Dean unlocked the door to the seedy motel room and stepped inside, slamming it unceremoniously behind him. The noise caused Sam to wake instantly. He crouched on the bed, knife in hand, glaring sleepily toward the cause of the disturbance.
"Dean?"
"Yeah, it's just me, Sam. Sorry."
"Where've you been?"
Dean suddenly felt unusually annoyed at the question, and he wasn't sure why. It would be a simple thing to explain to Sam that he'd been blowing off steam at the bar two blocks down, but for some reason, explaining anything to anyone suddenly made him feel pissed.
"What's it to you?" He barked. "I'm an adult."
Sam looked hurt. "I was worried."
Dean snorted, "Looks to me like you were watching the backs of your eyelids."
Sam stared at him for a moment, and then relaxed. He shoved the knife back under his pillow and flopped back down on the bed. "Whatever." He answered, turning to face the wall.
"Really, Sam?" Dean continued. "You're really going to pout now?"
Sam rolled back over and looked at his brother. "What's wrong with you?"
"Ain't nothing wrong with me that a backhand across your face wouldn't cure." He answered.
Sam looked shocked, "What?"
"What?" Dean mocked his brother cruelly and found himself with a face full of holy water.
"What the hell, Sam!" He barked.
"Christo." Sam replied.
"You're an ass." Dean said, and knocked the flask from his brother's hand. I'm not possessed, little brother. I'm just pissed."
Sam just stared.
Dean stared back, suddenly livid. "Why the hell do I put up with you anyway?"
"Dean, what's wrong?"
Dean thought about the question before answering. "You, I think." He said, and silently reveled in the hurt look on his brother's face.
"What did I do?" Sam questioned quietly, "I've been here all night, wondering where you were. You didn't answer your phone."
"Because you're not my father, Sam. I don't have to check in with you every freaking minute of every freaking day."
Sam flinched at the mention of the elder Winchester, and deep inside, Dean found that delightful. "Dad's probably dead, you know." He added for spite.
Sam's eyes flared, "Don't say that." he spit out.
"Why else would he not answer his phone for months at a time? How many messages have you left him, Sam? Don't you think he would call you back if he could?"
Sam sank quietly back down onto the musty mattress, "Dad's just working. He'll call when he can."
"Yeah, okay. You keep telling yourself that."
Sam covered his eyes with an arm. "You're a dick, Dean."
Dean chuckled, "Well, that's been said before." He answered, sitting down on the edge of his own bed. He silently studied the boy in the bed next to him. Damn, Sam was such a pain in his ass – always whining about being worried, always asking where he thought Dad was, always demanding more than Dean was able to give. Dean's little brother was sucking the life right out of him, and Dean didn't know how much more of it he could take.
"Sometimes, I hate you Sammy." He said softly.
But Sam heard him anyway. He looked over at Dean with eyes full of questions that Dean couldn't answer.
"I really mean it. Sometimes I could just punch the living hell right out of you."
Sam looked away, expressive eyes filled with sudden tears.
"You're such a drain on me. I don't think I can take another day of playing big brother to your needy ass."
"Whatever you say, Dean." Sam replied, muffled. "You're drunk."
"I'm not drunk. How the hell could I be drunk? I have to stay sober to take care of you."
Sam remained silent.
"Hell, I'd love to go on a bender, but I can't, can I? Sammy might need a bowl of cereal or a freaking Tylenol."
"Shut up."
"You shut up. You just ..." Dean continued. "You're the one who can't go ten minutes without whining. Damn! I'm so sick of your whiny-assed ways. Sometimes I want to kill myself just to get away from the sound of your obnoxious voice droning on and on and on."
Sam turned away toward the wall and remained silent, but Dean could see his shoulders shaking, and he loved every minute of it.
"Are you crying, Sammy?" He taunted. "You should be. You sure as hell make me feel like crying every fucking day of my fucking life. I could actually have an existence if it wasn't for you, you know."
Sam pulled the covers over his head.
"Oh come on," Dean continued, "You're a big boy. You can take the truth. The truth is I'm tired, Sam. I'm tired of a moody 16-year-old controlling my life and telling me what I can and can't do. You know what I was doing when I was 16? Hunh? I was raising your sorry ass, that's what. I sure didn't have anyone to whine to when I wanted a little attention." He was on a roll now. "I didn't have a girlfriend because I had a 12-year-old brother who needed me to wipe his fucking nose. I didn't have a job because I couldn't leave you alone for two minutes without you finding trouble or it finding you. When I was 16, I was a grown-up, a full-fledged father of a fucking tweenager. I couldn't afford the luxury of whining. You just have no idea."
Sam exploded from the bed, "So why do you do it then!" He towered over his irate brother. "Who told you to do it? I can get along just fine without you if you hate me so much!"
Dean snorted cruelly, "Yeah, right. Like that could happen."
"You suck, Dean!" Sam struggled to sound fierce, but the tears and the snot and the broken voice betrayed him.
"Crybaby. You have snot dripping off your nose. "
Sam flushed pink and swiped at his offending nose with his sleeve. He glared at his brother for a moment before stomping off to the bathroom and slamming the door.
Dean grinned gleefully and stood up. He felt empowered. Telling Sam the truth was liberating, and the sudden urge to pack his duffle overwhelmed him. After all, Sam had told him to go. He'd just given Dean the green light to do that one thing he'd wanted to do for years – ditch his pain-in-the-ass little brother and go have an actual life.
"I believe I will, Sammy." Dean whispered happily, grabbing at the odd assortment of things in the room that belonged to him. He stuffed the odds and ends into the duffle. "I really think I will."