"Why won't you just give this a chance?"
The room goes silent. Sam stares, unblinking, at Dean's back, watching as it tenses and relaxes under the familiar leather jacket.
"Please Dean, we need this. What we're doing – Dad, hunting, demons and ghosts and monsters – none of it is good for us. It's gonna destroy us, Dean. Just like it destroyed Dad. This is our chance to get out of here. We can't just pass it up."
Dean's hands clench tightly into fists as he fights with himself. On the one hand, Sam's right – this is far too good an opportunity to pass up. A free ticket out of this life, their world. Dean knows as well as anyone what the life of a hunter can do to a man; he's watched his father break down far too many times to not know. But at the same time, he knows Sam will never move, never live a normal life with his brother by his side. There will always be that desire, that lust that pulled them together late at night and early in the morning, under the cover of darkness. Always be that love that surpassed brotherly a long time ago. Always be that haunting, lingering longing that keeps them both awake and alert when the other is gone.
It's better for Sam to go alone, he decides. He's known it all along, buried it somewhere deep in himself where he couldn't reach it, where it couldn't hurt him – but it's always been there. For Sam to be happy, Sam has to be normal. And for Sam to be normal- well, Dean can't be there.
"No Sammy, you can't pass it up."
Sam blinks, brows furrowing as he tries to work out what Dean means. And then realisation dawns, and he starts to shake his head, furious.
"Dean, I'm not going without you. You can't ask me to do that. Come on, man. You know we need to get out of here, get away from all this crazy shit."
"You need to get out, Sam. Not me." Dean turns around, meets Sam's gaze with a practiced levelness.
"I don't get it, Dean," Sam's still shaking his head, trying to make sense of what's happening. "Are you saying you won't come? Are you saying you don't want to come?"
It's better for Sam.
"That's exactly what I'm saying, Sam." He's not shouting – and in a way, that makes it worse. Sam's used to his Dean – his passionate, short-tempered older brother – not this emotionless man, with his even voice and his steady gaze.
"You're lying." The accusation whips out of him before he can stop it. And Dean has to work to keep his face neutral, because Sammy always did see through his lies.
"I'm telling you the truth Sam. You should leave. Get the fuck out of here. There's nothing left for you, not anymo-"
"Nothing left?" Sam's starting to sound hysterical, his confusion bubbling over into panic. "Dean, there's you! I can't just leave you, not now, not ever, Dean. Remember?" Dean doesn't respond beyond dropping his eyes to the floor, and Sam's panic blossoms into terror. "Dean, come on, please. Don't do this to me."
"I'm sorry, Sam."
Three words. Three words were all it took to make Sam believe that everything was over. Dean could read it in his eyes – the last, frantic moments of desperation, the blind denial, and then, finally, the acceptance. The horror. The betrayal and the hurt and the sorrow. He could see each and every emotion play out on Sam's face, open as a book.
"You're sorry? Sorry for what, Dean? Were they all lies? All the things you told me?" Dean's silent again, and Sam closes his eyes, swallowing down tears. "I need to know the truth, Dean. You owe me that much. Was it all a lie?"
"Yes." His voice is hoarse, strained, the word barely a whisper. But Sam hears it. And it breaks him. Dean watches him collapse in on himself, shoulders slumping and head dropping forward.
"I loved you," he murmurs, half to himself, disbelief colouring his voice. "I thought you loved me too."
He risks a glance up at Dean, hoping to see- what? A sign that Dean is lying now, that he doesn't mean the words that are breaking Sam's heart? But Dean's face is blank, hidden behind a mask of indifference.
It takes all the will he can summon to stay still, to not run over to Sam and gather him in his arms, rock away the grief like he always used to. It's better for Sam, he tells himself, over and over, repeating it like a prayer in his head. It's better for Sam.
"I don't understand." Sam feels pathetic. Weak. But he can't stop, can't pull himself together, not when his entire world is crumbling around him. "I don't- Why would you lie? Why would you do that?"
"I told you what you wanted to hear."
"No. No, you're a liar, Dean. You're lying. Please, Dean. Tell me you're lying." Sam catches Dean's eye, watches as his brother shakes his head, eyes filled with apology and pity and Sam doesn't want that, he wants his brother back; he wants the old Dean back, the one who loved him.
"You'll be fine, Sam. You'll go to Stanford, they've accepted you. You'll leave tomorrow morning, and you won't look back. You'll have a normal life, like you've always wanted. You'll be happy." Sam nods his head and shakes it alternatively. It's as though Dean's giving him commands, telling him what to do, and Sam wants to believe him, but he can't. Because how can he be happy without Dean?
"I can't do this alone, Dean." He starts forward, hands reaching out to touch his brother, to pull him close. "Please, don't do this. Stay with me. Don't abandon me, not now, please."
And Dean's resolve breaks at the look in Sam's eyes, because his baby brother is suffering, and it's written all over his face. He steps forward, wraps his arms around Sam, holds him tightly.
"You've got to be strong, Sammy. Strong for the both of us. Okay? You've got to be happy."
And it's all Dean can do to keep from crying then, as he lets go and stumbles backwards, fighting to fix his apathetic expression back into place.
"Dean," Sam breathes, cheeks wet with tears that started falling God knows how long ago, but Dean shakes his head, stops Sammy from talking with a gentle kiss. And he knows it's a mistake even as his lips are pressing against Sam's, but he can't stop himself.
It's a kiss filled with goodbye. It hurts both of them, rubbing salt into the gaping wound of the argument, but somehow Dean knows Sam wouldn't have left without it. Or that he wouldn't have let Sam leave without it. Either way, the kiss is their closure.
Because if Dean gets his way, he won't see Sam, ever again. Sam will leave, graduate like all the other kids, settle down with some blonde and start a family – the apple pie life. The one Sam always wanted. The one he used to tell Dean about, in long drives in the Impala, the one from the pictures Sam would stick up in their motel rooms until their father found them and tore them all down. And it hurts, and it's painful, but Dean knows he's giving Sam the only thing he's ever wanted – normality.
But most of all, the kiss is an apology. For more than just the lies – for everything. For all the times Dean had wanted to say sorry, but never found the guts to do it. For the late night kisses, and the sex and the love that screwed Sammy up, for stealing away his heart. For ruining Sam's teenage years for him. For the pain and the tears and the heartbreak. Dean knows he has so much to apologise for – too much – and try as he might, he knows he'll never make it up to Sam. Whether Sam could see it or not.
Dean pulls back slowly, rests his forehead against Sam's and sighs softly.
"I'm sorry, Sam," he repeats, and this time Sam nods, tiredly.
"Yeah. I know." Sam swallows, pulls away. He knows he can't stay now, no matter what. He can't face being with Dean, being so close to Dean, knowing that everything he thought they'd shared was a lie.
And it scares him, because he doesn't know if he'll be able to survive without Dean, but he knows he has to try.
There can be no going back. Not anymore. They both know it.
And when Sam turns away, disappears into the spare bedroom, Dean has to shut his eyes, dig his nails into his palms, and repeat his silent mantra again and again to keep himself from breaking down.
It's better for Sam. It's better for Sam.
It's better for Sam.