So I was re-watching Dark Side of the Moon the other day, and I had to write this because it hurt too badly to let it end where it did. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, or any of the characters associated with it. Just borrowing! Italicized flashback scenes use dialogue taken directly from episode 5x16.
Sam was tense in the passenger's seat of the car, his fists clenched tightly in his lap and his abnormally long legs crammed into the floorboards. It was one of those trips where any position that he happened to choose was uncomfortable, and no amount of stretching or slouching eased the ache that his body felt. The Impala usually accepted his large frame easily, and it sported well-kept leather upholstery that seemed to mold around him as soon as he collapsed into it. Tonight, however, the interior seemed cold and unrelenting, the air inside the car practically crackled with the heat of its driver's mood, and Sam was feeling anything but welcome.
He shot a sideways glance—the third one in the last thirty seconds—at his brother's profile, once again noting the clenched jaw and fierce eyes that remained intently fixed on the two-lane road in front them. Those eyes hadn't looked at him once since leaving the motel, nor had Dean made the slightest effort to acknowledge the fact that he did indeed have a passenger riding shotgun. Rather, the older Winchester was content to remain quietly tangled in his own thoughts as he sped down the road, the tires humming and the radio playing gently in the background.
Dean was obviously upset, but Sam was pissed off at the childish way he was showing it. It started when his older brother had turned his back on him at the door of that motel room, purposefully raising the amulet that Sam had gifted him years ago, and dropping it into the trashcan. The betrayal that washed over Sam in that moment was almost too much, and he could remember his breath leaving him in a rush as Dean, without a backwards glance, strode from the room towards the parking lot. Even now, Sam keenly felt the sharp points of the jewelry pressed against his leg where it rested in his pocket. He hadn't been able to leave it behind, regardless of the fact that its rightful owner seemed ready to dispose of it. It signified too much. He'd quickly snagged it from the garbage on his way out the door and tucked it out of sight.
After patiently allowing the silence to stretch on for a few more minutes, Sam couldn't take the weight of it any longer, especially when he knew precisely what was causing Dean's dark mood. Their little escapade up to Heaven hadn't exactly been a trip to paradise, and both he and Dean had been faced with some realizations about each other that set each of them back on their heels. Sam just wished he'd been given a fair warning as to what to expect, because now he was way, way, way deep in the doghouse and not quite sure how to get out. And true to form, Dean wasn't making it easy.
He turned his body towards the driver's seat, feeling the anger and hurt that had been building inside him grow a little more with each passing second. "I gotta say, Dean, I never really pegged you as an advocate of the silent treatment. Usually that's the weapon of choice for a twelve-year-old girl."
Okay, so that probably wasn't the most tactful way to go about having this conversation, but the harsh words made him feel better personally, and at least it was a start.
At the barb, the muscles of Dean's jaw contracted even more, which Sam originally thought was physically impossible, and Dean gave a small shake of his head, though he didn't turn to meet Sam's eyes. "I've got nothing to say to you."
Though the response was about what he'd expected, it still made his heart clench painfully in his chest. Yes, a part of him was mad at Dean, but another part of him was still the little boy who wanted to make his big brother proud. It unnerved him that Dean's words stung so badly, even now as a grown man.
Sam swallowed as he gazed out the window, almost immediately giving up on getting through to Dean, but then he opened his mouth again with sudden resolve. "Look, man. Those memories that you saw up there were some good ones, but—"
"But what, Sam?" He was cut off abruptly as Dean's head finally swiveled around to fix him with a heated glare, apparently deciding that he did indeed have something to say after all. Sam's mouth practically snapped shut at the emotion that was revealed to him from within his brother's green eyes. There was anger there, definitely, and confusion, but most of all, there was pain. "But what?" he repeated, voice dangerously low. "Was your childhood really that crappy? Did you really hate us so much that you couldn't muster up one goddamn good memory of our family to play out in 3D?" Dean's knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his hands gripping with all the strength that they possessed.
