"Door Two"
...
Sam heard he words „Out of my car" exactly twice in his life. And both times they came from John – which increased the effect to hear them from Dean by a multitude.
If he wasn't so angry, he would have felt the stitches of the knife, which wrecked havoc in his heart. Instead he only sent silent sparks across the short distance to his brother, grabbed very slowly at the radio and turned on up to full volume.
He ignored the irate "Dammit Sam!" opened the passenger side door and put his feet exactly into a giant, halfway frozen puddle. He got out and closed the door without changing his expression.
It cost him much effort to keep it together. He was boiling, would have loved to choke the ass, or beat him up. A brawl, like they had so many times before – mostly with him as the looser and Dean as the one, who started the whole thing. But they overcame that stage a long time ago.
Both of them couldn't put into words what troubled them and every sentence came out wrong. Every second together stretched their nerves more and more. Beatings wouldn't have been effective anymore to settle the pent up emotion of despair, grief, fear and death. Not that they didn't try.
Until it escalated.
It whooshed painfully in Sam's ears, when the car drove off with the engine roaring, the humming bass silenced and the tires on the asphalt nothing but a far off whisper.
Left behind was only he in the loneliness, which even together, they couldn't hardly bear anymore.
Sam closed the zipper on his jacket and pushed his fisted hands into the pockets. He had a stretch of good ten miles ahead of him – maybe even more.
"Wanker", he pushed out bitterly and watched how his breath formed small clouds in front of his face. Great. Frozen over moisture and it smelled like snow – awesome. Dean couldn't have chosen a better moment to throw his brother out the door like a street dog. That was partially his own fault didn't matter. He just wanted to be pissed and forget everything about it was too painful. It would end up at the people they lost.
Not much later Sam felt the first snowflakes on his hair. They settled down as wet, tiny spots on his brown strands and collected long enough to glide down his neck as large drops. The goose bumps on Sam's arms spread to his back. With every sweep of the wind the cold penetrated right through his not made for this weather jacket, making him shiver. He was going to kill Dean!
He crunched his nose up indignantly and buried the before mentioned just a little bit more into his collar. His head started to get foggier with every yard he walked. He should have eaten something – or at least drank. Or taken his cell phone.
Or, or, or.
Many thousand things he should have done and didn't swirled through his mind, yet they couldn't be organized into a clear train of thought any longer.
His fingernails dug into the numb flesh of his icy hands, as he continued to trot through the snowy night.