Moving On (Destiel)

29: The Winchester's life is pretty f*cked up

The first tear rolled down his cheek when he was halfway home already. Before, he had just held on to the steering wheel as if it was all keeping him together. His face blank, his eyes wide, unable to process anything.

Then eventually, he started crying.

And he cried all the way home.

He never did that, it made him weak, but he wasn't ashamed for once. He was convinced that he had all right for it after the events of the evening. He just couldn't hold the tears back anymore.

And during his little breakdown he also realized how the tears - even now - were falling silently, his sobs surpressed, and if you didn't look him in the face, you couldn't guess in what state he was. He was used to that, knowing that before, when he had been a child and cried, Sammy would cry, too, sometimes not understanding why, but crying nonetheless, and Dean wanted to prevent that from happening. 

He felt like it was his fault - so he stopped, stopped crying, stopped showing his weaknesses in front of his brother who had become like a kid to him, his resposibility. And in moments like these, when he just couldn't keep it together anymore, he would never let anybody see, at least. 

This sign of emotion - emotion that made him weak - this sign that showed how much he cared, it had become a secret to him. One of the many he carried around, stuffed deep down inside of him. One of the many he'd never admit having. 

When he finally brought the Impala to a stand, the tears had long dried out, leaving a red mottled face and aching eyes. With the water clouding his vision he hadn't risked driving fast at all, but holding on for a second to breathe slowly, a thought stroke him that made him wish to have abandoned all traffic rules and gone straight home.

Sammy.

If the "plan" had worked, he would've been home earlier than his little brother, so that Sam wouldn't have to face John alone, or only a little later than around six.

It was almost nine.

Over Cas he had completely neglected his little brother.

Dean could slap himself when he practically sprinted up the stairs of the apartment building, and it took all of his will strength to take his time and fumble with the keys instead of just running in the door.

The flat was awfully quiet.

Almost like he had left it, a mess, with the bathroom's door closed, the window to the small balcony open, lights out.

But what seemed right before definitely wasn't.

This flat wasn't empty anymore.

When he searched through the majority of the rooms, starting with Sam's, and couldn't find his little brother, Dean went for a knife in the kitchen. He didn't know what John had done, but he knew what he would do.

Then, after the desperation level had increased impossible higher, he found Sam in his room – in Dean's room, curled up like a little kitten, under his desk.

Dean didn't let go of the knife but laid it on his bed and rushed to his little brother.

Sam didn't react to the movement, he stared openly into nothing when Dean took him in his arms. Carrying him to his bed where he held him tightly, he felt tears wetting his shirt after a while. "It's alright, Sammy. Shsh; I'm here, okay? I'm here."

Sam only sobbed harder, clinging tightly to his older brother who tried his best to comfort him, hold him close. He rubbed his back and hugged Sam for what felt like hours. He wondered what exactly had happened, but he didn't trust himself to speak.