Sitting on yet another lumpy mattress in the latest run-down motel in the middle of bumfuck America, Dean fingers his knife, twisting the blade this way and that, sometimes catching the light, reflecting onto threadbare carpet.
There's a skull mounted above the door, a deer maybe, Dean thinks, and who the fuck really wants that looming over them in bed? People are strange, and there's no accounting for taste—the endless chain of backwoods motels and rundown apartments have taught him that.
Dean's really not sure who is winning the staring contest—does it count, really, when one of them hasn't had eyes in who knows how long? He mentally gives Bambi a point when a noise outside the door has him snapping to attention.
Nothing.
He settles back into the mattress, almost wishing the bed had magic fingers…something to maybe keep his mind off—no, not thinking about that. What time is it? Maybe Oprah is on, or Jerry Springer. Mindless daytime television is a good thing.
Sam would—
It's hard not to think of someone when you're so much a part of them, you've become one person in most people's minds. In your mind. Samanddean.
Hard when suddenly they're gone. Again.
Sam left. Back to California, maybe, he really didn't say. Dean's alive, out of the deal, and no longer Sam's concern.
Sam never did understand sacrifice like Dean did, that was the main difference between them. Maybe he and Dad had sheltered Sam too long, wanting him to have a little bit of the innocence ripped from them That Night.
When Sam wanted the last bowl of cereal, Dean gave it to him.
When Sam wanted to go to Stanford, Dean stood up for him.
When Sam wanted…. Dean never could say no.
How could he? Sam needed the comfort, needed the affection, needed to know Dean was still alive, still with him, in every way that counted. And Dean gave Sammy everything he wanted, thinking, hoping, that maybe this form of love would keep what was left of their family together.
Months of hunting, of driving across the country, of studying old texts and tracking down sources looking for answers, for a way out. Months of coming back to ratty rooms, throwing down bags, and peeling off clothes. Months of hands clutching warm skin, ghosting over scars from past battles, of gasps and moans in dark rooms. God, Dean, yes, just like that. I love you. Sammy, always, I've got you bro.
Months of Dean waiting until Sam was asleep and stumbling out of bed, carefully closing the bathroom door. Months of Dean trying to keep the sound of his nausea quiet so Sammy wouldn't wake up, kneeling next to the toilet trying to repress in his mind—this is his little brother, practically his son—Dean did most of the raising in their childhood. But this is what Sammy needs. And Dean never says no. Dean understands sacrifice. And Sam never knew.
Dean doesn't know whether to be grateful or resentful of that fact. Would Sam's knowledge have kept him with Dean, or thrust him further away? Either way, Sam is gone, for good this time, and Dean is left in limbo. How do you go on from this? For all his life, Sam was Dean's main priority. The Stanford Years, he had Dad to watch over, but Dad's dead. Dean might as well be.
As he sits on the lumpy mattress in the latest run-down motel in the middle of bumfuck America, a sound comes out of Dean's throat that is somewhere between a laugh and a sob. It's funny, how after everything the Demon threw at him, how after everything Life has thrown at him, in the end it's Sammy that has broken him.
Dean continues to turn his knife over in his hands, ghosting his fingertips lovingly over the exquisitely sharp blade.
Maybe his blood would add some spice to the décor.