Work Text:
Sam rushed forward with his hands pulled into fists and hovering close to his head. His entire body was practically vibrating from the rage that he felt bubbling inside him like a volcano. His usually calm and compassion hazel eyes were now fiercely alit in fury, scathing the room with body hunched upwards in tension. His jaw was clenched so fiercely that he felt as though his teeth may snap completely off from the force he was exhuming on them.
The door closed gently behind him with Dean stepping forward, head craning around to steal a glance at his still enraged brother. “Sam?”
“Shit!” Sam struck out a foot in a sharp kick and sent the dining room chair spiraling across the room. It slammed into the wall hard enough that one of the legs snapped off before falling to the ground with another sickening crack. Sam hissed with both hands coming up so that Sam could run his trembling fingers through his long hair. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”
“Sam!”
Sam spun around and realized, for the first time, that Dean had spoken to him. “What,” he snarled.
Dean took a step back with hands raised in surrender. “Easy, tiger. I just want to talk. You don’t have to tear me a new one because of it.”
Sam’s eyes gradually softened as well as his rigid stance. “Sorry,” he choked out with another sharp twitch of his head.
Dean frowned. “There’s nothing to apologize for. You’re pissed and that’s fine.”
“No, it’s not, Dean!” Sam’s hands snapped down into fists at his sides. “Fuck! I just can’t!” He stormed off in the direction of his bed and threw himself down so that he was sitting on the end, feet practically jumping off the floor as he bounced his legs.
Dean had seen Sam riled up more times in the last month than he had in his brother’s entire life. Although Sam was notorious for picking fights with their father, he bounced back from them practically unscathed almost every time. The few true arguments he had with Dean always ended well with Dean or Sam apologizing and them being able to shake it off. However, what had just happened was something that Dean had never seen Sam do for as long as he had been alive.
They had been interviewing a witness who had claimed he saw a rugaru. Dean and Sam had interviewed the old man and followed up a few leads about the creature that had killed his wife twelve years prior. Sam followed the lore and sightings, but ultimately found the man’s wife dead in the basement of the man’s house. Once Sam found out that he had killed his wife so that he didn’t have to file for divorce and risk loosing custody of his kids, he lost it. He threw the man into the wall of his house and had a knife pressed against his throat, right against the life giving artery. Dean had no doubt that Sam would’ve killed him right then and there if Dean hadn’t been there to stop him. The man had threatened to call the police on Sam, but Dean had been able to get him out of there rather quickly and left a tip at the local station to investigate the man and hopefully find his wife before the man moved her. Dean was still trying to figure if there was actually a rugaru lurking somewhere in the nearby be town. Although, after Sam’s outburst, Dean knew it was best to take his brother back and deal let things blow over for the time being.
“You can’t what, Sam,” Dean asked, attempting to draw his brother’s attention and focus it into something that Dean could understand. “I need you to give me something else. I can’t help if you don’t give me something else to go off of.”
Sam glared in Dean’s direction with his teeth almost bared in a snarl. “I need a drink,” he announced, barging past Dean and slowing only to slam his shoulder into Dean’s.
It certainly wasn’t the worst thing that Sam had ever done to Dean. There had been that time that he shot him with a bullet filled with rock salt and that had hurt like hell. He could take something that couldn’t even be considered a nudge.
Dean watched through head tilted in confusion when Sam threw open the cabinets, repeating the process by looking in the same one three times. “Uh, whatcha doing?”
“Getting a drink,” Sam snarled.
Dean crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back, back leg braced and front leg bent at the knee. “Might want to try the fridge,” he suggested matter-of-factly. “Second shelf has beer and the first shelf has Pepsi. Might be better than the cereal in the cabinets.”
Sam said nothing and reached forward to pull a bottle of beer. He tipped the neck of the bottle of beer and unscrewed the cap and tossed it across the counter, taking a swig of it until half of the bottle was gone. Sam’s hand came down harshly, slamming on the counter so that beer sloshed around the neck.
“Do you want to say what that was about with the witness,” Dean questioned. “I mean, I know the dude was a son of a bitch and definitely killed his wife and blamed it on the rugaru, but I’m still not sure that he needed to be slammed against the wall like that. He’s like almost 70 now.”
