A/N: I know that it's way too late to post this fiction, but I have this friend - Alex - who talked me into writing this in the first place, so I had nothing to do with it :P The fiction is an already written two shots, if you guys like this one, I'll post the second and last part right away.

Just to be clear on something, I know after the ending of Season9 and the whole Season10, Sam completely redeemed himself for what was said between him and Dean in The Purge, and we wouldn't have had it any other way, 'cause after all, it's SamnDean. So this story doesn't intend any harm to any character whatsoever. Consider this an old file needed posting and fulfilling personal needs. I hope whoever reads this, like it. Cheers!

Spoiler: Up to 9.13 - The Purge.

Warning: Boatload of angst, unbeata'd and language.

Now, onto the story ;)

Words Have Weight

Part 1

"I guess that's just part of loving people: You have to give things up. Sometimes you have to give them up." – Lauren Oliver

I can't trust you.

You wanna work? Let's work. You wanna be brothers ..

No, Dean. I wouldn't

Same circumstances. I wouldn't.

The words were said with such certainty that he felt them rip right through him like a blunt knife, tearing at the left pieces of his heart agonizingly slow, with one intent in mind: killing him.

The ache in his chest that he was trying to keep in check ever since the night Kevin was killed right in front of his eyes was spreading through his entire self with a maddening speed, washing over him in a wave after another of grief and pain and betrayal, choking him, crippling him.

He had no idea how long he stood there; staring at the spot his brother occupied before his sickening departure, while the words ricocheted against the kitchen walls endlessly, managing to leave their marks on his wounded soul every single time. He never felt the glass of Whiskey slip from his hand or heard the sound of it crashing against the tile as it hit the floor. All he could see was Sam's back as he turned and walked away. Away from him. And all he could hear was those two words.

The two words that easily managed to trash Dean's whole life, destroyed everything he had ever tried to build, and broke him down in every way possible.

Iwouldn'tIwouldn'tIwouldn'tIwouldn'tIwoudn't.

With an odd feeling of detachment, Dean finally broke his statue-like pose and saw more than felt his right hand come up and press hard at his chest where pain blossomed with vengeance, and took a couple of wavering steps to the side so he could brace his suddenly shaking body against the counter.

Closing his eyes, he tried to take a deep breath to control the raging fire inside him but it seemed to be only increasing. He was partly aware of his harsh breathing and the slow spin of the room on the other side of his firmly shut eyelids but he couldn't do anything about it. He could no longer do anything.

His world was falling apart around the seams, just like his insides felt, and he wasn't strong enough to keep himself from scattering into million little pieces this time. His knees buckled and he collapsed in a heap on the floor.

That was it. The moment he has been dreading his whole life.

The moment when everybody, including Sam—especially Sam—left him behind. Left him to die.

He knew this day would come. Deep down, he had always known Sam would finally get too tired of him and walk away from him, just like Dad, just like he always said he would, just like Dean tried to hang onto his family all his life and onto hope that Sam would come back to him after each time he left.

But he had never thought it would be this hard, this vicious. And he certainly had never thought Sam, of all people, would actually see him this way.

A life time of protection, of taking care and watching over his little brother, of orders, "most important: watch out for Sammy," and promises, "you're my brother, there's nothing I wouldn't do for you," crashed over him. His whole life has been a fucking lie. A lie he had created and stupidity believed.

You fight and you fight for this family, but the truth is; they don't need you. Not like you need them.

Leaving—leaving him behind—has been always his family's lifestyle. But it wasn't his family's fault—wasn't Sam's fault, was it? He finally realized. He was the one who couldn't read between the lines—or didn't want to. He was the one so blinded by his love for his family... for Sam, to actually believe that he would choose to stay while his actions screamed exactly the opposite throughout the years.

Stanford. Check.

Choosing a demon over him. Check.

Letting him rotten in Purgatory without even bothering to check whether he was dead or alive. Check.

Not wanting to be brothers. Double fucking check.

