(no subject)

[carryon]

"I don't know how you can even look at me," Sam confides one night, alcohol in front of him that he knows he's not going to touch. Doesn't deserve to and wouldn't be able to stop if he started.

"Wasn't you, Sammy." He gets in stubborn, worn response. It's the expected answer, lie; he can still see the blood on his hands as he stares at them. His silence is telling of his lack of agreement, and he watches out of the corner of his eye as Dean finishes his drink with a long swig, sees him reach for his.

He counts it as another failure that he doesn't stop him.

Comments

[crossroadblues]

He has to wait a minute, lets five go by without thinking too much of it because there's alcohol and it dulls things, makes it that much easier to function, let the time pass. Makes it easier, period.

Of course he remembers. He knows the why and how and what of it so clearly it's like he never left sometimes. Just doesn't let Sam know that part if he can help it, hides it away and drowns it out with music and liquor.

But he remembers the apologies, too. He remembers "sorry" and his brother looking at him like he was gonna break. He remembers thank god it's me and not him.

"It wasn't," he says finally, confirms, against Sam's silent protest.

[carryon]

"Wish you were right.." Sam mutters back, low, staring almost through the cheap plastic table to somewhere else. "Things aren't true just because we want them to be though."

He wished like nothing else that they could be though. That it could be made so it never happened, any of it. Didn't care how much responsibility came with it, what the ability to make the decisions would make him; them.


He lapses into silence, doesn't turn to look at him bacause he can't. Honestly can not remember the last time he looked him in the eye, and somewhere near terrified of what will happen if he does.