After the Anger Fades
"Sam, wait." The words left his mouth before he could stop them.
Sam half turned back, his hand still on the doorknob, and gazed out the window as dawn's light began to creep into the room, refusing to meet Dean's eyes. "What?"
Dean just looked at his brother, Sam's shoulders drooping from the weight of his backpack and duffel, the weight of the fight with Dad, and the weariness of another long night spent fighting the supernatural. The more Sam's aches – physical and deeper – became apparent to Dean's scrutiny, the less he felt he had the heart to beg him to stay. Why was he really asking his brother to stay and endure this life? So that he could protect him? Dean could no longer tell himself that was the only reason. The truth was he needed Sam's company, liked having his little brother around, and didn't want him leaving on such bad terms. But what kind of company would Sam be if Dean stopped him from chasing the life he really wanted for himself? Maybe . . . maybe he should just let him go.
Confused by Dean's silence, Sam finally turned his head to meet Dean's eyes. What Dean saw there stopped any arguments he may have made. The weariness and hurt in Sam's eyes spoke volumes. The anger that had fuelled him through his frantic packing had faded, and now Dean could see how much it hurt his brother to make this decision.
This wasn't a rash action, a simple, thoughtless, regret-it-in-the-morning result of the fight with their father. No, Sam had been mulling over this for a while. It was what he had decided he wanted, needed. And who was Dean to stand in the way of that?
For a rare moment, Dean had his carefully erected walls down and his thought process played across his face. Sam had been afraid to meet his eyes. Afraid to see them begging to stay. Afraid he wouldn't be able to refuse.
But instead, when he finally worked up his courage and resolve and looked at his brother, he could see something else . . . Dean wasn't going to ask him to stay. He was saying goodbye.
Tense muscles, defensive body posture relaxed. Sam's hand slipped from the doorknob as he turned to face his brother fully.
"It'll be alright, Dean."
Dean hated that – he was the one who was supposed to be looking after Sam, reassuring.
"Of course it will, Sam," he conceded, trying to reclaim his place as big brother. He threw his cocky grin back in place, "We'll see you later."
Sam just gave a sad kind of smile, not wanting to hurt his brother by telling him he was planning on taking his father's words to heart – he wasn't coming back.
But after all these years, Dean could read his brother like a book. He knew Sam was serious about this 'leaving for good' business. But he also knew no clash of words or wills, no force supernatural or otherwise, could keep him and his brother apart forever.
"'Bye, Dean."
Dean couldn't say all he wanted to say. Couldn't voice all the feelings churning inside him . . . especially not the foremost in his mind. He had never been good with chick flick moments.
The unspoken words – feelings, regrets, apologies – hung in the comfortable silence between them.
Until Sam broke the spell, reaching for the doorknob again. With one last look back at Dean, standing by the bed where the dawn light spilled in the open door, Sam tugged the duffel up higher on his shoulder and headed out into the too-bright sunshine.
"See ya, Sammy," Dean spoke into the silence.
Dean didn't know how long he stood there before he heard his father's motel room door open and his large frame filled the doorway Sam had left open, blocking out the summer sun that had been slowly warming Dean, helping the healing a little.
His dad was all business.
"Caleb called. There's a poltergeist over in Minnesota. Pack up."
Everything safely locked inside, his walls securely back in place, Dean didn't miss a beat before responding, "Yes, sir," and reaching for his duffel.
After a few moments of shoving clothes inside it – a ritual as old as time – he realized he hadn't heard his father leave. Sneaking a glance, he saw him standing just inside the door, guards down, weariness seeping from him, anger forgotten, staring out the window with a far-off look in his eyes. And something else. Something Dean was sure was . . . regret.
"Dad?" Dean asked, careful to keep his voice neutral.
Then the moment was broken. Steely, hard, protected eyes met his, mirroring the walls behind his own.
"I'll go check us out of this dump."
Then he was gone. And Dean was alone. He looked at the bed, sheets still rumpled, where Sammy had slept. And suddenly he felt so empty and alone. His eyes found the window, and as he looked out across the town, at that highway fading out in the distance, he heard his brother's words again:
"It'll be alright, Dean."
And it would. 'Cause Sammy was okay. And he was where he wanted to be.
As he fingered the amulet that hung from his neck, he told himself that's all that mattered . . . and went back to packing. Ready for the next hunt.