Chapter Text
Love, love will tear us apart again
Chapter 1 – Words like violence
It’s not that the bed is uncomfortable. More like Sam is uncomfortable – with himself, inside his head.
He meant to go to sleep, like he told Dean as he left the kitchen, avoiding his eyes. But surprise: Sleep won’t come for him. Not tonight, probably not ever until he’s truly sorted things out with his brother.
Because Dean is his brother. It doesn’t make a difference whether Sam continues to insist to keep things ‘strictly business’ between them or not. Sam knows this and in the quiet, solitary light of the late hours of the night, he can admit that.
In retrospect, if he has to be completely honest with himself, he knows that he’s only punishing Dean by playing the ‘if you wanna be brothers’ card, even though it wasn’t about the punishment when he first said that. He was just so angry, so betrayed and so full of guilt – shaking with it inside and maybe a little on the outside, too.
He’s hurting, he’s mad and he’s so fucking miserable. Tired. Violated.
So he lashes out just like a wounded animal. He’s positive he’s not alone in this regard ‘cause Sam knows Dean lashes out, too, when he’s pushed enough.
His brother has always been more physical than Sam, though. Dean’s not exactly a man of a few words, per se, but he’s definitely more tangible than Sam. He would take a swing, two or probably more if he was angry and hurting enough. Actually, Sam has realized that this is the exact reason why Dean always seems to revert to his outdated gung-ho it’s-a-monster-so-we-should-waste-it mentality whenever something is seriously wrong with him. It’s almost like emotional trauma, stress, depression or whatever you wanna call it returns his brother to his factory settings.
So Dean prefers to take his frustration out with his fists. But Sam, Sam knows his way with his words.
He knows how to sharpen his knife.
“You didn’t save me for me. You did it for you.”
He knows how to sucker punch, maybe too well.
“But you didn’t want to be alone, and that's what all this boils down to. You can’t stand the thought of being alone.”
He knows how to plunge his knife in, right between the ribs, up to the hilt.
“I'll give you this much. You are certainly willing to do the sacrifice as long as you're not the one being hurt.”
And then, there’s nothing left for him to do but twist. After all, it has to hurt, right?
“No, Dean. I wouldn't. Same circumstances, I wouldn't.”
Sam lies restless on his bed, staring at the cold concrete ceiling as he goes over all the things he said just a few hours ago. And then all the things he didn’t actually say.
No matter how it all sounds inside his head right now, he’s sure he didn’t set out to hurt Dean. Not this time, at least. He knows he was being petty a few days ago when he told his brother he was ‘just being honest’. It was stupid and childish and thankfully, Dean responded in the same way with his own remark.
This time, though, Sam just wanted to make him understand the gravity of what he did. If he could only reach that far into Dean, into himself and find a way, any way to communicate... But he can’t.
It seems sometimes, words fail Sam, too.
And the result is seeing a flash of that horrible tremor in Dean’s eyes and trying desperately to run away from it. It is a lot like trying to sprint away from a nuclear fall out: impossible, basically.
Sam lets out a deep sigh and flips onto his side. He checks his watch grudgingly.
03:25
He wonders if Dean’s still awake or if he’s already passed out from all the whiskey he’s been downing. After all, Dean’s an experienced professional at self-medicating to suppress strong emotions.
It takes Sam another fifteen minutes to gather the courage to get up and go see if Dean’s still vertical. Though he has no idea what to say to him if he is. ‘Cause he won’t apologize, that’s for sure. At least, not until Dean does.
He slowly makes his way to the kitchen and tries to think of something to say to Dean – some kind of introduction or greeting. To break the ice or something. Although Sam fears at this point, a hammer drill might not even be enough to break the ice between them.
He feels instant relief pump through his entire body when he realizes he has geared up for nothing. The kitchen is empty save for a drained bottle of cheap scotch and Dean’s tipped over glass on top of the table, who both seem to be glaring at Sam in accusation.
So Dean has gone to bed, after all. Apparently, Sam has underestimated his brother’s tolerance for alcohol if Dean was able to pick himself up from the kitchen table and get to his room after polishing an entire bottle of whiskey.
For an unpleasant moment, Sam wonders how much alcohol would someone like Dean could possibly drink without being poisoned. Then he shakes his head to get rid of the disturbing thought, rights the glass on the table so it doesn’t roll over to the floor and starts walking back to his room. But as he passes by Dean’s door, another horrible thought pops into his head.
What if Dean’s so drunk he’s lying on his back? He wouldn’t pull a Jimi Hendrix on Sam, would he? Because that would be ironic – what with his secret teenage dreams of becoming a rockstar and everything.
Sam takes a couple steps backwards and stares at Dean’s door, frowning intensely. He just has to make sure Dean isn’t choking on his own vomit. Not that he’s seen his brother drunk to the point of vomiting in over a decade. But just in case.
He grabs the handle and pries the door open slowly, trying his best to be quiet.
Once again, Sam has geared up for nothing, though. Dean’s not in his room. After seeing his empty, untouched bed, Sam makes quick work of searching the bunker for his brother. As he walks through the various dimly-lit corridors, he calls out for him a few times dumbly.
“Dean? ... Dean!”
But Dean’s nowhere to be found.
After a short while, it occurs to Sam to check if the car is still outside.
It’s not.
Dean’s gone.