Sam Winchester (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gavemea_45) wrote2012-05-12 09:31 pm
gavemea_45) wrote2012-05-12 09:31 pm
(no subject)
He wakes up before Dean the next morning.
Sam lies there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about what was said... and what wasn't said. It's the latter that prompts him to get moving.
Twenty minutes later, he shoves the motel room door open with his elbow, not making any effort to be quiet about it.
"Time to get up!"
Sam lies there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about what was said... and what wasn't said. It's the latter that prompts him to get moving.
Twenty minutes later, he shoves the motel room door open with his elbow, not making any effort to be quiet about it.
"Time to get up!"
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Sam bolts to his feet and crosses the room, pacing over to stand by the window, head down and breathing fast. One hand's braced flat against the cheap wallpaper, knuckles white with tension, and the other's in a fist at his side.
"I come here often myself, and have for some time."
"I met her here some time ago. And I have found her counsel and insight to be invaluable."
"He took you there. Castiel. After."
And didn't tell me.
Sam turns around and looks at Dean.
"Didn't he."
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Right.
"Yeah. Okay."
Dean stands up now, shrugging his coat a little more firmly on his shoulders and heading for the door.
"We're done here."
He can't.
Not now. Maybe not ever.
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Sam steps between his brother and the door.
"A freakin' angel, and that's what he did when you needed help? He left you at a goddamn bar with no one to watch your back?"
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"You really don't want to do that, Sammy-boy."
He tries to keep his fingers from curling into fists.
"And you have no fucking clue what you're talking about."
He can't.
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The words burn like acid in this throat and the second they hit air he half wishes he could take them back, given what had happened the last time Dean had told him something of the truth about what had happened in Hell.
The memory tears at his gut, and try though he might to steady it, his voice shakes.
"Dean. Please. Don't walk out on me. On this. Not now."
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That's all it boils down to.
Talking about it means thinking about it, and in the grand scheme of things it hasn't been all that long since he was there.
He'd give Sam a pleading look, but his face is like stone.
He couldn't move a muscle even if he broke every strand of his heart trying.
And it ain't like he's got a lot of that left, these days.
"Now get out of my way."
Please.
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Sam searches his face for several long moments, then lets out a slow, quiet breath.
Silently, he steps aside.
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Maybe next time.
It ain't like Dean thinks there isn't gonna be one.
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He sits down on the edge of it and retrieves his abandoned coffee. Two swallows are all it takes to empty the cup.
With steady deliberation, one shred at a time, Sam focuses all his attention on tearing it into tiny pieces, dropping them one by one into the cheap trashcan.
Too bad it's not Lilith. Not yet. But she's going to pay.
I'm going to kill her for this. That's all there is to it. She's going to die.
She'll never get her hands on you again, Dean.
Never.