And now this? This was his prize for wanting his brother to be safe—for needing him to be safe? Hell, his whole life was revolved around one thing: protecting his little brother. He was hardwired this way for God's sake. Sam has been always his responsibility, and he has been always the better part of him. He was the one who could see light at the end of the tunnel; he was the one capable of living the normal life he thrived for. It was never Dean. It was never going to be and they both knew it.

Couldn't Sam just stop for a second to actually see that, without him, Dean had nothing left to fight for? To live for? How could anyone—let alone Sam—ask him to just let his fucking brother die? Dean had no idea. And why it was so hard for Sam to understand, he has no fucking clue and probably would never.

But, if that was the case, if Sam didn't really give a rat's ass whether he lived or died—if he would rather let Dean die and not save him then, really, what in the hell was he going to stay around for? He'd rather die than be a liability to his brother, be the random guy who lived with him under the same roof but without any real connection whatsoever. Just another hunter, whom Sam had to work alongside, but couldn't actually trust or give a damn about.

No.

No way in hell was he going to stay long enough to become any of those. Dean snorted at the thought, which actually came out more like a barely choked sob. Because, seriously, he had never counted himself as a delusional guy, but thinking that he wasn't already one of these guys to Sam was way too hopeful, even for him.

Deep down, he had known there was no going back this time, that he had become a stranger to his brother, ever since the day he had confessed everything at that depressing dock, after he had had to torture Sam in order to set him free from the angel's possessive grip.

And after everything that had been said and done, he still chose to stay—he still chose Sam, and if that wasn't pathetic, he didn't know what was.

But those days were over now; he was done taking a blow after a blow and trying his damnest to absorb them, ineffectively, within the folds of his tired soul.

He was done being weak and pathetic and the guy next door; he was done pretending that he was okay with him and Sam "not being brothers" and keeping it "strictly business". He was done imposing himself upon Sam's life every minute of every damn day.

I'll give you that much; you're certainly willing to do the sacrifice, as long as you're not the one being hurt.

Screw Sam and whatever he thought of him. He was just done!

A surge of anger rose inside him, washed over the pain, and gave him enough strength to push himself up off the floor and get to his feet. Anger was good, anger he knew how to deal with. It gave him the false rush of adrenaline that pain tried to deny him with all its might. It made him take the hallway to his room in long strides instead of setting at the corner of the kitchen feeling sorry for himself and waited for grief to swallow him whole. It made him wipe roughly at his cheeks, effectively banishing the show of weakness pain had allowed a few minutes ago.

Sam made a choice. And so did he.

He was leaving.

And this time, it was for good.

….

Upon reaching Dean's room, Sam stood at the doorway and stared in shock at his brother as he took the weapons off of their makeshift hangers on the wall one by one and tucked them inside the duffel bag setting above his bed.

Sam was a smart guy, he knew what he had said to Dean, and he knew exactly what his brother had heard, too. And he would be lying if he said that he didn't expect Dean to take some sort of action in the face of his words. He expected Dean to brood over it for a couple of days until he either respected Sam's wishes—which was pretty unlikely, knowing his stubborn brother—or finally exploding in his face, which would make things even worse.

But what he didn't see coming, though, was Dean actually leaving.

That's the thing about Dean. Dean never left him, not if he could do anything about it anyway. Dean was the one who always stayed; he was the one who always chose family above everything. Who chose Sam above everything. Which is why they were here in the first place. Sam reminded himself.

Dean was Sam's constant; the solid rock he always counted on and knew would be there to lean against, to hold him up, no matter how many times he foolishly tried to break it. And that's why he was standing on the threshold of his brother's room, holding his breath and watching Dean silently, who was aware of his presence, but didn't bother to glance his way.

He regretted the words the instant they had slipped out of his mouth, not because he didn't mean them, because he did. If the situation were reversed and Dean was the one suffering, if he was the one who couldn't go on anymore—didn't want to—who couldn't even wake up on his own unless he was tricked somehow to let an angel in, to unknowingly allow another existence to invade his own body and mind and soul just to stay alive, just to cause more damage than good, just to have to watch himself kill someone he cared about and protected, then hell yes he was going to let him go.

