Release
Dean Winchester was pissed. Truly, royally pissed off at the entire world.
He didn't know how Sam believed in some higher power when that exact higher power seemed bound and friggin' determined to ruin Sam's life, if not make him totally miserable. He didn't know how Sam could believe when all Dean wanted to do was to kill the fucking bastard who had taken away his little brother's second real chance at happiness.
Dean's eyes flicked briefly over the bleak, impersonal, near-empty motel room. Sam was gone again. He had disappeared earlier that evening without a word, basketball in hand, closing the door behind him with an aura of defeat. About a week after Madison's death he had taken up the sport with a vengeance, releasing his emotions the only safe way he could- working himself into a state of exhaustion. He didn't want to talk, didn't talk at all if he didn't have to.
Dean didn't try to make him talk. He didn't wake up in the middle of the night wondering where Sam was, didn't try calling to make sure he was okay, since the phone was most likely turned off anyway. It wasn't as if he didn't know. He knew. He knew about the three a.m. basketball workouts in whatever park was closest. He knew about the even later night trips to the bar to drown out the voices. He could see the dark circles under the dull green eyes, growing dimmer as each day passed. And he knew about the sleeping pills.
Pure, unrestricted anger, fuelled by the massive amounts of tension in his body, finally caused him to explode. Hot tears burned and blurred his vision and he blinked them away.
He was losing his little brother, and he couldn't do anything about it. He couldn't save Sam.
Yes he could. Heart thudding painfully, erratically, Dean pushed aside the voice and slammed the door hard enough to rattle windows in his haste to exit the room.
He found him at his first stop. The park was deserted at nearly twelve thirty at night, save for the tall, hooded figure shooting hoops with yet another full day's worth of pent-up emotion.
If Sam heard him, he didn't let on. He simply kept going and going and goin, not stopping until Dean stepped onto the court and intercepted the ball. Only then did Sam glance up. Dean waited for a sign, anything that would reflect recognition, and when he saw a quick flash of relief in Sam's eyes, all pretenses were dropped. The fight for the ball was now more intense than ever before; personal, but not between them. It wasn't about them this time. It was about the evil that consumed an unknowing woman who had fallen in love with Sam.
The two men were a blur on the table of concrete, dodging, running, weaving with a fluidity that spoke of not practice, but angry determination that couldn't and wouldn't be stemmed. The night itself was silent, yet the one-on-one game on the basketball court was filled with the sounds of heavy breathing, echoes of the ball as it bounced, a small swish as the next shot his nothing but net, pounding of shoes on the pavement, grunts of exertion.
It was nearly sunrise when the game, which had long passed the regular time, came to a halt.
Two pairs of dark green eyes locked.
Sam's eyes were suspiciously wet as he nodded shortly. Dean took it for what it was, and handed him the basketball.
"No problem, Sam."
-
Please review!