Disclaimer: I don't own anything :)
Summary: Takes place after ELAC. I know, this is really late in coming.
Intended to be a two-shot, will be updating with the second chapter soon.
Sam forces Dean to eat, but says nothing else after he's been told "too little, too late."
Dean stood at the center of the yard near the Impala, taking in the mess, breathing heavily from the exertion of beating the crap out of his baby. He groaned, thinking of the fact that he had just bought himself more work, and more expenses. Parts of the Impala did not come in cheap, and he had been scrounging for money almost every day since the accident. Of course, it didn't help that Sam was not doing anything, just spouting out philosophy about his feelings and moping around the house.
The thought of his brother brought a fresh burst of irrational rage in Dean and he felt like having a go at the Impala again. Sam was pretending that his only wish in life was to do his father's bidding, right after he upped and died. Well, tough luck, thinks dont work like that anymore. His brother spent his whole life butting heads with the man, and now thought that it would make up for those lost years where he ran off to chase his dream, leaving Dean and his dad to fight for everything they had lost, and everything that didn't make up for it.
A slight frown suddenly passed over Dean's visage. Sam had checked himself AMA from the hospital, and Dean hadn't even asked if he was feeling alright. The low throb of guilt, though, was soon replaced by a fresh wave of anger as he surveyed the disaster in front of him. Sam had pushed him to a different range of anger altogether.
Deep down, he knew that the anger he was exhibiting was just a smokescreen for the pain lurking just beneath his skin. His hero, his dad, now gone from his life. He had nobody to look up to, nobody to give him advice, and nobody to tell him that it was going to be alright. He was just left with the remains of a moving family home and a silent little brother.
The sound of feet crunching on the gravel had him stiffening and looking up. Sam was there, walking slowly but deliberately toward Dean, his face set in a silent mask. He held a sandwich in his hand, no doubt sloppily made by Bobby. Bobby's cooking was not exactly cordon bleu material, but he did make a decent sandwich. This time though, Dean's stomach rebelled against the idea with the intensity of a dog after the postman.
Sam slowly neared, looking up at him with the puppy dog eyes that everyone fell for. But not today, and not Dean.
"What is it, Sam?"
Sam slowly extended his arm, holding out the sandwich like a peace offering.
"Eat, Dean."
"No thanks, I feel like I'll barf if anything goes down my gullet. I'd better be working on the Impala."
Dean expected Sam to back off, after all the kid was intelligent and did not go searching for trouble. But these seemed to be exceptional days.
"Eat, Dean. Please."
"Sam, just back off, okay? I need to get some work done, and I don't want you hovering around me."
"Dean. Eat."
The surge of anger was back again, and suddenly Dean could see where it was coming from. Everything that Sam did, said, and mimicked reminded him of a father who was never coming back, and of a son who could only see the flaws in the man, not the strength.
And suddenly, his arm was shooting out to connect to Sam's jaw. Sam didn't even see it coming. He staggered back from the blow, and Dean knew that his head had to be ringing after that. The anger was pouring off Dean and he couldn't see straight.
"Dean. Please, eat."
Dean looked at Sam who was cradling his jaw with his left palm and still holding out the sandwich. That's when Dean blew his fuse.
"Back off, Sam! I told you, I don't want to eat anything. I just want to fix the Impala and get back on the road to kill some fugly monsters. You, of all people, should appreciate that, considering you suddenly want to play the ideal son to a father you hardly ever agreed with. All you could think of was yourself, your quest for normality, your selfishness. Isn't that what you wanted, Sam? Well, you get your normal now. Please feel free not to tag along with me on the hunt now. Go back to where you came from, where you felt that you belonged."
Sam seemed to be shrinking in size with every mean word that spewed out of his mouth. His shoulders were hunched, his hair was falling over his eyes and his the muscles in his back were tensed. And after all this, he still held out the sandwich, saying nothing this time, just holding it out to Dean.
And as fast as it had come, the anger drained out of Dean. Suddenly, he could see Sam, probably standing lost and alone like this, hours after the accident at Bobby's house, trying to save what was left of the Impala and his brother's only connection to himself. He could see Sam running desperately toward his dad, the hot coffee splattering on the floor and on his jeans, the hot liquid seeping into his shoes. Sam, standing there now, desperately holding out a sandwich to Dean, like this was all he could offer, knew it was woefully inadequate and felt guilty of some great crime.
Once again, footsteps drew Dean out of his reverie. This time, however, he was met with Bobby's face, looking at the scene in front of him with something akin to disbelief. He moved, coming toward Sam, slowly prying open the fingers that held on tightly to the sandwich, put it on a clean napkin on the Impala and placed his arm around Sam, steering him away from Dean and toward the front door.
Will update the latest by Saturday. Please review!