Sam's eyes widened. "No! God, Dean, no," he argued, shaking his head forcefully, long hair flapping against his ears. "I just…" He trailed off uncertainly, not completely sure how to formulate his next words. "Look, when I was a kid, you and Dad taught me everything," he began earnestly, locking his eyes on his brother's stoic face, desperately hoping to get through the wall that Dean had constructed around himself. "I owe you for that, and I thank you for that," he continued, "but those memories, those were times when I got to do things on my own." He huffed out an almost-laugh. "I mean, I got to own a dog and eat pizza for two weeks. I got to have dinner with a girl and her family, Dean. And yeah, I enjoyed it, it was fun," he admitted, remembering the genuine smile that had come to his face when Stephanie had invited him over that Thanksgiving. "But that doesn't mean that I'd choose her over you and Dad."
"Yeah, you just chose Stanford over us instead," Dean shot back.
"I didn't mean to," Sam replied weakly, the words sounding lame even to his own ears. Because looking back on it now, he had made that choice, even though he'd never considered it that way. To him, it hadn't been a choice between school and family. It had been a choice between being a lawyer and being a hunter. He studied Dean's profile for a minute before speaking quietly. "Besides, I always thought you were proud of me for going to school. That's what you said when I told you I got the scholarship."
Dean's eyes remained fixed on the road. "I was proud. I am proud."
Sam shrugged in confusion. "Well then why has this become an issue all of a sudden?"
"Because your freaking Heaven is composed of all the moments you left us, Sam!" Dean shouted, slapping his hand against the steering wheel in anger. "I made my peace with you leaving, but I can't believe that made your top-ten greatest moments. You were leaving your family, Sam," he stressed, confusion on his face and in his tone, as if he couldn't comprehend that thought. "Doesn't that word mean anything to you?"
His mind guiltily replayed the conversation from earlier, wishing with everything he had that he'd handled himself differently…
Sam stared at his brother, at a loss as to how to explain himself. "I guess I just don't look at family the way you do," he finally stuttered out.
The flash of hurt in Dean's eyes was like a shot to the heart, but his face remained intense. "Yeah, but I'm your family," he returned sharply.
"I know…" Sam began, but Dean cut him off.
"I mean, we're a team. It's supposed to be you and me against the world, right?" He gazed at Sam with an almost childlike expression, looking for an agreement, for reassurance that he wasn't alone.
Sam tried desperately to placate his brother. "Dean, it is!"
Dean didn't respond, just watched him for a moment. Finally, he looked away, pursing his lips and giving a small disbelieving nod. "Is it?" he asked, brow furrowed as if sincerely waiting for an answer.
Sam's breath left him in a small huff as he felt the weight of that inquiry. It hurt that Dean had to ask. He'd opened his mouth to respond when they were both blinded by a bright light, and their current argument was pushed to the back burner as they made a break for cover.
Dean plowed on before Sam had a chance to speak. "You and Dad may not have been best buddies, but you were still family. He wasn't glad to see you go." Dean turned his head, his eyes piercing deep into Sam's. "He got so drunk that night that I thought he was going to kill himself." Sam believed him. Dad had always had a tendency to start drinking and forget to stop until there was nothing left to pour down his gullet.
Sam flinched as Dean's earlier words once again echoed in his brain. This is like, one of the worst nights of my life. His guilt magnified. Not only had Dean lost Sam that night, but he'd been forced to watch his father, his hero, drink himself into a stupor. He sighed."The reason leaving for school was a happy memory wasn't because I was away from you," he said quietly. "Trust me on that, okay?"
Sam would never tell Dean about the butterflies in his stomach when he'd finally stepped off the bus onto Stanford's campus. He'd never admit to spying longingly on the other freshmen as they clung to their families like children, relishing the warmth of their final hugs and laughs before saying goodbye. And there was absolutely no way he'd reveal how he'd slid down the wall in his sparsely decorated dorm room, eyes burning and fingers itching to pick up the phone and call his brother to come retrieve him.
Sam quickly cleared his mind of the memory. "I was happy because I got to do something that I'd chosen, for once. Not something that Dad had chosen for me. I'm not saying that all of Dad's decisions were wrong," he quickly put in to avoid feeding his brother's anger, "but you know better than anyone how frustrating he could be when he became obsessed with hunting." Sam glanced at Dean's face, looking for some sort of clue as to what was running through his mind. He shrugged, unsure of what else to say. "I wanted a shot at normal, Dean. And that meant being away from hunting. Haven't you ever wanted a chance to just be on your own and do your own thing?"
