[Summary: It wasn't their first fight by any means, but it was the first time, the only time, Dean had ever told him to leave. -- chapter one of two]
Sam stood as his ride rolled to a halt and lifted his backpack from the seat next to him. He glanced out the window as he heard laughter, and saw a group of people gathered outside, laughing and hugging. He exhaled heavily and slipped the backpack onto his shoulders, then stepped off the bus.
An hour later, he was sitting in a coffee shop, ingesting much-needed caffeine. He hadn't slept in 48 hours, he was tired, and everything inside him felt hollow. He frowned, shoved the thoughts that were plaguing him away. His eyes shifted to the phone by his hand on the table; it had gone dead an hour into his bus ride. He really needed to charge it, and would as soon as he found a motel room.
Sam brushed a hand over his eyes. He needed some sleep. He needed food. He needed Dean. He picked up and pocketed his phone before standing and leaving the shop.
Half an hour later, the 22-year old walked into an empty motel room. He locked the door behind him before moving further into the room to toss his backpack on the bed. He placed his phone and his gun beside it - he needed to plug in his phone before he went to sleep - and started digging into his pack find some clean clothes. Shower, then sleep.
The young man was standing beneath the spray of water in the shower, washing shampoo out of his hair, when the panic set in. What the fuck had he done? He muttered a breathless "fuck" as he leaned forward, palms against the tile, trying to take calming breaths. Tears and water dripped down his face as he rested his forehead against the tiled wall. "Fuck!"
He and Dean had their share of fights over the years, most of which passed quickly. Every now and again they had an epic one, which led to heated, shouted words and slammed doors. Two nights ago had been an epic one.
He had watched his brother kill people, had helped him when those urges for darkness struck him, but it was the stupid little things that blew up between them. Dean, for example, was possessive, and Sam loved that about him. He did. He loved everything about his brother. Still, sometimes that possession bordered maniacal and homicidal.
Sam had stopped in at a bar near their motel, where he had gone to have a couple of beers while Dean went out in search of his own "fix". He and a woman sitting next to him had struck up a conversation (about books, of all things) while having their beers. After a while, they said their goodbyes, and both had moved to get up and leave the bar. The woman had stumbled while getting off her bar stool, and Sam caught her. Whether it was intentional or not, he didn't know, but he had enough manners not to let her fall her on face. She had given an embarrassed laugh, muttered a thanks, and Sam had let her go. He had turned to leave, and found himself face-to-face with Dean. Dean, whose eyes had flicked to the departing girl, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he tried to contain his obvious rage.
The rage, the twitching of his brother's fingers at his sides, that look in his eyes. Signs that that man hadn't found a target, hadn't satisfied whatever darkness drove him. Sam had guided his brother from the bar immediately, before he decided the clumsy woman was his next target, and back toward their nearby room. Dean was oddly silent throughout the walk, shooting angry glances at him as he explained what had happened at the bar.
It had all gone to hell once they reached their room. Dean's anger overrode his reasoning, and he had demanded to know if Sam went to "find someone" every time Dean went out to do his thing. It had escalated from there, ending with "Leave, then!" from his brother, and a slammed door as Dean stormed out of the room.
It wasn't their first fight by any means, but it was the first time, the only time, Dean had ever told him to leave.
Sam had listened as the Impala's engine roared to life, heard the squealing of tires as his brother peeled out of the parking lot.
He spent the rest of the night pacing the room, chewing his nails and wondering if Dean was going to come back. He never doubted his brother's love for him, ever, but sometimes he wondered if Dean would tire of him and leave him to pursue what he needed on his own. Why else would the man tell him to leave?
His brother was still gone come morning. Sam had gone to the front desk and paid for the room for another night, then he had waited some more. When evening approached and Dean hadn't returned, he had gathered his things, heartbroken. Maybe Dean had been serious, maybe he wanted Sam to go. While this had happened once or twice before, Dean leaving and not coming back for a day or two, the man hadn't ever told him to leave. He left the room, and, not certain what else to do if Dean really did want him gone, he walked to the local bus station fifteen minutes away. There, he had hopped a bus to a random destination. Flagstaff, Arizona, a seven hour bus-ride away.
Sam sighed heavily as he shut off the shower and stepped out to towell himself off. He wanted his brother and he wanted sleep, in that order. When he was mostly dry, he pulled on a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt, and left the bathroom.
He didn't want to think anymore right now. He would get some rest, and then he would figure out what to do.
He was asleep seconds after his head hit the pillow.
When Sam woke nine hours later, he knew immediately he wasn't alone. He sat up, eyes finding his brother instantly. Dean was sitting in a wooden, barely-padded chair several feet from the bed (and placed deliberately between him and the door), watching him.
"Did you think you were going to just leave me, Sam?" Dean's voice was gravel-rough, his clothes rumpled, his face sporting two days growth of stubble. He looked tired, his eyes edged with dark circles, and his fists were clenched on the wooden chair arms.
Sam wanted to throw himself at the other man and cling to him, but he remained where he was. He didn't answer Dean's question, just stared at the other man as his heart pounded in his chest. He had known Dean would find him, if his brother wanted to do so, and now.. here he was.
