Sam grits his teeth. He shouldn’t have given Dean his phone in the first place. Dean, with his tendency to snoop, with his need to check-up on Sam and keep tabs on him, and an apparent need to know who Sam has been talking to at all times.
Sam shouldn’t have believed that Dean’s phone simply died and he needed to borrow Sam’s to make a call. Because of course Dean went through it probably looking at his texts (mostly from Dean, demanding to know where he is or how far he’s gotten with research), his emails, and then his messages.
“Sammy,” Dean says, “I didn’t leave that.”
Sam sighs heavily. “I know.”
“I—you know?” Dean asks, confused.
Sam shrugs. “Charlie kept talking about those damn books. I—wanted to know what information was out there, about us. You know, for physical descriptions, locations, any of that. I read that chapter. Zachariah did it.”
“Then you know what I meant to leave,” Dean says, sounding relieved. “So…we’re good?”
Sam bites his lip to keep back everything he wants to say. “Sure, Dean.”
“Why’d you keep it, anyways?” Dean asks.
“So I wouldn’t forget.”
“Forget what?” Dean asks, and Sam doesn’t think he imagines the tiny bit of trepidation in his voice.
“Forget how you really feel about me.”
“But…Sam…we already said…you know that’s not me,” Dean protests.
Sam decides to hell with it. Sam decides he’s not going to be quiet, this once. “That’s the thing, Dean,” Sam says. “It is you. Zachariah didn’t make it up wholesale. I believed it, for a long, long time, Dean, and there’s a reason for that. You didn’t have to actually say it to mean it, Dean.”
“I tried to apologize,” Dean barks. “Didn’t that mean anything?”
Sam runs a hand through his hair. “Sure, I guess. I don’t know, Dean, I never heard it. But can’t you see why I believed that voicemail, why I really thought that that was it, I had heard what you thought and I just had to finish it then?”
“No,” Dean says defiantly.
“Means you’re a monster,” Sam quotes ruthlessly. “If I didn’t know you, I would want to hunt you. Weak, desperate, pathetic. Every time you told me I wasn’t human, every time you watched me like I was a creature. The minute you believed dad, that you might have to kill me. Every hit, every word, every look. Damn right, I believed that damn voicemail, Dean. And keeping it is a damn good reminder, that, no matter how you act—even if I live up to whatever expectations and you accept me back for a bit—I’ll always fuck up again in your eyes. I’m always going to be that to you. It’s a reminder to never expect more than that.”
Sam snatches his phone back from the table where Dean set it down after apparently listening to the voicemail. “Because you’re still going through my stuff, Dean, still consider yourself my warden, not my brother, not my partner. You’ve always treated me like this and I need to remember that.”
He leaves the motel room, phone still in one hand, and sets off down the road, no particular destination in mind. In a while, he knows, he will get a text from Dean demanding his location, because Dean can not lose track of him for too long. And, Sam thinks, maybe this time, he’ll ignore it.
