Letting Go

Downtime. Dean Winchester hated downtime. Especially when he was the cause. Okay, so the wendigo had beaten the snot out of him, but that was a week and six hundred miles ago. Time to get back to business.

Except, there was none. No text messages, no coordinates, nothing. Dean's gut twisted once again at the thought that something had happened to Dad. And then he suddenly realized his drawn brow and narrowed eyes, coupled with his stillness, betrayed his thoughts. He sniffed, carefully schooling his expression before casting a sidelong glance at his brother on the next bed.

Sam had finally given up hovering—only after Dean's threat of bodily harm—and was now engrossed in a book. At least, that was what Sam wanted him to think. Dean watched him a moment; his eyes weren't moving. They seemed…glazed. He really wished Sam would go to sleep. Dean had tried, but one wrong turn and his bruised ribs protested enough to wake him up. Apparently, his brother wasn't going to sleep until he did. Not that Sam needed an excuse to stay up. The nightmares were taking a toll.

Dean opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, closed it again. Returning his attention to the playing cards in his hands, he resumed his chosen pastime.

Across the room on the dresser, the ice bucket lay on its side, open end toward Dean. He picked up a card from the deck, and with a flick of the wrist, sent the card sailing. It hit the rim of the bucket and fell to the floor. Dean made a face.

Sam sighed.

Ignoring his brother, Dean sent another card flying. This one hit its mark and stayed inside the bucket. With a triumphant grin, Dean continued to play.

Tink. Tink. Crack.

That card hit the wall and fell behind the dresser.

Tink. Tink.

Sam slammed his book shut. "Do you have to do that?"

Dean glanced over at the other bed, a what's your problem? look on his face. "Actually," he remarked finally, "yes. I do." He winged another card without looking just to prove it.

Throwing the book down onto the bed, Sam reached over the edge and grabbed his shoes.

"Come on, Sam…" Dean said with a roll of his eyes.

Sam yanked the sneakers on his feet. "You're such a jerk," he muttered as he stood, and before Dean could say another word, his brother was across the room and out the door.

"O-kay." Dean used his shoulders to push off the headboard and sat up, shuffling what was left of the deck. He watched the door, expecting Sam to come crashing back in, finger pointed in Dean's face while giving him a lecture.

He didn't.

Dean pursed his lips, debating whether or not he should go after Sam. Something had set his little brother off, and he was fairly certain it wasn't the cards. He glanced over at Sam's bed, saw the book half hidden beneath a pillow. Something Sam read, maybe?

Setting the cards on the nightstand between the beds, Dean stood and leaned over to scoop up the book. The edge of a bookmark stuck out the top, marking the page Sam had been reading. Dean flipped to that page to test his theory, but it was the bookmark that caught his eye. Jessica smiled up at him.

He sighed. That was the other problem with downtime: it gave Sam a chance to think. To remember. Damn. He closed the book and set it back on the bed, wondering once again if he should go after his brother.

The problem was…what could he say? Heck, he didn't even know where to begin.

Dean sat on the edge of Sam's bed, his hands clasped between his knees. He wondered what his father would do, what he would say, then laughed at the absurdity of the thought. Dad would probably tell Sam to deal with it, and then the two of them would fight. They were too much alike. As estranged as Sam and their dad had become, they still shared a lot in common. He'd seen that look in Sam's eyes when he woke up from a nightmare…the same look he'd seen in his father's eyes when Dean had caught him unaware. It was a deep-seated pain he could never share. Not that he wanted to, it was just…

He shook himself. What the heck was he doing? He stood, began to pace. Sam was heading for crash-and-burn if he didn't let go. This latest episode was proof.

Suddenly feeling the need for a Mountain Dew, Dean pulled on his boots and grabbed his jacket. It wasn't like he was going to get any sleep anyway. He swept up his key from the dresser and headed out into the night.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Dean attempted to look casual as he strolled down the cement walkway toward the vending machines. Not that his appearance mattered; there was no one else around, anyway. No one. Not even Sam. Where could he have gone at two in the morning? He was usually sawing logs by now. Dean was the night owl, something he shared with his father. Since most hunts were accomplished at night, Dean had never had to adjust from his teenage habit of sleeping past noon. Sam was the early bird…and a damn cheerful one at that. His body was conditioned to wake between the insane hours of five and six in the morning, no matter what time zone they were in. The freak. The fact he was still awake at this time should have been Dean's first clue something was wrong.