He watched as Dean shoved himself out of the chair. He watched, motionless, as the man pulled the Bowie knife from its sheath, which Sam knew was tucked at the small of his back. Dean stepped to the bed's side, and still Sam only watched.
"Did you?" the man repeated his question, his words low, traced with something dangerous, "Did you think you were just going to walk out on me?"
Sam spoke finally, his own voice quiet, "You told me to leave."
Dean moved then, quick as was his way when he was on the hunt; Sam blinked as he found his brother straddling his lap suddenly, felt a knife at his throat.
The man's words were a growl as he reminded, "Told you if you ever left me, I would hunt you down and end us both." The blade pressed against his flesh, and Sam swallowed and whispered again,
"You told me to leave."
"And you left."
Green eyes, hurt and angry, met his own. Sam, who never liked to see his brother in pain of any sort, especially because of him, wanted to throw his arms around the other man. Instead, he bit back the ache inside and whispered, his own voice a little forlorn,
"You left first."
His brother growled and the knife pressed against his throat. Sam, for his part, simply closed his eyes and tilted his head back slightly, allowing better access. If Dean wanted to do it, Sam wasn't going to stop him. He had promised his brother over the years "anything", and he had been sincere.
He opened his eyes again as the knife disappeared, to see Dean drop it to the mattress beside them. His brother grabbed his face with both hands, then, and leaned in to press their foreheads together.
"Sam," a sob escaped the older man, and Sam felt his heart crack, "Sammy. I didn't mean it, I didn't want you to leave."
He swallowed hard and finally, finally, slipped his arms around his brother. Dean did the same, slid arms around him to hug him close, burying his face against Sam's neck. His words were muffled but Sam made them out,
"Didn't want you to leave. I was so fuckin' angry. Wasn't your fault, it was me. I was burning up inside, Sam, but couldn't find anything to make it stop, and then I went into that place and saw that girl in your arms. I wanted to cut her open, I wanted to hurt her. I hurt you instead, I'm sorry, Sammy. I didn't mean what I said."
Sam met his brother's green gaze, wet with unshed tears, as Dean pulled back to look at him. "You wanna leave? Sammy, if you -"
"Dean, no."
"I'll let you go, if it - if I have to, if you want it." The man pulled him in close again, buried his face against Sam's neck again, "Anything for you, Sam. You can go and I'll put a bullet in my head and you'll be free of me. You'll be free of this fucked up life I made for you."
"No!" Sam tried to keep his heart from shattering at the words, tightened his hold on his brother, "No, I don't want to leave, Dean. I just want you. I just -- you didn't come back and I thought -- I just want you."
"I called you over and over, but it went to voicemail, and you didn't answer my texts. I didn't want you to leave."
"My phone went dead when I was on the bus," Sam had known he should have charged it when it went dead, and he had meant to before falling asleep hours earlier, but it had slipped his mind in his exhaustion.
Dean's arms around him were an anchor, and weren't they both fucked up? Sam laid his head against his brother's chest - Dean was still straddling his lap - and listened to the man's heartbeat. It was fast in Dean's distress, fight-or-flight mode maybe, but it was an anchor.
When Dean finally relinquished his hold on him and shifted to lay next to him on the bed, Sam leaned over and snatched his phone charger from his backpack. He reached for the dead phone lying on the bedside table and plugged it in to charge.
"How did you find me?" he knew the answer already, but asked anyway. Dean, stretched out on his side next to him, one hand resting possessively against Sam's chest, raised a brow.
"Looked all over town," the man finally answered, "Bars, motels. Hit the bus stop then, showed your picture. Lady recognized you, I conned her into tell me where you had gone. Showed her some pictures of us on my phone, told her we were supposed to meet but I was late, so you left. She had a lot of sympathy for my heartbreak."
"Ah. The heartbroken missed connection routine," Sam stared at the ceiling, a smile touching his mouth. Dean could be very convincing when he wanted to be. His eyes shifted to his brother as Dean said softly,
"It wasn't an act."
He swallowed as he saw the pain on his brother's face. He was about to speak when he heard the buzzing that mean his phone had powered up: seconds later, it began to chime. Sam blinked as it did so repeatedly, indicating missed calls and texts, and reached for his phone.
His eyes widened as he stared at the display screen: 37 missed calls and 114 missed texts over the past 24 hours, all from Dean. He started with the texts, scrolling up to start with the first one sent after his phone had gone dead. The time stamp read that it had been sent two hours into his bus ride.
The messages started with "Where are you?" They were pleas for him to come back shortly into them, apologies and pleas for him to come back to Dean, and he had tears slipping down his face by the time he reached the end of them. He swallowed hard, opened the phone list to start with the voicemails. He paused, glanced over at Dean, as his brother placed a hand over his and whispered, "Don't. You don't need to listen to them. You're with me now, that's all that matters, Sammy."
"I'm sorry," he dropped the phone and went willingly into Dean's embrace, "I'm sorry."
"'S'okay, babyboy," lips brushed his forehead, "We're okay." Dean held him, swaying back and forth slightly; rocking him, Sam realized, like he had when they were kids and Sam was upset or hurt.
"Didn't wanna leave. I was, I was stupid. I'm sorry. I just want you."
"You got me, Sammy," his brother's words were soothing now, hands trailing up and down his back, calming and sure, "Every bit of me. Always."