Hadn't he been so pissed at Dean for intentionally misunderstanding what Sam was trying to tell him when he told him that he wanted to keep things strictly business between them if Dean wanted them to work together, he would have took the words back in a heartbeat.

The part of him that knew how Dean would hear his words was overshadowed by his rage, but it wasn't long before it came back kicking and screaming at the little brother in him for the stupid mistake he had just made.

He had went straightforward to the sink once her had reached his room, and thrust his head under the thin stream of water in a failed attempt to silence the screaming in his head. Flashes of unbelievable power radiated out of his own hand, his mind, every cell of his body and the angel's essence, aimed at the fragile body of Kevin, squeezing the light out of him and burning his soul out, seared the dark walls of his eyelids and each time he could feel the pile rising in his throat.

Every time he tried to sleep he saw the same scene, mercilessly taking out an innocent life over and over again.

Sam breathed through the momentary panic that always accompanied the flashes and kept his head under the stream of water until he didn't feel like throwing up again.

Finally, he raised his head from under the tap, didn't bother to dry his hair and let the cool drops of water slide along his neck and creep inside his shirt, getting thinner and thinner as they traveled the length of his back and reached the waistband of his jeans.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Sam lied down on his bed; he was tired and sore and all he wanted was for unconsciousness to blissfully take over him. Fifteen minutes later, though, he was still wide awake and staring at the ceiling.

He couldn't stop playing the conversation he had with Dean over and over in his mind. He saw the look on his brother's face every time he closed his eyes, knowing that it was going to haunt him forever.

The sudden sound of something crashing silenced the war of dominance guilt and self-righteousness were fighting to win inside him. Sam sat up in his bed, listening, trying to detect any other sound that came from the kitchen where he knew his brother must still be but there nothing else came but an eerie silence that for some reason Sam's guts reacted to.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed to the floor and stood quickly, hesitated for a minute before he opened the door and walked towards the kitchen. He didn't find anything except the bottle of scotch Dean had just started drinking after who knew how many others when Sam had walked in the kitchen to say goodnight, the broken remnants of what used to be a glass on the floor, and the ghost of his brother sitting at the table, shoulders hunched forward in defeat.

Swallowing the uneasy feeling that started to dance in the bit of his stomach, Sam took a minute to brace himself and headed to his brother's room.

And so here he was, staring at the only thing left for him in the world, the only person who cared about him more than anybody ever would, enough to take a bullet for him without a second thought, shoving what little possessions he had in the bag with scary determination.

And it suddenly hit him that he had finally pushed Dean to his limits, that he had made the stupidest mistake in the book, had used the deadliest blade against his own bother; his worst fear, shoved it to the hilt in the center of Dean's weakness spot and twisted the handle mercilessly.

You didn't save me for me, you did it for you.

You didn't want to be alone, and that's what it all boils down to.

You can't stand the thought of being alone.

He was finally able to convince Dean that he didn't need him, not that he didn't need saving if that meant sacrificing others.

He was able to convince Dean that he didn't care about him. Or whether he lived or died.

When the realization finally sank home, Sam found it hard to push the words past his numb lips.

….

"Dean,"

Nothing.

"Dean,"

Still nothing.

"Dean!" Sam yelled desperately and this time Dean turned to look at him with empty eyes that managed to send shivers down Sam's spine.

"What?" He answered, too calm for Sam's liking, and the youngest brother found himself staring dumbly at his older one, at loss of words.

"What are you doing?" Sam said finally, gesturing towards the half packed bag on the bed.

Dean glanced at his bed nonchalantly before he looked back at Sam. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"You're leaving?" Sam managed to get out, his chest tightening the more the conversation kept going.

"Could you at least hold back your excitement 'till I actually get out of here?" Dean turned his attention back to his mission, shoving the shotgun he was holding inside the bag. "Gee. Thanks. That's really nice of you." He said before Sam could even utter a word, fighting tooth and nail to play it cool and keep the mask from slipping.

