Work Text:
Flick.
Flick.
Flick.
Sam Wesson stopped, staring at the playing card that, if he could be bothered to flick it into the trash can, would make him 15-and-0. He'd always had exceptional coordination for a geek, and this was just one more of those random, trivial skills he picked up because it was something to do. Something to pass the time, while out there, unbeknown to him, to anyone, ghosts went around killing people. While he sat in a cubicle and gave tech support.
He didn't know why Dean Smith's refusal to – what, to trust Sam's instinct? want to come on the road with him to fight ghosts? approve of him? – anyway, why it bothered him so much. Why it made him doubt himself.
You don't want to go fighting ghosts with no health insurance!
Sam felt petulance pull at his face, and shook it off with a grimace. He was 26 – old enough to do this on his own, and definitely too old to be pouting like a bitch. So what if Dean Smith was a douche with some fruity cleansing diet obsession? So what if he'd been mistaken about knowing who Dean really was under all that? What difference did it make if he agreed or not? Sam knew, in some dark bowel of his being, far below any rational argument anyone could make, that he was in the wrong life. Normal. Safe. Meaningless. Wrong.
It was just ... rationalize against it all he could, Dean's rejection had thrown him. It undermined his righteous determination to go out and hunt things, save people, his conviction that this was his problem to deal with ... tempted him to stay at his day job and forget this ever happened.
He glanced at his clock: 3.47. He was going to be wrecked tomorrow – today – at work, but he'd already tried to sleep and couldn't.
He sighed. He supposed he'd better try again. He'd think all this through tomorrow, after all the excitement died down a little and he could reason more objectively. Maybe he was being rash. Maybe tomorrow everything would become clear.