"That was when I gave up hope," Sam says, apropos of nothing, and of everything. "When I just didn't care anymore."
They sit side by side, he and Dean, each in their own chair at the tiny motel table. Jackets are thrown aside, shoes kicked off, wounds seen to and bellies full of Chinese take-out. They're washing the food down with good beer, letting each sip slide slow and smooth down their throats.
Dean's shredded half the label off his longneck one slow curl of paper at a time, thoughtful. He's always liked keeping his hands busy. "When was that?" he asks, slow, steady.
Sam's throat hurts when he says, "The voice mail--" He stops. "But you still came. I don't get it. Dean, God. What you said, did you mean --"
"Did I mean what?" Dean's sitting straighter now, a frown line deep between his eyebrows. "Go back, dude."
Sam tells him. Repeats the voice message, word for word, still feeling the sting cut him deep.
Dean's quiet, for a moment, the condensation-wet longneck tight in his hand. "No. It wasn't me," he says, soft, growling, pissed, and telling the truth. Sam hears that ring of honesty and it unknots a tight-snarled ache that's kept him pressed down under its heavy weight.
He doesn't know what to say, but he doesn't have to. Dean's out of his chair and crouched by Sam's chair, touching his knee. Jostling him. "You believe me, right? I wouldn't. Sam, the message I did leave -- those fucking dicks --"
"God. Get up." Sam swallows down the idiot that'd trip too easily off his tongue, not meant, just the way they talk to each other, but it doesn't belong here. Not now. He takes Dean's wrist, wraps his fingers around it and holds on. "Don't. Okay?"
Dean studies Sam, silent, then stands, and pulls Sam with him. He takes Sam by the shoulders, staring at him all the while, and nods. Once, just once.
The solid strength of Dean and the heat of his skin is more than Sam can bear, but it's all he could ever hope for, too. He presses his lips to Dean's neck. "I'm sorry," is all he can say.
Dean doesn't let go. That says the rest of it, what they need to. That says it all.
"That was when I gave up hope," Sam says, apropos of nothing, and of everything. "When I just didn't care anymore."
They sit side by side, he and Dean, each in their own chair at the tiny motel table. Jackets are thrown aside, shoes kicked off, wounds seen to and bellies full of Chinese take-out. They're washing the food down with good beer, letting each sip slide slow and smooth down their throats.
Dean's shredded half the label off his longneck one slow curl of paper at a time, thoughtful. He's always liked keeping his hands busy. "When was that?" he asks, slow, steady.
Sam's throat hurts when he says, "The voice mail--" He stops. "But you still came. I don't get it. Dean, God. What you said, did you mean --"
"Did I mean what?" Dean's sitting straighter now, a frown line deep between his eyebrows. "Go back, dude."
Sam tells him. Repeats the voice message, word for word, still feeling the sting cut him deep.
Dean's quiet, for a moment, the condensation-wet longneck tight in his hand. "No. It wasn't me," he says, soft, growling, pissed, and telling the truth. Sam hears that ring of honesty and it unknots a tight-snarled ache that's kept him pressed down under its heavy weight.
He doesn't know what to say, but he doesn't have to. Dean's out of his chair and crouched by Sam's chair, touching his knee. Jostling him. "You believe me, right? I wouldn't. Sam, the message I did leave -- those fucking dicks --"
"God. Get up." Sam swallows down the idiot that'd trip too easily off his tongue, not meant, just the way they talk to each other, but it doesn't belong here. Not now. He takes Dean's wrist, wraps his fingers around it and holds on. "Don't. Okay?"
Dean studies Sam, silent, then stands, and pulls Sam with him. He takes Sam by the shoulders, staring at him all the while, and nods. Once, just once.
The solid strength of Dean and the heat of his skin is more than Sam can bear, but it's all he could ever hope for, too. He presses his lips to Dean's neck. "I'm sorry," is all he can say.
Dean doesn't let go. That says the rest of it, what they need to. That says it all.
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Fuck. It didn't work. Crying now.
Good. Thank you
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