Anger flickered inside Sam's chest at his brother attitude and his plan to talk some sense into his brother's head flied out of the window.

"Cut the crap Dean!" He took a step towards his brother. "I never said I want you out of here."

"I know." Dean said calmly yet again, not willing to give Sam the chance to get a rise out of him. "You just want me out of your life." He smiled openly as he practically could see fumes of anger bursting out Sam's ears.

Logic took a backseat in Sam's brain and before he knew it, he found himself shouting, irritated by Dean's demeanor. "Don't put words into my mouth, Dean, dammit! If you wanna leave, by all means, go ahead. I'm not gonna stop you. But don't act like I'm the one who kicked you outta here!"

"Riiiight, 'cause I'm the one who doesn't want to be brothers anymore." Dean returned bitterly, trying to stay nonchalant, like he didn't care whether Sam left or stayed, but he was losing by every passing second.

Sam took another step forward, completely giving in to anger and fisted his left hand in Dean's shirt. To his surprise, Dean flinched away from his touch like he had been electrocuted, and Sam felt the anger drain out of his system at the look of fear in his brother's eyes.

Dean was afraid of him?!

Dean barely felt the nightstand hit the back of his knees as he moved backward, away from Sam's touch. Away from the touch that could bring him the only comfort he ever knew, yet so much pain he was afraid he would fly into million pieces if he let it stay there.

He felt the mask starting to slip, his walls starting to crumble, heard Sam's harsh breath… or maybe it was his own, as he closed his eyes and tried to swallow his emotions down.

"Don't." Dean finally said, breaking the silence. "Just … don't," He opened his eyes and saw Sam take his outstretched arm back to his side while staring at him with a defeated expression, mixed with fear and something else Dean, in his current state of mind, couldn't put his hand on, and tried not to let it affect his decision.

Sam caught the broken look in Dean's eyes before he looked away once again, opened and closed his mouth a few times before he clicked his jaw shut against the unspoken words.

Numbly, Dean carried on packing again, this time walking past Sam to his drawer to get his clothes. Their shoulder almost touched in the way but Dean didn't allow it, couldn't allow it.

It was devastating to say the least, having Sam watching him pack his crap, feeling his brother's gaze burning holes in the back of his head. It occurred to him that they didn't stay in the same room for that long since Kevin died. Whenever someone stepped in, the other always managed to find an excuse to leave the room. Sam couldn't stand his presence anymore, blind people could tell. And Dean couldn't stand the look he saw in Sam's eyes whenever he looked at him.

So he didn't really understand why Sam was still there, why he didn't just give him the finger and stormed out of the room and headed back to his or the library to celebrate or whatever. After all, Dean was granting him his wish. Maybe he just wanted to witness it coming true. Dean thought bitterly.

He didn't realize he had actually made a sound until he felt Sam moving closer to him, but not too close, and calling his name, for some unknown reason, desperately.

"Dean, come on, man." Sam heard the desperation in his tone, aware of how he must sound like the four year old version of himself, but after hearing the unconscious, muffled sob that just came out of Dean he didn't care. Focusing on the task in hand, Dean just shook his head, dismissing any other attempts for another useless conversation.

Resigned, Sam found that he could do nothing but let his eyes follow Dean's movement as he moved around the room and picked up his belongings, slowly emptying the place of any trace that he had ever lived here. The situation was so overwhelming that Sam couldn't speak even if he wanted to. It was achingly similar to the night over a decade ago when Sam was leaving his family to go to Stanford and had to collect what little clothes he had, tossing his books on top of them inside his back bag, packing side by side with his brother who added Sam's shaving kit and favorite knife to the luggage with gentle, strangely composed hands. Just like they were fitting Dean's kit into the bag right now.

