Graveyard Digger, Coffin Case Sinner

Chainsaw to my Heart

[Summary: Sam's gone, and whose fault is that? -- chap 2 - Dean's POV of 'You Built In Me This City']

Dean paced the motel room, cell phone to his ear. He muttered a low curse beneath his breath as it rang; moments later, it went to voicemail.

"Fuck!" He slammed his fist against the wall, nearly threw the phone. He needed it still to find Sam, and refrained himself at the last moment. He drew in a breath meant to calm it - it failed - and punched the button to dial again.

"Answer the phone, Sam." Dean resumed his pacing, "Please. Fuck, please answer."

Dean and Sam didn't fight often but when they did, it sometimes blew up on them. He had gone out for his "fix" (as Sam termed it) two nights ago; it hadn't been a successful hunt. Finding his brother in the local bar afterward hadn't been an issue. Seeing him with a pretty woman, watching her press against him, had been. He was angry - furious - and shaking with the need to end her, right there in the middle of the bar.

Sam had recognized his intentions and had guided him from the place. It was when they reached their room that Dean lost his temper and demanded to know if Sam went out in search of someone else every time he left on a hunt. It has escalated from there, at least on his part.

He had thrown the words "Leave, then!" at his brother, before storming out of the room and leaving in the Impala. An hour later, he was in the next town, haunting a bar there in search of a way to relieve some of his anger and jealousy. Searching for a kill.

It wasn't until the following evening that he found a target and succeeded in what he had set out to do two nights prior. After he had finished, leaving the body in a barely-traveled wooded area at the edge of town, he returned to his motel room. He was in the shower when his words to Sam, the look on his little brother's face, came back to him in a sudden rush. Realization hit him only now, now that his anger and the darkness (he didn't have a better word for it) that drove him sometimes had dissipated with his kill: Sam had looked devastated. Dean had thrown words at him in anger, and the expression on his face had been heartbroken. And Dean, dumbass that he was, had waltzed right on out the door. Right on out of town.

Damnit, he was such an asshole sometimes.

"Fuck," he shut off the water and snagged a towel from a hook on the wall. He wrapped it around his waist and left the bathroom, caring little for the water he was dripping all over the floor. He crossed the motel room, to where he had tossed his phone on the nightstand last night.

Two text messages, both from Sam. Both from last night.

Do you want me to leave?

I'm sorry

Dean frowned at the phone in his hand, regret and a heavy feeling of dread settling in his stomach. He hit the button to call Sam as he moved to grab some clothing from the spare duffel bag he always kept in the car. His brother didn't answer, and uneasiness crept through him. He dressed quickly and gathered his belongings and, ten minutes later, he was in the Impala, heading back to his brother. He tried to call again, but it went to voicemail. He muttered a curse beneath his breath and pressed his foot on the accelerator.

The room was empty. Dean stared at the empty bed, eyes shifting to the bathroom, the closet. Sam's clothes were gone. The clothes Dean had left when he walked out two nights ago were gone. Sam was gone. Dean glanced around the room once more, and realization hit him like a knife to the chest. He leaned back against the door, his fucking breaking heart thudding against his sternum, and closed his eyes. "Fuck."

Sam was gone.

Barely an hour had passed since returning here and finding this fucking empty room, and Dean had called his brother's phone several times. Every time Sam didn't answer, every time Dean left him a voicemail or a text, some niggling little voice in the back of his head screamed at him See what you did? You stupid ass, this is your fault! He's gone and he's not coming back!

No. No, damnit! He couldn't accept that. He couldn't do this without Sam. He couldn't be without Sam. Even thinking about it sent jittery feelings of panic and heartache through him. Dean ran a hand through his hair and headed for the door. He had to find his brother.

He hadn't any success at the bar they had been at the other night, nor at either of the other two motels in town. Dean managed to fight down his anger and panic, and returned to the motel. He went to the front office and asked the desk clerk about his brother, and she gave him his first lead: Sam had come in the night before, asking if there was a bus stop in town.

A five minute drive to the bus stop, and a ten minute talk with the woman who was selling tickets, and Dean had a destination. Flagstaff, Arizona.

His brother was gone. Sam had fucking left him. Sam had fucking left him!

He strode back to the Impala, phone at his ear again. "Fuck!" More ringing, and then voicemail. "Where the hell are you, Sam?" His anger was replaced briefly by fear: What if Sam wasn't answering because something had happened? What if he was hurt and couldn't answer? Hell, maybe he just didn't want to answer Dean's calls. "Sammy, please call me back. I'm going crazy here. I'm sorry for what I said, please come back to me. I need you, Sam." He ended the call, a shuddering breath escaping him.

What had he done? This was his fault. He had told Sam to leave, and now his brother, his everything, was gone. Fuck! What if Sam didn't want him coming after him? He had driven his brother away with his anger. Maybe Sam didn't want him anymore. He leaned against the car for a moment, trying to calm himself. He would be damned before he let Sam go like this.

He sent another text to his brother before climbing into the Impala: Where are you? Sam I'm sorry, please call me . He tossed the phone in the seat beside him and started the car, the rumbling of the engine calming him a bit. He had a seven hour drive to make.

Dean made it to Flagstaff in five hours. From there, it wasn't hard to find out which motel his brother was staying in. They'd had a system for years, for if they were separated - first one listed in the phone book yellow pages, under 'motels' - and he guessed (hoped) Sam had done it this time.

Five minutes at the front desk, and the receptionist caved to his story about he and his little brother being separated during their road trip, and his teary eyes. After extracting a promise that he wouldn't rat her out for giving out clientele information, she gave him the room number. She had offered him the spare key, even, but he had assured her he would knock and Sam would let him in.

Ten minutes after that, he had picked the lock and was standing inside his brother's room.

Dean's anger, his fear, his rage at being left by the one person who meant anything to him, was all replaced by an overwhelming sense of relief the moment he saw his brother, sleeping on the room's single bed. He was exhausted, suddenly, by his lack of sleep - he had been awake for almost three nights now - and by his roller coaster emotions over the last 60 hours. He wanted to crawl next to his brother and cling to him; instead, he quietly moved a chair between the bed and the door, and seated himself in it.

A bit less than two hours later, Sam shifted on the bed, before sitting up. The younger man glanced in his direction, eyes widening at the sight of him. The look on his face was a mixture of relief and uncertainty and hurt. Dean swallowed hard at that expression, before asking, his voice rough,

"Did you think you were going to just leave me, Sam?"

When his brother whispered, pain etching his voice and his beautiful features, "You left first," Dean's heart cracked open. When he tilted his head, allowing Dean to press the knife he held tighter against his throat, Dean suddenly couldn't breathe. He couldn't stop the sob which escaped his throat then, "Sammy, I didn't mean it. I didn't want you to leave."

This was wrong. It was all wrong. If Sam really wanted to go, didn't want him anymore, he would let his brother go. He would put a bullet in his own head and Sam would be free of him. He couldn't just let him walk away, though. He couldn't just - He didn't even realize he was speaking the words aloud in his grief and his hurt, not until his brother hugged him close and whispered that he didn't want to leave.

Sam's arms slipped around him, and the turmoil within began to quiet.