From somewhere up ahead, he heard the rattle of metal and a string of curses that put his own colorful vocabulary to shame. Wow. They'd only been back together for about three weeks and already he was rubbing off on Sammy.

He rounded the corner in time to see his brother kick the soda machine and spout another curse. Dean folded his arms across his chest and watched the show. "I oughtta wash your mouth out with soap," he chided.

"Shut up, Dean," was the growled reply.

"What, no monsters to beat up on, so you take your frustrations out on a poor, defenseless vending machine?" Dean counted himself lucky he wasn't on the receiving end of Sam's fury. Well, not yet, anyway.

Sam gave the machine a final shove. "Just leave me alone."

Dean stepped in front of his brother…into the danger zone. "Look, Sam—"

"I said, leave me alone!" To punctuate his demand, Sam planted his hands on Dean's shoulders and pushed.

Dean fell back against the soda machine, wincing a little at the jolt. With a rumble and a clack, the machine dispensed Sam's Coke. Ignoring the fact that the words "coin return" were probably permanently embossed on his back, Dean grinned. "Still got that magic touch."

Wrong thing to say.

"Is everything a big joke to you?!"

Sam turned and stalked away, but not before Dean saw the wetness glistening in his eyes.

Aw, man.

Dean hung back, torn between his need to make sure Sam was okay and his brother's request to be left alone. Maybe Sam just needed some space. He picked up the Coke and slipped it into his pocket. Maybe…

The crash of breaking glass clinched it. "Sammy," he muttered as he followed the noise to the back of the motel where the dumpsters sat.

Correction. Where the dumpsters had fallen victim to the wrath of Sam Winchester. Dean propped himself against the brick wall of the motel and watched as Sam vented the rage and pain he'd kept locked inside since Jessica's death.

Dean wasn't sure how long he should let Sam carry on like this; the noise was bound to draw attention sooner or later. Cans, bottles, they were all fair game. Anything Sam could pick up went sailing, crashing into the metal receptacles. Sam needed this. Besides, he had to run out of steam sometime, right?

So Dean waited, catching snatches of the ranting and…her name. Sam's voice cracked with emotion, and Dean swallowed down the lump that was trying to take up residence in his throat.

Sam picked up a bottle and pulled back to lob it, when it shattered in his hand. Dean was off the wall instantly, but held back, waited. Then he saw his brother wince, left hand wrapping around right wrist.

Okay. Enough.

"Sam?" Dean jogged over, closing the distance between them. He stopped beside his brother and grabbed his arm. "All right, Sam, come on." He gave a tug toward the motel.

But Sam wrenched free. "Get off!"

This close, Dean could see the blood oozing from Sam's palm and dripping down his fingers. "Knock it off and let me see that hand," he said more sternly.

"It's fine," was the response as Sam stalked off again.

This time, Dean wasn't letting him go. He caught hold of Sam's sleeve—and saw the blow coming just in time to duck. Fine. He let Sam's momentum carry him around. Dean sidestepped and locked Sam in a restraining hold.

Dad had taught both of them restraining techniques…and how to break them, but Dean was counting on the fact that his little brother's strength was waning.

Still, Sam fought him.

His own strength fading, Dean stubbornly held on, waiting Sam out. He didn't need to wait much longer. Sam's body convulsed, once, twice, then began to tremble.

"Oh, God. Jess…"

Dean barely heard it amidst the sobs, but the pain in those words compressed his chest until he found it hard to breathe himself. He followed Sam's descent to the asphalt, his grip no longer one of restraint but of support, Sam's back to his chest, the dark head nestled in the crook of his left arm.

Sam cleaved to him, a lost soul who desperately wanted to know why.

Dean had no answers. "Just let it go, Sammy," he said softly. "Let it go."

And Sam did.