At the question, Dean's eyes flashed with something that seemed out of place on his hardened features. And though it was only visible for a fraction of a second, Sam had become an expert at reading his brother's face, and he caught it immediately. It was fear.
Dean said nothing for a moment, but then swallowed and spoke. "No, Sam," he returned quietly, voice no longer angry, just tired and broken. "No, I haven't."
The complete lack of power, lack of emotion, lack of Dean in the reply had Sam frozen in his seat. That scares him, he realized with a jolt. That's Dean's greatest fear. To be alone. Hell, just that day, Zachariah had flaunted that fear in Dean's face when he'd taunted him so cruelly with the words spoken through the mouth of their mother's look-alike: Everybody leaves you, Dean. You noticed? Mommy. Daddy. Even Sam.
No wonder Dean had hurt so badly when Sam had left for school. Sure, he'd had Dad, but when it came down to it, the man had been a bossy, insensitive, preoccupied bastard, whereas Sam had been his brother, and his best friend. It had been him and Dean against the world, and he'd cherished that. They'd moved around too much to truly form any lasting relationships with their peers, but they'd been content in each other's company, and Sam distinctly remembered the feeling of satisfaction that came from knowing that he didn't have to share his older brother with anyone else. Dean's time, and his affection, belonged to Sam, and that had made him undeniably proud as a kid.
He'd thought Dean had known that. Sam couldn't dispute the fact that he'd looked up to the older Winchester. That he still did. It was the inevitable curse and gift of being a younger sibling. Even when he'd finally had his growth spurt and was able to outreach Dean by a couple of inches, he'd never looked down on his brother. His goal was to emulate Dean, to be like him. Dean was his family, and that was something that Sam had never questioned, never denied. Or he'd never meant to, anyway.
Sam subtly cleared his throat, hoping to keep his voice steady. He didn't know exactly how to make things better, but he was sure as hell going to try. "I do have happy memories of you and Dad, Dean. I remember one time when I was 14," he began, gazing out the window, "one of Dad's buddies had gotten himself into a jam and really needed some backup, so Dad had to take off for a while. You'd gotten pretty beat up on the last hunt. Broken leg, broken ribs, concussion… Dad didn't want to leave, but it sounded like the other guy was in deep."
He chanced a look at his brother to gauge his reaction. Dean remained silent, and Sam took that as an invitation to continue. "He pulled me aside before he left, and he got this really serious look on his face. I thought I was in trouble for something. I was ready to argue with him about it, whatever it was," he admitted. If he was honest with himself, he'd always been ready to argue with Dad about anything. It really shouldn't have been a shock when he'd realized that his desire was to become a lawyer. He'd practiced arguing his point on a daily basis as a kid. It had driven Dean up the wall. "But then he grabbed my shoulder and he gave me this weird smile," Sam recalled fondly, remembering how pleasantly surprised he'd been in that moment, "and his exact words were, 'I need you to stay with your brother, Sammy. Take care of him. I'm trusting you to do that for me.'" Sam smiled to himself, forehead pressed lightly against the cool glass of the window, trees flying past in the darkness outside. "That's one of my favorite memories of Dad," he revealed honestly. "He was so sincere. And he didn't hand out his trust to just anyone, but he gave it to me." Sam trailed off for a moment, caught up in his own thoughts. "I don't know. I guess I felt a bond with him that I hadn't felt in a long time."
Dean's jaw was still set, but his expression had softened slightly at the mention of their father, and the creases in his forehead eased minutely. Sam could tell that his brother was mulling over the story, sifting through his raging emotions and determining whether it was enough to ease his anger.
