There are no lights on. The motel room is dark and silent and Sam sighs; a noise born of weariness and relief. Dean's still asleep and this whole failed attempt need never be discussed or even revealed.
Except Dean is not still asleep.
The lock snicks open and the silence Sam steps into is charged with tension; nothing like the peaceful, sad silence he'd left behind. Silhouetted barely by the slatted beams of moonlight filtering through the blinds, Sam can see that Dean is sitting, silent and still and tense in his bed, covers pooled in his lap, hair sticking up at odd angles.
Dean is awake and there goes any and all hope of no harm, no foul (well, aside from that crossroads bitch, but she totally had it coming). For a fraction of a second, Sam flirts with the idea of turning right back around and disappearing into the night and just being free. Walking away and letting Dean go. Like Dean wants him to, like the demon had taunted him. To be free of every burden and obligation that came with having Winchester for a last name. Of being his older brother's entire reason for being.
And then he quashes it firmly, because he knows he could never do it. That bitch, she was wrong, full of venom and lies. Sam loves his brother so much, he aches sometimes, has phantom pains in his spine where the knife severed it and a binding contract re-forged it, when he thinks of what Dean paid. He stamps the idea into nothing and takes a deep breath.
Sam closes the door behind him, the silence lasting long enough for the click of the latch catching to echo in the corners of the room. And then it explodes.
Dean is a cacophony of outrage and fear. Sam flicks on the light (the better to see you with, my dear) and watches the emotions play across his brother's face. "...stupid, selfish, son of a bitch," Dean is shouting, up off the bed and moving towards Sam, "where did you go?"
Sam has crossroads dirt underneath his fingernails. Dean wants Sam to let him go. Dean wants Sam to give up. Dean is shaking him, furious for leaving without his consent. Dean is angry. Dean is a walking contradiction. Dean wants him to let go. Dean is holding on so tight, Sam couldn't let go if he tried. Dean sold his fucking soul. Dean is going to die and he wants Sam to live. Dean wants him to let go.
Dean wants him to let go.
Dean is a fucking hypocrite.
Suddenly, Sam is so angry, he can barely breathe. It's frightening, how angry he is. He remembers the steadily building pressure on the hammer of the colt. He remembers watching the bullet pierce the demon's skull without even blinking. He remembers waking up, gasping like he hadn't breathed in days (Because he hadn't, had he? He had been dead.) and how wrong it had felt. He remembers Dean, walking away, telling him to let go.
Thank God he doesn't have the colt in his hands anymore, because Sam's not sure he isn't angry enough to shoot Dean, right now.
Still, his fingers twitch of their own accord and form a fist. Almost without realization of what he's done, Sam watches Dean's head snap back and to the right in slow motion. Dean cries out, more in surprise than pain, and reels back, one hand pressed to his jaw, eyes wide as he sizes Sam up.
"If you say Christo, I will punch you again," Sam snarls, turning his back on his brother and marching towards his own bed, slinging his backpack into the space between the bed and the wall.
"Sam," Dean growls in warning. Before Sam can disappear beneath the covers, he feels fingers wrap around his bicep, halting his momentum and swinging him back around to face Dean once again. "Sam, where the fuck did you go."
"Just forget it Dean," Sam says. Avoid and deny. Patented Winchester mode of operation. Works every time.
"No, I'm not going to forget it. Not until you tell me."
...Except when it doesn't.
Lips curling in disgust, Sam stares at Dean with a withering look that would make a lesser man cringe. But Dean's had a lifetime of experience dealing with Sam and every expression he is capable of making. He stares back expectantly.
"Why do you even care?" Sam snarls, frustration and anger and hurt all fogging his judgment, controlling his words. God, he wants to make his brother hurt. Vicious, vicious thoughts and Sam doesn't know what to do, except lash out. "You're the one who's all set to ABANDON me."
Dean actually flinches at the words, a wounded look passing over his face before his eyebrows slope down into angry furrows. "I did what I had to do. You know that Sam."
"No, Dean, I don't know that," Sam retorts, yelling now, and he could care less if the neighbors are pounding on the paper thin walls and telling them to quiet the hell down. "You did exactly what you WANTED to do. What you did was u--" Sam catches himself on the edge of unforgivable and hastily amends himself. "selfish, Dean. It was fucking selfish."
Sam keeps advancing and Dean keeps backing up, until Dean's pressed tight against the wall and Sam's looming over him, nostrils flared, face red. Dean looks tired. Dean looks resigned. Everything about Dean makes Sam want to put a hole in the wall with his fists right now.
"You brought me back from the dead."
The words are toxic and it's way too late to take them back. Dean looks up at Sam guiltily, expression screaming censure. Christ, that was a low blow. Acting ungrateful towards Dean's ultimate display of love and sacrifice.
At last, Dean simply says:
"You don't know what it was like, Sam. You don't know."
Those words? Whispered. Barely words at all. Sam aches all the same. Poor, selfish, martyred Dean. And what is Sam left with if Dean gets his way for the first and last time in his life? No family. No home. No girlfriend. A bounty on his head. Fuck.
"No, I don't. But if you get your way, I'll find out soon enough," Sam hisses and part of him crows with glee at the crestfallen look on Dean's face at the words. Mostly though, he wants to wrap his arms around Dean and cry. Mostly, Sam doesn't want his big brother to die.
Mostly, Sam doesn't want to weight of knowing Dean went to hell for him on his shoulders.
Mostly, everyone is selfish. Just in different ways.
Triumphant, or maybe ashamed of himself, Sam turns away after that. He can't look at Dean anymore, not without violence or tears, and he's not prepared to deal with the aftermath of either of those.
Sam manages to turn the covers down on his bed before Dean speaks again, voice low and rough – husky, as if holding back a sob. "I mean it Sam, where did you go?"
Sometimes the truth hurts most of all. Sometimes the truth is greater and more terrible than any lie that could be fabricated.
"I went to the crossroads."
"Sam."
Funny. Sam's not sure why he feels the need to defend himself, but the raw disappointment and hurt in that single word is enough to make him want to beg Dean for his forgiveness.
"Look, Dean, I can't just let you go. You might want me to, but I can't." Crap. He sounds like a whiny little twelve-year old. How did he lose the offensive so quickly? Still, Sam can't quite keep the waver out of his voice, no matter how much he berates himself. "I'm not going to stop looking," he pauses and takes a breath, locking eyes with his brother, making sure he's truly hearing and comprehending this, "and you can deal with that or you can't."
For a moment, Dean looks like he's going to reply, but then he simply clenches his jaw tight and turns around. He's out the door and the sound of the Impala's familiar rumble fades into fractured silence.
Sam slumps onto the bed and feels about a hundred years old.
--