“I was just so pissed.” Sam worked his hands against the counter behind him, nails pressing so firmly that Sam feared they may snap off. Yet, the pain didn’t stop Sam from bearing down. “I could just feel myself getting so angry and I couldn’t stop myself from reacting. It’s like I wasn’t in control of my emotions anymore.”
Dean nodded slowly, contemplating heavily on what to say. “And that’s why you put that guy through the wall?”
“You would’ve done the same,” Sam seethed. His shoulders had bunched up and was practically bristling with hostility. Dean had been hoping that talking through this would make Sam calm down, not rile him back up.
Dean wet his lips and spoke the next words in hardly more than a whisper. “Dad would’ve done the same thing.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed to unforgiving slits. A vein protruded from his forehead, pulsing with life when Sam ground his teeth together. “Shut the fuck up.”
Patience overwhelmed Dean and he quickly realized that he was going to have to tread lightly. Sam was already reeling from earlier and adrenaline was coursing through his veins just as much as the black sludge that the diner down the street had tried to pass off as coffee. “Sam—“
“Shut up,” Sam interrupted, swiping the bottle and barging past Dean over to his bed. The good—or perhaps unfortunate—part of living in a motel was that there was no privacy even if you wanted it.
“Look, I understand how you feel,” Dean murmured, attempting to try again as he trailed over to his bed and sat on the foot. It dipped under his weight, springs of the older than dirt mattress pressed against his thighs.
Sam’s let out a sound that Dean could only describe as half growl, half whimper.
“You don’t know what this is like.” Sam glanced down at his hands. They were sprawled on top of his thighs, shaking so madly that they struggled to stay where Sam needed them to be. His breath still came in ragged pants, anger washing over him like a steadily rising tide.
Dean raised an eyebrow in distain. “You think I don’t know how shitty Winchester genes are? I have to set a timer if I want to have a drink.”
There was a time a couple weeks back where Dean had gotten so wasted at some dive bar that someone had robbed him when he left and he was forced to stagger back home in freezing temperatures. Sam had been concerned and infuriated at the same time. That was the only time that both brothers spoke about the elephant in the room: Dean’s drinking. Sam tried to persuade Dean to give up the alcohol all together since he knew exactly what happened to Winchester men when they drank. Dean hadn’t been overly fond of that idea. They had finally reached an agreement that either Dean drank with Sam so that his little brother could watch over him, or that Dean would set an alarm on his phone. When it went off he knew it was time to pack it up and come home. It wasn’t a full proof system, but it was better than nothing.
“John’s drinking genes are arguably not as bad as his rage, but.....” Dean trailed off, unsure of what to say. Both of them had been on the receiving end of one or two of John’s anger when they were kids and even adults. Drinking was bad, especially when Dean couldn’t stop on his own, but at least Dean generally didn’t turn violent when he drank.
Sam gave his head a shake, hair falling into his eyes. “They still suck.”
Dean gave a slow nod. “Yeah.”
A silence fell over the room as Sam set down the beer on the floor and ran his fingers through his hair. “I haven’t slept in three nights.”
That was certainly news to Dean. He and Sam were always close thanks to the nature of their work. There was no way for them to gain any privacy short of locking themselves in the bathroom or when the other was sleeping. Still, Dean had stayed awake the night prior watching Hawaii Five-O. Sam had been rolled away from him, uninterested in the old good cop/bad cop show. If Dean knew that Sam was still awake, he would’ve tried to do something to get him to sleep. Going three days without any shuteye was alarming even for them.
“Three days? You didn’t think that would be a little questionable, Sam?” Dean set his jaw fiercely while he mentally contemplated what their next step should be. “I may have something in the first aid kit that can help with sleep. Or you can just drink and maybe pass out that way?”
“I don’t want to pass out, Dean. I just want to sleep.” Sam swayed on the bed, base of his sock covered feet brushing against the tips of the crusty mote carpet. “Fuck, I don’t know what I want.”
Dean dug his heels into his thighs, pushing down toward his knees. “You need sleep, Sam. You need sleep and food and just not to think about hunting for a couple hours. That’s going to make you feel better, I’m sure.”
“And what if it doesn’t,” Sam questioned in a low voice.
Dean’s eyes widened. “Sammy.”