But Sam wasn't finished. "And then after Dad left, that week was probably the most fun I've ever had." He hoped that Dean would sense the truth behind that statement because even now, years later, a grin broke out on Sam's face as his brain replayed the memory. "It was just you and me, hanging out and doing everything Dad would never let us waste time doing. You couldn't really get out of bed, so we didn't have to go to school. We watched that entire box of old movies in two days and quoted them practically word-for-word. You taught me how to play poker, and I sucked. But then you taught me how to cheat, and I got a lot better." Sam felt the heavy pressure in his chest release somewhat when he saw Dean unconsciously let slip a tiny smirk, even if it was only a half-assed one. "We built that trap out of an old shoebox and some string to catch the raccoon that kept showing up in the front yard. But we accidently caught Mr. Porter's new puppy instead, remember? The little yappy one? And you gave me my first beer that week. Which tasted like shit, by the way, but it was awesome."
Dean actually let out a small snort of laughter, apparently caught up in the memory as well, and Sam joined in with a quiet chuckle of his own as he recalled those moments and more. He remembered being secretly pleased when Dad had confined Dean to the house that week. It had given him an excuse to simply hang out with his brother, and to finally look out for him, for once.
When their moods quickly settled into seriousness once again, Sam fixed Dean with a solid gaze. "Look, Dean, you're my big brother. You're important to me, man. You always have been, and so was Dad," he confessed, aware of the fact that touchy-feely wasn't necessarily Dean's forte, but he needed to get the point across. "The time that we got to spend together as kids, that we still spend together… I wouldn't trade it for anything. You've got to know that. Please." The complete sincerity behind his impassioned plea came of its own free will. He was desperately willing Dean to understand, to realize that their relationship was the most solid thing in Sam's life, and he needed it to remain strong if he was going to get through this whole apocalyptic shitstorm. "So," he said uncertainly, "are we okay?"
Dean turned his head, giving him a look of exasperation. "Are we okay?" he repeated in disbelief. "We've got a whole gaggle of angels on our ass, plus the devil, and I don't know if you know this, but we're kind of in the middle of figuring out how to stop the apocalypse. So I think it's fair to say that no, Sam, we are not okay." Dean's tone held sarcasm and annoyance, but it was the most typically Dean-like he'd sounded since they returned from Heaven, and Sam chalked it up as a small win in his book.
"Well, yeah, there's that…" Sam replied, giving a nod of acquiescence. "But you and me, I mean, us…" He trailed off awkwardly, waving his hand back and forth between himself and his brother in an unnecessary gesture. He wished Dean would just let him off the hook and quit making him stumble and stutter through the Winchester-esque version of an apology.
Dean's eyes were still guarded as they scanned the dark road before them, but his expression had softened slightly and his hands had relaxed their death grip on the steering wheel. Sam couldn't tell if his words had found their way through Dean's thick skull or if his brother was just too exhausted to be angry anymore. Either way, he appreciated Dean's response. "Yeah, Sammy," he said quietly. "You and me, man. Against the world."
Sam stared at Dean a moment and then gave a small nod, relaxing into the leather just slightly. He was aware of the lack of conviction in his brother's tone, but for tonight, at least, he was actively choosing to ignore it. Dean was still upset, but right now there was nothing more that he could say to ease the pain that the day had caused. Besides, Dean's words and the use of Sam's childhood nickname were enough to give him some sense of reassurance. They gave him hope that, though their lives royally sucked at the moment, there was a possibility that things would be okay once they managed to end this and crawl out of the trenches.
He shifted in his seat, returning his gaze to staring out the window. The small amulet in his pocket jabbed his leg as if sending a reminder that it was still there, that it didn't belong to him and should be returned to the man who had carried it so faithfully for all these years. Sam ignored the sensation, squirming to find a more comfortable position. Dean may have listened to his apology, but Sam knew he wasn't ready to hug it out just yet, and he couldn't bear watching Dean throw the amulet away for a second time. No, he'd hold onto it for a while, and give it to his brother when the time was right. Maybe when things settled down a bit and this whole thing was over. He tipped his head sideways, enjoying the sleekness of the glass against his brow. Closing his eyes, he let out a sigh, waiting for sleep to claim him. It was him and Dean against the world, and he needed to be ready.
Yes, I am a firm believer that Sam picked up the amulet before he left. We can at least hope, right? Thanks for reading!