Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Needing More
Sam needs to tell Dean he is leaving. Dean needs to get him to stay.
Chapter1
"Sam? Are you okay?" His brother had been sat there, pushing the food around his plate with a desultory hand, for the last twenty minutes. The fork scraped against the plate once more unnoticed as, head propped in hand, elbow on table, Sam did not seem to hear. Normally, Dean would have reached over and swatted him over the head, but there was something wrong. Sam had been quiet for a couple of days now. All of Dean's attempts to engage him in conversation, or anything else for that mater, had been met with avoidance, his eyes almost being unable to look at his older brother.
Reaching over, he surrounded his brother's hand with his own, stilling the relentless persecution of peas and sweet corn. Sam startled, his fork flicking cornels across the table. Relaxing back in his chair, but looking more like a defeat, Sam hunched in on himself. Dean refused to give up his grip on the hand now lax under his. "Sammy. Please talk to me."
Sam tried to smile at that, but it barely made it to his lips. He was so scared. He was scared of Dean finding out before he could tell him. He was scared of hurting Dean, and he knew that, once he told him, he would be hurt.
Getting up, dropping his brother's hand, Dean moved around the table and sat on the rickety wooden chair beside his, facing him. "What is it? Tell me," and placed his right hand on the nape of Sam's neck.
Sam had dreaded this. He knew he had to be the one to tell Dean and he selfishly hoped that Dean would be the one to tell their father. There was no sure way to do this. Whatever he said, however he said it, he knew Dean would be angry.
He lifted his head looking into the searching green eyes so close then, thinking he would weep for the concern there, he shook his head and looked down at his lap.
"Please, Sammy? Whatever it is, it can't be that bad. There's nothing so bad that the two of us together can't handle." Shaking him slightly by the nape, he added, "Nothing can get the better of the Winchester Bros'." Grinning close by his face even though Sam was not looking at him. "Nothing can stand up to that. Long as we stick together. Just like always."
Some things were very simple to Dean.
"Damn it, Dean!" jumping up from the chair, shrugging off his brother's comforting hand. He did not want comforting. He felt anger, at himself, as he knew he was about to break his brother's heart. And he was angry at Dean for being so damned…Dean! "Not like always. Not anymore. I'm leaving!" then froze at the sight of his brother's face as, anger, denial, grief, then back to anger, passed rapidly across the bronzed freckled face.
Sam had worried over and over how to tell his brother about Stanford. Rehearsed it over and over again. Then, he goes and throws it in his face like this, like it was all his brother's fault. It was no one's fault. Sam had to leave. He could not take this life anymore. If he stayed, he would end up hating his family and that could only end badly.
It was not going too well now.
"The fuck you are! What the fuck are you talking about? Leaving what, who? What the fuck are you talking about?" not raising his voice, but sat there so still, repeating himself, suddenly feeling cold as he realised the meaning of the words he had just heard.
If Dean had come at him, paced the room, broken something, done anything but just sit there looking up at him, looking so… scared, Sam could have kept some of that anger and it may have protected him from the pain he knew he was causing them both. But Dean just sat there waiting. "I've been accepted at Stanford University. I start in the fall."
"Which fall?"
"This fall."
"But it's August now! When were you planning on …going?" his voice getting quieter.
"Three weeks" his voice as quiet as Dean's.
"No!" disbelief.
"Yes." 'I'm so sorry' he silently added.
"No. You're not leaving us, Sammy. No way." Certainty making his voice louder, harsher.
"Yes. I am." Standing straighter. Anger he could deal with.
"You can't," sounding nothing like their father would at the news. It was not an order. It was a plea.
"I have to."
"Why? Why, Sammy? Why the hell would want to leave m…. us?" Dean had never seen this coming, would not have in a million years. They were a family, the three of them. It was all they had. It was enough. It was all they needed. It was everything.
Sam looked at him, his eyes pleading for his brother to understand that he had to go. He moved closer, coming back around the table, a hand held out towards him, hating the flinch away that Dean failed to cover. He held his ground and, taking a deep breath, lifted his head and spoke even as Dean turned his face from him.
"This is no life. I can't continue moving from one shit hole to another, constantly living out of a bag, out the back of the car. I need something more. I want something more. A home, a life, a career. Hell, even a wife and kids. I just want a normal life. Just want to be…"
'More'. The word swam inside Dean's skull. Sammy wanted more. They were not enough for him. He was not enough for him. He could not say anything, he could not feel anything other than a numbness starting in the pit of his stomach, spreading up through his intestines, growing, anesthetising all sensation. Sammy wanted more.
Dean slowly stood, hand pressed to the table for support like a man of seventy, and left the room, shoulders slumped, gait as one weighted by the shackles on a chain gang. He did not look back, would not, and could not hear the pleading in his brother's voice as he said just one more word to him. His name. "Dean."-----
It was mild for an August day in this New England town, but Dean would not have noticed six foot of snow as he was frozen already. He had walked from the small, peeling, clap board house, down the steps onto the hard, cracked pavement and just continued. He had no idea where he was or cared. All he could think about was that Sammy was leaving; leaving them, and leaving him.
He had to persuade him to stay. Somehow he had to get him to stay.
His first thought had been to pound some sense into his baby brother but he would not. He had never hit Sam like that. All the times growing up, when he could quite happily have throttled his annoying younger sibling, he had never hit him in anger or chastisement. Just as their father had never hit him. One look and a word from John Winchester was all the punishment he could take.
Oh sweet Lord, what was their Dad going to say?
What was he going to do?
Stop him, that was what. Dean looked up. Yeah, Dad would be able to put Sammy straight.
He looked around him, finally wondering where he was. A road. A narrow road, the blacktop cutting an ugly scar through trees covered in fantastically coloured autumn leaves. He held his face up to the sunlight beating down letting it warm his skin, warm him. He held his arms out, closing his eyes whilst drinking in the warmth, not realising that it was his unwavering conviction of his father's ability to solve everything that was, in fact, the fuel needed to thaw out the numbness.
Now, to go home. Back to Sammy. -----
