The Last Spark

Chapter 10

The blizzard started to get even stronger as the two brothers drove out of Lebanon. Dean's gaze was directed forward, seemingly on the road, but Sam was sure that it didn't even reach the windshield, but instead got lost in the void of his older brother's thoughts. There was nothing to look at anyway: the wind made sure to lift every piece of ice it could find on it's way and cover the glass from the other side. Sometimes a scratchy sound appeared, indicating the damage these ice pieces actually caused to the surface of the car. Sam already told Dean about this, but he remained still, his eyes focused on nothing.

- Dean, we should turn back, the weather gets worse the further we move. - Sam suggested, lightly touching Dean's shoulder.

Silence.

- How do you even know where to go?

Silence.

Sam released an annoyed sigh and looked up. His brother has always been bad at communication: too protective of what was keeping him awake at night, what made him lose touch with reality and unfocus his eyes or those flashbacks that made his whole body tremble and his breath unstable.

Dean knew Sam wouldn't judge or make fun of him, but he couldn't help but feel like a damn burden every time his little brother pulled on this worried-Sam-face. Dean is the one who always has to be a safe island in the middle of the ocean. The island which will never sink when there's a storm around, tremendous waves of fear and worry hitting the coast, so that Sammy can feel safe. The only place in this whole doomed world he could rely on to make him feel protected. But yet here he is- diving in the deep water willingly, gulping the cold salty liquid with all the power he has in his throat.

- You are being so irrational. We should've tried to call him first, ask what was happening instead of hopping in the car and relying on some miraculous guidance. - Sam breathed out as if he was talking to himself because Dean remained quiet again. Fuck it.

- Stop ignoring me! - Sam yelled, hitting Dean's shoulder with his fist, - Can't you see how stupid you are right now?

This time Dean reacted, pressing harder on the gas pedal and sharply turning his head toward his brother, his eyebrows almost connecting in the middle purely out of rage.

- Oh I see, I see it perfectly, Sam! But this is our only chance to get that dumbass back! You wanna call him? Do it, it won't change shit, he left his phone in his room at the bunker. - he paused for a second and then added, - If there was any information you needed to know I would've told you! So please, please, man, do me a favor and shut the hell up so that I won't crash us into the nearest tree.

Sam squeezed his jaw, his teeth hurting slightly from the pressure. Inclining his head to look at his knees, he clenched his jeans in both hands to prevent him from saying something rude in response. Dean was definitely not okay and a fight was probably the last thing he needed. So Sam had to keep calm for both of them, just enough for his brother not to lose his head completely. A small price to pay.

Each time Sam would sit like this Dean wished he would just punch himself in the stomach to kick out the words that his sick brain created to hurt Sam. It's not like he did it intentionally, but it surely didn't change a damn thing. No matter why he said these words: out of worry, anger or sadness, Sam would still take this protective position he always used to take when Dad yelled at him. His hands were smaller back then as well as his whole body: weaker and lighter. But his hair used to be long too: just enough to hide his tears from John so that he wouldn't get even madder at the child for "crying like a girl when he needs to be a man".

Dean hated himself for being so much like his dad. Yelling, drinking, being ignorant and inevitably hurting anyone who tried to get close to him, to know what his soul was actually like. Dad's traits grew inside of him like cancer tumors: these were Dean's cells, his qualities, his parts, but they all were ugly and twisted. Dean wished he could just take a pocket knife and cut them off: chunk by chunk, abruptly, fast, unclean, slicing and slicing down to the bone, until he realized that he cut himself entirely. Nothing would have been left.