking his head, "Something like that is shallow and easily broken. Let's promise something more; something deeper."
Sam thinks for a moment, "Let's promise that we won't alienate each other no matter what," he suggests.
Dean smirks, "That sounds about right," he raises a hand to grip his brother's arm, and then just stares at Sam for a while, wanting to remember everything about him.
"We're going to keep in touch, I promise," Dean says.
"I promise, we're going to keep in touch," Sam repeats, a lop-sided smile on his face, as he squeezes Dean's arm in return.
"Dean?" Sam whispers quietly, closing his eyes for a moment as he sucks in a breath, "I lo-"
"I know," Dean has to cut him off abdurtly (cause this isn't a 'goodbye' goddamnit!), and he doesn't care that his heart is breaking inside his chest, pieces of it hurtling toward other organs, because Sammy smiles, and for a moment the world seems almost beautiful.
Sam just stands there, looking at Dean, his heart probably still in one piece and beating with a horse's speed, thump-thump-thump-thump... "Dean," he scolds in a calm, collected voice, that Dean immediately envies with a passion, and looking like's about to say something important, because his eyes are focused on Dean's and that can't mean nothing. And Dean's eyes are probably something boring, like plain old brown, but Sam's are Eucalyptus Green, and that's a lot prettier than it sounds. Eucalyptus Green eyes, and a low-frequency, contralto voice and Candy Pink lips, and horsie-heart, slow and steady and winning the race and Dean, winning him and making Dean want him to stay so bad it hurts- and Dean swears he's about to die -and what the hell was he thinking? Sam's going to leave, and it will be all Dean's fault for not being able to keep his mouth shut, and now Sam's going to leave him and Dean can't have that-
"Breathe."
Dean gasps, and feels the oxygen rushing back into his brain (though not pure oxygen because then he would die), and all his rampant thoughts just slow... down.
Yes, breathing. Breathing is good.
"Yeah."
"Okay. Gotta go."
"Mmm'hm. Okay."
"Yeah."
A, slightly, over-dragged hug later (since this was more like a "see you later" kind of separation) Sam got on board and the brothers held a devoted eye-contact with each other and did not break it until Sam's bus was around the corner and out of sight.
Dean gets back into the Impala. It takes him a good seven minutes, to convince himself he isn't upset, by the lack of his baby brother on his side, and to force his hand to stop shaking long enough to turn the key. It takes another four minutes for Dean to dismiss the irrational thought of chasing after the bus, that had just taken Sammy away from him, if only to make sure his brother was gonna be okay.
A couple of hours later, and just when Dean's twitchy enough to start beating up the walls around him, just cause it was so damn quite without Sam and the stupid purring of his stupid laptop's ventilator, Dean's cell phone beeped to life. It was good the cheap motel room had no mirror, exept for a tiny one inside the bathroom, because Dean would have had to make fun of himself, with the way his face lit up when he saw it was a text from Sam.
"You're an asshole for cuttin' me off before... So here it goes; I love you. And, I know you're mumbling under your breath that I'm a fuckin' girl right now, but I'm not takin' it back, Dean. I love you, and you're just gonna have to deal with it. Cause I can't stop, okay?" Sam had wrote, ever the sap. And Dean sort of chuckled, sort of cursed and concluded they're a fucked up pair. Texting their feelings; that's where they've come to. He shakes his head with disapproval, both on himself and on Sam.
But Dean believes him, cause he knows that Sam loves him as much as he loves Sam; madly, deeply, irrevocably, unconditionally, unbearably much. That Sam left, when Dean asked him to, proves it. Dean understands that Sam did it because he wants their bond to remain intact forever. Sam wants to not hate Dean later, when they won't quit hunting, after they'd have killed the Yellow-Eyed demon (cause they will), to not blaime Dean for holding him back, to not accuse Dean that he didn't let Sam live his life as normally as he wanted to.
"Okay, settle down Samantha! Sheesh... Me too, bud. You know that. Wish it was enough." Dean texts back, tossing the damn device on the nightstand, angry with himself because even though he didn't write it, his mind's stuck on repeating 'Never stop. Never stop. Don't ever dare to fucking stop. 'Cause if you do, being alive will lose it's meaning.' And wondering how on earth he's supposed to sleep without counting breaths.
Well, dammit, but, the fact that he gets it, doesn't make it hurt any less.
Α/Ν: Okay, brain teaser for you people: the three degrees that are missing from the title... what's that all about?