The two gentle hands that had carried and supported him ever since he was six months old. The two hands that cleaned and fed him and braced him as he took his first step, as he rode a bike for the first in his life. The hands that taught him how to tie his shoes and hold a pen between his little fingers, how to drag it across the paper to draw meaningless shapes and words. That walked him through his first homework and the first shooting-range session. That shoved him out of danger's way, that pulled him away from the edge of insanity, that wrapped around him in safety, that tightened around him and smothered his fear, that tended to his wounds with pure gentleness and affection, the held him up almost his whole life.

The two hands that cupped his face and squeezed his neck reassuringly when fear threatened to paralyze him the night his own father told him: if you leave, stay gone.

"It's okay Sammy," Dean had said then, pulling a wad of money out of his jacket pocket and placed it in Sam's shaking hand. "You're doing the right thing. Dad and I will be okay. And no matter what, he loves you, Sammy. He loves you and he's so proud of you, he just doesn't know how to show it." Sam nodded silently, looking up at his big brother's loving eyes with tearful ones of his own.

"I am proud of you, Sammy." Dean's hands slid to his shoulders and gave him an affectionate pat on the chest. "You'll be okay."

"You'll be okay, Sam." Dean's gruff voice, hardened by years of war and weariness, snapped him out of his short trip down memory lane. He raised his eyes from where he was staring at his brother's hands and realized that Dean was done packing his two bags, which he held in his hands, and was now staring back at him.

When Dean was done, he didn't have the guts to look at his brother at first, but Sam's complete silence and the way he held himself was more than he could handle right now. He didn't think it would play this way. And if he was honest with himself, he didn't think they would ever trade positions like this; that he would ever be the one packing his bags while his brother stood watching.

When he finally dared to look at Sam, his guts clenched at the look he saw in his brother's eyes, seemingly lost many years away. He didn't try to ask what Sam was seeing. He didn't want to know. All he wanted was to do them both good and just leave before his resolve crumbled. But the big brother in him couldn't just go without reassuring Sam that he would be okay without him.

"You'll be okay, Sam." He said softly and headed to the room's door on shaking knees, walked past Sam and had to resist the urge to lean just a tiny bit to the side to feel his shoulder brush against his little brother's.

Oh, little brother … Dean closed his eyes at the emotions that started drowning him bit by bit.

When he was just out the door, Sam turned suddenly to face him, his mouth opened to say something but the words looked like they were trapped inside of him.

This was it. Dean swallowed hard, turned to leave but stopped at the last second and tuned his head towards Sam again, but didn't look him in the eye.

He had to let him know before he left. He had to let Sam know that he would always be his little brother, that Dean would always care for him, try to protect him, even if he was not around. That no matter what, Dean loved him more than anything he had ever known.

"Sam," Dean cleared his throat before he was able to go on. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I tried to save you against your will, but you have to understand that I did it because I don't have it in me to just let you die. And I'm sorry it hurt you, but I would do it again. That's how I operate, always have, always will. Maybe I'm a selfish, son of a bitch for trying to keep you in this life when you don't want to, and I'm sorry I got us here, but, I guess that changes now and you can finally do your thing."

Sam listened to his brother's speech wanting to yell at him to stop, to just STOP! This wasn't what he wanted; this was never what he wanted. He was the one who should be apologizing; he was the one who turned a blind eye to his brother's love and gave Dean the cold shoulder just to prove a point.

Screw this! He couldn't live without his brother, he couldn't!

"Take care of yourself, brother." Dean smiled sadly at him and that was it for Sam.

No, Dean! Wait. He wanted to run towards his brother, to grab him, to shake him. He was afraid if he waited one more second Dean would vanish in the thin air before Sam could even reach him. No, this isn't what I want. This isn't what I meant. I swear, Dean.

When his brother's smile faded as he turned and walked down the hallway, Sam finally realized that didn't say the words out loud. And now Dean was leaving, and Sam's heart was beating so hard and so fast he was sure it was going to burst inside his chest.

….

TBC.

Hope you liked it. And remember, reviews are love ;)

Have a great day.

Aya S.