Work Text:
Revelation
By: Saphirott
Sam lets out a tired smile when he finally reaches the door of that new house, in another city, in another state, not worth trying to remember. The daylights are already gone, he's been buried all afternoon under old tomes in an even older library if that were possible. He just wants to collapse on the couch.
He closes the door behind him and tosses a, "It's me," into the air as he abandons the heavy backpack by the door and relaxes his sore shoulder from the effort. At that moment he is aware that he has gotten no response. He turns in confusion as he walks cautiously down the small hallway, the absence of his father not strange to him, but Dean should be there.
“Dean..." he calls timidly. Nothing. “Dean..." he tries again in the small hall. “Dean!” he exclaims, his legs propelling themselves as he sees his body slumped over the kitchen table.
“Dean!” he shouts again, his body already on his knees next to the chair his brother is on, his fist clenched behind Dean's back around his shirt, shaking him as his eyes search desperately for any sign of his face.
An alcoholic snort escapes Dean's lips reaching straight for his face, causing Sam to recoil in shock. Sam looks down at the table, arm stretched out on it still holding a dirty, empty glass. He looks a little further and sees the bottle that has rolled underneath, also empty. That bottle that was only a quarter short this morning. He looks at his brother, there is pain on his face and traces of dried tears and Sam feels a knot in his stomach and feels his own pain, though he doesn't know what it's from, because he always feels pain for Dean, pain and other things that hurt in the end too.
Sam runs a trembling hand over his face, trying to wipe away things that are out of place and regain his composure.
“Come on Dean,” he shakes him again trying to wake him up. “Tell me man... What happened?”
Sam knows that Dean drinks sometimes, but he can't imagine what has brought him to this state.
“I'm sorry Sammy...”
Sam feels the rumbling of Dean's words in the hand that still rests on his back more than hearing them.
“What?” he asks without understanding.
“I'm sorry..." And it's a sob, a guilt-filled whimper. His eyes open, his cheek still resting on the table, his mouth brushing against the dark wood. A watery green that Dean struggles to focus and when he does he looks desperate. “I didn't mean to Sammy..., I shouldn't have...” Sam doesn't understand and becomes impatient with worry. “I didn't know...”
“What, Dean?” he asks in anguish, but Dean's eyes are closed again. He takes a deep breath and lets the air out in an exhausted sigh. “Come on, Dean,” Sam says in a gentle tone, standing up and pulling Dean's shoulders to try to lift him up. “You can't spend the night on the table.”
He puts Dean's arm over his shoulder and holds him around the waist, groaning from the effort of lifting a body larger than his own. When he does, he feels something fall at their feet. Sam sees it and his stomach shrinks, his heart stops and he feels the blood leave his body. Sam swallows saliva and moves forward pulling Dean into the room, looks at his sleeping face and cries.
He returns to the kitchen and picks up the notebook from the floor, slides his trembling fingers across the black cover and folds its edge, letting its pages slide out, revealing pages and pages filled with his handwriting, stained with his tears, pages where he hides everything he feels for Dean and that he shouldn't feel.
They never talked about it. The next day Sam sent in his college applications. Six months later he was at Stanford.
The end