CHAPTER 6: LOVE, DON'T LET ME GO

PART II: A MASTER ON HIS KNEES

Dean woke up abruptly when his phone rang. He squinted at the alarm clock and yawned. 3:24 am. After spending the day in a fog following Sam's departure, he had struggled to find sleep, and he was being woken up an hour after he had finally managed to close his eyes. He grabbed his phone, flipped it open, and found he had a new text message. He sat up straight, fully alert when he saw who it was from. It only said one thing: Door.

He turned on the light, walked with quick steps to the door, and opened it wide. There was nothing outside but the wind and chilly night. He stepped back inside and felt something crinkle under his foot. His heart sank when he noticed the piece of paper. Sam had been there…

He picked up the envelope and stared at it, afraid to open it, feeling like he was holding a bomb that could snuff out the fragile, dwindling flame still burning in his chest. At best, it would be a goodbye letter; at worst, words of disownment from a brother who now loathed Dean for throwing him out, after using him like a plaything.

Dean closed the door and kept staring at the letter. When had Sam left it there? Dean knew he would have recognized the sound of the Impala if his brother had parked near the motel; unless Sam had come during the short lapse of time when he had been asleep. Had Sam turned the car around, come back, and left the note, or had he been there the whole time?

His finger shook when he slipped it underneath the fold of the envelope to tear it open. He flattened the paper against the door and let his eyes trail over the words written by the familiar handwriting.

How could I have known, that you forgiving me, would be the worst thing that could happen.

At least when you were angry, you wanted me around, if only to punish me.

Maybe you thought I was enjoying it all too much. You were right.

I wanted you to take me as you wished and do whatever pleased you.

I simply wanted to be yours again.

The ground seemed to waver under Dean's feet. He leaned his forehead against the hard wood. He'll understand, he told himself, trying to hold on to the hope that this whole mess would sort itself out somehow. "Give it time, baby," he begged, pushing down the lump in his throat. Hurts now, but in the end, you'll be better off.

It didn't matter that he wanted to keep Sam with him even more than Sam wanted to stay. They had tried this before, and the ending was always the same. The caged bird flew away, returning to the joys and perils of freedom in the wild, leaving Dean behind, every time a little more broken inside.

Clutching the letter, he staggered into bed, wrapped his fingers around his amulet, and pressed his face into the pillow, still smelling a bit of Sam in there. He didn't sleep a wink, and when morning came, he stumbled out, red-rimmed eyes and haggard steps, to buy a few bottles of cheap whiskey to help him get through the week.

When he came back, another surprise awaited him under his door. He put the heavy paper bag down and went searching for the one who had delivered it. He wandered around the motel, looking everywhere for his brother, and sat on the curb of the parking lot for half an hour, hoping to catch Sam if he came back around. When he finally accepted that Sam was gone, for good this time, he went into his room to open the second letter.

I'll be your shadow, faithful and obedient.

Don't care what I have to do, who I have to kill.

I'll be your slave, your slightly broken toy.

Just pick it up and glue it back together.

All you have to do is call, I'll come running.

Dean felt his resolve begin to crumble as he read the pleading words. He fished his phone out of his pocket and dialed Sam's number, but he hung up right before the connection was established, and grabbed a bottle instead. He dragged himself to bed, as if he was twice his age, and tortured himself, reading his brother's notes until his eyes were swimming, and looking at Sam's name on the speed dial once in a while just to make it sting a little more.

Days blended into nights, then into days again, in a blur of alcohol, undialed phone calls, crumpled letters read too many times, and memories of Sam's warm body next to him in a bed he hardly seemed able to leave anymore.

Three days after Sam's last letter, Dean had no news and was sick with worry. That's what you wanted, wasn't it? a voice that sounded a lot like his own sneered in his head, first thing in the morning. It wasn't what Dean wanted. He wanted Sam here, with him, never leaving again. The cynical smart mouth with the hard-ass shell wanted the happy ending that would never be; and he was dying to call his brother, just to see if he was okay; but he wouldn't.

Dean knew he had to stop smothering Sam as he had, too often in the past. He wanted to give his brother some space, the chance to forget, heal, and move on to brighter things. But he also knew, deep down, that Sam was hurting, especially since he had received no reply to his second letter, and he was going out of his mind with worry, wondering how Sam was doing, whether he was taking care of himself.

Perhaps I could track him down and trail him for a couple of days, just to make sure everything's all right? Dean shook his head at the idea, scoffed, and covered his eyes with his palm. You're pathetic man, he said to himself, and while you sit here, moping in the dark, the world is going to Hell.

He rolled out of bed, went to the bathroom, splashed some water on his face, brushed his teeth, and changed t-shirts in a much needed step toward normalcy. His stomach growled and he glanced at the old box of pizza he had barely touched in two days. His body was hungry, but he wasn't interested in feeding it. He was content to run on fumes, pain, and whiskey. His eyes fell on the brown bag still on the floor near the door, and he cursed when he remembered that he had emptied the last bottle hours ago.

He stumbled back into the messy room, tripping over clothes, empty bottles, and a broken lamp, vaguely remembering his outburst from a night ago; him swinging around until the bleeding cuts on his right hand forced him to interrupt his little rampage to pour some liquor on his wounds, before guzzling down the rest.

He grabbed his wallet, searching for money to go buy a cup of coffee, and cursed again when he found it empty. He had maxed out his credit card after paying for five more nights in the motel. He was supposed to hustle some pool days ago, but putting his mind to such productive use would have gotten in the way of his pity party, therefore he had forgotten all about it. He looked for spare change in his pockets, and when he had gathered enough coins, he finished getting dressed and walked to the door. His heart stopped, then began thundering in his chest, when he saw it on the floor. Another one. One that wasn't there the day before.

He grabbed the envelope and tore it open. His eyes flew over the page.

When I talked to Bobby, he said that, while I was at my worst, you told him you would take me as I was.

I gave you all I was, kept and hid nothing.

I guess you changed your mind.

Dean dropped the letter and yanked the door open.

"Sam?" he called. "…Sam!"

Part III – Sweet Child Of Mine