Tire of Me

The silence is unnerving. It has captured every square inch of the tiny motel room, swelling to fill every corner, nook and cranny with such gravity that it almost seems as if sound no longer exists. It has been like this for hours now; every tiny essence of sound being swallowed by the room as if it wanted to swallow Sam Winchester whole; start with his voice, then capture his very being. Sam was no stranger to things lurking in the dark, so it would have been easy for him to assume that the silence was the doing of something supernatural, anything that could explain away the feeling of dread that has settled in the pit of his stomach. But the feeling could be attributed to nothing more than his own actions, his own foolish dream that he could walk away from the family business and start a normal life.

Dean, the elder Winchester brother, is lying on the bed opposite Sam, spread-eagle with a magazine in one hand and the paper wrap of some fast-food chain in the other. He has crushed it up into a tiny little ball, fist curled around it as if it were a lifeline. He has been lying in the same position for a good hour or so, occasionally looking as if he might say something before deciding against it, a minute breathy sigh escaping his lips as he does so. It is a small comfort to Sam, the rhythmic exhalation of air. It lets him know that he hasn’t been thrown into a place where time does not exist. Dean is alive and he is alive and they are both in this hotel room, waiting for the other to speak.

It is Sam that breaks the silence. Dean has always been the more stubborn sibling, refusing to be the first to apologise or the first to break the silence. He can stand his ground for longer than Sam can, so it isn’t surprising to either when Sam’s gruff tones fill the room.

“I’m sorry.”

The words tumble from Sam’s lips, sounding altogether too unfamiliar and awkward. It is a rare occurrence for Sam to say anything without thoroughly thinking through the consequences and subsequent conversations that would follow. The younger Winchester has always been that way — think first and if what you are about to say holds any merit, then open your mouth. He has followed this method for years, employing the reasoning that if he is going to waste precious time in conversation with anyone, it should be worthwhile and well thought out. The fact that he has barely thought about his apology — hell, he isn’t even sure what he is apologising for — is incredibly out-of-character and this unnerves Dean greatly.

He stares for a moment, attempting to figure out why Sam looks like a deer caught in headlights; eyes wide, lips held in a tight, thin line. Dean has seen little change to Sam’s expression since the death of his girlfriend — he always wears the same face, barely wavering from it unless he absolutely has to. Assessing him with soft, green eyes, Dean picks his next words carefully.

“What’re you sorry about?” he asks cautiously, unsure as to how he should progress. His voice rings out, cutting through the silence again, shattering it into tiny pieces. Suddenly, all Sam can hear are the sounds of everyday life in the motel, the sudden reappearance almost overwhelming. He can hear the air-conditioning unit spitting a broken song as it attempts to keep the room at a stable temperature. He can hear the thin buzzing of the light beside his head. He can hear the noises of the outdoors; the shrieking of cars passing by on the nearby highway. Most of all, he can hear the rhythmic breathing of his brother, staring at him in wait of an answer.

“I dunno,” Sam started, searching his brain desperately for a way to phrase the thoughts that have been driving him crazy for days now. “I guess I’m sorry for running off and leaving you with Dad for so long. I’m sorry for being such a jerk to you pretty much since we left. I’m sorry that you’re probably gonna tire of me because I’m not a kid any more. I’m not who I used to be.”

Shared out in the open, laid bare, Sam realises that his words sound weak and needy, at least to him. The frosty atmosphere that the winter weather has left upon the world beyond the motel door seems to seep in, settling on Sam with a startling finality. He internally curses, wishing he hadn’t said anything at all.

Dean breaks out into a lopsided grin, shaking his head. He sits up, staring at Sam as his face contorts into an unreadable expression. Sam is, for the first time in his life, entirely unsure of what to expect.

“You don’t need to apologise.” Dean almost laughs as he shakes his head once again. “Hell, I should be the one apologising. I’ve been nothing but nasty to you since we started up. Yeah, I’m a little mad that you left me for a shot at a normal life, but I ain’t that mad. You’re my brother, Sammy. You don’t have to apologise or explain anything to me.”

Sam breaks into a wide smile, his brother’s reassuring words washing over him like a warm summer glow.

“We’re good?” he asks, feeling more at home in the tiny motel than he ever had done in his entire life. Dean grins, nodding as he throws himself back down onto the bedsheets.

“I wouldn’t be sharing a room with you if we weren’t.”