“What if it doesn’t get better?” Sam raised his hand over his face to shield Dean from the look of despair that had crossed over his features. His breathing quickened and body trembled.
Although things had been less than smooth between the two brothers as of late, Dean never wanted Sam to think that there was anything more important than him. Dean would travel to the ends of the Earth to look after Sam and make sure that he was taken care of. There was nothing that was going to stand in his way, no matter how challenging things could be at the moment. The fact that Sam still hadn’t grasped that fact was baffling. It seemed that no matter what Dean told his brother, nothing would sink in.
“Then we’ll try something new.” Dean jumped to his feet and came back with a bottle of whisky. He shoved it against Sam’s chest and took the beer from beside him. “Take some of that. It’ll knock you out.”
Sam glanced at the whisky and unscrewed the cap. He took a few gulps and grimaced, face wrinkled at the bitter taste it left on his tongue. Sam rubbed the back of his hand against the corners of his mouth until Dean returned with a pair of Sam’s sweatpants and his favorite Stanford sweatshirt. “Get changed. I’m going to turn on the radio.”
“Radio,” echoed Sam with an eyebrow raised. “Doesn’t the TV work here?”
“No, smartass. We’re going old school for this one. The radio is better. Now, go get changed and I’m going to find a good station.”
Sam groaned and rose to his feet with the clothing pressed against his chest. He crept forward and disappeared into he bathroom before leaning back to peer at Dean, who was still sitting on his bed. “Dean?”
“Yeah, Sammy?”
“You know that I could handle this on my own if I needed to, right?”
Dean gave a tiny nod, humoring Sam more than anything else. “Of course.”
Sam headed back into the bathroom and closed the door, locking it behind him even though he was aware that Dean wasn’t about to rush in. There had been a time when Sam would’ve trusted Dean to watch his back without the door locked; that was no longer the case.
Dean sighed and scooped the whiskey into a fist. He rubbed the top with his shirt and brought it to his lips and swallowed the burning liquid that scorched his throat when it went down. Dean drank until he felt a buzz and the familiar tingling in the tips of his fingers that usually signaled the first signs of how the alcohol was affecting him. He swiped his tongue over his lips and pushed the whiskey aside until he needed it again.
The concern Dean felt for Sam would never waver even if Sam believed it would. That didn’t mean that Dean would ever stop until Sam believed it. The anger was something else that they needed to work through. Every since their father’s death and all the crap that had went on afterwards, Sam had been cagey and sullen when it came to doing much, even being with Dean. This was something new that Dean feared they were going to have to work through sooner rather than later.
Dean glanced up when he heard Sam scoot across the carpeted floor, cuffs of his pants dragging against the ground. Dean noticed for the first time how tired Sam’s face appeared. Muscles were still taunt, but even Dean could tell that Sam had lost a considerable amount of weight. It wasn’t enough to impact their hunting yet, only served to annoy Dean more than anything when his little brother started to refuse to eat and lived just on coffee and beer.
Sam strolled forward and fell onto the bed, wriggling under the covers and pulling them up to his chin. His eyes began to flutter closed even without the aid of the radio. Dean had managed to find a station that played hits from the 70s and 80s. He turned it down low so that it barely filled the room, pumped from the small radio on the nightstand between the two queen beds.
“Comfortable,” Dean questioned, falling back onto his bed and kicking off his socks. He thought about changing into something other than jeans, but he didn’t want to leave Sam for the moment. His brother could be pretty sly and may try to weasel his way over to his laptop and research another hunt. Sam was notorious for getting himself into trouble and pushing himself when it was clear that he needed to take a break.
Sam shifted back and forth until he was on his side, facing away from Dean with his knees bent and pulled toward his chest. “I suppose so.”
Dean reached over to turn the radio dial up a hair. He leaned back in the bed after turning off the lamp. The only sound that filled the room was the radio and Sam’s gentle breathing. Dean kept an eye on him even though his brother was facing away from him. Today had been a real wake up call for Dean, and one that he really didn’t want to repeat. He had to keep a closer eye on his brother.
One thing was for sure: Winchester genes sucked. However, the one things that Winchester genes couldn’t combat was Winchester brothers. That would be how they survived while giving hell to the very instincts that only wanted them to fail.