His knees hurt, and Dean thought he might be kneeling in broken glass, but there was no way he was moving from that spot. Not until Sam was ready. No matter how long it took.

oooOOOooo

They remained that way a long time. The wracking sobs became soft cries, then hitching breaths, and then, finally, Sam fell silent. It took a lot longer for his grip on Dean to slacken. When it did, Dean knew it was time.

He gently clapped his brother on the arm. "Come on, bro."

It took another minute or so for Sam to gather the strength to move. His grip on Dean tightened again as he levered himself up to sitting.

Dean summoned all his willpower to keep from groaning as he stood, and all his remaining strength to keep him standing once he got there. His legs wobbled, threatened to give out, but he bit his lip as he hauled Sam up and got him steadied.

The sting of returning circulation was enough to make him clench his teeth, and week old injuries not so healed as he thought stole his breath away, but Dean kept moving, supporting Sam, who wavered, trying his best to stay upright. Dean smiled grimly. They looked like two drunks staggering back to their room after an all-night binge.

Funny, when he'd gone out to look for Sam…er…get a Dew…it hadn't seemed as though he'd gone so far. Now—jeez—

Dean stumbled, nearly fell, and felt Sam grab him. He recovered quickly, sucked in some air.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?" Damn, that had come out more strained than he'd hoped.

"There's blood…" Sam sounded so tired. "…on your jeans."

"Yours, dude." There, that sounded better.

"No…"

Dean glanced down, past the dark red splotch on his left thigh, to his knees. Oh. Well, that was gonna hurt. "It's nothing," he said, fishing the room key out of his back pocket.

Sam leaned heavily against the wall beside the door, gazing at his hand that was still oozing blood, while Dean wrestled with the card key to get the door open. It finally registered green, and he pushed it open.

"Let's get that cleaned up." He thought Sam might have nodded as he rolled on his shoulder, through the doorway. Dean followed as he shuffled toward the bathroom, but stopped at the door.

"I can handle it," Sam said. There was no anger in his voice, just quiet resignation.

Dean nodded. "Okay." It wasn't okay. Not really, but he let Sam go and wandered back to his bed. Blowing out an explosive breath, Dean sat on the edge and waited. His knees were beginning to sting, and he allowed himself a wince as he pulled several tiny shards of glass from his jeans. Moving gingerly, he swung his legs up onto the bed and grabbed the remote. There wasn't much on at…he looked at the clock…three forty-seven am? Had they really been outside that long? Dean flipped through the channels—all seven of them—and tried not to count the minutes—all twelve of them—until the bathroom door finally opened and Sam emerged, the white gauze of a bandage neatly wrapped around his hand. Dean wanted to ask how it looked, whether or not it needed stitches, but that might be considered hovering. And after his earlier threat to Sam for the exact same thing, he thought it wise to let his brother make the first move. Dean feigned interest in whatever was on the TV.

Sam shuffled back into the room, his head bowed, focused on the bandage he was still fussing with. Suddenly he stopped, his head tilting toward the television, then rocking toward Dean. He looked up slightly, red-rimmed eyes just visible under the fringe of dark hair.

Dean grinned, Cheshire-like. Wait, was that a hint of a smile on his brother's lips?

Sam shook his head and settled on the edge of his bed.

"What?" Dean asked, trying to sound perturbed.

It was a few moments before Sam answered. "You really don't expect me to believe you're watching that, do you?"

Brows drawn, Dean focused on the television. Really looked at it. Sandra Bullock was sitting at some guy's bedside. Dean winced. "Not Speed."

Another shake of the head. "Definitely not Speed."

Okay, so he'd blown that one. Sam didn't seem upset about it. In fact, he—

"Dean…"

Uh-oh. He knew that look. Sam was heading for a moment that rivaled what was going on on screen. Heading him off at the pass, Dean said, "Oh, hey, dude…" He reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out the can of Coke, and held it out to his brother. "You forgot this." He flashed a grin.

Sam huffed a laugh, offering a sheepish smile. Then his eyes finally sought out Dean's and held. "Thanks."

And that said it all.

Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed, saw Sam cringe at the sight of his knees—damn, they were really talking to him now—but he clapped his brother's shoulder on the way to the bathroom. "Anytime, little brother," he said. "Anytime."

Fin