Most people answer on the third ring of a phone call.
He didn't.
The bar was dim and dusty and filled with people exactly like him, people searching for release and escape in alcohol. There were neon lights, old photos of bike gangs, dingy It wasn't full, but it wasn't empty either and Dean let a small smirk creep onto his lips. This was his type of place.
The noise did little to disrupt his thoughts, but he hadn't exactly come to chase away what his mind was supplying him with. He did his best thinking sitting at a well used and alcohol abused counter top, a bartender supplying his drinks, and strangers surrounding him. The chaos fueled his organization; silence in a room filled with noise.
His phone rang again and, again, he ignored it. The person behind the electronic device might have a good reason to be calling, but he couldn't. He couldn't answer it.
"Another," the bartender asked, eyes blatantly staring at his empty tumbler. It was a whiskey kind of night.
Dean just nodded and watched as the amber fluid filled up and slightly sloshed over. The bartender was kind and wise and young. She had immediately picked up on his aura and gave him minimum interaction, allowing him to think, to stew, or do whatever he came to do.
"Thanks," he chased his words over to her as she strutted away, a small smile on her face, and he just shook his head, willing to get himself in better shape. He had only been here a few hours and his thoughts were no less organized than before he had even entered The Shack.
He turned his eyes back to the glass full of sin and sipped on it, allowing a slow burn to travel from his throat to his stomach and he reveled in the fire trail. It grounded him to now and not… not to Sam.
Even thinking about Sam enraged Dean's veins and heart, the response causing a racing desire to break and pound and… not love his brother. Sam messed up. Hell, he had done more than that. He destroyed the world. The fucking world was going to burn and it was his little brothers fault.
Shit.
Another sip burned back down to his stomach and this time he grimaced. Anger was quick to burn, but hatred brewed. Did he hate Sam? Could he truly and fully hate his little brother for who he had become while he was gone? Could he well and really dislike his brother so much, that he had left him to stitch himself up while he enjoyed the company of the night?
Damn straight he could.
Because Sam let out the Devil, the Morning Star, fucking Lucifer, and there was no forgiveness for that sin.
It must've been another two hours before Dean paid his tab, left the sancturary that the bar had created, and hauled his ass back into the Impala. The comfort he drew from relaxing back into the familiar leather and smell soothed his burnt and torn self, and for once, after months of shit piling on other piles of shit, he felt like he was calm. He was good. Especially because now Sam knew exactly how Dean felt about his actions.
His words after their hunt were quick and lashed out like a whip. Sam jumped in front of Dean and had taken the brunt of the werewolf attack. The claws of the creature had torn into Sam's skin, opening up rivers of blood and sinew. Even then though, Sam refused to move and had managed to shoot the son of a bitch. And while Dean was very happy with being alive, he was pissed that his… that Sam had tried to sacrifice himself so easily.
"So full of guilt, huh? You're so full of it that you try to take yourself out on a hunt and call it protecting me, when really it's suicide, Sam? Is that how it's going to end? You a suicide risk, huh, Sam? Cause if you are, man, I can't deal with that shit. I've got to fix the mess you started, you know? I've got the world to handle and you…" Dean looked away from Sam's hazel and bewildered eyes, blood pouring over his hands. The wounds were fixable and would only need a few stitches and Dean knew this as he tossed the kit Sam's way. "You fix yourself up, ok? I'm headed out for a bit."
There was no call for him as he turned for him and Dean's tense shoulders had sunk in relief. He couldn't take care of Sam. He wouldn't take care of Sam. Sam started the end of the world.
Sure, he was rough with how he had handled Sam's selflessness, but Dean figured his words would strike the right chord in his brother. No suicide attempts. You suck it up and live and deal with the consequences.
Dean wasn't very surprised when he found the room empty when he finally arrived. Sam's duffel was gone and his laptop rested on the small and barely standing table in the middle of the kitchenette. There was a note, short and simple. Dean had thrown the words of "I'm sorry –Sam" into the trash without even blinking and cleared his throat. His brother was gone and that was for the best, if he was being honest with himself.
Sam started the end of the world. He deserved to be alone.
Sorry for how long I've been gone, guys! Nursing school is hard. Hope you enjoyed this slightly dark piece. Let me know your thoughts.